The question took Astafa's breath—just for a moment.
"Y-Yeah, Akirelle's my sister," he said. "Do you know where she is?"
"She's in a place you're not ready for. Dangerous, and not somewhere a kid like you gets into—at least not for another decade," Ceroba remarked, voice clipped and even.
"B... Blutenheim?" he murmured in quiet dejection. The name alone furrowed her brow, her eyes narrowing slightly in surprise.
"You know what's going on there?" she asked, voice level. "Then I suggest you keep it to yourself. If word gets out, all of Eukeia could fall into chaos."
A quiet sigh escaped her lips, her eyes closing with gentle grace.
"Who told a rookie like you about this? Only First Division and up are cleared for that kind of intel."
"S-Someone said all knights already knew about it," he replied sheepishly.
"Tch. All because some fathead couldn't keep their mouth shut," she tutted, voice sharper now. "I swear, stitching their lips shut with my scythe sounds downright therapeutic."
Another sigh.
"Still, I'm surprised the crowd managed to stay calm after getting a glimpse of that intel," she added, backing away from the wall as she treaded toward the containment tank—each step flowing with mechanical grace.
"Usually, Outer Rank incidents send all of Eukeia into a frenzy. Not even the autarches have real answers for situations like that," she explained, a thread of gloom running through her voice. "The Special Division just feels like a bunch of pawns tossed into the field—either to launch the first counterattack or be sacrificed to gauge the enemy's strength."
"I only know bits and pieces... but what exactly are we up against?" Astafa asked, following her steps—his movement measured, deliberate. Her long black and maroon hair swayed gently from behind, hands clasped at the small of her back. Her uniform, black and maroon, caught the warm golden streaks streaming through the minuscule yet elegant portholes.
"You'll have to ask someone from the Special Division for the full picture," she said, voice sharpening. "All I know is—we're fighting legions of Partians."
A beat.
"And the worst part? They're the least of your worries. Xavior Ashira is dead. He was the best shot we had against the outsiders."
Astafa's eyes fixed on the floor, distant and unfocused, a tense expression straining his features.
"Partians... and now the Clergy's involved too," he muttered, voice low. "They probably killed Xavior because he knew something—something that made him their quarry."
"And who exactly told you that?" Ceroba asked, brows frayed, gaze shifting to him with a newfound wariness. He met her eyes—verdant, narrowed—startle flickering across his countenance.
Then, drawing in a grounding breath:
"K... Kisatsu did. He's, uh... Xavior's son. From what I heard, he's the only one in their family who was rescued. His older brother went missing after the Clergy took him."
"Ryurei had a younger brother...?" she murmured, the furrow between her brows lingering. "No wonder Kisatsu seemed familiar."
A beat of silence. Her gaze returned to the containment—slow, steady.
"There's a slim chance Ryurei's still alive—mainly because there's a real possibility he was turned into an Impure Partian."
"But... Partians can be allies too, can't they?" he asked. "Back in Vinhurd City, we saw a Partian knight—one of the Pure ones. Way too upfront to be some kind of spy."
She cast him a glance over her shoulder, her expression even, unreadable.
"Hmm. There are only a handful Partian knights I know—and those were on our side," she said, voice thoughtful and low. "What was this one like?"
"He looked like a bear—sepia-brown fur, tawny eyes. We didn't get the chance to talk to him, though," he remarked, eyes drifting downward, fingers gently resting at his chin in thought. "Seemed like he was just stationed there as a picket, patrolling the area."
"Huxleigh? He's First Division," she replied, squinting as her gaze flicked forward again.
Vinhurd? Why would he be out there? she added as an afterthought.
"W-Wow... so that place must've been seriously well-guarded, huh?" he whispered, a gentle surprise flickering over his visage as he tried to remain composed. "Oh—by the way, I heard you're from the Fourth Division. What ranks are you, exactly?"
"Thirty-Eighth Section, for now. Pseurroiche's from the Fifty-First," she answered, voice even. "To be frank, you can just leave this quest to us... go enjoy yourselves."
A subtle frown crept across Astafa's features.
"About the Partians... are they really being made artificially?" he said, voice quiet, eyelids drooping as he averted his gaze. "I know a bit about the difference between Pure and Impure ones, but... something about it just feels off. Especially the idea that Impures are just humans—forced to become Partians."
Ceroba gave another sidelong glance without turning, her posture composed, expression level. Then, in a clinical voice:
"There's a long history behind it. Power, bloodlines—using the 'worthy' as fuel. Doesn't matter much to me, to be honest."
Astafa's gaze shifted to her—familiar, somewhat readable. The telltale look he wore whenever he had a question.
"We're with the Camesarian Guild—just rookies, though," he said. "Haven't really crossed paths with any of the big names yet."
"Ah, the guild where barely anyone survives the trial? Makes sense you survived—you're the sons of big names," she replied, voice threaded with faint surprise. "That said, your guild's insanely greedy."
"Oh... so you know something about it? I've been in the guild longer than Kisatsu, and I still haven't learned much." His gaze dropped just a little, voice trailing off. "Not that I could do anything with it anyway."
Ceroba let out a quiet exhale, head turning—just slightly—to face him, calm, collected.
"Most knights see it as the shadiest guild in the entire Guild Association. Wouldn't surprise me if it did have some hidden agenda." Her voice stayed clipped and even, each word edged with truth. "Still, I'm pretty sure the guildmaster knows exactly what people think—and that's probably why they steer clear of clashing with the neighboring guilds."
A brief pause.
"That said, even if their motives only serve themselves without stepping on other guilds' toes, their ties to the Impure Partians make my stomach turn," she added, shifting to face him fully now. "If I were you, I'd back out of that guild while you still can—before something sketchy comes to light and drags you down with it. Once you get promoted and they start taking interest in you, it's a lot harder to walk away."
"By the way, what guild are you with? Think Kisatsu and I could join too?" he asked, voice laced with hope.
A breath.
"Pseurroiche and I are with the Falkcroft Guild. You can join us, but you'll need to ask the guildmaster yourself. Even I barely see him—and honestly, I'd rather not show up with a couple of rookies in tow," she said, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "Rank up a bit more, and maybe I'll put in a word for you."
"Kisatsu has Rage Pressure, and I've got... well, powers," he replied, azure eyes shimmering faintly, a forced smile tugging at his lips as his hands rested on his hips.
"I can regenerate. That's... something, right?" he added, a touch of dejection lacing his voice—quiet, sheepish. Another sigh escaped her in resignation.
"Tell you what—Pseurroiche and I will be napping on the deck. You handle any danger that comes our way, and don't even think about waking us up. Pull that off, and I'll prostrate myself before the guildmaster and personally plead your case," she challenged, a smug grin on her face as she brushed nonexistent dust off her uniform, one hand resting on her hip.
A heartbeat.
"...Hell no," he said wryly, already walking off before the words even finished leaving his mouth.
On the ship's deck, the sun hung low over the sea, gleaming with a relentless warmth. Kisatsu stood at the prow, hands resting on the railing as he stared across the sea, gaze calm, distant.
It wasn't the first time he'd been on a ship—the memory of his father secretly bringing him and Ryurei to Akasa for one night resurfaced in his mind. His mother had only found out about it a few days later, and he still couldn't forget how upset she'd been back then.
"Enjoying the scenery, Kisatsu?" The voice snapped him out of his reverie—just like back then. "You seem to have a thing for landscapes like this. Are you perhaps a photographer? Does your hometown look like this too?"
Pseurroiche walked over to Kisatsu and leaned back against the railing, hands dipped in his pockets as his golden eyes followed Kisatsu's gaze.
"Hard to believe there's a fleet out there with how peaceful the sea looks. You're not tired or anything? Not that I mind the company—makes scanning the horizon a bit less dull."
Kisatsu shifted his gaze to Pseurroiche, slow, steady, grounded.
"S-Sorry. I tend to daydream when I'm staring out at something as calm as the sea," he murmured, gaze lowering for a moment before rising once more. "And yeah—my hometown's got a peaceful view too, just... mountains instead of waves."
A pause. His hands left the railing as he turned his back to it, gaze lifting to the spotless sky above—immaculate, pristine.
"I'm not tired, so don't worry. I'll help however I can."
A moment.
"Ragna!" Pseurroiche exclaimed suddenly. Then, before a sound could come, a white-skinned dragon with black eyes and an azure iris materialized beside him without warning, feet perched lightly on the railing.
Kisatsu stepped back almost insinctively the moment the Partian registering in his mind. Hesitation gripped him, a slight tremor coursing through his fingers as if unsure whether to shift into a battle stance.
Too fast—I didn't see it coming! he thought, eyes sharp, brows furrowed, expression drawn tight with panic.
"They're here," Pseurroiche said, giving Kisatsu a sidelong glance. Kisatsu's eyes darted across the sea, searching for whatever threat was incoming.
"But... I don't see anything," he replied, voice quivering slightly. "Not with the naked eye, at least."
The deck creaked gently beneath their feet as they glanced down—before anyone could even move.
"Even the Partian specimen can sense it from here... they're really trying to set it loose, huh?" Pseurroiche mumbled.
Below the deck—dark, where the sun's warmth couldn't reach—Ceroba and Astafa stood before the containment tank. The Partian slammed its body against the glass barrier, each impact an attempt to break free. Its crimson eyes were now open, glinting coldly through the barrier—ruthless, piercing, vicious.
Ceroba stared at it briefly before walking over, stretching her arms behind her head—her usual airy gesture before stepping onto the battlefield. Calm. Mechanical. Unbothered.
"Alright, time for some rest," she said—more to Astafa than to the Partian.
Cerulean stretched across the sea, foaming beneath the ship as it drifted with quiet elegance. Kisatsu squinted, straining to descry the incoming battleships in the distance. The sight alone made him recall the same ships that had raided his hometown—gaze unflinching, unshaken.
"Do you see it, Kisatsu?" Pseurroiche asked, facing the same direction as if certain of the battleships' arrival.
"T-They're still far off... We still have to prepare, right?" he stammered, eyes shifting to Pseurroiche—strained with unease.
Then, before their gaze could drift elsewhere, something stepped onto the deck. There were no sounds—just presence, and the subtle shift in the weight of the deck. Quiet. Fluid.
Pseurroiche pivoted to face the intruder, slow, deliberate. Two Pure Partians, taking the form of anthropomorphic foxes—dark-furred, with heliotrope and smoky-blue eyes—stood with unspoken grace.
"Well, that's a surprise—I wasn't expecting these guys," he said, voice insouciant, unbothered. "So they've got Pure Partians on their side now? That's bad news."
"Forgive our intrusion, humans—we mean no harm. We seek only one thing." Its words carried a weight of regality—something almost alienlike, exotic. "Give us what we desire, and we swear to leave this ship and everyone aboard untouched."
"Start with your names," Pseurroiche replied, voice unyielding. "We'll hear what you want—but whether you get it depends on what it is."
"His name is Taarush, and I am Sharvil," Sharvil stated. "We are the deputation sent by Reverent Salvadore to retrieve the Partian specimen aboard this vessel. We seek a peaceful concession."
"And if we retained it?" he asked, a note of smugness in his voice.
"In that case, the most merciful act we can offer is ensuring everyone perishes before the vessel sinks," she said, voice low and cold, a glint of severity in her smoky-blue eyes—keen, predatory. He lifted his hand just enough to shield Kisatsu behind him.
"That's a real shame—because the only thing you'll be getting is bloodshed." His hand lowered slowly, golden eyes trenchant, carrying the same predatory edge he reserved only for nonhuman entities. "Yours."
Ragna leapt forward, wings beating with gentle grace as he moved between Pseurroiche and the Pure Partians. His azure eyes gleamed with piercing fervor, wings extending to shield Kisatsu and Pseurroiche—almost as if displaying his white-skinned tenacity.
With unspoken suddenness, Sharvil lunged forward, gliding past Ragna with poised intangibility. She struck Pseurroiche's chest with near-imperceptible speed, hurling him hundreds of meters into the sea.
Kisatsu flinched—the only reaction he could offer—turning toward where Pseurroiche had been flung, eyes widening in utter shock.
"Pseurroiche!" he screamed, voice cutting through the air—stunned by panic, unable to move. His gaze shifted slowly to Sharvil, entire body shaking with profound dread—though the intent to attack still hadn't formed in his mind.
That's... someone from the Sixth Division... and he got blitzed that easily?
"Kisatsu!" Astafa's voice—raw, ragged—rang out from the companionway, where he and Ceroba had just arrived. His eyes darted around, searching for Pseurroiche before fixing on Kisatsu.
A loud crash resounded through the air as Ragna ripped the ship's mast after being flung into the air. Wreckage rained down, each debris thudding heavily against the floorboards.
A scythe materialized in Ceroba's hand, as if pulled from another dimension. Taarush's eyes—heliotrope, edged with stark ferocity—locked on her as he lunged forward, swift and erratic. He seized her by the neck and hoisted her high into the air, tearing her away from the vessel.
Kisatsu and Astafa remained on the ship, their gazes fixed on Sharvil—unwavering, unflinching. With grounded stances, they planted their feet firmly on the deck, grit the only thing keeping them steady.
So just like that again?! they both thought, exhaling sharply through their noses.
Sharvil turned to them—slow, deliberate, cold. She didn't have to say anything; her smoky-blue eyes alone pressed weight into the air—enough to set their skin tingling.
After all, they were no longer fighting a human.
Not him.