The palace garden was stunning, really. Gleaming white stone paths wound through hedges carved into swans, flowers bloomed in deliberate patterns that spelled out royal mottos, and ornate lanterns floated on koi ponds like someone had spilled stars into the water.
It was the kind of place that screamed, "Yes, we're at peace. Look at all this landscaping!"
Gale, however, was not at peace.
He strolled through the garden with a stiff sigh, one hand in his coat pocket, the other occasionally brushing the hilt of his sword out of habit.
The music from the banquet still echoed faintly in the distance—muffled laughter, the clinking of goblets, Poqin probably telling some inappropriate story involving monks and alcohol again.
And while most would've killed for an invite to this royal afterparty, Gale couldn't shake the feeling crawling at the edge of his nerves.
It was too quiet out here. Too clean. Like the calm in a story right before the monster shows up.
"I should be drinking," he muttered. "Or hitting on someone way out of my league. Instead, I'm out here squinting at bushes like a paranoid landscaper."
Still, sitting still had never been his style when the air got this heavy. If there was even the slightest chance Blight or one of his freaks tried something tonight, Gale wanted eyes on the city—preferably from a vantage point. Something with elevation and—
A chill ran down his spine.
No sound. No wind. But every instinct screamed. The world slowed just enough for that all-too-familiar sinking sensation to hit his gut.
Move.
His body reacted before his brain did.
In one fluid motion, Gale dropped his body's density to feather-light, his boots barely brushing the ground as he invoked Florencio's footwork—the kind of ghostly, floating movement that made him seem like a mirage. His silhouette blurred and blinked away, a soft flicker in the dark.
A blade cut through the spot he'd just been standing in—so fast and sharp it sliced clean through the air with a high-pitched whistle.
Gale landed a dozen meters away, coat fluttering, eyes wide and alert. His hand was already gripping the hilt of his sword.
Across the path, the attacker straightened from their strike.
Gale narrowed his eyes.
They weren't tall—about his height, maybe a touch shorter. Broad enough to hint at some training, yet nimble in the way they moved, like a dancer who brought knives to rehearsal.
Their entire body was wrapped in dark, tight-fitting cloth layered with strange panels and knots. It wasn't Marine issue. It wasn't even pirate gear. It was—ornate in a way that screamed tradition.
Their face was hidden behind a menpo-style samurai mask, crimson red with sharp silver tusks and an exaggerated snarl. Their head was wrapped in cloth, not even a strand of hair showing.
And when they took a single step forward, Gale caught the faintest sound—clink-clink-jingle.
It wasn't loud. In fact, most people probably wouldn't have even noticed it. But to Gale, it might as well have been a siren.
'Either this assassin's carrying enough coin to buy a village,' he thought, 'or they've got more hidden blades than a barroom cheat with trust issues.'
Out loud, he muttered dryly, "Let me guess. You're not here to offer me a drink and a warm towel?"
The figure didn't answer. They simply shifted their stance slightly, katana still drawn, moonlight sliding along the edge like it was afraid to touch it.
Gale frowned, easing his own blade from its sheath with a slow rasp. "No introduction? Not even a cool villain line? Man, I miss when assassins had style."
The figure dashed forward again—faster this time.
And Gale's eyes sharpened.
This wasn't random. This was precise. Calculated. Whoever this was, they weren't just testing him. They were trained. And they were trying to end him.
Gale grinned slightly as he stepped into a counter stance.
"Well," he said, rolling his neck with a satisfying crack, "guess I found something to keep me occupied."
The attacker didn't speak.
They merely tilted their blade, letting moonlight slide across its edge—just enough to catch Gale's eye like a signal flare. Then, without a sound, they vanished.
Gale didn't blink. Didn't hesitate.
He turned—blade already half-drawn—and caught steel against steel with a clash that echoed through the otherwise tranquil garden.
His grin widened. "Surprised?"
Their mask gave nothing away, but Gale could feel it—the tiniest hitch in their momentum. He leaned in, casually conversational despite the sword locked against his own.
"You just look like the kind of person who attacks from be—"
Fwoosh.
A sudden flicker of light bloomed in his peripheral vision.
His eyes snapped wide as the masked figure—still pressed against his blade—tossed something with their free hand. A small leather pouch, light trailing from its fuse, arcing lazily like a gift-wrapped migraine.
Gale's first instinct was to swat it away—obviously.
That was when he felt it.
A splat, followed by a sickeningly sticky sensation on the back of his hand.
"…Oh no."
The pouch had stuck. It stuck. What kind of explosive came with adhesive?!
"Who even makes this!?" he blurted, furiously trying to shake it off like someone who'd accidentally put superglue on a bug bomb.
The assassin was already leaping away, flipping back with the elegance of a gymnast and the survival instincts of someone not about to explode.
Gale winced. "Well, crap."
BOOM.
The explosion wasn't massive, but it was nasty—like someone had set off a barrel of greasy fireworks and a dumpster fire at the same time. Black smoke burst into the air, followed by embers and a shockwave that rippled across the garden's hedges, sending birds into a panic and blowing out half the lanterns.
From within the swirling smoke, a few coughs echoed.
Then came Gale's voice.
"Huh."
The fog cleared.
There he stood, coated in soot and grime like a chimney sweep in the middle of a battlefield. His coat was singed at the edges, one of his eyebrows looked slightly shorter, and he had black powder dusted across his nose.
But otherwise? Totally fine.
He casually dusted his sleeves, the fabric stiff and metallic from the sudden increase in density. "Well that was… inventive."
His gaze flicked across the ruined gravel path, then to the masked attacker, now perched on a rooftop like a disgruntled gargoyle with a ninja complex.
Gale blinked, slowly processing what just happened.
"Okay. Let's take inventory," he muttered to himself. "Masked assassin. Carries an unreasonable number of weapons. Fights dirty. Likes explosions. Possibly shops at whatever store stocks stick-on grenades."
He looked up, a spark of admiration—and mild horror—forming in his eyes.
"This is the first person I've ever met who fights dirtier than me," he whispered.
And somehow, despite the grime and the smoke, he actually looked… delighted.
"Oh no," he added with a crooked grin. "I think I might be in love."
The masked figure still didn't speak. No dramatic declaration of intent. No monologue. No evil laughter. Nothing. Just that damn eerie silence and a fighting stance that said "I'm about to try murdering you again."
"Okay," Gale muttered, rotating his shoulders. "Still the strong, silent, stabby type."
He stopped waiting.
In a blur, Gale dashed forward—coat flaring, sword low, muscles taut with focus. His blade swept up in a sharp diagonal slash that sparked as it met steel.
The figure reacted fast, but not fast enough.
Their katana screeched as it was flung to the side, the sheer force of Gale's upward swing nearly knocking it from their grip. They barely backpedaled in time, their heels skidding across the marble garden tiles as Gale surged forward like a cannonball in a fancy coat.
But they didn't falter.
Before Gale could capitalize, their free hand darted to their robes like a magician pulling cards—except this magician pulled a kunai.
Flick.
It zipped toward Gale's face with terrifying precision.
Clink!
Gale tilted his head and deflected it with his sword like he was swatting a particularly deadly fly.
"Tch," the masked figure clicked their tongue. Their voice—barely audible, low, and androgynous—cut through the tension like a whisper.
"Oh? We're talking now?" Gale asked cheerfully, eyes narrowing as he stepped in again.
Their blades clashed once more, but the result was the same. Gale's overwhelming strength and density-enhanced strikes pushed the assailant's katana wide.
The figure growled under their breath and leapt back again, twisting mid-air—and this time, they went full anime.
Chink-chink-chink-chink-chink!
Five throwing knives shimmered in the moonlight as they flew at Gale from every angle.
Gale didn't flinch.
With a single motion, he shrugged off his coat and whipped it through the air. In a split second, its density spiked—turning silk into steel—and the knives ricocheted off it like they'd been thrown at a bank vault.
"Oof, this one's going to need dry-cleaning." Gale muttered, flicking the coat to the side like an annoyed stage magician. "Too bad. That was my brooding coat."
Before the figure could even touch the ground, Gale was already there.
He closed the distance with one kick-off, catching the attacker mid-descent.
His sword came in fast and wide from the side, forcing the masked figure to brace both hands on the katana to block it.
Bad idea.
CLANG.
The impact was thunderous. The sheer force of Gale's swing hurled the figure through the air like a ragdoll. They hit the grass ten meters away and skidded backward, carving a groove in the lawn and toppling a decorative birdbath.
Gale didn't charge. Didn't twitch. Didn't blink. Just slowly lowered his blade, looking at it the way a man might look at a fork halfway through a disappointing dinner.
"Huh," he muttered.
The assassin, mid-lunge, stopped dead in their tracks—feet still braced, weapon ready—but not attacking. If body language could frown, this one was frowning. Hard.
Gale tilted his head thoughtfully, eyes not leaving his rapier. "It's really strange," he said softly.
Still no response. But the assassin's grip tightened just a bit, tension rippling under the sleeves. There was no way to see their expression, but Gale could feel the shift in the air.
Curiosity. Hesitation. Maybe even confusion.
"You know," Gale continued, speaking with a casualness that somehow made the entire moment more unnerving, "you definitely know how to swing a sword. Like, really know how. Clean angles, proper spacing, good instincts…"
He raised his gaze to meet the assassin's masked face, lips curling in a half-grin.
"…but you're no swordsman, that's for sure..."
That did it. The assassin flinched—not visibly, not dramatically—but Gale noticed. A subtle weight shift. A ripple of discomfort. Like someone hearing a truth they didn't ask for and didn't like.
Gale's grin widened. "Bingo."
The masked figure stood still again, silent and unreadable. Gale had met plenty of strong fighters, but this one? They were disciplined in a way that didn't scream pride or honor—it screamed training. As if their body moved before their mind could protest.
"I've only met one true swordsman in my life," Gale said, pacing now, his voice growing softer. "My teacher. Don Florencio de la Rosa."
He said the name with a mock flourish, mimicking Florencio's flamboyant tone for a split second before settling back into seriousness.
"The old man was dramatic as hell. Could slice falling petals mid-air. Always wore clothes that belonged on a stage, not a battlefield. Had a rose allergy, but still carried one everywhere for... well, for reasons."
Gale chuckled under his breath, but the tone sobered just as quickly.
"He loved the sword. Not in a 'this is my favorite weapon' kind of way. Nah. He loved it the way poets love metaphors. The sword changed everything for him."
He looked down at his own blade again, weighing it in his hand.
"It brought a better life, led him to the love of his life, gave him a purpose, and eventually... it was his way to revenge.."
Still, the assassin said nothing. But they were listening. Gale could feel it. He wasn't just talking into fog.
"As for me...?" Gale continued, "I'm not that romantic. The sword? Just another tool. A convenient tool, sure, but not the only one at my disposal..."
He casually flipped it once, catching it by the hilt with practiced ease.
"I'll never be a real swordsman. Because I don't need to be. I've got options..."
Somewhere off in the distance, a breeze rustled through the garden. The assassin remained frozen in place, but the tension in their posture shifted slightly again. Conflicted. Not angry. Just... shaken.
"But you?" Gale narrowed his eyes. "You've spent years with that blade. Every move tells me that. The way you parry, the way your stance resets. It's muscle memory. Burned into you like a brand."
He took a step closer.
"And yet…" His voice dropped just above a whisper. "It's like holding it makes you sick for some reason, and well, I can't imagine that making things easy for you..."
That time, the assassin recoiled. Not in fear—but in something rawer. Like someone being seen a little too clearly for comfort.
"Well," Gale added with a shrug, "I guess I hit a nerve."
He rested his sword on his shoulder, gaze still locked on the figure. "So, what's your deal? Failed samurai? Exiled noble? Swordsman turned pacifist who fell into the wrong crowd?"
A long silence stretched between them.
Still no answer.
"…Murderous mime with a tragic backstory?" Gale offered.
The assassin's hand twitched.
"Ah!" Gale snapped his fingers. "That got you."
No laughter. No banter.
But the air had changed.
They weren't just trying to kill each other anymore.
They were… talking. In the only way people like them knew how.
With silence. And steel. And unspoken truths.
...
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