Flames danced across the skyline like a deranged brushstroke. The War Zone was a burning canvas of rebellion—charred buildings lined with glowing graffiti, smoldering cars overturned like forgotten toys.
At the center of it all, in letters ten meters tall, a message scorched in roaring fire blazed atop high-rises:
[FREE THE VOIDLINGS]
Hermes stared up, blinking soot from his eyes, trying not to gag on the smoke.
"Okay but—do I really have to wear this?"
He gestured bitterly at the hero uniform. White gloves. A monocle. A silver tray in hand. And cat ears.
"This is undignified. I look like a knockoff from some Victorian BDSM furry catalog."
"Shut up." Ymir said flatly, wiping his bloodied knuckles against his jacket. "You're lucky I promoted you to second-in-command. You could've been the third. Or a water boy."
"I am literally holding tea."
"Exactly. You're a tea boy, which is superior to a water boy. Now enough chitchat, Copy Cat."
