Chris stepped out of his house.
He drove straight to the most well-known karate dojo in the area.
The reason was simple — he wasn't going to let himself fall behind.
If he wanted to survive against those creatures from the other world, he had to learn how to fight. In his mind, the solution was straightforward: learn to fight, and you live.
And without realizing it, he was making the exact same choice as everyone else.
When he slid the door open, Thierry was waiting at the entrance.
"Hello. You're Chris, right?"
"Yeah… that's me."
Strangely, Thierry's face was badly bruised. His cheeks and the skin around his eyes were swollen, as if he had taken a brutal beating just before Chris arrived.
Chris raised a brow, genuinely puzzled at how a karate master could end up like that.
"What happened to you?"
Thierry quickly lowered his head, coughing to mask his embarrassment.
"Well… I ran into a former student who wanted payback. He didn't hold back."
"He must've been pretty strong. What's his name?"
Thierry looked up, his expression darkening, nearly spitting the name out.
"Jin Ichimaru."
At those words, Chris went pale. A cold sweat ran down his back. Of course, he knew exactly who that was.
Thierry noticed the way Chris froze.
"You know him? Real brute, that one. Picked me apart right after that Marc Zeymond guy."
Chris's face drained even more color, almost white as snow. Another shiver of cold sweat slid down his spine.
"So you know him too… Huh. You've got connections, I'll give you that. Wait—don't tell me you hang out with those guys?"
The thought of facing one of Marc's friends again clearly unsettled Thierry. The nightmare those two boys had put him through still haunted him.
Chris took a moment to compose himself, then tried to meet the karate master's gaze with as much confidence as he could muster.
"A little. But don't worry, I'm not as strong as them."
"Phew…"
Thierry let out a relieved sigh, then continued in a calmer tone.
"Alright. First, I want to see what you can do. Honestly, no one here wants new guys showing up thinking they can challenge everyone, so… I'll be your opponent."
Thierry wanted to reclaim some of his lost pride. Beating Chris would feel like redemption.
Chris, on the other hand, only wanted to learn. Neither of them intended to lose, but Chris certainly didn't want to get destroyed. Thierry wasn't in the same league as Marc or Jin, but he was still a trained fighter and he was just an actual human fighter, not a monster like those two.
"Put these on and get ready."
Chris caught the clothes Thierry tossed his way: a white gi with a plain white belt. He had never respected martial artists — he only envied them for being stronger than average. He'd always claimed combat sports would ruin his face, and he had no desire to walk away from every fight bruised and battered.
Still, he had two reasons to fight.
"You ready?"
…To beat Marc.
"Then come."
…and to beat Marc.
But The fight didn't last long....
Chris hadn't learned a single technique, yet somehow he avoided every strike Thierry threw at him. His movements were clumsy, but effective enough to make you look twice.
Frustrated, Thierry backed off, muttering that Chris was just like "those other two" after all. Chris replied honestly that he hadn't even known he could do that.
Then Thierry turned away, walking off as if he'd just delivered some heroic parting blow.
"Fine. I'll teach you my art — so you can take down those two monsters."
Chris's face lit up and he gave a slight bow.
"Thank you."
**
Marc didn't know where to put his thoughts anymore. It was strange.
"Last time, I didn't even need to dress properly to meet the Emperor. Granted, the circumstances weren't exactly ideal, but still. Why this dress ? I just hope his mother doesn't hold a grudge against me. She's terrifying."
He got down from the bed where he'd been lost in thought. It had been a while since he'd felt this confident. Maybe the Emperor's presence had affected him?
Even so, he was fully aware that if the Horsemen of the Apocalypse showed up, the Emperor would prioritize his people. But managing both the war and the Horsemen would be impossible. His empire was so vast that avoiding conflict was out of the question.
"Huh?"
Suddenly, a faint sound appeared in his head. A high-pitched tone. It was the first time it had happened.
Oddly, Marc felt the sound intensify the more he focused on a certain direction. Or rather… the more his attention was drawn toward a specific place. This sound wasn't exactly real. It was like a strange sense, pulling his focus harder than usual.
"No doubt about it. This sound means someone's coming."
At that exact moment, the doorbell rang and Marc walked down the stairs with a wide smile.
"Incredible. Before, I could only sense people with a strong aura. Now, even someone as faint as her… I can feel them. Which means I should be able to detect those who hide their aura even better. I should—"
But the moment he opened the door, Marc already regretted it.
Manon stood there. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and disgust. It wasn't often that he showed open hostility toward someone, but his hatred for her sometimes made him bitter.
She was soaked through, as if she had walked all the way to his house under the rain.
Marc looked at her with a cold, dismissive gaze.
"Didn't have an umbrella?"
Manon slowly lifted her head and replied, her voice equally cold.
"That's none of your business."
The air turned frigid. Manon stared at the ground in anger while Marc looked down at her from the three small steps that separated them. They never spoke to each other, always keeping their distance. That day, they were just a meter apart, each avoiding the other's gaze.
Marc spoke first, hoping to get rid of her quickly.
"What do you want?"
Manon paused for a moment, then sighed. Her face softened—but not with joy. More like someone who had just remembered something dreadful.
"One of them came to my house."
"What ?"
"I don't know."
She practically yelled the words, as if it were Marc's fault—and he felt it. He made a show of leaning back to avoid her anger.
Manon's eyes filled with fear as she went on.
"I didn't want to get involved in your mess."
Marc raised an eyebrow.
"And you think this is my fault?"
"She grabbed me by the throat, started strangling me, and told me she was the Third Horseman of the Apocalypse.The Natural Disaster."
Marc's eyes went wide.
"What?"
She began fidgeting, like someone ready to bolt at the slightest sound.
"I didn't want to believe her. All these stories… But she talked about you... I'm sure she was talking about you."
"What else did she say?"
At those words, Manon grew angry again and tried to shove Marc aside with her arms.
"That's why I didn't want to talk to you! I wanted you to do something. Tell me how to get rid of her. She's a spirit, right? A ghost? Just… make her go away. Don't pretend you can't. Your physical abilities keep growing, and there's that weird pressure people feel when they get close to you. Ever since you all started your little story, I noticed you've changed. I didn't want to believe it, and seeing your faces… I didn't want to end up like you. I stayed away to avoid all this, to avoid those dark circles you all wear like chains. But in the end…"
Marc didn't reply. A long, cold silence settled between them, broken only by the rain hammering the village.
Then, he spoke, his voice tinged with anger.
"You could've shown us a more merciful side instead of mocking us."
"Shut up. I never wanted to be part of this. I never wanted to…"
Tears slid down her angry face. Marc said nothing.
"Anyway. Get rid of her. I don't want to die, you hear me? I don't want that thing coming back."
Marc felt his aura stir more and more in her presence. His eyes almost turned red as his anger rose. But that wasn't what he wanted to do—nor was it wise. So he calmly suppressed it and chose to taunt her instead.
"Scared?"
"No, idiot. Just worried."
Manon spun around without another word, rushed into her car, and sped off without once looking back. She hadn't met Marc's eyes for their entire conversation.
"Worried, huh? What about me?"
Marc watched her leave. He had learned something new, but it didn't really help. In fact… it didn't help at all. He thought about what a "Natural Disaster" could be—and what it could do.
"The Third Horseman of the Apocalypse… Natural Disaster… We're screwed."
He climbed back to his room, a heavy dread in his chest. The evening had been rough on the emotions. Then again, most evenings ended up that way these days.
This one just carried worse news than usual.
"We're sinking deeper into the shadows. Getting out won't be easy."
Suddenly, a voice came from nowhere.
"Marc, want to go shoot some hoops?"
It was his father, calling from downstairs. A faint smile formed on Marc's lips.
His relationship with his father was pretty good, but they rarely had time to do activities together. Most of his memories with him were either at home or on vacations in another region. Outside of that, he hardly saw him.
Though Marc preferred soccer, his father loved basketball. When Marc was younger, they played a lot, but life—school, work, time—had stolen that from them. That was how it went. He was growing up.
Still, despite urgent matters from the other world and the looming war ahead… he could at least go play some basketball.
"Why not?"
His father was already tying his sneakers at the door. He called out to his son."I'm ready. I'll be waiting at the court."
"Okay."
In Marc and Elie's village, there was a basketball court that almost no one used.
Actually… no one used it.
Back in the day, the only people who ever played there were Marc and his father. The villagers weren't exactly basketball fans.
The court itself was odd — the floor painted a faded blue, the backboards bright red. The whole place looked like a giant canvas a child had splattered paint on. Which was… exactly what had happened. Years ago, the kids had been allowed to decorate it however they wanted.
Marc pushed the gate open and stepped in after his father.The man was already shooting. And missing...A lot...
David Zeymond had once been an amateur player. Not bad, but never a pro — and it showed.
He'd never made it to the top, but back then the whole province had known his name. A decent player, but nothing more.
The ball clanged off the backboard with such a bad angle it bounced right back into his hands.
"I'm getting old."
Marc came up behind him, offering a bit of fatherly support in reverse.
"No, you've just been out of practice too long. Shooting doesn't just vanish when you're standing still."
"Oh, listen to you. Talking big for someone who only played a year of basketball."
"That's your genetics."
Marc took a shot of his own… and missed it too...
David smirked.
"Which ones? My forties or my twenties?"
Marc just grinned, jogging after the ball.
David watched him run — something he hadn't seen in a long time. Memories stirred, but he pushed them aside and focused on the game.
"So, what are we doing?"
"One-on-one?"
"I'm too old for that."
"Fine. A shooting contest. We make up the points depending on the shot."
A smile spread across his father's face.
"Alright. I'll take that challenge. You're gonna regret following me here, kid."
They traded shots under a sky that was slowly filling with stars. The day was almost over, the balls bouncing in every direction. Sometimes David earned small points under the basket. Other times, he'd sink a spectacular three.
Marc caught the rebound, tossed the ball back to his father, and asked:
"How come you've got so much free time today?"
David shrugged, catching the ball.
"Finished my construction report for Gite Rate. They said they'd call me back, but… nothing yet."
A shot hit the rim.
"So if they don't call me with another project, I've got nothing to do."
"I see."
David worked in construction — though "construction" was too small a word. He was the guy who could do anything. Architect, mason, engineer, inventor, researcher… you name it. He had no official title, but a reputation big enough to land him on TV from time to time.
"Hard to believe that with all your degrees and skills, you chose to buy a small house in the countryside."
Another faint smile crossed his father's lips as he shot from the three-point line.
"Oh, we don't need anything else. Besides, you can still have nice vacations anywhere. You're rich, son. Not as rich as Nathanaël's family, but you can hold your head high."
At that, Marc's eyebrows rose, doubt flickering on his face.
"Considering the hotel you booked for us in Orio, I'm not so sure we're poorer than Nath's family."
"You know the Kings. Even with all they have, they hide their wealth."
King — that's what they called Nathanaël's father. The man was a mystery, always in magazines, on TV, at major events. Even someone like Marc, who barely cared about celebrities, knew him well. Not just because he was the father of a friend — but because people never stopped talking about him.
Then a random thought cut through Marc's focus.
"I bet even his wife doesn't know what he actually does."
David took the ball, voice heavy and short of breath.
"Oh, you'd be surprised at what a man will do for a woman. He's been far more in the spotlight since he's been with her."
Marc didn't quite understand what he meant. His mind went to Elie instead.
Was it the same?
No. He had to protect her. He'd promised, and he'd seen it in his vision. It was different.
…Wasn't it?
He pushed the thought away and kept his tone casual.
"If you say so. So I guess you've done a lot for Mom, huh?"
"Oh, yes."
Marc's shot hit nothing but net.
"Yes!"
"So, what's the score?"
Marc looked at him, expecting him to have been keeping track.
"I don't know. I didn't count."
"It's always like this when it's just the two of us. No one keeps score."
"And I always end up winning."
Marc sank another three-pointer, then shot his father a smug little look.
"That's three, right?"
"Yeah. But you're wrong — I'm way ahead."
"Sure you are…"
After a long series under the stars, they finally sat down, gazing up at the night sky.