Tom sat on a dune just outside the bunker, his hands buried in the warm sand. The sky was half dark, stars scattered like broken glass.
He looked down at his palm, opening and closing it slowly.
"My Face… Hawking's Trojan Chair."
The name sounded heavy in his mind. He hadn't said it out loud yet.
He raised his hand toward a loose stone. The stone twitched, rotated once, then fell back still. Tom exhaled through his nose.
"I can move them… but only turn them. Spin them. What good is that when people are dying?"
Silence stretched. Only the wind answered. He pressed both hands to his face, trying not to think about Elior.
Then something shifted. The air thickened. A faint creak of wood came from behind him. Tom turned.
A figure floated above the sand. A wooden chair, old yet regal, held its shape in the air. Sitting on it was a man or something that wore the shape of one. His skin was white as salt, his clothes black, sharp.
No mouth. No expression. His eyes were voids, deep and endless, hidden behind thin spectacles that glinted with strange light.
Tom's throat tightened. He whispered to himself.
"Is this… really my Face?"
The figure didn't answer. It only sat, still, its chair swaying slightly as though weightless.
Tom swallowed and looked back at the stone. He tried again, forcing it to rotate faster. This time, it spun like a wheel before shooting off into the light.
He blinked, his chest straightened with both awe and fear.
"Maybe… if I'd been faster back then… I could have stopped it all."
The figure watched silently.
Tom lowered his hand, eyes stinging.
"I need to study this. I need to know what you can really do."
The chair creaked once more, as though agreeing, then stilled.
Tom stayed still for a while, watching the wooden chair hover in the air. Its presence felt neither kind nor cruel. It simply was.
He picked up another stone and placed it on his palm. His thoughts whispered: rotate.
The stone twisted slowly, awkward at first. He frowned, pushing harder with his will. The spin sharpened. Soon it whirred like a coin on a table.
Tom clenched his jaw and tossed it outward. The stone spun so fast it tore a line in the sand before vanishing into the night.
He sat frozen, chest rising heavy.
"…That's… more than I thought."
The chair creaked faintly, as if mocking or approving.
Tom took a shard of rusted metal nearby. He held it up, and again he willed it to turn. The shard rotated midair, cutting a thin arc of light as it spun.
Then, without touching it, Tom forced it to twist sideways. It cut into a dune, slicing like a hidden blade before collapsing.
His lips parted.
"I'm not… the weakest anymore. Doesn't mean I have became stronger. I am still weak hence, I need to keep growing."
The figure on the chair didn't move. Its empty eyes behind the spectacles watched him as if weighing every word.
Tom wiped sweat from his forehead, gripping his knees.
"I need control. If this gets wild, if I lose it, people will die. I don't want that."
The sand hissed under the wind. For a moment, Tom felt the chair shift closer, its wooden creak echoing inside his chest.
He whispered, almost a vow,
"I'll master this… or it'll master me."
Then, a quiet voice broke the silence.
"Tom?"
He flinched and turned. Grace was standing there, wrapped in a plain cloak, her hair loose, face softened under the blazing sun. She had been watching for a while, it seemed.
Tom rubbed the back of his head, trying to laugh it off. "Ah… I didn't mean to look like a madman throwing junk around."
Grace stepped closer. Her eyes, gentle yet sharp, fixed on the floating figure by Tom's side. At the same time, Tom noticed something stir beside her.
A humanoid fox draped in a scarlet kimono stood faintly in the glow, crown hovering above its head, mysterious leaves dripping faint green mist from its hand.
Tom stared for a moment, jaw loose. "So that's… your Face."
Grace gave a small nod. "And that's yours." Her gaze lingered on the wooden chair-figure. "Hawking's Trojan Chair… it suits you."
Tom blinked, chuckled nervously. "Suits me? A guy on a chair with no mouth or eyes? That's depressing."
Her lips curved faintly, almost a smile. "No. It suits you because… it looks quiet, but it hides power if someone dares to look closer."
The desert breeze brushed between them. Tom looked down, scratching his cheek. "You're good at this 'talk nice to people' thing."
"I only repeated what Elior taught me," Grace admitted softly. Her voice grew quieter, almost carried away with the wind. "He told me once that every Face is more than just strength. It's… a mirror of who we are. Of what we hide."
Tom looked up at her, then at the hovering chair. For a while, he didn't speak.
Grace took a breath, then added, "I should tell you… I already passed on everything Elior taught me about Faces. So if you need guidance, you don't need to figure it all out alone."
Tom tilted his head. "You mean you'll be my teacher now?"
Grace shook her head quickly, cheeks turning faint red. "No… not a teacher. Just… someone walking beside you."
Tom grinned, wide and teasing. "So, a new friend then?"
She looked away, clutching her cloak tighter. "…Yes."
Tom leaned back, exhaling slowly. "Well, congratulations to me then. Finally, I got promoted. From clown of the group… to friend of Grace Lewis."
Grace's cheeks warmed further, but this time she didn't hide. She let herself smile faintly.
Grace lowered her gaze, then with a faint flick of her hand, a translucent screen shimmered into existence in front of her. It glowed softly in the desert night.
"Face Status," she said, almost like a whisper.
Tom squinted. "Whoa… like an RPG character sheet? Wait.... What is RPG?"
Grace's lips twitched but she kept her calm tone. "Something like that. Look."
On the screen, glowing letters lined up neatly,
[ Face status : The Fox Deity ]
[ Strength: C
Speed: B+
Agility: B
Endurance: C+
Control: B+
Stamina: A ]
Tom whistled. "Stamina A? Grace, what are you, some kind of running machine?"
She glanced at him sideways. "…It's not just running. Stamina measures how long a Facebearer can maintain abilities before collapsing. So…" she trailed off, then added lightly, "I could probably outlast you in a fight."
Tom groaned dramatically. "Great. First Elior, now you. I'm doomed to be the weakest."
He flicked his own fingers, and another screen blinked into view. His stats glimmered before them,
[ Face status : Hawking's Trojan Chair ]
[ Strength: B+
Speed: B+
Agility: D
Endurance: B
Control: C
Stamina: C+ ]
Grace studied it carefully. "…Interesting."
Tom frowned. "What's that supposed to mean? Interesting like… promising? Or interesting like… pitiful?"
"Neither," Grace said, and finally smiled faintly. "You're… unbalanced. Your Strength and Speed are high, but your Agility is…" She paused delicately. "D."
Tom buried his face in his palms. "Meteor-level clumsiness. That explains why I tripped over a corpse yesterday."
Grace blinked at him, then stifled a laugh. "Yes… that explains it."
Tom peeked through his fingers. "Wait, explain the ranking again. A, B, C, D—what's the actual scale?"
Grace's tone shifted, almost like a teacher recalling Elior's lessons. "A means planetary level. The kind of force that could tear apart continents or even affect the world itself. B is continent level, something that could reshape nations. C is meteor level, enough power to shatter landscapes. D…" she looked at him gently, "is multi-city level. Still destructive, but… fragile in comparison. These ranks are only for measuring physical stats not your Face abilities."
Tom rubbed his chin. "So basically… if I'm a B+ in Strength, I could theoretically throw a punch that wrecks a country."
Grace tilted her head. "Theoretically. If you don't trip first."
Tom gasped, pretending to be offended. "You've changed, Grace. From quiet girl to savage fox."
She smiled this time, eyes glinting. "Maybe I just learned from the best person I could."
The desert wind shifted. Their two glowing screens hovered between them, stats reflecting in each other's eyes.