"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it all!"
330 grunted, his voice a ragged edge of frustration.
His fist crashed into the table with a force born from agony. Once. Twice. Again. Each strike echoed through the silent, sterile meeting room like a heartbeat cracking under pressure.
His knuckles turned red, the skin scraping raw against the composite surface, but the physical pain did nothing to stem the storm raging within him.
The heavy table rattled under the repeated blows, trembling as though it too could feel the loss vibrating through the floorboards.
UWDS Trochanter 660 stepped forward. He didn't flinch at the display of raw rage—he understood it too well. Quietly, he placed a steady hand on the table, a silent call for grounding.
"Calm down... man, calm down..."
330 turned toward him, his voice cracking with a mixture of fury and grief. His eyes—bloodshot, wide, and soaked in a deep, hollow pain—searched desperately for something that might dull the weight pressing against his chest.
"Tell me how! Tell me, damn it! Damn it all..."
Then came a voice through the speakers, cutting through the heavy silence like a shard of glass. "Mugi-san! We... we... WE JUST LOST ZO!!!"
Yari Misa reported.
The scream was thick with disbelief, a broken thread trying to hold a torn world together. But Mugi, Trochanter of Squad 330, didn't break again.
He didn't scream back or cry aloud. Instead, he drew a long breath—shallow, trembling—and steadied himself like a man standing on shifting sand.
"Yes... I know,"
He replied.
The words came cold. Not callous, just numb, as if all the warmth in his blood had been drained in a single instant.
From the front of the room, a deeper voice took control, cutting through the static of grief.
"All Squad 330 personnel. Retreat immediately. This is not your fight anymore. The Field Men will handle the rest. Fall back. Now."
It was Mr. Hasegawa. His voice held no warmth, only the absolute weight of command. In that moment, it was the only thing keeping the room from collapsing into chaos.
"Copy that... sir..."
330 followed up, standing tall for the sake of those still listening on the other end.
"To all remaining members of Squad Segment 330... prepare to pull out. Immediate withdrawal."
Across the flickering monitors and distant battlefields, the broken hearts of five soldiers stirred.
"C-Copy..."
A voice faltered, the breath hitching on the edge of a total collapse. Each syllable sounded like it was being spoken through a throat full of glass.
"...Sorry, everyone,"
Mugi muttered to himself, his head bowing. There were no speeches left.
A shift in the comms followed. A different frequency clicked open—Hachi, calm but firm, speaking to Ryujin with a tempered edge that betrayed the urgency coiling beneath his skin.
"Heard that, Ryujin?"
"Affirmative. Seems like the scale of this battle is as expected,"
Ryujin answered. His tone was even, but beneath it lay the chill of hardened realism. This wasn't new to him—just heavier than usual.
"Yes... are you sure your squad can handle it?" Hachi asked.
A beat passed, heavy with the sound of the wind rushing past Ryujin's receiver.
"Yes."
The finality in his answer was unshakable. Not pride, but conviction. And far in the distance, the skies of Kyushu began to darken—not with clouds, but with the quiet, suffocating promise of war.
~~~Nagasaki~~~
[May 3, 2169 - 8:11am]
"What the hell!! We ordered all this food but don't have any money?!"
Itoshi shouted, his face turning a panicked shade of red.
"Shh! Shh!!"
Ayro hushed him quickly, glancing around the busy cafeteria.
"I thought we were under a multi-million organization!"
Itoshi whispered loudly, still half-yelling.
"We are! But we haven't gotten our paycheck from the last two commissions yet!"
Ayro explained, rubbing the back of his neck as he avoided the eyes of the cashier.
"Where the hell are they?!"
Itoshi asked, his hands nearly trembling with the stress of a potential dine-and-dash.
"Next week! It's coming next week!"
"Then why the hell did we—?!"
Itoshi started, holding up an empty ramen bowl in frustration.
"You were hungry, right?!"
Itoshi froze, the steam from the kitchen fogging his vision. His tone softened instantly.
"Y–yes..."
"Don't worry. There are other ways to pay,"
Ryujin suggested with a rare, dangerous grin.
Moments later, Itoshi, Kara, Aldrin, and Kirashi stood shoulder to shoulder at the restaurant's industrial kitchen sink.
Sleeves were rolled up, and hands were buried deep in greasy, soapy water. The clinking of ceramic and the rhythmic splash of rinsed bowls filled the air—mundane sounds that did little to dull the sting of absolute embarrassment.
It was a strange kind of battle, fought not with blue flames or wind, but with sponges and elbow grease.
"What the hell!! Are we gonna do this 'til afternoon?!"
Itoshi shouted, his patience finally snapping as he scrubbed a stubborn bit of dried pork off a plate.
"Hehe... I heard this place is popular..."
Kara said nervously, her bubbles floating up to her nose.
"Then why aren't Ryujin, Jayu-chan, or Ayro cleaning?"
Kirashi muttered in a tired, sad tone, his wet hair drooping over his eyes.
"First of all—Jayu's a child. Secondly, Ayro and Ryujin paid for the drinks. And they're the leaders of the squad,"
Aldrin replied, his focus entirely on the efficiency of his scrubbing.
"Is this... corruption? The hell..."
Itoshi groaned, plunging another plate into the suds.
Beyond the kitchen walls, a presence lingered in the shadows of the alleyway.
Hidden.
Silent.
Watching.
The stalker followed their movements with unnerving precision. From the steam of the kitchen to the sunlight of the street, it observed—unblinking, calculating, waiting for a gap in their guard.
"Dang... We're falling behind the other squads..."
Ryujin muttered as they finally stepped out into the cool air.
"No need to rush, Ryujin. We'll get there,"
Ayro replied calmly.
Ryujin rolled his shoulder with a slight grimace, the joint popping audibly.
The weight of constant travel and the cold spring wind were starting to settle into his bones.
"Fatigue?"
Ayro asked, crossing his arms.
"Yeah..."
Jayu, holding Ayro's hand, looked up at Ryujin.
Quiet and gentle, she stepped forward. Her fingertips began to glow with a faint, pale light as she whispered a soft incantation.
A wave of warmth spread through Ryujin's shoulder—subtle, like a sunbeam, but deeply soothing.
"Thank you... Jayu-chan,"
He smiled, patting her head.
"You learned that from your mama, didn't you?"
"Mhm!"
Jayu nodded brightly.
"You're doing what she wanted you to do."
Jayu's eyes shimmered like starlight caught in a puddle.
They shared a quiet smile—until Ayro suddenly froze. He turned sharply, his eyes scanning the crowd. Nothing. Just a woman in a simple coat passing by.
"Hmm? What's up?"
Ryujin raised a brow.
"It's nothing... Do you know that woman?"
Ayro asked quietly.
"N-No... Why? Do you like her?"
Ryujin teased with a smirk.
"That's not it!"
Ayro barked back, his face heating up.
"Hahaha, relax. Just kidding. What's wrong?"
"I don't know... Something's off."
That evening, the squad found a quiet apartment where Jayu could rest.
Kara and Aldrin stayed by her side, watching as she drifted off into a deep sleep, the blankets pulled tight to her chin.
Just outside, Ayro stood watch on the balcony. Ahead of him, Itoshi, Kirashi, and Ryujin disappeared into the nearby woods to scout for Seele activity.
Nagasaki's night was biting. The wind nipped at Ayro's ears, whistling through the railing. But what chilled him more wasn't the air—it was the feeling.
That same presence. The shadow behind the veil.
"If you're going to attack, do it now... instead of just standing there watching us,"
Ayro said calmly, his eyes closed as he leaned against the doorframe.
"I'm surprised you noticed."
A woman's voice answered from the dark.
A figure dropped down from the roof in front of him, landing with a soundless grace that shouldn't have been possible on the gravel.
She was wrapped in dark, reinforced fabric, cloaked by the night itself.
"A Kunoichi? In this era?"
Ayro thought to himself. He cleared his throat, adjusting his stance.
"Ehem... What do you want?"
The woman stepped closer, her movements fluid and ghostlike.
"WESCU or U.W.D.S.?"
"What of it?"
Ayro asked, his hand drifting toward his side.
"Your answer decides whether your squad lives or dies,"
She said flatly.
"Will you even be able to beat us?"
Ayro smirked, his confidence returning. Behind her mask, the woman's eyes curved.
"We'll see, Ayro."
"So you were the woman from the restaurant earlier..."
"Nice observation. Just as expected from the Vice Leader of Squad Segment 663,"
She tilted her head slightly.
"Hmph... You know our squad—so you know our organization?"
Ayro probed.
Her expression flickered—then curved into a sly grin.
"I was supposed to sound cooler with asking that, but oh well..."
Before he could draw a breath, she vanished. The space she occupied was suddenly empty, the air swirling where she had been.
She reappeared a heartbeat later, a cold kunai pressed firmly against his neck. No sound. No wind. Just a sudden, lethal proximity, as if the world had skipped a frame.
"What the hell—she's fast!"
Ayro thought, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Shocked, are we?"
She teased, the blade's edge cold against his skin.
Ayro chuckled, a low, dry sound.
"Haha... Not too bad."
~~~To be Continued~~~