From the shadowed frame of the black SUV, a man emerged—his voice, coated with a thick British accent, curled through the cool Nagasaki night like smoke.
"I guess we were a bit late to show off."
The headlights caught half his face—a faint scar across his cheek and hair slicked back with the kind of carelessness that only confidence could afford. His coat fluttered faintly in the breeze, as if the wind itself respected his timing.
Itoshi met his gaze—sharp and fleeting, a glance that struck like the flick of a blade. His brow furrowed, instincts prickling. Something about this man felt off. Not threatening, not yet, but heavy—like the stillness before a storm. He turned to Ayro, his brows knitting tighter. Neither understood what the hell this man was doing here.
Ayro leaned in, hesitant, muttering words that stumbled through his accent.
"彼はとてもイギリス人だ."
(He's very English..)
Itoshi blinked. Ayro exhaled, forcing a laugh.
Itoshi's head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing.
"今,あいつ何て言った?"
(What did he just say?)
His voice was low—casual, but weighted with suspicion. Ayro rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed.
"あ...英語,わからないよね.うん,これを."
(Ah... you don't understand English... right. Take this.)
He fished through his coat and pulled out a small metallic ring—no bigger than a coin. Itoshi took it, turning it over between his fingers as the cold metal reflected the streetlights.
"なんだよ,これ?"
(What the hell is this?)
"翻訳機だよ.耳に巻いて."
(A translator. Coil it on your ear.)
For a moment, neither spoke. The night hummed faintly with the sound of distant traffic and quiet city life. Then Itoshi slipped the translator on, the small device fitting snug against his ear.
The air changed. The silence thickened, drawn tight like a thread about to snap. The man's voice cut through it—sharper now, edged with annoyance.
"Still here, you know... right?! We're supposed to do something epic!"
Itoshi flinched slightly as the translator kicked in—words reshaping themselves mid-air into something familiar. Then the man grinned, switching tongues mid-sentence.
"もう終わったのか,ガキ?"
(Are you done there, kid?)
Itoshi's eyes widened. The translator had caught up, and suddenly, the British voice dissolved into perfect Japanese—tone, cadence, everything was seamless. The man's gaze drifted over him, unreadable.
"分かるか,やっと..." (You understand now, huh...)
He folded his arms, one eye squinting toward Itoshi as a smirk formed.
"ああ!彼の言うことは理解できる!"
(Oh! I can understand what he says!)
Itoshi exclaimed, excitement flashing across his face. The man sighed, unimpressed.
"Grrr... Where were we?"
"What the hell are you guys doing here?! You're the ones who destroyed my house!"
Itoshi jabbed a finger at the man, his voice sharp and his posture tense. The man tilted his head slightly, almost lazy in his response.
"First of all, that was Hawthorne. Secondly, it was the Storm Surge that deleted your pitiful house from the face of the earth."
His tone was smug. Too smug. Ayro glanced at the man, his lips twitching.
"He... has a point."
"Are you serious right now?"
Itoshi turned to Ayro, his eyes narrowing.
"Are you even on my side?!"
Ayro gave a sheepish smile.
"Tsk!"
Itoshi clicked his tongue, glaring back at the man.
"How dare you—"
He didn't finish. The anger moved faster than reason. In one sudden burst, he lunged forward—pure instinct.
But before his hand could reach the man, Ayro's arm shot out, stopping him cold. The force made the air hum.
"Wait, Itoshi!"
"WHAT?!"
Ayro's eyes stayed locked on the Brit.
"He's not someone you can easily mess with."
The man's laughter broke through—low, casual, and dangerous.
"Hahaha... You guys are all the same."
"WHAT?!"
"I guess it's true, huh... The Defense has fallen so deep they ended up recruiting their second flame gifted."
That hit Itoshi like a slap. His eyes widened. "Second?"
"Tsk..."
"Wait no... Their second and third..."
The man grinned wider, his voice rising until he broke into deep, rolling laughter that echoed off the dark buildings.
"HAHAHAHAHA! THE DEFENSE HAS STOOPED SO LOW! HAHAHAHA!"
Itoshi felt something stir in his chest—an old burn. Not just anger, but pride and shame. He hated that laugh. He hated how it sounded like victory.
The air grew still again as the man's laughter faded. Then his expression shifted—mockery falling away, replaced by something colder. He looked at Itoshi with eyes like glass.
"Boring."
The word cut through the night like a blade. And then—movement. Itoshi barely saw it coming. One blink, and the man was gone. The next, a glint of metal was already descending straight toward him.
Reflex screamed before thought could. He braced—but Ayro moved first. Steel clashed in an explosion of sound. Ayro's blade—black and alive with shadow energy—caught the man's strike mid-swing, sparks bursting between them.
"Damn it..."
Ayro hissed, shadows rippling along his sword. He shoved the Brit back, then spun, pushing Itoshi away toward Kara.
"Get back!"
Itoshi stumbled, his heart pounding. He hated it—being pushed aside. Watching. He wanted to fight. He wanted to understand what the hell this was. Ayro's jaw tensed.
"Shit... He's gonna be quite the pain,"
He muttered. Their swords collided again, faster now, heavier. The Brit sneered.
"Is that all you've got, Ayro?!"
Ayro's blade pulsed, shadows spiraling. He pushed back with enough force to shake the air—but the man absorbed it with practiced ease. The Brit smirked, stepping back with smooth control.
"In terms of power... and speed—we're the same. Not bad for a young man."
Ayro kept silent, his eyes narrowing as he kept his breath steady.
"You know what, Ayro?"
The man continued, raising his sword lazily.
"You'll be my rival from now on."
Then, with a teasing smirk,
"If you don't like the sound of that... I'll be your soulmate instead."
Ayro chuckled under his breath.
"Haha... Nah, I'll take the rivalry. But sadly, you're not worthy enough to be my rival."
The man's grin sharpened.
"Hoh? Is that so? Too bad..."
He vanished. Ayro's eyes widened—instinct kicked in. The man's blade flashed in front of him before the thought fully formed.
Steel screamed as their weapons met again. Sparks flew, shadows rippled, and the ground beneath them cracked.
"He's fast... He's been in the Control Unit for a while... Definitely... Is he the same with Ryujin? But... it's strange... Why did he go for Itoshi first?... What does he want with him?..."
The thought tore through Ayro's mind as he fought to keep pace. The Brit pressed forward, each strike deliberate and merciless.
His precision bordered on art. Ayro countered, the ground around him darkening with each motion, his shadow sword bending light itself as it cut.
From a rooftop nearby, Hoshi watched in silence. Her cloak fluttered faintly in the cold night breeze as she crouched at the ledge, tracking every movement.
The fight glimmered below like a clash between two storms. She sighed softly, half amused and half unimpressed.
"Boys are so childish..."
Her form blurred, then vanished into the dark. Back below, Ayro's blade locked with the man's once more. Sparks flew, the sound harsh and alive. The Brit's grin widened.
"Not bad. Not bad at all."
Ayro pushed off, sliding back and breathing hard. The man's swordsmanship wasn't just technical—it was brutal and calculated. He was toying with him.
"You've improved since the last data log, haven't you?"
The man teased. Ayro's eyes flickered. He hadn't fought this man before—but the words dug deep.
Then— "Enough."
A voice—calm, commanding, and unmistakable. Ryujin stepped from the shadows of the park, his presence quiet but heavy enough to halt both blades mid-swing. The Brit's grin returned, wider now. He lowered his sword, tilting it upright.
"Ah! There's the squad's humble and lovable leader!"
Ryujin's eyes darkened. His tone was low, steady, and sharp as drawn steel.
"Tsk... Roger..."
~~~To be Continued~~~