"Will it really work though?"
Itoshi thought, a flicker of doubt dancing through his mind.
Another long dusk draped itself over Squad Segment 663, its fading light descending upon the earth like a slow, tired breath.
The duel between Ryujin and Roger seemed to stretch into eternity; every passing minute pulled the tension tighter, like a thread drawn thin by invisible, steady hands.
Their weapons sang a brutal rhythm—steel clashing against steel, breath chasing breath—echoing through the hollow park like the remnants of a forgotten war song.
Shadows danced with every strike, and the ground itself seemed to flinch beneath the violence of their exchange.
Kirashi stood motionless, rooted in the silence. His voice had been stolen by the storm unfolding before him.
He could only watch as the two warriors moved with a savage fury and absolute purpose, their battle carving a jagged poetry into the fading twilight.
"Is this really the man I fought months ago?"
Kirashi wondered, his eyes narrowing as the intensity of the clash reached a fever pitch.
"Did he get so much stronger in that time frame?.. No... no way. Ryujin was holding back on me."
The realization settled in slowly, cold and sharp. As he watched the duel unfold, all Kirashi could do was stand still—his pride unraveling quietly, like thread pulled loose in the wind, while the first few drops of rain began to fall from the heavens.
~~~Tokyo, Japan~~~
A man wearing a Japanese straw hat sat alone in a dim bar, nursing his drink as the evening news played softly from an old television mounted above the counter. He listened intently, eyes fixed, catching every word the newscaster spoke. After a long pause, he muttered to no one in particular,
"No survivors in that plane crash, huh?"
The bartender, who was wiping his glasses clean behind the counter, replied without missing a beat,
"The plane was lost for a long time. Got lost to Kaba, of all places."
"What the hell happened to Kaba anyways?"
The man asked, glancing toward the bartender.
"I've heard rumors. Just rumors though."
The bartender replied, setting a glass aside.
"Hmm?.. Seelies?"
The man leaned forward slightly.
"No... It's said... the real reason the people of Kaba left the island was not because of those... It was something else."
The bartender spoke quietly, his tone dropping with unease.
"Hoh?"
The man uttered, curiosity flickering in his voice.
As the two spoke, the news shifted to its next segment. The familiar tone of the anchor darkened slightly as images of distant conflict filled the screen.
The headline read: Ongoing Conflict Against Seelies Escalates in South Africa. The bar fell quieter still, the soft hum of tension settling between the man and the bartender as the broadcast continued.
The man, still holding his beer, tilted his head toward the television. His eyes narrowed, and he pointed at the screen.
"Worse than those?"
He asked, his voice low, as if the weight of the words hung in the air between them.
"It probably was... Seeing that the whole island's people were forced out of their homeland. It definitely was."
The bartender replied solemnly.
The man locked his gaze with the bartender as he spoke, his eyes steady and unyielding. There was a quiet intensity in the way he looked at him, as though each word from the bartender carried a weight only he could feel.
The air between them seemed to thicken, a silent tension growing, held together by nothing but the shared pause of their exchange.
"Well... rumors are just rumors..."
The bartender finally muttered, trying to ease the heaviness in the air.
Then, with a sudden shift, the man's tone changed—calm, but laced with something pressing, something that drew the moment tighter.
"Do you believe it though?"
He asked, his voice now carrying a subtle, almost imperceptible weight, as if pushing for a response.
The bartender stuttered, the usual calm in his voice replaced by a slight nervousness.
"N-not really... seems far-fetched to me, knowing something is worse than those parasites."
"Ah..."
The man responded softly, his tone shifting back to calm.
He took a slow sip of his beer, eyes lingering on the bartender.
"Oh well..." he murmured, his words fading like a distant echo.
As the silence between the two screamed through their ears, the noise from the TV began to seep back in.
The agenda shifted once again. An update flashed across the screen — Japan's Collaborative Seele Cleansing of U.W.D.S.
The man locked his eyes on the TV, the shadow of his dark red straw hat falling across his face, obscuring his gaze.
The newscaster rambled on, words flowing like a distant murmur, but the man's focus never wavered. Amidst the noise, only one phrase mattered to him:
"Meanwhile, Squad Segment 663 are stationed in Nagasaki."
He closed his eyes and muttered to himself,
"Ah... they so, some in there too."
The man stood up, removed his hat, and bowed to the bartender as he paid.
"Thank you," he said, his voice low but sincere.
Without another word, he left the bar, the door swinging shut behind him.
The bartender stood still for a moment, watching the man disappear into the night. He couldn't help but think to himself,
"Dang... what a weird style. A Japanese ronin that's also a cyborg..."
As the mysterious man stepped outside, the rain poured relentlessly over Tokyo's neon-lit cityscape. The vibrant lights reflected off the wet pavement, casting fleeting glows across his silhouette. He tugged his straw hat up, letting it shield his face as he stood still, watching the rain cascade down. In the quiet of the storm, he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible above the roar of the rain,
"Gotta keep... Justice."
~~~Shioizaki Park, Nagasaki~~~
The two blades were thrown back, their owners staggering from exhaustion after their prolonged battle.
Ryujin and Roger stood, breaths ragged, faces carved with fatigue. The park had fallen silent—only their heavy breathing filled the void. Roger wiped the sweat from his brow and forced a grin.
"Seems like we're going for a hand-to-hand."
Ryujin smiled faintly. The weariness in his eyes was replaced by something sharper—a glint of thrill. With a smooth motion, he shifted into a loose stance, relaxed yet coiled like a spring. His fingers brushed the hilt of his blade, as if teasing the fight to continue.
It was no longer a war between weapons, but a dance between wills—two masters testing the other's resolve.
Ayro, Kara, and Itoshi arrived at the park gates just in time to witness the scene.
Before them stood the rivals—"lovebirds," as Roger once called them—still locked in their relentless clash. Their weapons lay forgotten, but the tension in their movements told the story of warriors who refused to yield.
Cold rain poured over Nagasaki, draping the city in a silvery hush. Yet even as the storm grew, their rivalry blazed on. The others could only watch from afar—there was no space to intervene, no breath between them to slip through. Every strike, every feint, sealed the world around them.
Whatever fueled their fight now, it was beyond orders or duty. It was personal—older than their uniforms, deeper than pride
~~~To be Continued~~~