Hiyori stood in the cavernous lobby of the fortress, dwarfed by towering stone walls and ancient arches that seemed to swallow the light. A massive, framed window hung high above, a silent, watchful eye. She drifted toward it, drawn by some instinct—but her attention snapped to a heavy door, cracked just enough to whisper secrets.
Inside, the master bedroom awaited, every corner thick with shadow, every surface a potential hiding place. Driven by a desperate need to uncover the enemy's weakness, Hiyori tore through the room. She yanked open the wardrobe, knelt on the cold floor, and peered beneath the bed, each motion sharp, frantic, almost desperate.
At last, her gaze fell on the bedside table. She gripped the right drawer, but it resisted, bound by a stubborn lock.
"What do I do?" she whispered, her voice swallowed by the room.
With a final, desperate tug, the wood creaked and surrendered. Inside lay a heavy iron key and a worn leather album. Hiyori sank to the floor, her back resting against the bedpost, and opened the book.
There was Weston. His smile was hauntingly bright, almost painfully so. In his arms, a small girl with hair the pale pink of cherry blossoms clung to him—a child of innocence, soft and fragile.
Hiyori's chest tightened. "I'm wasting my time," she muttered, fingers curling around the key. "What does this even open?"
She fled the room, her footsteps echoing down the hollow corridor. Then—a sound shattered the silence. A sharp, grieving sob tore through the air behind her. Hiyori spun, heart hammering, but the hallway was empty.
The air thickened, heavy and oppressive. She pressed on, but the crying returned, multiplying, coming from every direction. At a fork in the corridor, she followed the left, pulse roaring in her ears, until she reached the third door.
As her fingers brushed the handle, an invisible force slammed into her back, propelling her forward. She gasped, turning—but only emptiness met her gaze. "What is this place?"
Then the world tilted. A vision seized her.
She was no longer alone. A girl, hair pale as moonlight, stood at the room's center. Surrounding her were men with steel bared, faces twisted in intent. Before Hiyori could scream, the swords fell. The girl vanished, replaced by a cyclone of fire and blood.
Lightning-fast flashes of the castle's destruction burned across her vision: walls crumbling, towers ablaze, and Weston—white coat of a scientist stark against the flames—hunted like a wild animal.
"I want justice!" the girl's voice cut through Hiyori's mind, jagged and raw.
The nightmare looped. Mob rushing gates, soldiers cornering the pale-haired girl in this very room, chaos on every side.
"I need justice!" the girl screamed at her killers. "He will kill you all! You will pay!"
The soldiers laughed, cruel and unfeeling. "We've already killed him," they sneered. "Now it's your turn."
Violence played again and again, until Hiyori's eyes blurred with tears, panic choking her throat. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't escape. The ghosts surrounded her.
"Hi—yori! Wake up! Hi—yori!"
Her eyes snapped open. The fire, the blood, the screams—they were gone. Only the soft glow of the room remained, and Yuki's worried face leaning over her. Trembling, Hiyori clung to Yuki, to the tangible warmth of reality, as if refusing to let go would anchor her to the world.The echoes of Hiyori's nightmare still clung to her senses, and then the world shifted again—softly at first, then violently. Stone and shadow gave way to polished wood and warm lamplight. The oppressive chill of the fortress vanished, replaced by the tense hum of a modern study.
Asta stood rigid, every muscle coiled like a spring, eyes locked on Douma. Across from him, Douma lounged casually on a velvet sofa, draped in an air of bored confidence, one arm slung over the backrest. His sharp grin caught the light, catlike and merciless.
"Finally decided to show up, old geezer?" Douma drawled, his voice lazy, dripping with teasing arrogance. "Why the call? Don't tell me you actually need my help with something."
"You know exactly what I need," Asta said, his words low, deliberate, carrying a warning that made the air between them taut.
Douma shrugged, tilting his head, the grin widening into something almost predatory. "I haven't the slightest idea. Just spit it out—my time is precious. It's a bit pathetic, isn't it? A rival calling me for a favor."
Asta's jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. "Where is Raihtasu? And the others?"
"Raihtasu?" Douma feigned confusion, though his glinting eyes betrayed amusement. "Never heard of him."
The tension in the room thickened, tangible, like static before a storm. Every detail—Asta's rigid stance, the soft creak of the sofa, the faint scent of old books mingling with polished wood—served to heighten the unspoken danger. One wrong move, one careless word, and the delicate balance of control could shatter.
Douma's grin shifted, a dangerous curve of amusement and calculation. "But, I'm listening," he said, voice smooth. "Convince me this is worth my time."
Asta's hands clenched at his sides, a barely contained force threatening to erupt. The silence stretched, heavy and electric, both men circling an invisible battlefield where words were weapons, and one misstep could ignite it all.
Asta exhaled slowly, a thin, knowing smile touching his lips.
"So. You won't tell me," he said. "Then I'll ask Katakuri. He seems to know where Raihtasu is. And his sister."
The name struck like a blade.
For the first time, Douma's expression shifted. The lazy grin faltered, just for a heartbeat.
"You don't get to ask him," Douma snapped, rising halfway from the sofa. "Do that, and I'll kill you."
Asta only smiled wider.
"Careful, boy," he said softly. "Know your limits. Even at my age, I can still handle you."
Douma straightened fully now, eyes narrowing, tension crackling between them like a live wire.
"You want a duel, old man?"
Asta shook his head. "I have no intention of fighting someone who still doesn't understand the game he's playing."
He turned slightly, as if already losing interest. "I know, Douma. You don't know where they are. Maybe they're all dead."
The words landed heavy.
Asta paused at the door. "Then I suppose I'll come to your home tomorrow. Offer my sympathy for the loss of your fiancée. And Katakuri's sister."
Douma stiffened.
"Tell Katakuri not to set the meeting," Asta added calmly.
For a moment, the room was silent.
Then Douma laughed.
It was sweet on the surface, light and almost charming—but there was no warmth behind it. Only calculation.
"Raihtasu and the others are fine," he said. "They're off chasing some grand adventure. And Lyra?" His eyes gleamed. "She's with them. Your powerful daughter. Don't worry. They're all safe."
Douma reached for the car keys on the table, the metal chiming softly as he lifted them. He walked toward the door, not bothering to look back.
At the threshold, he paused.
"One more thing," he said. "This? All of it?"
A faint smirk curved his lips. "It was her plan. Don't blame me."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Asta stood frozen.
The name echoed in his mind like a thunderclap.
"Lyra…"