The afternoon sun painted the arena in shades of gold and amber, casting long shadows across the packed earth floor. Trainees had paused their drills, drawn by curiosity toward the elegant stranger who had requested a sparring partner.
"Tell me," Germain asked, testing the thin blade's balance with a subtle flick of his wrist, "is this your first time engaging in actual combat?"
The sword he'd selected was a masterpiece of simplicity—a blade of such delicate origin that it seemed almost insubstantial in his pale hand. Perfect for the quick, precise movements he favored. Though there were downsides, of course. A blade this thin, especially one made of standard steel rather than something more exotic, could snap under sufficient force.
"Well... sort of?" Joy stood before him, fidgeting with her hands. When he'd announced he needed a training partner, she'd been the last person to volunteer—at least in her own mind.
"No need to worry." Germain's voice was calm, reassuring. "I do consider myself an adequate combatant. And I believe you will be just fine."
He flipped his blade, catching it between index finger and thumb, extending the hilt toward her.
"Take it."
Joy stared at the offered weapon. The handle looked substantial—too heavy, surely, for her slender frame to manage effectively.
"It's not heavy," Germain assured her.
She wrapped both hands around the grip, surprised when the blade lifted easily. "It really isn't."
"Only because there's no blood on it yet." Germain hefted his own sword—a twin to the one he'd given her. "And honestly, I'd like for it to remain that way."
"I mean... realistically speaking, I don't think blood weighs that much." Joy turned the blade over, examining its simple construction.
"You'd be surprised." Germain's voice softened, taking on a weight that seemed to darken the air around them. "How heavy a single drop of blood can truly be. To have the weight of all those you've killed—and all those you'll ever kill—embedded in the back of your mind..."
He met her eyes, and for a moment, Joy glimpsed something ancient behind those crimson irises. Something that had seen too much.
"Death isn't something to joke about casually, Joy. That burden is heavier than you might expect."
Joy had no response. Or rather, she couldn't find words adequate to the moment. She understood loss—knew what it meant to lose someone. But taking a life? Forcing your own survival at the expense of another's existence? That wasn't something she'd ever wanted to contemplate.
"But that's enough negativity for one day." Germain's faint smile returned, banishing the shadows. "I'll teach you to defend yourself. Or rather, how to use a sword. You can decide whether you want to use it for defense or attack."
"I'm more of a defending kind of lady, honestly."
"I'd have to agree with that assessment."
The lesson began simply.
Germain positioned Joy in the center of an open space, away from the watching trainees. He adjusted her grip—thumbs aligned, not wrapped—and corrected her stance until her weight settled properly on both feet.
"The sword is an extension of your arm," he explained, circling her slowly. "Not a separate tool. When you think of it as other, you create distance between intention and action. That distance gets people killed."
Joy nodded, sweat already beading on her forehead despite having done nothing more than stand.
"Watch my feet, not my hands. The hands lie. The feet tell the truth."
He demonstrated a simple forward strike—slow, deliberate, each movement telegraphed for her benefit. Then he had her repeat it. And again. And again, correcting the subtle errors each time.
The watching trainees, initially curious, became invested. One by one, they drifted closer, forming a loose semicircle around the unlikely lesson. When Germain explained weight transfer, several of them began practicing the motion themselves, swords cutting air in imperfect imitation.
A young woman with close-cropped hair stepped forward, emboldened. "Excuse me, sir—what about the follow-through? I always lose power after the initial strike."
Germain smiled—a genuine expression, not the polite mask he usually wore. "An excellent question. Come. Both of you, face me. Let me show you."
What followed was less a formal lesson and more a performance—though Germain would never have called it that. He moved among the trainees like water flowing around stones, correcting stances, adjusting grips, offering quiet words of encouragement. When a young man stumbled during a lunge, Germain caught him before he fell, then demonstrated the proper recovery three times without complaint.
Joy watched from the sidelines, catching her breath, and felt something warm kindle in her chest.
He was good at this. Not just skilled—though that was obvious—but patient. Kind, even. The legendary Count Saint, the vampire lord, the political mastermind... standing in the dust of an incomplete arena, teaching frightened children how not to die.
'Who are you, really?' she wondered.
An hour later, Joy collapsed onto a crate near the arena's edge, drenched in sweat and gasping.
"Please." She pressed a hand to her heaving chest. "Never make me do that again."
"I can make no such promises." Germain stood over her, annoyingly unruffled, not a hair out of place. A single bead of sweat traced a path down his temple, and that was it.
Joy stared up at him, still catching her breath.
He was... perfection. The way his white hair draped over his shoulders, catching the golden afternoon light. The way his crimson eyes seemed to hold entire universes behind them. The way his shirt had pulled slightly during the lesson, revealing a hint of the lean muscle beneath.
It made her feel... weird.
She grabbed the glass of water someone had left and stared deliberately at the arena's unfinished wall.
"What?" Germain asked, catching the direction of her gaze.
"Nothing." The word came out too quick, too defensive.
Germain looked around the arena. Every trainee who had participated in the impromptu lesson was now sprawled on the ground or slumped against pillars, exhausted. Only he remained standing.
"It would appear I'm the only one with reasonable stamina."
"I have doubts yours qualifies as reasonable." Joy's voice was muffled by the glass.
He surveyed the recovering trainees, something thoughtful entering his expression. "Comradery."
"?"
"That's what they'll need to survive." He spoke almost to himself. "I never understood the benefit of believing in others—not truly—until recently." A pause. "To be honest, I don't think they can survive the Vatican's harsh training. Not as individuals."
Joy followed his gaze across the arena. "I assumed as much. Although..." She considered her words carefully. "I don't think that's completely true. They might be rough around the edges, but we're not the same people we were last year." A faint smile touched her lips. "I think we're decently strong now. And our capacity to learn—to be better—will benefit us in the long run."
Germain said nothing. He didn't need to. She'd already understood what he'd been implying: that the key to future battles wasn't individual strength, but mutual support.
He, of all people, should know that.
"Speaking of teams," Germain said, retrieving his jacket and draping it over his shoulders, "I've been neglecting mine lately. I should go contact them."
Joy's fingers tightened around her glass. "Oh. I forgot you even had one."
She stared at the water, watching ripples spread from her trembling hands.
"But..." The word escaped before she could stop it. "You'll be coming back... right?"
"?"
"You're not... leaving, are you?"
Germain blinked, genuinely surprised by the question. "I wasn't planning on it."
Joy smiled—a real smile, bright and warm. "Good. 'Cause there's still lots I want to show you."
Germain nodded once, then turned and walked toward the arena's exit, his jacket billowing slightly in the afternoon breeze.
He passed through the town square, exchanging pleasantries with shopkeepers who had grown accustomed to his quiet presence. A baker waved. The candlemaker's daughter curtsied. He acknowledged each with the same polite nod, the same slight smile.
At the house Blake had arranged for him—a single-story structure with three rooms and architecture that was, frankly, fascinating—he unlocked the door and stepped inside.
His radio was missing from the desk where he'd left it.
"Oh." He spoke aloud to the empty room. "Blake did make an improved model. I'll just find that instead."
He turned to leave—
And stopped.
A smell.
Not unpleasant—the villagers kept everything meticulously clean. But his nose had always been stubbornly sensitive to new scents, and this one...
This one was familiar.
He tried to dismiss it. Continue to Blake's workshop. But the scent clung to his consciousness like a memory demanding recognition.
The house was small. Kitchen. His room. A bathroom. Nothing.
He stood in the main corridor, preparing to give up, when his gaze drifted down the darkened hallway. A door knob, barely visible in the shadows.
He levitated—a subtle rise, feet leaving the floor—and drifted toward it. When his toes touched ground again, he turned the knob slowly, revealing a small closet filled with items.
Not his. A former resident's, perhaps.
But the smell persisted.
He inhaled deeply, tracing it to its source. His hand shot out, snatching a shirt from its hanger.
Yes.
This stench—how could he ever forget it?
"Akame."
The name fell from his lips like a stone into still water.
TO BE CONTINUED!