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Because of its sprawling, open layout and the dusting of pale snow, the Mechanical Settlement possessed a clarity that the cramped, soot-stained streets of Boulder Town lacked. Against this stark backdrop, Kenta stood out like an inkblot on a fresh page. Dressed head-to-toe in black, he moved through the settlement with a conspicuousness that would have made a professional assassin weep, yet the residents barely spared him a glance.
The morning was well underway. On the outskirts of the settlement, vagrants had begun to crawl out of their patchwork tents. Some huddled in small groups, their voices low as they muttered about Geomarrow yields, while others stood solitary, staring into the middle distance as they calculated how to fill their stomachs for another day.
Kenta knew this crowd was a mixed bag. Many were displaced innocents, victims of a world that had forgotten them, but the shadows between the tents undoubtedly harbored those with sharper motives. He paid them no mind. He was a man on a mission, and that mission had a name.
"Heh heh... Clara..."
A grin that could only be described as slightly unhinged spread across Kenta's face. He caught his reflection in a piece of polished scrap metal and immediately wiped the expression away.
Control yourself, Kenta, he scolded. Maintain the image. You are the tall, dependable, perfect older brother. Don't let the mask slip.
In his heart, Clara was the younger sister he'd always wanted—sweet, resilient, and impossibly kind. As for what kind of woman she would eventually grow into? That was a problem for future-Kenta. For now, he was content to be the doting guardian.
He soon reached the iron gates of Svarog's inner sanctum. This gate was less of a physical barrier and more of a theological one; while the hinges were rusty, the authority of the "Underground Guardian" was absolute.
Kenta's assessment of Svarog was simple: An excellent, over-engineered nanny. He keeps Clara safe when I'm away. It's just a shame he's so obsessed with "guarding" her from me.
Svarog's assessment of Kenta was equally concise: MAXIMUM VIGILANCE. Subject Kenta possesses high-tier combat capabilities and a catastrophic threat level to Clara's emotional stability. Conclusion: The individual must be countered with extreme prejudice.
A normal person would have been stymied by the looming robot guard, Perkins, who stood like a sentry beside the gate. But Kenta just walked up and casually patted the robot's metallic head.
"Hey, little Perkins. Open up."
Perkins didn't move. Its optical sensors, which resembled a stack of traffic lights, flickered from yellow to a judgmental red. A synthesized voice crackled to life.
"Beep! Identity detected: Individual Kenta. Access denied. Lord Svarog has issued a standing order: Subject Kenta requires manual authentication and personal approval for every visitation. Would you like to submit a request for review in three to five business days?"
Kenta's eye twitched. Svarog, you bucket of bolts. You're trying to automate me out of her life? He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, exquisitely crafted mechanical badge. He held it up to Perkins' scanner.
The robot's sensors turned a vibrant, submissive green. "Beep! Master-level override detected. Identity authenticated. Welcome back, Mr. Kenta."
As the iron gate groaned open, Kenta tucked the badge away with a triumphant smirk. Checkmate, Svarog. He'd casually mentioned to Clara a few weeks ago that he was worried the "big robot" might bar him from entry, and the girl had spent three nights crafting this bypass badge just for him. If Svarog ever found out his own "daughter" had handed Kenta the keys to the castle, he'd likely hunt the man down with a rocket launcher until the heat death of the universe.
Kenta didn't stop to admire the scenery. He bypassed the main entrance—where Svarog was likely calculating the probability of a blizzard—and headed straight for the side of the villa.
He stopped beneath a specific second-story window. Extending a finger, he conjured a tiny, concentrated spark of crimson flame. With a flick of his wrist, the fire flew upward, blooming against the glass in a harmless, searing flash of light. It was a silent, fiery doorbell.
A moment later, the window swung open.
Clara leaned out, her red eyes wide with a mix of shock and pure, unadulterated joy. She was a vision of fragile beauty—white hair framing a delicate face, clad in her signature red coat and white shirt. Her hair was a bit messy, a sign of her youthful lack of vanity, but it only added to her charm. And, as always, her little feet were bare against the cold stone of the sill.
Path energy or not, Kenta thought with a wince, those toes are going to be the death of me.
Seeing him, Clara's smile became a radiant thing. She waved frantically, then disappeared back into the room. A second later, she reappeared, struggling with a thick hemp rope. She tied one end to a heavy piece of furniture and threw the other out the window.
Kenta laughed. "I could just jump, Clara!"
But he didn't. He grabbed the rope, honoring her concern, and scaled the wall in a few fluid seconds.
As he vaulted over the sill and into the room, Clara stood there, frozen. Five days of absence had clearly taken their toll on her. "Um... Brother Kenta..." she whispered, her voice barely audible.
She held out her hands tentatively, looking like she desperately wanted a hug but was too shy to initiate it. Kenta didn't make her wait. He took a long stride forward, swept her up into his arms, and spun her around until her bare feet dangled in the air.
"I missed you too, Clara," he laughed.
The girl's hesitation melted away, replaced by a brilliant, happy smile that made every monster-infested trek through the snow worth the effort.
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