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After the heavy weight of their conversation settled, Sampo—arriving with his usual impeccable, greasy timing—whisked Dan Heng away to parts unknown. Kenta, left to navigate the sudden vacuum of information, naturally drifted back into the sterile, herbal-scented quiet of Natasha's clinic.
The moment he stepped inside, his sharp eyes scanned the rows of cots. Something was missing.
"Wait... Dan Heng is with the blue-haired vulture, but where did my Bronya go?"
Besides the empty bed where the spearman had sat, the space once occupied by the Silvermane Commander was now just a mess of rumpled sheets. Kenta turned a questioning gaze toward Natasha. He knew the doctor; she didn't just "lose" patients.
Natasha caught his look and let out a weary sigh, resting a hand over her heart. "Alas, our guest from the Upper District didn't quite heed medical advice. The moment she woke, she demanded to know her location. When she realized she was in the Underworld, she slipped out while I was occupied with a group of miners. I couldn't exactly abandon a dozen patients to play hide-and-seek in the alleys."
Kenta nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I should probably go track her down," he said, finishing Natasha's thought. "Bronya is more than capable of handling herself, but a Silvermane officer wandering the Underworld in full regalia? That's a recipe for a riot."
Natasha arched an eyebrow. "Are you heading out now, then?"
To her surprise, Kenta shook his head. "No. Let her run. She's spent her whole life behind the high walls of the Administrative District. It's time she saw the real Belobog—the one that isn't polished for the Supreme Guardian's inspections. She needs to find her own answers, and she won't find them sitting in a clinic bed."
His tone was steady, carrying a deep, unshakeable trust in the girl he'd once called 'Little Bronya.'
I just didn't expect the plot to move this fast, he mused, taking a medicine list from Natasha to make himself useful. Yesterday I was giving her cryptic advice in the Overworld, and today she's officially a subterranean explorer. The protagonist energy in this room is through the roof.
As the silence returned to the clinic, a soft, groggy murmur broke the peace.
"Uh... did someone catch the license plate of that train?"
Kenta looked over to see March 7th stirring. She was blinking rapidly, her pink hair a mess of static and sleep, looking every bit the confused kitten. Sensing an opening for some classic mischief, Kenta leaned over her bedside.
"You're awake? Congratulations," he whispered with mock solemnity. "The procedure was a success. You are now officially a cute girl."
"What?!"
The shock hit her like a bucket of ice water. March 7th shivered, instantly throwing off the blanket to check for... well, whatever she thought he'd changed. She stopped abruptly as her fingers hit the first button of her top.
"Wait! I was always a girl!"
She looked up indignantly at the instigator, only to find Kenta leaning against a pillar, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
"Oh, you! How dare you make fun of me when I've just been kidnapped!" March sat up, delivering a light, playful punch to his shoulder.
Kenta didn't flinch. In fact, he looked like he found the "attack" rather refreshing. After a minute of spirited banter, the reality of her surroundings finally dawned on her.
"Huh? Speaking of which—where on Jarilo is this?"
Kenta resisted the urge to give her a standing ovation. It truly is you, March. If you hadn't asked, I'd have suspected you were a lore-expert in disguise. Your lack of vigilance is truly your greatest shield.
He patiently explained the descent into the Underworld, the "rescue" by Sampo, and the current state of their trailblazing mission. March's eyes sparkled with renewed fire.
"Right! The legendary Trailblazer March 7th is back in action! Time to restart the journey and find Dan Heng!"
She stood up with an infectious, youthful vitality that seemed to brighten the dim clinic. Kenta watched her, but instead of the admiration she expected, his face was twisted in a heroic struggle to suppress a laugh.
"Hmm? What's that look for, Kenta? Do I have something on my face?"
Kenta pointed silently toward her chest—specifically at the top button she had fumbled with earlier. His voice was thick with amusement. "Are you sure you want to make your grand debut like that?"
March's outfit featured a low-profile collar; normally perfectly modest, but with the top button undone, it offered a slightly more... "scenic" view than intended.
March froze. She slowly looked down. As the open corner of her collar registered, her face turned a shade of crimson that put her hair to shame. She whipped her hands up to cover her chest.
"No lewdness allowed!" she squealed, instinctively lashing out with a kick.
In her frantic state, March forgot two things: first, that she was standing on a sickbed; and second, that her favorite boots were currently in a pile by the door.
Kenta's reflexes, honed by years of dodging Svarog's palm cannons and Seele's scythe, kicked in. He dodged the kick with a fluid shimmy and, on pure reflex, reached out to catch the offending limb.
He grabbed her ankle—and immediately regretted his life choices.
March wasn't barefoot. She was wearing white cotton ankle socks, complete with a dainty ruffled cuff that framed her fair skin with heartbreaking cuteness.
Encountered a legendary-tier 'White Sock' attack, Kenta thought, his brain momentarily short-circuiting. Gourmet-level aesthetics. Critical hit. I should have let her kick me. Why did I dodge? I am a fool.
March, finding her ankle firmly in Kenta's grasp, went completely still. It was as if someone had hit the pause button on the universe. The lively girl was gone, replaced by a statue with a face so red it looked ready to steam.
"You... you... let go..." she whispered, her voice barely a breath.
Even the most outgoing Trailblazer wasn't immune to the sheer, toe-curling shyness of such a moment. With her ankle caught and her heart hammering, she couldn't exactly "restart her journey."
And what about Stelle, the gray-haired raccoon? She was still dead to the world, snoring softly on the adjacent cot, blissfully unaware of the romantic comedy unfolding three feet away.
Natasha, watching from her desk, initially wore the satisfied smile of a matchmaker. But then, a flicker of worry crossed her face.
Another one? the doctor wondered, her thoughts drifting to a certain purple-clad scythe-wielder. Kenta truly is a walking catastrophe for the hearts of the Underworld. Is Seele actually going to survive this competition? Go for it, Seele... you're going to need a bigger scythe.
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