The man moved first.
Fast enough that the motion barely registered before impact followed.
Shura barely saw the fist before it crashed into his face.
The impact snapped the world sideways.
His shoulder slammed into the wall hard enough to rattle the hanging fabric around him. Something cracked behind his teeth. For a second, all sound vanished beneath a violent ringing.
Pain followed a heartbeat later.
Hot enough to burn.
Heavy enough to blur the room around him.
Shura's knees nearly gave out beneath him. His hand scraped against the wooden floorboards as he forced himself upright too quickly.
His body refused.
Breath caught somewhere inside his chest.
The woman shouted something from behind the counter, but the words broke apart before reaching him properly.
The man approached without urgency.
That was what unsettled Shura most.
No fear in his movements.
No hesitation.
Only practiced violence.
"You should've stayed quiet," he said.
Shura blinked hard once.
The room sharpened again in fragments.
Broken glass near the counter.
The dark front window reflecting the Beacon glow incorrectly.
Something slipped from his pocket into his palm.
A coin.
Instinct moved before thought did.
His thumb flicked upward.
The metal disk spun through the air, catching the Beacon light pouring through the black-tinted window.
Flash.
The reflection burst sharply across the shattered glass scattered over the floorboards.
The man's eyes shifted for half a second.
Enough.
Shura forced himself upright with one hand against the wall.
The man adjusted immediately.
Too immediately.
His balance stabilized faster than it should have. The subtle shift in his footing corrected itself unnaturally, like his body had skipped the delay between reaction and movement entirely.
Shura's breathing slowed.
Something about the movement disturbed him.
Not because it was fast.
Because it felt unnatural.
His mind flashed briefly toward the Iron House training floor.
Workers lifting impossible weight.
Controlled breathing.
Stable muscle tension.
Viora flowing naturally through effort.
But this—
This felt distorted.
Like forcing the body to move ahead of itself.
"That doesn't feel natural," Shura said quietly.
The man frowned slightly.
Before either of them moved again, the woman suddenly grabbed a jagged shard of broken glass from the floor and rushed forward.
Her hands were shaking violently.
Not courage.
Panic.
The man caught her wrist effortlessly.
Then threw her aside.
Her body crashed against the counter hard enough to shake the shelves. A bottle fell and shattered beside her shoulder.
Shura moved instantly.
His hand ripped the belt from his waist in one motion.
The strange metallic mask attached to it swung outward heavily.
Cold. Too cold.
The temperature against his palm felt wrong enough to make his fingers tighten involuntarily.
For the first time, the man hesitated.
Only slightly.
But Shura saw it.
He stepped in and swung the metal edge toward the side of the man's head—
—but the strike missed cleanly.
Not because the man was faster.
Because he moved early.
His body shifted before impact arrived, twisting away at the exact angle needed to avoid the blow.
The mask sliced through empty air.
Shura's stomach tightened immediately.
Predictive.
The realization hit harder than the punch had.
The man grabbed the nearest shelf and shoved it violently sideways.
Wood splintered.
The collapsing structure crashed between them.
Shura barely caught the woman before she hit the floor beneath it. Both of them slammed against the boards together as debris scattered across the shop.
Glass scraped along Shura's arm.
The woman stared at him, stunned.
But Shura was no longer looking at her.
His eyes locked onto the man's exposed arm.
Veins.
Black beneath the skin.
Neither bruised nor burned.
Corrupted.
The same unnatural darkness spreading beneath the skin.
Osiris.
For one terrible second, the shop stopped feeling real.
Smoke. Blood. Silence.
The memory struck fast enough to tighten his throat.
The man's breathing became uneven.
Not heavier.
Broken.
Every inhale arrived at the wrong time, like his lungs and body were no longer agreeing with each other.
One eye twitched violently.
His movements began slipping out of rhythm.
Like something inside him was fighting back.
Shura slowly stood.
His legs were shaking.
So were his hands.
But he stepped forward anyway.
"You need to stop moving," he said quietly.
Not confidence.
Fear.
Because he finally understood something worse.
The man wasn't becoming stronger.
He was becoming unstable.
The woman looked between them in horror.
First the silver-threaded coat resting nearby.
Then the strange metal mask in Shura's hand.
Then the way he recognized what was happening.
Who are you?
Inside Shura's own mind, the answer was painfully simple.
Even I don't understand any of this.
The man staggered once.
His hand slammed against the wall beside the black-tinted window.
Shura's eyes shifted toward the glass automatically.
Then stopped.
The Beacon light outside bent unnaturally across the surface, stretching into shapes that didn't match the street beyond it.
The shop's reflection lagged half a second behind reality.
Like the window was remembering movements instead of reflecting them.
Shura stared at it.
"…Why does nobody notice?" he asked softly.
The woman instinctively looked toward the glass.
Her expression changed immediately.
Confusion first.
Then discomfort.
Her eyes pulled away almost instantly, like her mind rejected what it saw before understanding it fully.
The man's expression hardened.
"Stop looking at it."
That answer alone confirmed enough.
A cold pressure spread through the room.
The man inhaled sharply.
Viora surged through his body again.
But this time something failed.
One of the black veins along his arm split beneath the skin.
Dark smoke leaked outward slowly.
Weightless. Shifting.
Like vapor that had forgotten how to move naturally.
The woman recoiled immediately.
"What… is that…?" she whispered.
The man didn't answer.
Or couldn't.
His eyes jerked violently left and right now, tracking movements that didn't exist.
Predicting things before they happened.
Too many possibilities at once.
He suddenly grabbed his own head with both hands.
His fingers dug into his scalp hard enough to draw blood.
"Too many…"
His voice cracked apart.
"…too loud…"
The reflection in the black window distorted harder.
The man noticed immediately.
And for the first time—
real fear crossed his face.
"You…"
He stumbled backward.
"Please…"
His knees buckled slightly.
"Please help me… I don't wanna die…"
The anger inside Shura weakened instantly.
Confusion replaced it too fast.
But underneath it, something colder still remained.
The memory of what the man had done.
The woman pressed herself against the counter silently, unable to look away anymore.
The man reached toward Shura desperately.
"Can you hear me?" he begged.
Shura took one step forward—
then stopped.
Osiris flashed through his mind again.
Blood. Smoke. Silence.
His throat tightened painfully.
"…I don't know how," Shura admitted.
Then—
Footsteps echoed outside the shop.
Slow. Heavy. Measured.
Outside the shop.
The man heard them too.
His entire body stiffened instantly.
Not panic.
Recognition.
The woman whispered through trembling breath:
"…Knight…"
The man looked toward the door.
Then toward Shura.
Then toward the distorted black window.
Like he couldn't decide which terrified him more.
And Shura realized something horrifying.
This had happened before.
The shop door opened.
A Knight stepped inside.
No surprise crossed his face.
His eyes moved once across the room.
Black veins.
Distorted smoke.
Unstable Viora flow.
Recognition came instantly.
The Knight's hand was already on his blade.
"Here," he said calmly.
Then he disappeared forward.
Steel flashed once.
The corrupted arm hit the floor before the scream fully formed.
The man collapsed instantly, clutching the ruined shoulder.
The Knight raised the blade toward his throat—
then paused briefly.
Their eyes met for half a second.
The man's lips trembled.
"Please…"
The Knight reversed the blade without emotion and slammed the hilt into the side of his skull.
The body collapsed unconscious immediately.
Silence returned all at once.
The Knight didn't even breathe harder afterward.
That disturbed Shura more than the violence itself.
Then the Knight's gaze shifted.
Toward the metallic mask hanging from Shura's belt.
Toward the silver-threaded coat resting nearby.
Finally—
For the first time since entering the room, the Knight paused.