The following morning, the Great Hall was quiet—far more subdued than usual. The once-boisterous chatter of students had dulled to a low murmur, like wind through empty corridors. Whatever brief joy might have been sparked by the suspension of classes was swiftly extinguished by the grim reality outside Excalibur's walls. Headmaster Blaise's declaration of a full lockdown loomed over the castle like a storm cloud, and Caerleon's unrest echoed louder with every hour that passed.
For Jeanne, it felt like the world was unraveling.
The city screamed day and night. People were being dragged off without explanation. Soldiers patrolled the streets with blank stares and heavy boots, and the rumors. By God, the rumors. Spread like wildfire. Whispers of Norsefire targeting students. Random detainments. Beatings. Names that hadn't been seen in days.
She made her way through the castle's winding halls, the late morning sun cascading through the windows, trying to focus, trying not to let her imagination spin further than it already had. Everywhere she turned, students were huddled in small groups. Their voices hushed. Expressions strained. Some stared off in silence. Others wept openly—for siblings, parents, or friends whose fates were unknown.
And Jeanne understood. She prayed, silently and often, for whatever curse had fallen on Caerleon to lift, for life to return to some form of normalcy. But the truth weighed heavy in her chest. This wasn't temporary. Something had broken. Something deep.
She hadn't seen Helga, Rowena, or Salazar since the day before. Godric, she had avoided altogether. Not out of fear, but to escape the weight of his disappointment, which she imagined now as colder than any reprimand. Without thinking, she wandered. Her steps carried her down an unfamiliar corridor, narrower than the others, older. The walls were lined with mounted shields and faded banners bearing crests she didn't recognize. Dust clung to the edges of carved stone beasts, their faces frozen in snarls or solemn judgment.
Then, she heard it.
Music.
A piano, echoing gently through the door just slightly ajar ahead of her. She tilted her head, surprised. It wasn't common to hear music in these times. Especially not something so human.
Jeanne stepped closer and gently pushed the door open.
What greeted her was an old theatre hall, cavernous in size. Rows upon rows of empty seats climbed up toward the second floor, where shadows swallowed the ceiling far above. The scent of mildew and mold lingered thickly in the air, as though the room had slept undisturbed for years. And yet, at the center of the stage, a spotlight burned through the gloom.
There, seated at a grand piano, was Professor Ashford.
His fingers moved with elegance and purpose, gliding across the keys like flowing water. Each note echoed across the empty chamber, filling the air with something melancholic yet strangely warm.
Then, softly, he began to sing.
His voice rose to meet the notes. Not loud, not flawless, but full. Filled with quiet emotion. It held the weight of memory, of sorrow restrained, of something long buried but not forgotten. It pulled at her like a thread stitched to her heart.
[Song – Witness – Daughtry]
Jeanne stood in the doorway, frozen in place, as though the music itself had stilled the world around her. Slowly, she stepped inside, her feet carrying her down the creaking wooden staircase toward the stage. The song was unfamiliar. Not something from her time, not from any world she knew. Yet it struck something deep within her.
The melody rose and fell like a tide, and his voice followed with it. Each note carried weight, every lyric soaked in something raw and aching. It wasn't polished, but it was real. The kind of pain only a man who had lived through it could sing without faltering. It reached her in places she didn't realize were still vulnerable.
As the final notes lingered in the air, the music faded into silence.
Ryan let out a long, quiet breath.
Then came the sound of soft clapping.
He turned his head, surprised.
Jeanne's eyes widened as she realized she'd been applauding without thinking, her hands now halfway to her mouth. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Professor," she stammered. "I didn't mean to intrude, I just... I heard the music and—"
"Hey, no worries," Ryan said, pushing himself up from the bench. "No harm, no foul."
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and gave the space a quick glance.
"Funny thing," he added. "A little bird told me this place hasn't seen much use in years. Not since the old music club dissolved. Thought I'd come take a look, see if anything still stood." He gave a small smile, eyes trailing across the rows of empty seats. "Didn't expect a full-blown theatre or that it'd be left to rot."
Ryan hopped down from the stage, his boots hitting the wooden floor with a dull thud, stirring a puff of dust into the air.
"That being said," he said, flashing a crooked smirk. "Didn't expect to see you here. Thought you'd be off with your new crew. Especially Mister Grouchy McGrouchyface."
Jeanne gave a sheepish shrug, eyes falling to the floor. "Um… yeah, well…"
Ryan waved it off. "Look, sweetheart, I know your type. You see someone hurting, and your first instinct is to try and fix it. Nothing wrong with that." He paused, pulling a silver case from his pocket and flicking it open. A cigarette popped up; he caught it between his teeth. "But Godric?" he said around the filter, "He's carrying a different kind of pain. That's not the sort you patch up with a good cry and a group hug."
From his vest, he pulled a lighter, flipped it open, and lit the cigarette. He inhaled deeply, exhaled a slow stream of smoke that curled in the cold air.
"I've seen guys like him. Over and over again," Ryan went on, snapping the lighter shut with a click. "And the thing they all had in common? They didn't want to heal. Not really. They wanted to hurt."
Jeanne winced at the smell of smoke but furrowed her brow in thought. "Why would anyone want to feel like that?" she asked.
"Because," Ryan said, holding the cigarette between two fingers now, "they're scared. Scared that if they let go of the pain, they'll lose what's left of the person they loved. The memories, the connection. All of it." He took another drag. "The grief becomes a stand-in for what's gone. They start to believe that if the pain fades, so will everything else."
"I… I never thought about it like that," Jeanne said softly.
Ryan nodded. "That's why he's pushing people away. Not because he hates you. Not even close. It's because if he lets you in, if he starts to feel better, he's afraid he'll forget her. That the world will move on and leave her behind."
His eyes dropped for a moment, settling on the golden band still wrapped around his finger.
"It's like an addiction," he said. "Holding on to something long after it's turned poisonous. Even if it's tearing them apart… they cling to it. Because it's the last thing they believe is real."
Then he caught himself mid-thought. "And when you're that far gone?" He gave a half-smile, bitter but knowing. "Well, you stop givin' a damn about anything—or anyone."
"Then, how do I get through to him?" Jeanne asked, lifting her eyes to meet Ryan's.
Ryan lifted the cigarette back to his lips took a slow breath, then exhaling smoke as he looked off toward the empty rows of the theatre.
"Honestly?" He tucked one hand into his pocket. "You don't. Not unless he wants to be reached."
He paused, taking a final drag before flicking the ash. "But if you really mean to try, then you've gotta give him something stronger than the pain he's holding onto. Something to believe in—something worth crawling out of the dark for."
"Something to believe in…" Jeanne repeated under her breath, the thought sinking deep.
Just then, the theatre doors slammed open.
Professor Workner barreled in, boots echoing sharply against the wooden floor. His usually calm expression was twisted in panic.
Ryan instantly dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath his boot, straightening with a poorly concealed grin. "Workner! Hey. I wasn't smoking indoors. You know what they say—no proof, no crime. It's your word against mine."
Workner blinked, briefly thrown. "What? No—forget that!" He shook his head sharply. "We need you in the foyer. Now."
The urgency in his words snapped the room into motion.
Ryan's smirk vanished. He and Jeanne exchanged a look, reading the shift in energy with unspoken agreement. Without a word, they turned and sprinted toward the stairs, following Workner out into whatever storm was waiting beyond the doors.
****
As they reached the foyer, just beyond the entrance to the Great Hall, Jeanne's breath caught in her throat. Nearly two dozen students from all five houses lay across the floor, some conscious, others groaning in pain. Their uniforms were torn and soaked in blood, faces bruised, arms hanging limp or clutching at wounds. One boy had a gash above his eyebrow, blood trailing down the side of his face. Another cradled a broken arm, his eyes glassy.
Ryan froze, his jaw clenched as his eyes swept across the carnage. His hands curled into fists at his sides. "What in the fresh hell…" he muttered.
Doctor Adani and the Hospital Wing staff were already there, triaging students and carrying the worst of them away on stretchers. The air was thick with panic and the iron scent of blood. Ryan's eyes darted toward the front doors, where Professor Serfence stood, helping students inside. Some leaned on each other for support, limping, shivering, battered. Without a word, Ryan stepped up to him.
"Serfence, what in tarnation is going on here?" Ryan asked. "These kids look like they've been chewed up by a damned Horntail and spit back out."
Serfence gave him a sharp look as cold as his expression. "Do you really need to ask, Ashford? Norsefire. These students were caught outside when the headmaster declared the school be locked down. They were on their way back when those bastards descended on them."
Ryan's eyes went wide. "You don't think…"
"That Burgess had them targeted deliberately?" Serfence's lip curled. "Knowing him, I'd bet my wand on it. Petty. Vindictive. Always was a snake."
Workner stepped to the entrance just as the last wave of stragglers stumbled in. "That's the last of them," he called out. "By Gil-galad, it's worse than we thought."
A cry from one of the injured students broke through the noise.
"There are more out there!" he shouted, blood running down his temple. "We got separated—they chased us through the streets! You have to help them!"
Workner, Ryan, and Serfence shared a grim look.
"I'll go," Ryan said at once, stepping forward—only for Serfence to plant a firm hand on his chest.
"No," the professor snapped. "Our mission begins tonight, and—unfortunately, thanks to the Headmaster's insistence—I need you alive and functional. You're of no use to me with your skull caved in."
Ryan's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me? Who the hell do you think you're talking to, stiff? You don't know me, and you sure as hell don't know what I'm capable of."
Serfence's brow furrowed, lips twisting into a scowl. "Stiff?"
Workner stepped between them. "That's enough—both of you." He turned to Ryan, apologetic but resolute. "I'm sorry, but Serfence is right. You two have something bigger to handle tonight. And the rest of us? We're staying put. We're the last line of defense inside these walls."
Workner adjusted his glasses. "As much as it pains me to say, we must place our trust in the strength of the Visionaries."
"Visionaries?" Ryan snapped. "You're seriously gonna leave this to a bunch of kids?"
Serfence let out a low, knowing laugh. "Kids?" he said, glancing toward the city. "Oh, Ashford… you have no idea."
****
As Jeanne's gaze swept across the chaos. The bloodied students, the cries for help, the smell of sweat and iron thick in the air. She felt a hand grasp her shoulder.
She turned sharply.
Godric stood there, wide-eyed, his crimson gaze flicking from the wounded to the stretchers being carried past. "What's going on?" he asked. "By Charlemagne, what happened?"
"Norsefire," Jeanne said. "They ambushed the students coming back in. They didn't care who."
"What?" His expression shifted. Confusion, then disbelief. "But they can't. Rowena said—"
"The game's changed, Godric," Jeanne snapped, her eyes locking onto his. "Whatever Rowena thought she knew, whatever lies they fed us... none of it matters now. These people, these monsters. They're not holding back anymore. They're coming for all of us."
They both turned as the injured boy on the ground cried out again. Pleading for the others who were still out there.
Jeanne's eyes widened. Then narrowed.
She turned around and stepped forward—only for Godric to seize her wrist.
"Jeanne, what the hell do you think you're doing?" he barked. "You're not going out there!"
"I have to," Jeanne said, yanking against his grip. "They're out there somewhere, they're hurt—"
"Yeah? And what are you gonna do, Jeanne?" Godric growled. "Pray? Throw words at them? You walk out there alone, and you're dead. Is that what you want? To die trying to play hero?"
She tore her arm free, eyes blazing. "You know what? I'm done tiptoeing around your damned feelings!"
He blinked.
"I've been swallowing my words, walking on eggshells, trying not to set you off because I thought, maybe, just maybe, underneath all that rage, you still cared," she said, stepping into his space. "But all you've done is lash out. Hide. Sulk. And drag everyone else down with you."
Godric's expression darkened. His mouth opened—but she raised a hand.
"No. You don't get to speak until I'm done." Her voice was shaking now, but fierce. "Yes, we know what happened to Raine. And yes, it was horrible. No one's ever blamed you for grieving. But what you're doing now? This isn't grief, Godric. It's punishment. And you're not punishing the world. You're punishing yourself."
His eyes flickered.
"You hate yourself because you couldn't save her," Jeanne continued. "Because you made a choice. And deep down, you think you're a coward for it. That you don't deserve to move on."
She stepped back, the fury in her eyes fading into something colder.
"Well, fine. If you want to rot in here, wallowing in guilt, that's your choice. But don't pretend it's noble. Don't pretend it's brave."
Jeanne's breath caught for a moment. Then she drew herself up and spoke with a clarity that cut.
"There are people out there right now. Scared, hurt, waiting for someone to come. And if I can reach them, even if it kills me, then so be it."
She turned, just before leaving, and pointed at him.
"You can stay here and waste away, oh brave Lion of Ignis. But I'm done trying to save you when you won't even save yourself."
With that, she spun on her heel and bolted for the doors.
Too fast for Workner or Ashford to stop her. Too fast for Serfence to even turn.
Godric stood frozen at the base of the grand staircase, the sounds of the foyer fading into a hollow stillness. Jeanne's words echoed in his mind. Not loud, but sharp, like the edge of a blade drawn too close to the skin. For the first time in months, he felt it. Not the numb haze he had grown used to, but the full, unbearable weight of everything he had been carrying. And it was heavier than the sword strapped across his back.
His jaw clenched. His fists curled, trembling with a rage that wasn't just anger. It was shame, grief, the unbearable ache of being seen. He turned sharply and placed one foot on the staircase.
But he stopped.
His eyes drifted back toward the doors Jeanne had vanished through. The path she had chosen. A muscle jumped in his cheek as he exhaled. Then, low and guttural, he let out a growl.
****
Jeanne tore through the streets of Caerleon, her boots slamming against rain-slick cobblestone. Her gaze darted left and right. Chaos reigned. Uniformed Norsefire enforcers dragged civilians from their homes, clubs cracking bone and splitting skin. Blood streaked across shutters, doorsteps, and walls. A man screamed. A child cried. Smoke drifted from overturned carriages and shattered shopfronts. This wasn't the city she had come to know—and certainly not the one she loved. It was a battlefield now. And it was burning.
She ducked past a guard who lunged for her, her robes snapping behind her as she sprinted down a narrow alley. Her chest heaved, her heart pounding against her ribs.
A sharp cry echoed ahead.
She skidded to a halt.
Smacked in the middle of the street, five Norsefire guards had cornered a group of First Year students. Three girls, no older than eleven, huddled on the wet ground, clinging to each other, shaking with sobs. One of the guards flicked out a baton, the metallic snap cutting through the air.
Jeanne didn't hesitate.
She tore forward, wand slipping from her robes.
The baton raised.
"Expelliarmus!" she cried.
A red flash erupted from her wand. The baton exploded from the man's hand and clattered across the pavement. He stumbled back, startled. Jeanne planted herself between the guards and the girls, wand raised, her other arm spreading protectively.
"Back off," she said. "Now."
The guards exchanged a glance. Then grinned.
"Well, lookie here," one muttered, drawing his wand. "Got a little spitfire on our hands."
"Brave," said another, unsheathing a short sword. "Stupid but brave."
"You know," sneered a third, eyes dragging over Jeanne, "she's easy on the eyes. Been a while since we had a little company down at the barracks."
"Just don't bruise her too much," muttered the fourth with a grin. "I prefer my toys intact."
Jeanne's stomach twisted but she stood her ground, shielding the girls as best she could. Her grip tightened on her wand, but her hands were shaking. They began to close in, surrounding her like wolves scenting blood. Their weapons raised. Jeanne's breath hitched. She dropped to her knees, wrapped her arms around the trembling girls, and pulled them close, shielding them with her body. Her eyes screwed shut as she braced for the blow. Heart pounding, every muscle tensed.
The air snapped. A bone-deep hum tearing through the street, as if the heavens had drawn breath and exhaled lightning. Jeanne felt the hairs on her neck rise, the familiar charge crackling against her skin. She knew this. She'd felt it before. For a heartbeat, time itself seemed to stop.
And then the world shattered.
Jeanne's eyes flew open just as all five guards were hurled into the air. Limbs flailed, mouths agape, expressions frozen mid-sneer. A beat later, they crashed to the asphalt with a sickening symphony of crunching bone and splattering blood.
They lay twisted, grotesque, sprawled like broken marionettes. One convulsed. Another tried to scream, but only gurgled blood. Shattered limbs bent in unnatural angles, jagged splinters of bone jutting from ruined flesh. The moans that escaped them were wet, choked, and inhuman. The kind that turned the stomach and stilled the soul.
And standing before her, amidst the blood and steam, was Godric.
His robes fluttered behind him, sword clutched in one hand, lightning still dancing across the steel. His crimson eyes locked onto the next wave of Norsefire enforcers. Nearly two dozen of them, frozen in their tracks at the sight of their fallen comrades.
He stepped forward, lowering into a fighter's stance.
"Come on, then," he growled. "Which of you bastards is next?"
The Norsefire guards unsheathed their weapons and drew their wands, fury etched into their faces as they moved to strike. Godric tensed, ready to charge but a presence stirred beside him.
One he hadn't sensed until now.
He turned and there stood Genji Shimada.
Clad in the amber-trimmed cloak of the Terra Visionary, the young man stood with serene stillness. His hair, dark as midnight, was tied into a precise ponytail that cascaded down to his hip. His amber eyes met Godric's. A hand, gentle but firm, rested on the guard of Godric's sword, holding it steady.
"Genji?" Godric breathed.
"Gryffindor-san," Genji said softly. "You have done well. I have never once doubted your strength nor your courage."
He turned his gaze toward the advancing guards, his expression sharpening.
"But now," he continued, "I must ask you to stand down. This is not your battle."
"No, Genji, we can take them together!" Godric protested.
But Genji raised a hand. "Were it any other moment, I would welcome your steel by my side," he said. "But then… who will protect them?" He nodded toward Jeanne and the three trembling girls clinging to her robes.
Godric's breath caught. He looked back and saw the fear in their eyes, the desperation.
Genji stepped forward, fingers brushing the hilt of his katana, the blade still sheathed.
"Take them. Guide them home. Your fire is meant for greater trials, Gryffindor-san." His gaze stayed fixed on the enemy. "As for these men… I shall see to them myself."
Godric hesitated only a second longer. Then he turned to Jeanne. Their eyes met. Understanding passed between them.
"Come on," Jeanne said as she helped the girls to their feet. "We're leaving."
As they fled down the broken street, Godric looked back once at Genji, who stood alone before the guards like a quiet storm.
"Kami ga anata to tomo ni, oh Lion of Ignis," Genji whispered. "Let not your blade taste death… not yet."
****
Genji walked forward, his steps unhurried, yet each one carried the weight of thunder. A cold stillness radiated from him. Not of fear, but of focused intent. His amber eyes, narrow, swept the street not for enemies, but for what had been lost. Shattered glass crunched underfoot. A torn plush toy lay abandoned in a gutter, its stuffing strewn like entrails across the rain-dark asphalt. With each ruined fragment of innocence, Genji's grip on the scabbard of his katana tightened.
He stopped a mere breath away from the line of Norsefire guards. Men cloaked in armor and arrogance, wielding batons, maces, blades, and wands, all instruments of pain. Yet Genji stood still, as unyielding as stone.
"In another life," he said softly, "I would like to believe you once stood for something. Justice, perhaps honor." His words were calm, laced with quiet sorrow. "But whatever you were, whatever fragments remain. They are no longer my concern." He paused. "The world is full of men like you. Swaggering, cruel, convinced they stand above consequence. And in a perfect and just world, every deed would bear its price."
One of the guards stepped forward, baton in hand, a sneer curling his lip. "Well, if it isn't the slant-eyed dog himself. Genji Shimada. The so-called Blade of Terra." He spat, the saliva landing just short of Genji's sandal. "That pretty little cloak won't save you today."
Genji tilted his head slightly, unmoved. "How tragically predictable. Even your insults lack originality." His voice grew colder. "It seems the quality of your kind hasn't improved with time."
"Why, you little—!"
The guard lunged. Baton raised.
In one fluid motion, Genji caught his wrist mid-swing, pivoted, and flipped the man over his shoulder. The guard hit the ground hard. Back-first. The breath torn from his lungs in a wheeze. Before he could scream, Genji twisted his arm and with a sharp crack, the bone snapped. A second later, his heel came down upon the man's throat. A wet gurgle followed, then silence.
Genji stepped off the corpse with quiet precision.
The other guards stood frozen, not in hesitation, but in sudden, icy fear.
"As I was saying, this is not a perfect world," Genji continued. "People commit terrible acts. And if they're fortunate, they're given a chance. To atone, to set things right." He paused, eyes narrowing. "But more often than not, justice never comes."
A beat of silence passed.
"But today," he said coldly, "is not one of those days."
He took a breath, slow and deep, as if offering one last moment of mercy to the living.
"The mistake you made was thinking your masters' shadows would shield you from consequence. That your uniform absolved you of sin." His hand slid to the hilt of his blade. "But you've hurt innocents. Broken homes. Spilled the blood of children. Not out of necessity but choice."
He took one final step forward.
"And so, on my name, and the honor of the Shimada Clan—I will end each and every one of you."
He closed his eyes for a brief moment. When they opened again, they gleamed with unwavering purpose. "I do not take pleasure in bloodshed," he said quietly. "But if I have one regret… it is only that I can do this but once."
A sudden war cry tore through the ranks as the Norsefire guards surged forward, weapons raised, boots pounding against the asphalt.
Genji's hand gripped the hilt of his katana.
And then he vanished.
The blade whispered from its scabbard. A gleam of electric blue slicing through the air like a reaper's scythe. In a blink, six men collapsed in silence, eyes wide with shock, their bodies falling apart mid-stride. Blood sprayed in fine arcs across the asphalt, painting the ground like a butchered canvas. The others barely had time to register the slaughter before he was upon them.
Genji moved like a phantom. Weaving between blades, batons and maces, slipping past spells that shattered harmlessly behind him. His sword flashed once, twice, thrice. Each stroke clean, final, and absolute. Flesh split. Bones sliced. Screams burst from broken lungs only to be silenced by steel.
His footfalls barely made a sound.
Where he passed, men dropped in pieces. Torsos reduced to ribbons. Limbs scattered like discarded puppets. His speed left only ghost-trails behind him. Blurs of motion that lingered an instant longer than his blade. The air itself seemed to recoil from his presence.
Steel clashed. Sparks flew. A wand shattered in two. A neck opened in a spray of red.
And then, silence.
Only one guard remained. Collapsed, trembling in a widening pool of blood. He scrambled backward, slipping as the thick crimson clung to his boots. His back hit a wall. Eyes locked in terror on the figure walking toward him.
Genji flicked his blade. A single crimson line arced from its edge, vanishing before it could stain his robes. Not a drop marred his cloak. His amber eyes settled on the man. The gaze of a killer. A man who had sent hundreds, perhaps thousands, into the dark and remembered none of their names.
"Demon," the guard gasped. "Monster… Abomination!"
Genji tilted his head ever so slightly. "Abomination, you say? That one is new," he said calmly, almost amused. "I've been called many names. Oni, Akuma, Shinigami... Demon. But the one I hear most—by my own people—is Hitokiri. In your tongue... man-slayer."
He stepped forward, the soft whisper of his sandals lost beneath the wet squelch of blood beneath his feet. One hand rested lightly on his scabbard, the other hovered at the ready. "My blade has drunk deeply—hundreds, maybe more. Many deserving. Others… less so. But never once have I drawn it for sport. Never once for pleasure."
The air chilled. Even the light seemed to flinch as he stared down the guard, his eyes sharp as drawn steel.
"Fun isn't something one ought to find in the act of killing, but you and your ilk?" A pause, his lips curling into a faint, grim smile. "Does a put a smile on my face."
He lowered himself into a stance. "Be at peace. I'll make it swift. A mercy far greater than anything you've ever offered," he said, then quieter still. "And far more than you deserve."
Then came the sound. A deep, mechanical groan. The grinding of steel threads against asphalt, heavy treads dragging across the rain-slicked street. Genji turned, amber eyes locking onto the source. From the far end of the road, a massive vehicle rolled into view. Its armored bulk dwarfing the corpses that littered the road. It resembled a truck, but something about it was wrong.
Mounted atop it was a turret, sleek and angular, glowing faintly with a core of pulsing energy. Genji's expression darkened. He had heard of these. Soulless, mechanized weapons crafted by the Atlas Institute. Not tanks in the traditional sense. No. These were abominations of magitech. Designed for a singular purpose: annihilation.
The lone guard at his feet, moments from death, suddenly grinned through his fear. "Oh, you're dead now," he spat. "You hear me, slant? That's a Warcaster! Atlas' finest. I don't care how powerful you think you are. No one walks away from that!"
Genji said nothing at first. He simply studied the machine as it rumbled to a halt, its turret beginning to rotate. With a faint hum, the orb at the center of the barrel began to glow. Bright, volatile, drawing in ambient magic like a star pulling at the sky.
"So," Genji murmured, rubbing his chin, "that is a Warcaster…"
The glow intensified. The hum grew louder, shrill and searing. Magic crackled in the air, making the very street vibrate beneath their feet. Then—release.
A blast of volatile energy screamed toward him, a streak of blinding light crackling with destructive force. The air ripped open with a thunderclap.
Genji moved only his head. Just enough.
The blast missed by the width of a breath, searing past his cheek. The wall behind him exploded in a maelstrom of smoke, stone, and fire. The force shook the ground, sending rubble raining from the shattered façade. The guard shrieked, shielding himself from the debris. He stared wide-eyed at the gaping hole carved into the building; disbelief etched into every inch of his face.
Genji exhaled, unbothered.
"Impressive," he said. With measured grace, he sheathed his katana, the electric-blue steel whispering back into the scabbard. Then, with calm precision, he removed the scabbard.
He crouched low.
One hand gripped the sheath.
The other hovered above the hilt, fingers poised.
The guard barked a laugh, manic and trembling. "You stupid little slant, you think that scrap of steel's gonna take down a Warcaster? That's a godsdamn tank!"
Genji didn't reply.
He simply closed his eyes.
The wind fell still.
The Warcaster's turret began to charge again, its core glowing with a rising whine of raw, unstable power.
But something had changed. Genji stood still, yet around him danced an ethereal radiance. A golden light shimmered across his frame, flickering like fire caught in the wind. The glow curled down his arm, snaking into the length of his blade. It wasn't flame, nor lightning. It was something older. Purer. A memory of power shaped into form.
He exhaled slowly, and even his breath shimmered gold.
The tank fired.
The blast tore across the street, screaming with voltaic fury, brighter than lightning, faster than thought.
Genji's eyes snapped open. The blade inched from its sheathe.
"Ryuu ga wa teki wo kurau!"
In one fluid motion, he drew his blade and the very air split open.
A surge of light erupted from the slash, spiraling outward in twin coils of luminous energy. Two celestial dragons, golden and serpentine, roared to life, their spectral forms intertwining in a spiral of wrath. The ground cracked beneath their passage, spiderwebbing in every direction.
The dragons collided with the incoming blast and consumed it whole.
The Warcaster stood no chance. The energy wave struck the machine with the force of a vengeful god. Its armor crumpled like paper, metal groaning before the entire tank erupted in a blossom of fire, heat, and mangled steel. The shockwave echoed down the street rattling windows and sending embers spiraling into the midday sky. When the smoke cleared, Genji stood tall, his cloak barely stirring in the breeze. He straightened, lowering his blade as the glow faded from his body.
Behind him, the last guard stood frozen, mouth agape.
"H-how… how did you—"
A flash of blue steel.
His words never finished. His head fell cleanly from his shoulders, landing with a wet thud as blood geysered upward in a crimson bloom.
Genji flicked the edge of his blade. Then, with a practiced twirl, he slid the katana back into its sheath with a sharp, satisfying click. He turned away from the carnage, footsteps light against the ruined ground.
"Hm," he mused to himself, almost playfully. "I wonder how Arthur and Artoria-san are doing."