12th Day of Summer, Year 13,451
The city swallowed them in steel and steam.
Two children darted through the chaos—a boy and a girl—barefoot, breathless, laughing as they wove between towering adults and mechanical trolley carts that roared above on suspended rails. Steam hissed from the grates beneath their feet. The scent of metal and oil clung to the air like sweat on skin.
The girl ran ahead, her short brunette hair bouncing with each step. Her deep-sea blue eyes sparkled as she glanced back, mischief bright on her face. "Follow me, Gar! I know where we can lose him!"
"O-okay!" the boy called, voice cracking with panic as he stumbled after her.
He was slower, his legs trembled with each step, but he pushed forward—after her, always after her.
Behind them, a man tore through the crowd, shoving aside shoulders and curses in pursuit. His voice bellowed above the urban noise, harsh and furious.
"Get back here, you brats!!"
They didn't look back.
Their laughter danced like sparks across the stone, nearly swallowed by the city's clamor—but not quite. In their faces was a kind of purity untouched by circumstance. Not innocence, exactly. But defiance. The kind only children could wear without irony.
The girl veered sharply left.
Gar followed—but just a second too late.
He lost her.
"Lily!" he shouted, voice breaking as the world surged around him. "Lily!"
But the name vanished into the current of noise and footsteps and steam.
He spun in place, small fists clenched at his sides as he turned in frantic circles.
Nothing.
The buildings loomed like cliffs around him, windows reflecting light too bright to see through. The crowd stretched higher than he could measure—endless faces, none familiar. The air tightened in his chest, his breathing quickened, shallow and short.
"Lily…" he whispered. "I don't know how to get home…"
He stopped moving.
Just stood there—in the middle of a living river of people. Alone.
No one noticed. Or if they did, they didn't care. The crowd flowed around him like he was an obstacle, not a boy. The world kept moving, indifferent and precise. Clocks ticked. Boots marched. The city breathed.
He bit his lip and fought the tears pressing behind his eyes.
He didn't let them fall.
But they burned all the same.
A rough hand clamped down on Gar's shoulder.
"Gotcha! Haha!"
The voice was loud, triumphant—too close. Before Gar could turn, he was yanked backward, spun around like a top unrooted from the street.
A man stood over him now. Older. Angry. Red in the face and short of breath. His coat was wrinkled, his boots scuffed. His eyes were sharp and suspicious as they locked onto Gar's.
"Give me back my wallet!" the man barked.
Gar blinked up at him, tears still brimming in his eyes, clinging to the corners like they hadn't decided whether to fall or freeze.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about…" he stammered, voice cracking. "I didn't… I didn't take anything."
The man watched him carefully.
Saw the panic. Saw the trembling hands.
Saw a child on the edge.
His tone softened—barely. "Look… you and your friend can keep the money, alright? I just need my ID and everything else in there. Deal?"
Gar sniffled. Wiped his face with the back of his sleeve.
"But… I don't have it," he murmured.
The man's jaw twitched. His eyes narrowed, annoyance leaking through the cracks of his forced patience.
"Okay. Easy fix," he muttered. "Do you know her name?"
Gar looked down, eyes avoiding the man's. His hands folded behind his back like they were trying to hide something they didn't have.
"…Lily."
The man crouched slightly, leaning in.
"And her family name? Her clan?"
"I… I don't know."
There was a pause.
Then the man's face changed.
Something behind his eyes darkened—shifted from irritation to contempt.
"You're nameless, aren't you," he said, low and cold. "You and that little friend of yours."
His grip on Gar's shoulder tightened.
"Ah—ow!" Gar winced, pain flashing across his face. "Sir, you're hurting me!"
"Good," the man growled. "Maybe next time, you people will get the message."
He began to drag Gar down the street, rough fingers bruising skin, pulling him through the crowd like baggage.
"Stop it! Let go of me!" Gar struggled, feet sliding, but the man didn't slow.
"I'm taking you to the registry," he spat. "You stole from me, and you're nameless. I own you now."
He looked back at Gar as he pulled him, mouth twisting into something sour.
Which meant he wasn't looking ahead.
And he didn't see the man standing directly in his path.
Their shoulders collided—hard.
The man dragging Gar stumbled slightly, blinking in surprise.
The one he'd bumped into didn't even flinch.
He wore a sleek black suit. A clean, white apron layered neatly over the front. His hands were spotless. His glasses gleamed with a deep red tint that obscured his eyes entirely.
The suited man looked down at Gar.
Then up at the man who'd grabbed him.
"What are you doing," he asked, voice quiet but firm, "with my family?"
The man holding Gar hesitated.
Then released his grip—too fast. As if burned.
"Oh… well… you see… he stole from me, and I thought he was a nameless," the man stammered, suddenly sheepish. His eyes darted away, unable to hold the stranger's gaze.
The suited man didn't move. His brow furrowed slightly.
"You were gonna try and enslave the kid?" he said. His voice stayed even, but something in it pressed harder than volume ever could. "Imagine if you were in his place. Hell—imagine if it was your kid."
He leaned forward—just slightly—but the weight behind him made the man stumble back.
"What's your name, huh?" he asked, low.
The man hesitated.
"Gattler…" he muttered, shame bleeding into his tone.
The suited man raised an eyebrow. "Exactly. He's an Allasupa. You should apologize."
The moment the name left his mouth, Gattler froze. Panic seized his features like a vice. He turned to Gar—who stared up in wide-eyed confusion—and fumbled through a nervous apology.
"I'm—I'm sorry, kid. You can have the wallet. I don't need it."
Then he turned.
And ran.
Shoving past the crowd as if afraid the very air around him might retaliate.
Gar watched him go, chest still heaving, arms folded tightly across his stomach. He turned to the man in the suit—unsure, overwhelmed, but safe.
"Thank you," he whispered.
The suited man adjusted his apron, glancing down at Gar once more.
"What's your name?"
"…Gar," he said.
And then, after a pause.
"Nothing else."
The man's expression shifted. Just a little.
"So you really are nameless."
He turned toward the nearby building, resting a hand casually on the doorframe.
"Well then. Let me make you something to eat."
Gar didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He simply watched the stranger's back as he stepped inside.
The man paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder with the ghost of a smile.
"Come on," he said. "It's on me."
Gar stepped into the restaurant—and for a moment, forgot how to breathe.
The interior was nothing short of surreal.
Marble statues lined the walls, each one frozen in motion—depicting a man and a woman dancing, their arms intertwined mid-spin, their gazes locked in joy. The entire room seemed to revolve around them, like they were the story everything else was built to honor.
The floor gleamed with flawless black tile, polished so perfectly it reflected every light like a mirror. Above, enormous chandeliers dangled from the high ceiling, casting golden halos of warmth across the statues and glinting off every polished surface. The air smelled faintly of citrus wax and age-old elegance.
Gar couldn't stop staring.
He followed the man ahead of him, eyes still darting between statues and glassy reflections, all the way into the kitchen.
"My name's Tony Allasupa," the man said casually as he entered, slipping an apron over his already immaculate suit. "I own this place."
Gar didn't answer—his stomach did instead, grumbling loud enough to bounce off the polished counters.
The kitchen was alive.
The scent of cracked pepper, sizzling oil, and slow-cooked heat rolled in thick waves. Tony moved like he was part of the kitchen's machinery—quick, precise, yet unhurried. He reached for a pot already boiling, tossing in a bundle of thick noodles with one hand while the other cracked fresh black pepper into a dry pan. No measuring. No recipes. Just instinct.
"I ever tell you," Tony said without looking back, "that the best food don't come from hunger?"
He splashed some starchy water into the peppered pan. It hissed. The scent shifted—sharper, richer.
"It comes from memory."
He grated cheese into a mountain of snow. The pasta slid from pot to pan, twirled with a practiced wrist. Then the cheese, folding into the sauce like snow into ash.
Finally—the egg.
Soft-boiled. Still warm.
Tony placed it atop the dish like a jewel crowning a treasure.
"Cacio e Pepe with Egg," he said, sliding the plate across the counter with a flick of his fingers.
Gar stared.
Steam rose lazily from the noodles. The pepper flecked each strand like black constellations across golden pasta. In the center, the yolk gleamed like a sun caught in porcelain.
He didn't move.
Tony leaned back, arms crossed. "Eat, kid."
Gar picked up the fork like it might vanish if he waited too long. He twirled. He lifted. He took one bite.
And the world stopped.
His eyes lit up. "This is amazing! It's just like the food Lily would bring me!"
Tony paused mid-wipe with his towel. "Lily?"
Gar didn't even notice the shift in tone. He was already forking in more. "Yeah. She's got these really pretty blue eyes and short hair."
Tony's hand moved before his expression did.
CLACK.
A kitchen knife stabbed into the cutting board with a sharp, final sound.
Gar flinched.
Tony exhaled. Heavy. Controlled. His hands rested on the counter, head lowered.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "It's just… Lily's my daughter. I don't like when she wanders too far. You understand?"
Gar nodded slowly, shrinking a little in his seat. "Uh… yes, sir."
Tony looked at him for a long moment—then let out a quiet sigh. The tension bled from his shoulders.
"You want a job?"
Gar blinked.
Tony's voice was calmer now, steady as his cooking. "I'll feed you. Give you a place to stay. You keep your tips. You'll have a roof over your head and warm meals every night."
He paused.
"Better than being nameless."
Gar sat still, fork in hand.
And for the first time in his life, the idea of belonging didn't feel so far away.
31st Day of Fall, Year 13,499
The room was quiet—too quiet.
A single chair sat at the center of the space, drenched in a dim blue haze that pulsed from above like a heartbeat carved in neon. Screens stretched across the far wall, a glowing tapestry of surveillance feeds. Each monitor displayed a different perspective of the battle raging outside—Doran, Ray, and the three mechanical enforcers locked in chaotic combat. Sparks flew. Metal clashed. Blood was spilled.
And Gar Allasupa watched it all.
His eyes darted from feed to feed, absorbing every twitch, every move, every opening. Calm. Calculated. Controlled.
Then—
HSSSSK.
A door to the right hissed open with a smooth release of steam.
A small white robot rolled into the room on a single wheel, her form elegant and doll-like. Her polished plating gleamed under the blue light, and the soft whirr of servos accompanied each gentle sway of her arms.
Gar didn't turn. He barely moved. Just a slight tilt of the head, a faint flicker of attention.
"Ah," he said, voice smooth. "If it isn't my lovely daughter, Eliza."
Eliza rolled up to the chair, her tone a sing-song mess of sweetness laced with electronic static.
"Daddy, I'm booored!" Her voice skipped slightly at the end—glitching, playful.
Gar raised an eyebrow, his eyes still flicking across the feeds.
"Where are Ruby and Jade?" he asked, almost absentmindedly.
Eliza circled around him slowly, spinning once in a loose loop. "They said they're too busy helping Leyla," she said with exaggerated frustration.
Gar's lips curled upward into a grin. A slow, satisfied thing. His eyes never left the screens.
"Just a matter of time," he muttered, barely loud enough for the room to hear.
Eliza caught it anyway.
Her optics flickered as she hovered in front of him. "What are you so happy about, Daddy?"
He finally looked down at her—just for a second.
His smile deepened, but his tone remained casual.
"Oh, nothing, sweetheart. Come here. Let's watch your brothers."
Eliza's optics flared with glee. "Yay!! I get to watch them kick some butt!"
With a joyful squeal of servos, she climbed into Gar's lap—light as a feather, despite her metallic frame. She settled in like a child in a bedtime story, her small frame leaning against his chest, gaze locked onto the monitors with unblinking intensity.
Together, they watched the chaos unfold.
Elsewhere
The air hissed with steam.
Gears groaned in the walls.
Metal clashed exhorting off the towering buildings.
Doran ducked—just in time.
The curved sickle of a kusarigama sliced through the space he'd occupied a heartbeat earlier, its edge hissing past in a gleam of silver. The wielder—Titus, the largest of the three enemies—towered over him, chain coiling with momentum.
Before Doran could fully recover, the tallest of the trio moved.
A scythe swung down—silent, swift.
Doran's arms crossed instinctively.
CLANG!
Steel met steel in a perfect X, his twin greatswords catching the blow inches from his face.
Across the battlefield, chaos bloomed.
Ray stumbled back, caught in a relentless flurry from the smallest of the three. Buudo's sjambok whip blurred through the air like a razor storm—arcs of force so sharp they split the very sound around them.
The ground cracked where it landed.
Chunks of cobblestone exploded upward, scattering in all directions.
"Damn," Ray shouted, narrowly dodging another strike. "The little guy hits like a cannon!"
Doran glanced over. "That's why I left him to you," he called back, blades still locked against the scythe. "I've fought you twice now. Don't want to make it a third!"
Doran twisted his left blade, catching the chain of Titus' kusarigama. It wound tight around his sword.
Without missing a beat, Doran spun—dragging the blade downward and slamming it into the ground.
The motion yanked Titus forward, his massive frame pulled off balance—launched straight toward Doran like a wrecking ball.
Doran's right sword rose in a clean, brutal arc.
SHLNK!
Titus' body split clean down the center. One half crashed to Doran's left, the other skidding across the stones to the right.
But there was no blood. No cry of pain.
Only laughter.
Low. Crackling. Joyous.
"Gyayayaya!" came Leo's voice—the tallest of the three, still mid-air with his scythe. "I thought he had you, Titus!"
At Doran's feet, the two halves of Titus' body began to melt.
Molten silver bled from the cuts, pooling together in glowing globs. The liquid shimmered unnaturally—alive. It reformed, reshaping bones, armor, sinew.
Titus stood again—unbroken, untouched.
He rolled his neck, chains swinging over his shoulder.
"Don't worry about me, Leo." His voice rumbled like a mountain breaking.
"Let's finish him."
Leo nodded once. His scythe pulled back behind him—like a spring.
He vaulted into the air with impossible grace, body spinning as he descended like a cyclone.
Titus flung the sickle toward Doran once more, the chain whistling through the air with a deadly song.
Two strikes. Two directions. One second.
Doran's eyes darted.
Leo: above, spinning like a blade thrown by the gods.
Titus: his sickle surging forward like a bullet.
No time to think.
Just act.
Doran turned—into the sickle.
CRACK!
It ripped through his left shoulder. Pain flared like a star collapsing in his chest.
But he dropped low. Had to.
Leo was already falling.
Doran's right arm surged upward—his blade arcing high.
BOOM!
Steel collided with scythe in a shockwave that cracked the nearby streetlight and showered the ground with sparks.
But Doran's balance was off.
He couldn't move fast enough.
From the corner of his eye—
The sickle returned.
"GAAHH!!"
It slammed into the exact same wound, tearing it open wider. His body recoiled. His left arm went limp.
The blade fell from his hand—clanging to the ground.
He dropped to one knee, blood pouring down his side.
Ray turned sharply from his own fight.
"Shit!" he shouted, eyes wide.
Doran grit his teeth.
Ray caught it instantly—Doran's arm dropping limp, blood pouring from a wound that hadn't closed.
"Shit," he muttered.
Then he surged forward, dashing toward Doran.
But Buudo was already on the move.
"Quit running and fight!" the youngest of the trio snarled, closing in fast. His voice crackled with synthetic fury.
"Catch this, Buudo!" Titus shouted, swinging the kusarigama overhead in wide, booming circles.
Buudo launched himself into the air.
Titus hurled the sickle upward like a meteor—Buudo caught the chain mid-flight, gripping just below the blade. Momentum snapped the air as the chain pulled taut.
Then—
CRACK!
Buudo rocketed forward, a blur of white metal and bloodlust, sjambok raised high. His body twisted. The whip lashed down.
CRACK!!
The strike connected square against Ray's head—metal groaned and warped under the blow. Sparks flew. Cracks splintered across his armored temple as his body sailed backward through the street—
CRASH!
He slammed into a lamppost. Bent steel. Flickering lights. Motionless form.
Buudo landed on the cobblestones with the grace of a predator, crouched low, whip trailing behind him like a coiled serpent. He rose slowly, optics flickering.
He tilted his head toward Ray's still body.
"Father gave me this," Buudo said, lifting the whip with reverence.
His voice was quieter now—sharper. More real.
"When I asked for a blade, he gave me this. Said if I could master a weapon meant to lash, not kill… I'd be worthy of something more."
The sjambok twirled once, slicing air.
"But I learned something else."
He took a step forward, dragging the tip along the ground.
"You don't need a knife to cut someone."
CRACK.
Another flourish.
"You just have to swing it a bit harder."
Doran's eyes flicked to Ray—still unmoving. The flicker in his optics now dim, intermittent. Fading.
"Ray!" Doran shouted.
He twisted—pivoted on his heel—and drove his sword upward, catching the edge of Leo's descending scythe just in time. The pressure pushed him back.
But Doran didn't yield.
With a burst of strength, he spun—and slammed a roundhouse kick into Leo's midsection.
THUD.
Leo stumbled back a step, wheezing. Then—
"Damn it… three on one?" Doran hissed. "Avon! What are you doing?! I need your help here!"
His voice echoed through the street. No answer.
Just laughter.
"He's talking to himself again!" Leo howled. "GYAYAYA! What a freak!"
Then—Ray's lights dimmed completely.
Out.
Buudo turned toward Doran.
"Well, now that he's out of the picture… let's bring this one in."
Titus spun the chain beside him—slow, rhythmic.
Leo twirled his scythe in wide, mocking circles.
Buudo dragged his sjambok along the stones, trailing sparks as the three circled in.
The sound of chain links. The hiss of steam. Blue light catching the edges of cold steel.
Doran's breathing came ragged. His left arm hung limp. Blood soaked the fabric around his shoulder and dripped from his fingertips.
Only one sword left.
But still—he stood.
Titus to his left.
Leo to his right.
Buudo straight ahead.
Doran's eyes flicked between them—no time to plan. No room to breathe.
I can't let them move first.
So he did.
He charged.
His sword dragged behind him, carving sparks from the stone. He closed the distance to Titus and swung upward—
CLANG!
The strike landed clean. Titus staggered back with a grunt.
But Leo was already there.
The scythe swept across Doran's back—shallow, but punishing.
"Tch—!"
Doran twisted mid-step and retaliated, slashing horizontally at Leo.
Behind him, the chain sang again.
Too late.
THUNK.
It wrapped around his legs—tight. Titus yanked, and Doran's world flipped sideways.
CRASH!
His body slammed into the cobblestone. Breath left him in a violent cough. Blood hit the stone.
He tried to rise.
Titus spun the chain faster.
Faster.
Then—SLAM.
Doran's body flung through the air and crashed into the street again. His remaining sword skittered across the ground.
He reached for it.
Pain blurred his vision. Blood filled his mouth. But he reached—
YANK.
The chain dragged him back like a hook in flesh. Titus reeled him in, jerking him across jagged stone with every pull. His skin tore. His armor scraped.
Doran's fingers flailed in the dirt.
His sword… gone.
Leo moved like a blur—silver and shadow—his scythe arcing down in a silent execution toward Doran's exposed back.
Doran twisted at the last second.
The blade missed his spine… but it carved a deep gash along his side.
"Nggh—!" he grunted, staggering forward.
Chains clattered to the stone around his feet, finally falling free.
He dropped to one knee, gasping. Searching—desperate—for his swords. But before his eyes could land on anything…
Something drifted from above.
A single feather.
Orange. Glowing faintly.
It floated like ash through the stormlit sky—soft, silent, surreal.
Then—
TWWIPP.
A sound, thin and sharp, cut through the air like a breath drawn before pain.
Doran turned.
Too late.
CRACK!
The sjambok collided with his ribs—something cracked inside. He staggered, but Buudo was already upon him.
CRACK!
Another blow. Across his thigh. His leg collapsed beneath him.
CRACK!
A third strike—Doran raised his arms to block. His right caught the brunt of it.
His left… useless.
Dead weight.
WHIP-CRACK!
The sjambok came down in a final, brutal arc.
THWACK—SHHUNK.
His left hand severed clean from his wrist, flying into the dark with a spray of blood.
The same blow struck across his face—hard.
POP.
His left eye bled instantly, vision flooding crimson. Sight lost.
Doran dropped.
The street blurred.
Pain pulsed like a drumbeat.
Then—
SHIKK.
Titus' sickle whipped forward, the blade embedding deep into Doran's side. The chain wrapped around him tight—coil after coil.
He couldn't move.
Leo advanced, scythe in hand.
One smooth swing upward—
SSHHHK—CRACK!
The blade pierced through Doran's back. Out through his chest. Lifted him into the air like a trophy.
Doran didn't scream.
He couldn't.
Buudo leapt.
His body arced high above.
The whip now coiled tight like a blade in disguise.
"For Father."
Then—he swung down.
SLASH.
The sjambok struck Doran's neck with a final, irreversible cleave.
His head fell.
Tumbled once.
Then twice.
And rolled across the stone—eyes still wide, lips parted with a breath that never came.
Leo flung the body off his scythe like it was nothing.
Doran's corpse crumpled against the cobblestone, blood pooling out around it—steam rising from the still-warm wound.
The battle was over.
Buudo raised his head to the night sky, eyes gleaming in artificial pride.
A cruel smile curled at the edge of his lips.
"Was that to your liking, Father?"
Elsewhere
The flicker of monitors bathed the room in pale blue light.
Dozens of screens stretched across the wall, each capturing a different angle of the battlefield—blood, steam, and shattered stone. At the center of it all, Gar Allasupa reclined in his chair, arms folded, eyes fixed on the feeds with a satisfied gleam behind his tinted lenses.
In his lap, Eliza bounced with giddy excitement, clapping her little white hands together.
"That was amazing!" she chirped, her voice glitching with static. "They made him go boom! Did you see his head fly off?!"
Gar chuckled—low, pleased.
"Yes… that was quite the show," he murmured. "Now bring his body back to the clinic. He'll be Leyla's greatest project yet."
His fingers steepled beneath his chin as he watched the aftermath unfold.
On one monitor, Titus hoisted Doran's limp body over his shoulder.
On another, Leo crouched down, reaching to retrieve Doran's severed head.
Everything was going according to plan.
Until—
Ash.
It began slowly. A faint flicker. A wisp of gray curling off the side of the severed neck.
Leo's hand paused.
The head dissolved—first the skin, then the bone. Silent. Soft. Like it had never been real.
Leo's optics flared wide as the skull crumbled in his hands, turning to dust that scattered on the wind.
Then—
Titus froze.
The body in his arms grew lighter. Limbs flaked away in wisps of soot. The torso collapsed inward, crumbling like burned parchment. All that remained was a swirling column of golden ash, slipping through Titus' fingers.
Monitor after monitor showed the same thing.
Gone.
Gar stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor, the sudden motion jostling Eliza.
"What the hell!!" he snapped, his voice cracking like a whip.
Eliza tumbled off his lap and hit the floor with a surprised "Oof!"
She blinked up at him, optics wide with static confusion.
Gar didn't even glance down.
His fists were clenched.
His jaw—grinding.
On the screens,
Ash fell like snow.