Boots pounded against the worn stone floors, their rhythm echoing through vaulted halls as the four figures dashed through corridor after corridor. Banners billowed overhead, torchlight flickered wildly behind them, and tension clung to the air like smoke.
Chiaki's breath was sharp. Razor's laugh had finally faded into silence. Fioren's eyes were locked ahead. Yuka's blade was half-drawn.
They rounded a fresh corridor, footsteps slowing as their eyes landed on the figure already waiting ahead—tired posture, arms crossed, looking like he hadn't slept in a week and didn't plan to start now.
It was Morvain.
The man let out a long, world-weary sigh and tilted his head just enough to acknowledge them.
"…You know, I was really hoping this would be over by now," he muttered, voice flat as rain on stone. "But no. Here I am again. Walking instead of napping. Because apparently, chasing rebellious girls through government buildings is my new job description."
Chiaki furrowed her brow, breath still heavy from the sprint. Of all the guards and soldiers they'd faced, this one—this one—was the one she couldn't outrun. "How are you always here?" she asked, exasperated. "You show up faster than anyone else. Every time."
Morvain blinked at her, deadpan. "Honestly? I ask myself the same damn thing. I hate running. I'm allergic to effort. But somehow… somehow, I keep ending up exactly where you are. Which either means fate is cruel, or you're really bad at hiding."
He scratched the back of his head, looking like he wanted to evaporate. "Probably both."
Razor stepped forward without hesitation, dragging her jagged saw from behind her back with a metallic rasp. The glint in her eye sharpened, her grin spreading like a crack through sanity.
"Well, look who's blocking the damn hallway again," she muttered, raising the weapon over her shoulder. "Alright, mopey. Round two. Let's see if that spine of yours is just decorative."
She shifted her stance, knees bent, saw angled for a wild swing.
But before she could launch forward, Yuka's hand shot out and grabbed Razor's wrist.
"Don't," Yuka said firmly, eyes locked on Morvain.
Razor blinked, momentarily thrown off. "The hell you mean 'don't'? He looks like a discount librarian."
Yuka's expression didn't change. "Exactly. And he's still standing here alone, not calling reinforcements, not running, not even raising a weapon. He's either reckless—"
"—Or a goddamn nightmare wrapped in sleep deprivation," Fioren finished, his tone low.
Razor scowled, lowering her saw just slightly but never taking her eyes off Morvain. "Great. So we've got a professional sad sack who's secretly built like a landmine."
Morvain sighed again, scratching lazily at the side of his head. "Can we not make this dramatic? I already skipped breakfast. Just... go back the way you came and pretend I scared you off or something. I'm tired, not heartless."
Razor twitched like someone had just lit a firecracker under her skin.
"Ohhhh no no no—don't you hit me with that 'sad sack of mashed beans' monologue, hallway hobo," she growled, stepping forward again with her saw dragging along the stone, throwing sparks like a demon lighting a trail to hell. "I am this close to snapping your legs into reverse-knees just so I can finally see if you bleed existential dread!"
Yuka grabbed her arm again, but Razor didn't stop talking—just leaned around her like a feral cat being held back from a bird.
"You pop up like mildew in a crypt, breathing all sad and whispery like a cursed painting—and somehow you're faster than me in heels with caffeine!" she hissed. "I've met ghost cats with more stability than you! And don't even start with the 'if I let you go, I get in trouble' sob story, pal! You think I don't get yelled at?! I've been banned from five cities and two underwater ruins!"
Morvain blinked. Razor inhaled deeply, shaking with fury and probably caffeine withdrawal.
"I have had it!" she shrieked. "With you! With this place! With these marble corridors that echo every step like a guilt trip from your dead grandma! Move or I start sawing through emotions!"
Yuka tightened her grip. "Razor. He's dangerous."
Razor's wild grin stretched ear to ear, unblinking. "So am I. But I have worse impulse control."
Razor's eyes sparkled with an unholy mix of mischief and adrenaline, her entire face lighting up like someone had just told her it was legal to punch nobles.
"Oh-ho-ho YES, emotionally unstable boss fight man round two!" she cackled, practically vibrating in place. "I knew keepin' that rage in a jar under my pillow would pay off!"
Her tail whipped left and right like it had a mind of its own. "C'mon, Morvie-boy! Let's turn that frown into internal bleeding!"
Morvain blinked slowly, his posture slouched like gravity had just decided to hit him twice as hard.
"…Morvie-boy?" he muttered, voice as dry and wilted as week-old bread left in the rain. "Seriously? That's the nickname I get? Not something cool like… 'Shadow Specter' or 'Silent Dagger of the Empire'? No? Just... Morvie-boy..."
He sighed, eyes half-lidded, already regretting being conscious. "Figures. Even my enemies give me disappointment."
"Argh! I'm really ticked off at this dude. I'll mess 'im up!" Razor growled, eyes wide with wild delight.
Before Yuka could stop her, she twisted free with a splash of water underfoot. She shot forward like a torpedo unshackled, riding a coiling jet of water that spiraled up her legs and along her arms. Her saw gleamed, raised behind her shoulder like a guillotine on wings.
"Time for a full-course slap buffet, you mopey scarecrow lookin'—RAAAAH!!"
She swung.
The sound of steel meeting steel cracked like thunder.
Morvain didn't flinch.
His sickle came up with minimal effort, almost like his bones were too tired to care. The collision sent a burst of air whipping through the corridor, splitting tiles and spraying water across the stone. Razor skidded back several paces, feet scraping the ground with a high-pitched screech—but her teeth were still bared in a crooked grin, eyes glowing with lunacy.
Her soaked tail flicked left, then right. Wagging.
"Oh-ho-ho! You parried that? Damn, you really are built like a moldy meat hook! Okay, okay—Plan B: dual saws and a homemade jetpack powered by anger and marmalade!"
Morvain blinked, utterly expressionless.
Then his dull voice slid out, slow and flat as ever:
"…Didn't you used to have tentacles for arms?"
Razor didn't respond to the question—just snarled, kicked off the ground, and came at him again without hesitation. Her saw whipped out in a tight arc aimed at his neck, body low and tense like a beast mid-pounce.
Morvain blocked it with a slow, half-hearted movement, the curve of his sickle catching the weapon with minimal effort. He looked like he barely cared.
"Yeah… this again," he muttered under his breath. "I should've stayed in bed."
Razor pivoted on her heel, twisting sharply and swinging from below with a rising diagonal slash meant to gut him. The sound of scraping metal filled the space as Morvain lazily lifted his arm, catching the saw like someone brushing off a bothersome leaf.
He sighed. "Is there a point to this? Or am I just supposed to stand here and reflect on my mistakes?"
"Better than fighting like a broomstick with depression," Razor snapped, eyes gleaming.
Without pause, she launched a third attack—this time a feint to his left, only to suddenly spin and bring the saw in from the opposite side at shoulder height.
Morvain didn't bother reacting fast. He just shifted slightly, letting his sickle intercept the blade with a dull clang, almost annoyed.
"I had dreams once," he said quietly. "Can't remember any of them now."
Razor clicked her tongue and leapt back a step, then charged forward again in a straight sprint. Her fourth strike came from above—an overhead slam, raw and forceful.
Morvain caught it in a cross guard, the sickle's shaft bracing the saw's teeth as his knees bent under the pressure—but not out of strain. Just exhaustion.
"Even this feels like paperwork," he muttered. "Why does everything turn into effort?"
Razor scowled, breathing heavier now, sweat glinting at her temple. "You're seriously the worst audience I've ever had. No laughs, no screams, not even a flinch. What are you, a sad statue with bad posture?"
Morvain gave her a long, dead-eyed stare.
"…Still wondering about the tentacles."
As Razor kept pressing forward with relentless strikes—ducking, spinning, slashing with that maddening grin plastered across her face—Morvain countered each one with the sluggish precision of someone half-asleep but uncannily unbreakable. His sickle moved like a bored thought, just enough to parry, to redirect, to keep Razor from finding even a crack.
Chiaki stepped back beside Fioren and Yuka, eyes flicking between the fight and the worn-out man who somehow didn't break, didn't stagger, didn't even look winded.
"What is this guy?" Chiaki muttered under her breath. "He moves like he doesn't care if he wins or loses."
Fioren's brow furrowed as he watched closely. "That's what makes him dangerous. There's no wasted movement. No fear. He reacts just enough to survive—like his body's on instinct, not effort."
Yuka folded her arms, her gaze sharp. "It's not speed. It's not brute strength either. It's… resilience. Like his presence dulls your momentum."
"Or drains it," Fioren added grimly. "The more you throw at him, the more you realize—he doesn't break rhythm. Because he doesn't need to. He makes you wear yourself down."
Razor kicked off the wall and twisted midair into another cross-slash, snarling, "Why do you feel like a damp blanket and a tax form had a baby?!"
Morvain raised his sickle, blocking it as always, his voice dull and dragging: "You're making me feel like I should care about something. Stop."
Chiaki's jaw tightened. "So what is his power?"
Fioren shook his head slowly. "If I had to guess… it's not something we'd see in action like a fire or a weapon. It's passive. A constant field, maybe—subtle distortion, emotional interference. Something that wears you down just by being near him."
"Like a living fog," Yuka added, her voice quiet. "He's draining Razor without even trying."
Razor whirled again, breathing heavier, one eye twitching. "I swear, if I die here, it's not gonna be from the fight—it's gonna be from boredom poisoning!"
Morvain shrugged mid-parry. "Same."
Razor's movements began to dull.
The sharp twists of her body, the wild, unpredictable arcs of her blade—each one grew a fraction slower, a bit less chaotic. Her knees bent more as she landed, her breath hissing through clenched teeth. She swung again—wide and fast—but Morvain's sickle caught the saw's teeth with effortless timing, stopping her cold.
He exhaled lazily. "You gettin' tired? I think I might be too. Or maybe I'm just bored. Hard to tell."
Razor growled through grit teeth, her lips curled into a lopsided snarl. "Don't you start sounding like a damn ghost on bed rest—I'm not done yet!"
She twisted into a jab with the butt of her saw—tight and aimed at his ribs—but Morvain stepped half a foot back, letting the strike miss without even lifting his weapon. His eyes were half-lidded, as if already thinking about a nap.
"You missed. Again. That's like... what, number nineteen?"
Razor growled again, spun into a feint, then came low with a rising slash—but her knees wobbled under the effort. Morvain leaned his upper body just far enough for the blade to slice air.
"Yup. Twenty."
Razor stumbled a step, caught herself, and reset—but sweat now clung to her temples. Her wild smile wavered slightly. Her tail twitched behind her with less rhythm. Every strike she threw felt heavier, not because of resistance, but because of him—his presence, his inertia, the way nothing ever changed no matter what she did.
He just stood there. Like a wall too tired to fall.
Razor dashed again, screamed, and drove her saw straight down toward his shoulder in a full-force overhead cleave.
Morvain raised his sickle one last time, catching it at the halfway point. He didn't even look at her.
"I don't know how people do this whole... effort thing. You're really committed. It's almost admirable."
The metal trembled between them. Razor's arms quivered, her breath ragged. Then—
Her legs gave just slightly.
And Morvain sighed, as if the fight itself was exhausting him more emotionally than physically.
"You're like a firework in a rainstorm. Flashy, loud... but you'll burn out before you reach the clouds."
Razor stood still.
Chest heaving, shoulders trembling, her saw lowered but not yet dropped. She stared at him—at Morvain—as if trying to make sense of something that refused to fit any kind of logic.
He wasn't sweating. Wasn't panting. He barely moved. And yet, no matter how hard she hit, how fast she swung, it was like trying to break a mountain with a toothpick. Her tail twitched once, then stilled. The adrenaline buzz had faded. Now there was just silence. That, and the gnawing question rattling inside her skull.
"…What the hell are you?" she muttered, voice low, more breath than sound.
He tilted his head. "Dunno. I think about that too sometimes. Usually when I'm lying face-down on my floor wondering if I should get up."
Razor didn't laugh.
She didn't speak.
She just stared—eyes locked on him as her fingers twitched against the grip of her blade, unsure whether to lift it again or just collapse where she stood.
"…You don't feel like anything," Razor muttered, squinting at him like he was some broken puzzle box missing all the corners. "No pressure, no rhythm, no pull. You're just… a freakin' void with legs. Like someone gave the concept of meh a body and said 'go ruin someone's day.'"
Morvain blinked, scratching the side of his head with his free hand. "That's probably the nicest thing anyone's said to me in weeks."
Razor's gaze narrowed slightly, eyes flicking from his posture to his blade to his eyes—and then to her own hands.
She was shaking.
"…Why the hell do you feel like nothing," she muttered again, more to the air than anyone else. "It's like tryin' to read a rock in a coma… with anxiety. What are you, you sad walking shrug?"
Morvain shifted slightly. Not aggressive. Not even defensive. Just repositioning like someone adjusting in their sleep.
"I dunno," he murmured, staring at the ceiling. "Maybe 'cause I don't really wanna be here either."
To be continued...