With a hollow click, the screen darkened, casting weak shadows across the room. The faint hum of concealed machinery blended with the pungent smell of disinfection. Shinsō Kengen sat motionless at the head of the long, dark oak table, his fingertips delicately pressed together, as though the act alone may reveal the meaning of the report that had been gnawing at the back of his mind. With a finality as absolute as the silence it left behind, the data glared back at him. Twin columns of failure, carved in pale blue light, appeared as the screen's reflection ghosted across his spectacles. His voice was calm but empty as he spoke, "Well," the words bearing the weight of inevitability. "As expected." The report wasn't really shocking.
The report wasn't a surprise, not truly, but that didn't make it easier to process. Not with numbers so stark. So definitive. A fracture in strategy, widening into something closer to a chasm.
The chair whispered against the polished floor as he shifted, hands steepled beneath his chin.
"They were too strong. That was evident from the start. This mission—this test—was never about victory. It was about understanding how far apart we stand, measuring the distance between power...and reality."
A beat of silence. Then, a rare softness—so subtle it barely existed.
"I regret sending you both."
Stella Athanasiou stood across from him, her arms folded tightly, the shadows under her eyes more prominent than the drying bloodstains on her uniform. She exhaled slowly, steadying herself, but the edge in her voice remained razor-sharp.
"We lived. Barely. Those two—" Her lips pressed into a thin line, as if the words themselves defied articulation. "They're not just powerful. They're...calm about it. Monsters who act like they aren't."
Her gaze flicked to Jake Miracle, whose pale face bore every scar the mission had left behind. He hadn't spoken much since they returned, but now he nodded, voice hoarse.
"Agree with Stel. Won't face them again. Not... like that. Not without the cadres."
Kengen's expression didn't shift. A single nod, calculated.
"Understood. You're dismissed. Recover. Reflect."
The reinforced door hissed shut behind them, the vacuum seal punctuating their exit.
For a long moment, Kengen simply sat there, gaze still on the blackened screen.
And for the first time in years, he wondered if he was out of time.
---
[At London City Airport]
The terminal buzzed. Voices blurred into a constant, low roar, broken only by the mechanical chime of flight announcements. Feet scuffed against polished tile, and luggage wheels clicked rhythmically along the floor.
Yet, amid the motion, Shiki L. Rain stood still.
Leaning back against a steel column, arms folded, he watched the digital arrivals board as if sheer focus could will it to change. His gaze, sharp yet distant, was clouded with an impatience he couldn't quite hide.
"Today's the day," he muttered, more to himself than anyone listening. "Finally get to annoy my sister again."
"Maybe that's why she left in the first place."
The dry remark came from Nine Eizoku a few steps away, hands tucked into his coat pockets. His face remained as unreadable as ever, but the slight tilt of his brow sold the jab.
Shiki's laugh was nervous, a breath too light to be genuine.
"Heh. Just kidding... I miss her. It's been too long."
Nine didn't reply. Just exhaled softly, gaze shifting to a nearby food stall.
"Shawarma? You want one?"
"Yeah. Beef's fine."
Minutes passed, warm spices scenting in the air as Nine returned, pressing a foil-wrapped shawarma into Shiki's hand.
They ate in silence. Not awkward. Just quiet.
Nine broke it first.
"So... it's been two hours now. Any idea when she's supposed to land? It could've been faster if we just teleported, but—"
Shiki's lips twitched.
"Yeah. The laws."
The words hung there, heavy, despite how easily they were spoken.
Nine's expression darkened, his voice lowering.
"After the 'Uncrowned Event,' it's different. The Z-Class barriers, the distance caps on teleportation, dimensional anchors..."
"Less than five kilometers per jump. For the greater good, they say. Standard protocol now. Borders reinforced, jurisdictions tightened. Every nation holding its own line. Makes sense, in a way."
"They're not meant for most people, Shiki. They're for people like us."
His gaze drifted, calm yet perceptive, as though piecing together an equation he'd already solved long ago.
"Still... the world waits. Balances. For you. You're the linchpin, you know. Without you, all this—" He gestured vaguely to the air, as if the fabric of reality itself were his subject.
"—wouldn't hold. It would unravel. Completely."
Not a warning. Just a truth. Stated plainly, with quiet certainty.
"For you. If you ever lost control—"
He didn't finish. Didn't need to. The weight of unspoken consequence loomed between them, pressing against the spaces where words refused to go.
Shiki's fingers tightened around the shawarma, uneaten.
"I won't break."
Simple. Resolute. But even he wasn't sure if the defiance was meant for Nine...or himself.
"The confines of the world have the potential to break a person's will, but that won't happen to me...."
Nina held his stare a moment longer, then exhaled.
"Good. Because if they do—it's GL for the whole planet and beyond."
Shiki's lips twisted into something between a grimace and a grin.
"You could just say, 'We're doomed,' you know. You don't have to coin weird slang."
Nine smirked. "Yeah, but GL is my thing."
The mood finally eased, just slightly.
And then—
A voice. Soft. Familiar.
"Brother."
Shiki turned first, but Nine was already stepping back, letting the moment unfold.
There she stood, framed by the glass walls of the terminal, her silhouette delicate yet grounded.
Nashimi.
The same, yet different. A bit older, and certainly more mature. Still the same sister he has.
But when their gazes met—instant connection.