Children ran through the vast green fields, their laughter carried by the crisp, refreshing air. Frost-kissed blades of grass shimmered under the golden sun, while the cloudless sky stretched endlessly, an empty blue canvas, inviting their vivid imaginations to fill the rest.
A girl ran with her eyes covered, a makeshift tail hooked behind her. She swung a stick wildly through the air, chasing the sounds of giggling voices. The others dodged and weaved, calling out in playful animal cries to mislead her.
"Gotcha!"
She yanked off her blindfold, gripping a boy with fair skin and long dark hair that lent him an almost ethereal appearance. Though he was their age, his well-built body didn't seem like that of a child.
"I'm not interested in your game," he said, his tone even.
The girl pouted. "You're always a killjoy, won't you loosen up a little?" she asked, leaning closer to his face. "Please… For me"
He avoided her gaze, looking away as another boy joined them, placing his arms around him. "She's right. You always act like this. No wonder the others don't like you."
The long-haired boy lowered his gaze, gently removing the other's arm from around him. "I don't care if they don't like me."
The girl huffed before shoving him playfully, laughing as she tugged at their sleeves and pulled them across the fields leaving the other children behind.
The long-haired boy sighed as the other asked where they were heading but she gave no response as she led them through the trees, weaving between towering trunks until they reached the forest's edge, where a massive dojo greeted them.
Excitedly, the girl dragged them inside, drawing the attention of children and mentors alike. But just as their footsteps echoed through the hall, an unspoken shift in the air sent a chill through their spines, stopping them in their tracks.
They were being summoned.
She loosened her grip on them as they retraced her steps in silence.
At the entrance stood two swordsmen, their hands resting on the hilts of their blades. The shoji door slid open without a word, beckoning them in.
Kneeling on the tatami mat, they bowed low before the figure seated before them.
The old man had long, flowing grey hair, veiling most of his face. Dressed in pristine white robes, a black belt cinched his waist, he sat with legs crossed, savouring a sip of tea before setting his cup down. His heavy gaze fell upon the three children, and he sighed as if struggling to find the right words.
Stroking his beard, he finally spoke. "You three are my best pupils in this new session." His voice was barely above a whisper as he shifted from his seating position to a more comfortable position. "Tell me, children—what do you believe defines a person's identity?"
The question caught them off guard. The two boys exchanged glances, lost in thought, searching for a flawless answer.
The girl chuckled, raising her hand confidently. "One's character, experiences, and, above all, our life force."
The old man nodded. "Good."
His gaze grew distant. "We often try to escape our true selves, believing a better life awaits beyond what we have. But trials, hardships, peace, and companionship—these are the forces that shape us. And yet... we continue to run. We will always run."
He took another sip of tea, exhaling. "Someday, you three will face a challenge that will test your resolve. And though mirages may grant fleeting peace, they remain illusions."
The room fell into stillness as Sensei placed his empty cup aside and released a weary sigh.
"You must leave now. Training is about to commence. That is all for today."
His gaze lingered on the boys. "However, both of you will stay."
#
The street was packed with people enjoying a traditional fire dance performed by an enthusiastic if slightly unpolished, group of rookies. Their movements weren't perfect—missteps here, a fumbled twirl there—but their passion shone through in every step, their faces alight with joy.
Mr. Swordsman watched in silence. The dancers, clad in animal fur, twirled long staffs engulfed in flames at both ends. They moved with surprising grace, chanting their anthem while skillfully avoiding the fire licking at their limbs.
"Hey, Mr. Swordsman, what's wrong?" Hudson asked, nudging him.
"Nothing, Hudson."
"You sure? You've been staring at them for a while. Didn't know you found interest in these things."
"Let's move," he murmured, turning away and weaving through the bustling market. Hudson followed, pulling his colourful cloak tighter—an earlier purchase meant to help him blend in with the town's vibrant atmosphere.
But Mr. Swordsman's mind was elsewhere. Who was that man again? He wondered.
He had seen a vision in the forest as well—something unsettling, something he had dismissed. Now, that same unbearable sensation crept back. His head throbbed. His body burned. His vision blurred as he stumbled through the crowd. Not this again. He fell to his knees, holding his chest.
"Sir, are you alright? You look sick," Hudson said, reaching out, but Mr. Swordsman shoved his hand away and forced himself upright.
"Leave me. I'll be fine."
"You need a doctor—"
Hudson barely took a step before a strong grip caught his wrist. Mr. Swordsman's eyes, usually calm, now burned with unease. Then, just as quickly, his expression hardened into its usual unreadable mask.
I've never seen him like this before, Hudson thought. Is this really just an illness?
Mr. Swordsman steadied himself. "We need to ask the locals about Pasta's whereabouts. I doubt they'd miss an obnoxious, loud-mouthed brat running around."
As they pressed on, their search led them to a street musician beneath a regal purple canopy, tucked between merchant stalls.
The canopy shimmered, decorated with dazzling jewels and the finest fabrics. Around it, hats overflowed with coins from entertained passersby. The musician himself wore an extravagant purple outfit, streaked with red and green fabric. Long, dark violet hair cascaded down his back, adorned with decorative pins.
"Excuse me, mister." Mr. Swordsman called out as the musician continued playing.
Mr. Swordsman sighed, dropping a small pouch of coins into the hat.
The musician's fingers paused. "What can I do for you?"
"We're looking for a boy about this tall," Mr. Swordsman gestured, "brown hair, most likely screaming about meat."
The musician tilted his head. "You just described half the folks in this town. Hard to say."
Mr. Swordsman nodded. "Appreciate your time."
He turned to leave, but the musician spoke again.
"But… there was one." He tapped his flute against his knee, thoughtful. "A quick one. Kept shouting 'meat' while bolting through the streets. Not a guard. Definitely had the presence of a fighter as well."
"Where?"
The musician pointed toward a well-known meat shack deeper in the market. A steady stream of people hurried away from it.
Hudson frowned, glancing at the approaching crowd. "Why does it look like they're evacuating?"
The musician clicked his tongue, eyes dark. "I suggest you stay out of it."
Mr. Swordsman raised a brow. "And why's that?"
The musician ran his fingers over his flute. "Because the one who fell from heaven is causing havoc."
Hudson shuddered at the way the words slithered out as he turned to Mr Swordsman who remained calm.
The musician leaned back, playing a few eerie notes. "Your choice if you wish for death."
"Appreciate the warning," Mr. Swordsman said, already heading toward the shack.
Hudson hesitated before trailing behind and hiding his trembling hands beneath his cloak.
#
The marketplace air was thick with the aroma of grilled meats and sizzling spices. The chatter of merchants and customers wove into the rhythmic clang of metal pans.
Yet, amidst the lively chaos, Emilia sat stiffly at a food stall, her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the wooden table.
Tori, on the other hand, was utterly unbothered. She tore through her meal with ravenous hunger, flesh and bone snapping beneath her relentless bites. There was no grace, no hesitation—just raw, unfiltered consumption.
"Tori?" Emilia finally spoke, her voice barely rising above the surrounding noise.
"Yes?"
Emilia hesitated, glancing at her empty side while Tori continued her ruthless devouring. A young girl with such an appetite, so unbothered by decorum or the eyes of others, was almost unsettling.
Emilia swallowed hard. "Nothing"
With a sigh, she ordered a light meal. Mr. Swordsman had gone to find Pasta, and Grand Pappy remained with Cumbleton for protection. That left her alone with Tori—to gather information.
The town was still undergoing construction—unfinished buildings and scaffolding dotted the streets. Yet despite its newness, there were relics of the past scattered everywhere. Statues were found around the town, their surfaces worn and aged. Each depicted a figure holding a torch in one hand and an item—be it a weapon, an instrument, or something else—in the other. Some even bore hats similar to Mr. Swordsman's.
Emilia couldn't help but be intrigued. The presence of the statues, despite the town's relatively recent establishment, was puzzling.
She needed more information. As her trusty guidebook advised, she needed to talk to the locals, ask questions, and piece together useful knowledge.
There was only one problem with that plan.
She was terrible at talking to strangers.
Emilia sat there, her hands trembling in her lap. Her gaze stayed locked on her untouched plate of wings. She knew she should be speaking, questioning, blending into the market's flow—but the very thought sent a tight knot of dread twisting in her stomach. Approaching a stranger out of nowhere?
Impossible.
What If I say something out of place? She wondered, pressing her hands together before her eyes widened. Or worse I don't say a single word.
She screamed in silence, kicking the side of the table. If it were someone she had spoken to before, even briefly, perhaps she could manage.
Tori tapped Emilia's shoulder making the poor girl shudder.
She kept silent before pointing at Emilia's food. "Are you gonna eat that?"
Before Emilia could answer, the men sitting beside them grew louder.
"Preposterous!" one of them barked. "Here? In Pyrovile?"
"It's everywhere. How have you not heard?" another countered.
Tori's attention snapped to them. "What are y'all talking about?"
One of the men turned, eyes sharp with caution. "Foreigner, huh? Then you probably don't know. Best you stay out of it."
"Heard of what exactly?" she asked, sneaking a bite of Emilia's meal.
"A notorious swordsman," the man muttered, his voice lowering. "A monster in human skin, leaving nothing but death in his wake."
"Tch. It's just a story," the other scoffed. "Some myth adventurers came up with to scare rookies."
"He's here, you dimwit!" the first man snapped, slamming his fist against the table.
Tori froze.
Emilia caught it—the subtle but undeniable shift in her posture. Tori's grip tightened around her fork, her knuckles whitening. Her pupils darkened like ink spreading in water.
"He's here?" she whispered.
A shiver ran down Emilia's spine as she reached out, pressing a firm hand to Tori's shoulder. "We need to inform Mr. Swordsman and the others. We can't let this interfere with our mission."
Tori let out a bitter laugh. "Our mission?" she murmured. Her sharp eyes snapped up to Emilia. "I wasn't part of it, remember?"
Emilia stiffened.
Tori slowly rose to her feet. "I don't know what's going on. No one tells me a damn thing. And now you want to call it our mission?" Her voice was eerily steady—too steady.
Emilia gazed at her. "Tori—"
"I'll kill that bastard myself, " Tori whispered before giving Emilia a soft smile. "Stay safe, okay?"
With those final words, she ran deeper into the marketplace in a blur of speed.
Emilia blinked, heart hammering.
Then she hurriedly followed.
#
Matthew's mind replayed his last encounter with the swordsman—the bar in Kanto. The swordsman had cut down those who provoked him with terrifying ease, his blade carving through the once-lively establishment like it was nothing.
Then came his burst—a surge of overwhelming power that sent Matthew and his comrades crashing into unconsciousness. By the time he came to, his friends were dead, their lifeless forms scattered across the floor.
The survivors, himself included, had been branded as criminals.
Fate, however, had granted him another chance. He had met an old friend, Lester, and with him came renewed purpose—the opportunity to cross paths with the swordsman once more and finally put an end to him.
Now, in the present, the market was catastrophic. People scattered in every direction, merchants abandoning their stalls, and buyers scrambling away from the destruction. The guards—who resembled airborne pigs more than men—collided into carriages, smashing through barrels in their desperate attempts to maintain order.
And at the centre of the streets stood the Weeping Swordsman.
His dark cloak billowed in the wind as he held his straw hat, tilting it slightly, hiding his face in shadow.
Matthew couldn't contain his laughter, pointing at the swordsman. Even the mercenaries restraining Pasta found themselves laughing—though none of them seemed to understand why.
"So, you've finally revealed yourself," Matthew grinned, unsheathing his sword. "I'll make this quick and have my revenge for what you did back in Kanto!"
He charged, swinging his blade in a forceful arc aimed straight for the swordsman's throat. Before the blade made contact, the swordsman's body contorted unnaturally as he delivered a straight kick to Matthew's gut.
The impact sent Matthew flying, but he landed with a grin. He put on a mechanic glove as his fist shimmered, metal spreading across his arm, gears clicking into place as his hand transformed.
He wiped the sweat from his brow. "Not happening again, you bastard," he muttered before launching himself forward.
His metallic fist shot toward the swordsman who sidestepped the blow, but Matthew adjusted mid-motion, his arm shifting with incredible force. This time, his fist connected. The impact sent the swordsman skidding backwards.
Recovering instantly, the swordsman lunged, his speed relentless.
Matthew raised his arm, the gears within whirring to life. A pulse of energy surged outward, a shockwave obliterating nearby stalls and sending debris spiralling into the sky.
Yet, the swordsman remained untouched. He leapt effortlessly, dodging the destruction before striking downward. Matthew blocked just in time, his metal hand absorbing the blow.
"Why so silent, huh?" Matthew sneered, his breath heavy. "You think you'll kill me that easily?"
He leapt back, rubbing his gloved hands together and charged his gloves with his energy. Sparks danced wildly around him, forming a violent sphere of electricity. The very ground beneath him scorched, cracks splitting the stone as the power surged through his limbs.
He roared as the sphere grew bigger, destroying everything in its path.
And yet—
The swordsman raised his bare hand, dissipating the blast in an instant.
Matthew's heart stopped, his eyes wide with horror. Not even a single scorch mark marred the swordsman's cloak.
His knees hit the ground. Exhaustion and rage coursed through him. Even with this power... I'm still nothing against him.
The guards, seemingly regaining their resolve, abandoned Pasta and rushed to aid Matthew.
"We will support you, sir!"
Before they take another step further, the swordsman wove through the streets, appearing behind them.
Sheathing back his blade with a click, the mercenaries and Matthew fell on their faces.
They weren't dead, nor were they unconscious, but were groaning in unbearable pain. Writhing and broken, they lay sprawled across the dirt.
Ignoring them, the swordsman turned his gaze toward Pasta.
The boy lay motionless, lost in deep slumber.
Slowly, the swordsman unsheathed his blade, raising it.
The atmosphere thickened, charged with something far more ominous than before. The air itself seemed to tremble under the weight of his presence.
Lightning raged in the heavens, illuminating the sky with jagged streaks of light. And beneath it all, a sound—so faint, yet unmistakable. A cry, weaving through the marketplace like a whispered lament.
Then—
The swordsman paused. His gaze shifted as he watched a figure approach from the distance.
Clad in the same attire and wielding an identical black blade. The newcomer came to a halt, his face shadowed beneath the brim of his hat.
"Hey," Mr Swordsman whispered, revealing his murderous gaze. "Step away from the boy."