The cell reeked of faeces and vomit—an absolutely vile combination that somehow made Pasta long for Emilia's perfume, no matter how annoyingly strong it was. The scenery didn't help either as everything that came to his vision either made him want to hurl or frankly... Disturbed.
Blood-streaked walls as flickering flames cast eerie shadows over the cold damp walls- A man screaming as another lashed his back, the torturer's laugh echoing through the prison.
To his left and right, two mercenaries stood guard. Both were shirtless, wearing nothing but fur-lined short jackets, their sweaty torsos glistening under the dim light.
Pasta's stomach let out a growl. He tried to move, only to feel the cold bite of chains locking his hands and feet.
"Hey!" Pasta shouted.
The guards ignored him.
"Hey!"
Still nothing.
Pasta rattled his chains chains around. "Hey! I'm starving over here! How about some food, huh? Maybe some bread? A steak? I'm not picky!" He stomped his feet, adding more chain-clanking chaos to the already bleak atmosphere.
One of the guards, a stocky man built like a bear with a belly to match, turned to his leaner coworker. "Wasn't he found in the meat shack?"
"Why are you asking me? Ask the guy demanding food," the other
replied.
"But we're not supposed to talk to him," he grumbled, yawning.
"Then stop talking and focus on the damn job," the fat guard sighed, pulling out a cigar and lighting it up with a click of his lighter.
The leaner guard shot his coworker a look. "Hey!" he screamed pointing a finger. "Talk to me like that and I'll burn you up, you damn pig"
The fatty ignored him, puffing out smoke from his cigar.
Pasta's eyes locked onto the burning tip of the cigar, as a wide idea came to mind.
"Let me have some of that," he said with a cheeky grin.
#
Above the distant thrum of music from the lower floors, the air in the room was thick with tension. Tori stood frozen, her weapon poised inches from Mr Swordsman's throat.
Mr. Swordsman's gaze remained steady. "There's no need for that," he said, raising a finger to gently lower the blade.
Tori's grip tightened as she pushed it back up.
He sighed, turning to Emilia. "Tell her to lower her weapon."
"And why would I do that, you monster?!" Tori snapped.
A flicker of something dark passed through Mr. Swordsman's eyes. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Because I'll kill you."
A gust of wind swept through the open window, carrying the scent of rain and the distant crackle of thunder.
Tori tilted her head, lips curling into a smirk. "Wait… was that supposed to scare me?" She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his cheek. "Why would I fear the very man who hurt my friends?"
Mr. Swordsman didn't flinch. His eyes met hers, cold and unwavering. "Why bear a grudge against a man who had nothing to do with that?"
Tori's smirk vanished and with no words, she swung her weapon at his neck—only for it to stop dead against his fingertip.
Hudson watched in silence, his gaze shifting to Emilia, who was still reeling from the revelation that Mr. Swordsman was the infamous Weeping Swordsman. Why would Bloodborne hire a man like him? she wondered, fingers curling against her dress. She had been travelling with a dangerous man… yet, deep down, something in her refused to believe he was a monster.
Tori's hands trembled as she lowered her gaze, rage simmering beneath her skin.
"Even if I am the Weeping Swordsman," he whispered, his voice low and calm, "that doesn't mean I attacked your crew. Bandits and hunters often use the name all the time to instil fear. It's a common practice."
Tori glared at him, her grip on the weapon tightening. It made sense… but she wasn't ready to accept it so easily. After a long pause, she sighed, twirling her weapon until it retracted back into a baton.
Emilia took a step forward, arms crossed. "Why didn't you tell us?"
Mr. Swordsman straightened, towering over her. "Believe me, I only made this discovery recently." He rubbed his temple, his brows knitting together. "I've been having terrible headaches lately… those might be causing memory loss."
The room fell silent as the group blinked at him, processing the absurdity of the claim. The sheer confidence with which he said it was astounding.
"…You're lying," Emilia muttered under her breath, though her detection skills were terrible, she could feel the slight disruption when he made that statement.
But unbeknownst to her, he wasn't.
"What about the other rumours about you?" she asked.
"Oh, those?" He ran his hand across his face. "I don't recall most of them. Some other time"
With that, he strolled over to the bed, undoing the straps of his swords and peeling off his cloak. The fabric slid off his shoulders, revealing his smooth, unblemished skin adorned with faint scars. He untied the band holding his hair, letting his lustrous locks cascade freely in the dim light. A gentle breeze stirred through the room, accentuating the sharp definition of his well-toned muscles.
And then… he reached for his waistband.
Hudson cleared his throat, voice trembling. "Uh… Mr. Swordsman?"
"Put your clothes back on, you pervert!" Emilia shrieked, her face turning scarlet as she grabbed Tori by the shoulders and shook her violently.
Mr. Swordsman sighed, reluctantly redressing. "Fine, fine… Anyway, about our sleeping arrangements," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Hudson, you sleep with the two ladies, and I'll keep watch."
The room fell eerily silent. Three pairs of eyes slowly turned to him, their expressions ranging from shock to sheer disbelief before the whole room echoed with screams from Emilia and Tori.
—
By the time night fell, the order had been restored. The girls slept soundly on the bed, while Mr. Swordsman and Hudson lay sprawled on the floor.
"Goodnight," Emilia murmured.
Tori shifted beneath the blankets, tugging them snugly around herself. "Before we leave for the mansion tomorrow, I wanna stop by Grand Pappy's and pick up my gear."
Emilia yawned. "I wonder how Grand Pappy's doing…"
#
After hours in the cell, Pasta had grown accustomed to the unbearable stench. It was nothing compared to the poisonous fumes and corrosive liquids he had endured as a child. To him, this was just another inconvenience.
The rain outside had calmed, the sky dimming as the day neared its end. He hated today—too much had happened. But what gnawed at him most, what made his blood boil, was the simple fact that he never got to enjoy his morning meal. His expression remained unreadable, but inside, he felt every ounce of regret for missing out on that fleeting pleasure.
"Damn, I'm pathetic," he muttered, a strand of spittle dangling from his lips. "I'm in deep trouble, and all I can think about is food. Wow, just wow"
"Don't look so down, kid," the fat guard said, taking a slow drag from his cigarette.
"Yeah," the other joined in. "You may be a weakling, but I've never heard of the Weeping Swordsman having a companion. Why don't you tell us what it's like travelling with him?"
"Hey, don't talk to him," the fat guard grumbled.
"Why not?"
"You were the one who told me not to."
"Well, I changed my mind. The other guys would love to hear some tales about the Weeping Swordsman," he said with a smirk. "So? Spill everything you know, and maybe—just maybe—I'll get you a special meal tonight."
Pasta eyed the fat guard. "Not in the mood for storytelling, but…" He tilted his head. "I wouldn't mind a cigarette."
"Oh? That's all? Done. Give him one."
The fat guard narrowed his eyes. "You giving me orders now, eh?"
"So what if I am, fatty?"
With an exasperated sigh, the portly guard pulled out a cigarette. "I don't have time for your childish nonsense," he muttered. "Fine, I'll light it up for him. I want to hear some stories too."
He struck a match, igniting the tip, and held it out toward Pasta.
"Now, tell us about the Weeping Swordsman," the lean guard said eagerly.
Pasta exhaled slowly. His voice came out low, almost a whisper.
"First things first… His name isn't the Weeping Swordsman."
The fat guard's brow furrowed. "What did you say?" He turned to his companion. "Did you hear what he just said?"
Pasta clenched his teeth. Damn. This is gonna hurt, he thought.
The small ember at the tip of the cigarette flared—then erupted. A wild explosion of flame swallowed the cell, the guards, and even Pasta himself. The guards shrieked, their panicked cries drowned by the deafening roar of fire. Heat washed over him, but he barely flinched. Instead, he stepped forward, shackles forgotten, and slammed his foot against the bars. His aura surged, dissipating the flames as he focused on the jingling keys still hanging from the fat guard's waist.
With a precise kick, he sent them flying into the air.
His body moved on instinct, his mind flashing back to Mr. Swordsman's teachings by the stream.
"Coating was just the beginning. We living beings hold precedence over all elements. Though we cannot control them, our inner energy strengthens them. The stronger one gets, the more powerful and intense the burst of power becomes. Some are even rumoured to affect the weather. Now, let's begin, Pasta."
The memory faded as Pasta stood in the smouldering prison. The air was thick with the scent of charred flesh. He flexed his fingers, his knuckles tightening.
It took days of training just to create a controlled explosion like that.
Screams and jubilant cheers erupted from the other prisoners.
"Yeah, get 'em!"
"Nice job, kid!"
"Hey! Get me out too!"
Pasta barely acknowledged them. He was breathing heavily—his coating had shielded him from the worst of the fire, but it hadn't made him invincible. His body ached from the few burnt wounds that escaped through.
He crouched, nudging the key closer with his foot before leaning down to pick it up with his teeth. A few careful manoeuvres later, the shackles clattered to the ground. The cell door creaked open.
His gaze flickered toward the guards, who had barely managed to activate their coating at the last moment.
Pasta stretched his arms, ignoring the voices clamouring around him.
"Alright," he muttered. "What's for dinner?"