Dust hung thick in the air, swirling around labourers as they moved, hauling wooden planks and stacking bricks. The relentless pounding of jackhammers drowned out their shouts and commands.
Tori strolled through, her baton strapped to her waist, the warm sun beating down on her exposed skin. She had thrown on a pair of short shorts and a pink tank top—whatever was closest before leaving the tavern. Emilia had disapproved, insisting she change into something more appropriate, but Tori had only laughed, dashing off before her friend could argue any further. Her mind lingered on the situation she brought herself into. Two situations that is. One involving the town being destroyed today by an erupting volcano that will also probably affect the surrounding villages and second situation: Second Breakfast.
She stopped walking and sighed as a shadow loomed over her.
Tank laughed as he sauntered closer, draping an arm across her shoulders. His friends gathered around, their bare chests glistening with sweat under the afternoon sun.
"You don't look like you're from around here," he said, grinning. "How about we show you around?"
His friends chuckled in agreement as Tank grabbed her wrist, attempting to pull her along.
Tori didn't move.
"Would you keep quiet? I'm trying to think."
Her voice was light, almost lazy, but when she met his gaze, a chill ran down his spine. Her stare wasn't just sharp—it pierced. It scraped against his bones, hollowing out something deep inside him.
Tank's breath hitched. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move his hand. A terrible, creeping sensation crawled up his spine, spreading into his limbs like ice. Sweat poured down his temples and it wasn't from the heat.
Tori blinked, her once ominous stare shifting to a playful one as she pried each of his fingers off her wrist, one by one and continued her stroll as if nothing had happened.
#
Pasta blinked, his back still at sword point, as the mansion staff gawked at him in disbelief.
"You want to meet Hudson?" He asked.
Mary folded her arms. "If you're telling the truth, that shouldn't be a problem."
"Yeah, but it'd be easier to just kill you right here," the guard added, prodding Pasta's back with his sword.
Gordon stabbed the table with his knife, causing a collective flinch. "What did I say earlier? That's right—no killing in my kitchen." His glare bore into the guard, who, after a hesitant pause, sheathed his weapon.
Mary turned back to Pasta, her voice softer now."I know you're a good person, Pasta," she whispered. "So… can you get us to Hudson?"
Pasta met her eyes. His mind whirred, struggling to recall Hudson's exact whereabouts. The last time they were together, they were holed up in some nondescript warehouse—why, he had no clue. He rubbed his chin in thought, then glanced at Mary. Hudson was always talking about her. If he were here, he'd probably be thrilled to see her, maybe even—dare he say—emotional?
"Alright, I'll get you to Hudson," he declared with confidence, hoping he wasn't about to make an even bigger mess of things.
Mary smiled, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. The room split into murmurs. Some clung to hope, already celebrating in their hearts. Others remained sceptical, unwilling to believe that their master would ever associate with someone like him.
Then, a heavy thud silenced the crowd.
A lone figure stepped forward, clad in armour. His sword hit the ground with weighty finality. The guard who had been so eager to run Pasta through stiffened before lowering his head, then quietly followed the others out.
Little Bobby.
The manor's chief guard, the longest-serving loyalist of Lord Tony. A warrior whose battle scars told stories of rival realms and bloodied fields. He earned the name "Little Bobby" from the only young individual he ever cared for. A name that didn't suit his imposing stature, yet one he carried with a quiet sense of pride.
Taking a seat beside Pasta, Bobby reached over, swiping a portion of his meal.
"So," he said, chewing thoughtfully, "you claim our town is in danger but refuse to elaborate." His dark eyes locked onto Pasta's. "Now you speak of knowing Master Hudson, expecting these kind-hearted folks to walk into what could very well be your trap. Am I right?"
Pasta stared in abject horror as another piece of his meal vanished before his eyes.
"It's not my place to inform you," he said casually. "Hudson should be the one responsible for that duty."
"You can't just walk out of the mansion," Bobby murmured, reaching for another piece. "Even if the guards look the other way, the mercenaries won't be so forgiving."
Before he could steal another bite, Pasta swiftly intercepted, taking back his plate.
Then, with an easy grin, he leaned in.
"Watch me."
#
Tori arrived at Cumbleton's warehouse. She wandered through the massive space, weaving between carriages, crates, and workers, searching for her grandpappy.
Before she could get too far, Kim, Cumbleton's assistant, approached her with a professional, if slightly exasperated, demeanour.
"May I help you?" Kim asked.
"Oh, thanks! I'm looking for my grandpappy."
Kim blinked. "Your grandpappy?"
"Yes, my grandpappy."
"Do you mean your granddad?"
"No, my grandpappy."
Kim sighed, clearly deciding this was not the battle to fight today. "If you mean the man who was with the boss, they've both gone to the highlands," she said. "So, how else may I help you?"
Tori tapped her chin. "Well, I also came here to get my headphones"
"Headphones?"
"You know, curved pieces of plastic with rounded ends?"
"He did leave something behind for you, actually. Claimed you'd come for it. Wait here."
Kim disappeared to the back, and when she returned, she held out a pair of headphones. Tori's eyes widened, sparkling with immeasurable excitement. She dashed forward, snatching them from Kim's hands and placing them on her head.
Like a lost child reuniting with its mother—or, well, with its headphones.
She covered her face with her arms, practically melting into herself as the familiar sensation wrapped around her ears. The world faded away, the echoes of the warehouse hammering growing distant.
Then—
"Sir, the girl with pink hair over there. She's the one who attacked us earlier," a voice announced.
Tori sighed but didn't move. She was too busy basking in this moment of pure bliss.
Kim tapped her on the shoulder.
Tori peeked out from behind her arms. "Yes, what is it?"
Kim subtly pointed toward the entrance. Eight men stood there. Four of them—the ones who had previously annoyed her. The rest wore the same uniform as the guards from the gate.
One of the guards stepped forward. "We have received reports of you disturbing the peace and assaulting these men."
Tori scoffed. "Me? Assaulting them? You must be joking."
"If you don't come with us, there will be consequences."
"Fine, fine, I'll come along. Not like I have anything else to do," she said, watching as their expressions turned victorious.
"I'll inform the boss," Kim whispered.
Tori waved her off. "No need. Last thing I want is to get grandpappy worried over something this trivial."
She followed the guards, noting the stationed sentries who joined them upon spotting her.
"Wow, all this attention just for me?" she murmured, sighing as she continued forward.
They arrived at a rundown storehouse—broken windows, half-collapsed roof, crumbling walls. It looked like it had been abandoned for years.
One of the men, Tank, smirked. "No use planning an escape. It's over for you." He took a step forward, smugness radiating off him. "But since I like you so much, I'll give you a chance."
Tori wasn't listening. She was eyeing the storehouse instead. Looked like it could've stored a hundred, maybe a thousand logs of wood back in its prime.
Tank's smirk wavered. "Hey, I'm talking to you."
She remained lost in thought. Maybe this was a remnant of an old town? What was an ancient structure doing in a town that was still being built?
"If you apologise on your knees and beg like a dog," Tank continued, his grin returning, "I'll let you go. It's not that hard."
Tori cocked her head, still staring at the building.
Tank's eye twitched. "Are you ignoring me?" He stomped toward her, grabbing for her shoulder. "You want to die—"
The group froze.
A blade, sleek and sharp, protruded through Tank's jaw, piercing clean through his skull.
Tori finally shifted her gaze toward him, one hand gripping the end of her scythe.
"You really shouldn't interrupt people while they're thinking," she murmured.
Tank gargled, his body convulsing before he collapsed. His friends screamed, scrambling in a desperate retreat. The guards, momentarily stunned, soon roared in anger and charged.
Tori's headphones began to hum. The compass-like devices on the sides whirred, their needles spinning faster and faster until the pins scratched against the surface—an agonising screech piercing through her ears.
She took a deep breath, and let the sound soak in.
—
And then, the moment it vanished, she moved.
The guards lunged with their weapons raised.
Tori swung her scythe in a wide arc.
A shockwave exploded from the weapon, shattering the ground beneath them. The force rippled outward, hitting the guards like a crashing wave, sending them flying—but not killing them. That was intentional.
The energy spread through the town, reverberating like an echo—before snapping back into a single point. Her ears.
Tori exhaled, adjusting her headphones. "Damn, do I miss this thing?" She turned back to the storehouse, tapping her chin. "Now… where was I?"
She scanned the crumbling structure again.
"You know," she mused, "with a little renovation, this could make a pretty good beauty parlour."
She smirked. "Wonder what Emilia and Hudson would think of that."
#
Pasta sprinted through the halls, a piece of meat clamped between his teeth. He had shed most of the armour, but the metal boots stubbornly clung to his feet, slowing him down.
"Come on, come on—damn it," he grumbled, tugging at them while his eyes flicked to the approaching guards and mercenaries. He hopped backwards, struggling with the boots, until he lost his balance and tumbled down the stairs. By the time he hit the ground, the boots had finally come loose.
Before he could recover, the doors before him burst open. More mercenaries flooded in, one hurling a spear straight at his head. Pasta twisted just in time, the spear whizzing past with a sharp hiss. A grin tugged at his lips as he weaved between the oncoming enemies, slipping past their swings and lunges like a shadow. But their numbers grew, and their attacks sharpened.
Soon, he was surrounded. The mercenaries and guards encircled him, their faces curling into cruel smirks.
"Okay, guys, let's think this through," Pasta said, raising his hands slightly. "Let me go, and I'll give you a little something. Like I don't know some cash? Money? Or-"
They ignored him and surged forward.
Pasta moved before they could strike, slipping through gaps, ducking under blades, and twisting past their blows. Some managed to clip him, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.
"Mountain Crumble!" a burly mercenary roared, swinging a massive war hammer at him.
Pasta barely dodged in time. The hammer slammed into the ground, shattering the floor beneath it.
"Whoa, buddy, chill!" Pasta yelped, dodging another wild swing. His fingers twitched toward his sword, but Bobby's warning echoed in his mind—if he fought the guards or mercenaries, things would get much worse.
Another hammer strike came from above. Pasta dropped to the floor, slid between the mercenary's legs, and shot toward the exit.
With a powerful kick, he forced the doors open and leapt into the crisp morning air. The golden sunlight bathed his skin as he raised his arms skyward.
"This is what freedom feels like—warm, tender, and utterly invigorating!"
Then, a shadow flickered above.
A figure dropped from the sky, landing effortlessly before him. He wore a long hat and a monocle, his white hair flowing like strands of silver. Dressed in a sharp black suit, he exuded an air of effortless refinement. Perched on his shoulder, a small bird chirped and hopped about, unfazed.
"And where do you think you're going, child?" Sparrow asked, placing the bird on his finger.
Pasta froze, staring at the man. How had an old guy like this survived such a fall? He didn't have time to be impressed. The mercenaries were closing in behind him.
"Stay out of this, old man," Pasta warned. "You don't want to get hurt."
Sparrow smiled, tilting his head slightly. "You know, ever since I heard about you, I've been curious."
Pasta's expression darkened. With a burst of unnatural speed, he shot toward Sparrow.
Then—everything changed.
The world turned grey. The air thickened and time itself seemed to freeze except for Sparrow.
Pasta staggered mid-stride, his form moving slowly. The bird on Sparrow's finger shimmered, its form warping and expanding. In an instant, it became a colossal winged beast, its piercing gaze locking onto him.
The world regained its colour as the beast's massive talons seized Pasta, slamming him into the ground.
Pasta grunted, struggling against the beast's iron grip, but it was no use.
Sparrow approached, his monocle glinting as he crouched slightly, lowering his head until their faces were mere inches apart. A knowing smile played on his lips.
"Now, tell me, child," he murmured, "how do you know Hades?"