Pasta lay on the cold floor of his cell, staring blankly at the ceiling as his ears twitched at the laughter of his fellow prisoners.
After his failed escape, his security had been tightened. Two guards stood watch outside his cell, while four more patrolled the dungeon's entrance. These weren't mansion workers but mercenaries—each clad in fur jackets with their bare chests exposed.
One of them glanced at the charred corpse in the corner before shifting his gaze back to Pasta.
"He must be an experienced fighter for him to do this much damage," he muttered to his companion. "Could he be… one of the gifted? You know, from the stories?"
His colleague scoffed. "Doesn't look like it. If he were, Lord Sparrow wouldn't have put him down so easily."
"His skills are decent at best, but you'd think someone like him would have a sharper mind. That escape attempt was downright laughable."
Pasta frowned. They weren't wrong. His attempt to flee the mansion had been reckless, lacking any real strategy. If Emilia had been here, she would've thought of something far better.
His fists clenched, and the chains binding him rattled.
"Am I really going to rot in this cell?" he whispered. "I can't just sit here waiting for someone to save me. There's no time for that; even Mr. Swordsman knows that. He knows what's at stake."
But it was more than that. A part of him craved it—that exhilarating rush, the thrill of fighting someone strong. He wanted to push himself, to feel that surge of adrenaline. Yet here he was, shackled behind iron bars, that hunger for combat gnawing at his very core.
His eyes widened as he slammed his fists against the floor, drawing the attention of the mercenaries.
"Alright then," he whispered, closing his eyes. "If I'm stuck here, I might as well make use of it."
The human soul was as vast and enigmatic as the stars. It was the very first layer of life force, and within it lay a void—a space where one could relive moments deeply ingrained in their being. Pasta had mastered a technique, one that allowed him to hone his skills free from the limitations of the physical world.
His breathing steadied. Legs crossed.
Darkness engulfed him. Shallow water rippled beneath his feet, and the air felt thick and heavy as he faced his opponent.
Across from him stood Mr. Swordsman. His hat cast a shadow over his face, his piercing crimson eyes devoid of emotion.
Pasta smirked, gripping his blade tighter. This was his best approximation of the man—a construct built from memory. He didn't fully understand Mr. Swordsman's abilities, nor his true limits, but that only made this all the more exciting.
Stretching his sword forward, his grin widened. "Let's begin, Mr.—"His vision blurred and his head was airborne.
The world spun, and then—clatter.
Pasta's decapitated head hit the ground with a sickening thud.
His eyes snapped open. He clutched his neck, gasping, before collapsing to his knees. "What… just happened?" he croaked, staring up at the unmoving swordsman.
Deaths couldn't affect him in this realm but could damage his life force. The only way to heal himself of this was rest and meditation on the physical body.
Pasta chuckled and kept a smile on.
He staggered back to his feet, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I'll go again," he declared. "Again and again. I knew this wouldn't be easy, so bring it on, Mr. Swordsman!"
And so, the cycle repeated.
Over and over, he was cut down. His body was sliced apart, his head severed, his form reduced to nothing in the blink of an eye. The attacks were too fast, too precise, too merciless. But he endured and regenerated. Until, at last, he met the strike head-on.
Their blades clashed.
A flicker of triumph crossed his exhausted face. "I win—" Mr Swordsman severed his jaw before he could finish the sentence.
Even in death, Pasta clung to that tiny victory. Even though he knew—this wasn't anywhere near Mr. Swordsman's full strength.
#
Pasta sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, a smug smirk plastered across his face as sweat trickled down his temple.
The guards standing watch exchanged wary glances, one shrugging at the other as if to ask, Is this guy okay?
Then came the sound of approaching footsteps. The heavy iron door creaked open, revealing a short, stocky man strolling in with a confident air. He wasn't alone—several maids followed behind him, carrying trays stacked with frothy mugs of beer.
One of the mercenaries raised an eyebrow. "What's a guard doing here? Need something?"
The man halted, flashing an easygoing smile. Unlike the other guards, he wore no armour, just a plain dark top and trousers. A sword hung casually at his waist as if more for decoration than use.
"Nothing in particular," he said smoothly. "You gentlemen must be exhausted, standing around all day keeping watch." He gave a small bow. "Forgive my lack of introduction. The name's Kot. I oversee the cells. Just doing my rounds and thought I'd bring you lot a drink."
The mercenary relaxed, nodding. "Oh, I've heard of you. Go ahead, do your work. And hey, thanks for the drinks."
Kot bit back a smirk. He thanked me? Guess even among mercenaries, there are still a few sheep in the flock.
The two guards eagerly grabbed their mugs, downing their beers with the desperation of men who had long since stopped questioning free alcohol. Hearing the ruckus, the other guards stationed outside peeked in, their curiosity getting the better of them. Kot gave them a casual wave, inviting them to join.
Within minutes, the cell block had transformed into a makeshift tavern but the smell and dark walls could easily bring one back to reality.
Laughter echoed through the halls as the guards feasted on whatever meager snacks they had and swapped exaggerated war stories.
Kot pulled a deck of cards from his pocket and shuffled them expertly, laying them on the floor. The guards' eyes sparkled with anticipation, leaning in as the game began.
It didn't take long before Kot casually plucked the Joker card from the deck. He smirked.
"You guys have been stuck down here all day," he mused. "Guarding the troublemaker and all."
The mercenaries chuckled, waving him off. "You got any news from up top?" one of them asked, taking another swig of beer.
Kot hummed, pretending to consider his response as he shuffled again, this time drawing the Queen of Hearts. He studied the card with an exaggerated whistle before slamming it onto the floor.
"A real beauty walked into the mansion today. Gorgeous, I tell you. Must be a close friend of Lord Tony's." He grinned, drumming his fingers against the picture. "I'm telling you all, you're missing out down here."
The mercenaries' eyes widened, their curiosity hooked like fish on a line.
"A lady, huh?" one of them leaned in. "What's she like?"
"How close are we talking?" another pried.
Kot calmed down the hungry mercenaries and drank from his mug. "You all don't deserve that sort of girl; if anyone should go for her," he drank again before pointing at himself. "It'll be yours truly"
The mercenaries' faces grew red as they questioned him on why he thought that way.
Kot grinned as he was bombarded with questions and some playful punches. Hook, line, and sinker.
#
The heat was unbearable—so much so that Emilia had begun questioning how she was still alive. She had already removed the leather covering on her outfit, leaving only her inner white top, but even that felt like a furnace trapping her. She fanned herself furiously, squinting up at the grand estate before her.
With the help of the townsfolk, she had managed to locate Lord Tony's mansion. Rumoured to be among the top exquisite buildings in the Seventh realm, the claim seemed plausible now that she stood before it.
The estate sprawled across twelve parcels of land, its pristine white exterior gleaming in the sun like a palace forged by gods. Massive golden pillars framed the structure, their surfaces so polished they reflected the sky. At the very top, an elegant white rose was engraved. The compound itself was equally excessive. Gardens occupied every corner manicured so precisely that Emilia suspected the gardeners used rulers to trim the hedges. Tiled floors formed a path around an extravagant fountain, where a statue of a child stood in a heroic pose, wielding a bow.
For a moment, Emilia forgot the actual heat and focused on the fire she had just thrown herself into. "What am I thinking?" she groaned, clutching her head. "Why did I come here alone? This is Tony's mansion, right? This is a bad idea." She reached for her sword, only to pull her hand back and stomp the ground. "I can't just fight all the guards to get to Pasta. That's way too reckless."
She inhaled deeply, forcing herself to calm down. Emilia let her chestnut hair fall free, its wavy locks cascading over her shoulders. Then, from her bag, she retrieved her glasses and slipped them on. With newfound confidence, she strode through the gates, her hair swaying in rhythm with the wind, her leather straps tied around her waist fluttering behind her. A style she had blatantly copied from Tori.
The Lords should be busy preparing for the eruption, she calculated. That means they won't be around. If she could just find Mary—the girl Hudson always spoke so fondly of—she might be able to convince her to release Pasta.
Emilia smirked. The plan may not be flawless but it was decent at best, all she had to do was follow it to the very letter. From the way she carried herself and spoke. She must showcase the personality of a noble student at all costs.
A guttural voice stopped her.
"Hey, you. Do you have permission to be here?" a guard asked, eyeing the sword at her waist.
Emilia nearly choked on the air. "I do," she whispered, her voice struggling to mask the sheer panic rattling her bones.
The guard's expression remained unimpressed. "Name and the Lord you have an appointment with?"
Emilia blinked. This exact scenario was in the adventurer's guidebook. If your disguise is in jeopardy, you must exercise caution and eliminate the target who has spotted them.
After reading nine hundred pages of the guide, she had catapulted herself to the top ranks between E-rank adventurers.
"Miss. Your name," the guard repeated, his patience wearing thin.
"Oh—uh… I—I am…" she said, stealing glances at the gate. "I-It's E-Emilia. A d-direct underling of Tony. And I w-want to meet L-Lord Tony."
Silence.
Emilia felt her soul crumble. All her planning, all her careful manoeuvring—shattered in an instant by a tragic case of social ineptitude. She cast a frantic glance at the garden, desperately searching for a rabbit hole to crawl into and escape this humiliation.
The guard, however, remained professional. "Lord Tony has no appointments today. He's currently out for work. Are you sure you have an appointment with him, or are you here for another Lord?"
Before Emilia could dig herself into an even deeper grave, Little Bobby stepped forward, peering down at her with a scrutinising gaze. "Who's this?"
"She claims to be an underling of Lord Tony," the guard answered.
Bobby tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. He could feel her life force. It was eerily similar to Pasta's… and yet, there was something more familiar about it.
"I'll take it from here, soldier," Bobby declared, turning on his heel and started walking toward the mansion. Emilia, sensing this was her one and only chance, hurried after him. She wasn't sure if she had just been saved or if she had walked straight into another disaster, but at this point, she'd take whatever she could get.
#
The halls were eerily quiet. Most of the workers had accompanied Tony on his task in the high hills, leaving only a handful behind. Emilia kept silent, her sharp gaze flickering behind her glasses as she studied the paintings lining the walls. Grand portraits of noble figures stared down at her with an air of judgement, their expressions so lifelike she almost expected one of them to whisper words of disdain at her.
Little Bobby came to a halt and turned back, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. "I could arrest you on the spot," he said nonchalantly. "Or worse, I could grant your wish and take you straight to one of our Lords." He leaned in slightly. "But first, answer me this—are you related to that boy?"
Emilia furrowed her brow. "Who exactly are you referring to?"
"Pasta." Bobby resumed walking as if the question was hardly worth lingering on.
Emilia hurried after him, hands clasped together. "Yes, he's my brother." Her eyes narrowed. "What are you planning to do to him?"
Before Bobby could respond, a new voice chimed in from the other side of the hall.
"Hey, hey, what's all this?"
A man with an obnoxiously large grin strode over, shaking Emilia's hand with both of his own. "Who's this cutie? Hi, I'm Kot. Nice to meet ya."
Emilia blinked, barely processing the hyperactive guy shaking her. She shot a questioning look at Bobby, who cleared his throat.
"He's in charge of overseeing the dungeons," Bobby explained. "Pasta included."
"…Okay," Emilia muttered, slowly extracting her hand from Kot's overly friendly grip.
Kot's smile faltered for only a second before he turned back to Bobby, brows raised. "Hold on, who is she? And why does she care about that guy? Don't tell me she's his wife!"
"Huh?!" Emilia recoiled in sheer horror, feeling assaulted by the very suggestion.
"Oh no, my bad." Kot placed a hand on his chin, scrutinising her. "I get it now. You're siblings, aren't you?" He leaned in, eyes twinkling. "So, my lady, are you single?"
Emilia sighed and leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. Normally, talking to strangers made her fidgety, but this one? This one was just a fool that she rather fall asleep than indulge herself in a conversation with him.
Little Bobby intervened before she had to waste more breath. "Leave her alone, Kot. Let's get this over with."
Emilia arched a brow. "Get what over with?"
"Kot here is going to rescue your brother," Bobby said.
She turned to Kot, arms still folded. "And how exactly do you plan on doing that?"
Kot smirked and pulled a small sachet from his pocket. "They say there are three ways to take a man down—women, money, and drinks." His grin widened. "I'm going with drinks. A little sleeping powder in their cups, a few hearty cheers, and once they're out cold, we'll lock them in a cell and say the inmate broke out on his own."
Emilia yawned. "And you actually think something that obvious will work?"
Kot chuckled, scratching his nose. "Sweetheart, just watch and learn."
#
Pasta froze, his sword slipping from his grasp as his eyes widened in sheer terror. After countless attempts, he had finally landed a scratch on Mr Swordsman—but there was no victory to celebrate.
A suffocating force bore down on him, pressing against his very soul, threatening to drive him to his knees. His heart was about to burst out from his chest. This wasn't just Mr. Swordsman's aura—no, it was something far more sinister.
Mr. Swordsman remained still, head lowered, as a being loomed above the darkness. Its molten grin stretched impossibly wide, mocking him.
Memories—no, nightmares—flooded through Pasta's mind. A surge of unbearable pain forced a scream from his lips. Desperation overtook him. His trembling hands scrambled for his sword, and in a frantic motion, he swung—severing his own neck.
—
Pasta jolted awake, gasping.
His hand shot to his neck. No blood. No wound. Just the rapid thumping of his heart.
He exhaled shakily and collapsed back onto the floor, drenched in sweat.
"Pasta?"
His breath hitched at the voice. He opened his eyes to see Emilia kneeling beside him.
"W-What are you doing here?" he stammered.
She didn't answer. Instead, she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around him, her head resting on his shoulder.
"You're alright…" she whispered. "Thank goodness."
Pasta slowly relaxed, his arms encircling her in return. "I'm fine," he murmured. "You don't have to worry."
For a moment, the warmth of her embrace reassured him—until she pulled away, took a deep breath… and delivered a solid punch to his face.
Pasta crashed to the floor, clutching his cheek. "What the hell was that for?!"
Emilia stood, her expression shifting from relieved sister to merciless demon queen.
"How dare you get captured in a situation like this?!" she growled.
Pasta paled. "W-Wait! I can expla—"
"NO EXCUSES!"
With a flash of steel, she drew her blade and descended upon him, mercilessly tormenting her poor brother in his cell.
From outside, Kot and Bobby exchanged glances.
"…Honestly," Kot muttered, "we probably should've just left him locked up."
Bobby nodded sagely. "Yes, we should have."
Moments later, the siblings regrouped with Kot and Little Bobby in the dimly lit dungeon. Pasta's face was a bruised mess—his skin blotched with shades of purple, and blood trickling from his nose. Meanwhile, Emilia scowled, clearly irritated as Kot continued to pester her.
Pasta's body stiffened. His eyes widened as he swiftly drew his blade, stepping in front of Emilia. Kot and Bobby reacted just as fast, their weapons flashing into their hands.
"My, my… what do we have here?"
A whisper slithered down the stone stairway, carried by the presence of a man descending with unhurried steps. A small bird perched atop his hat, its delicate chirps contrasting the ominous air that followed him.
"A couple of miscreants planning a breakout?" Sparrow mused, his gaze settling on them with an amused gleam.
"You all should move along," Bobby said, shifting into a firm stance. "I'll handle it."
Pasta let out a dry chuckle. "No way I'm letting you hog all the fun."
Kot stepped forward, his usual playfulness absent. "I'll join you, sir," he said grimly. "Lord Sparrow is a Gifted. This won't be an easy fight."
Sparrow sighed as distant echoes of restless inmates filled the underground dungeon.
"They are escaping, Lord Sparrow"
"Get them!"
"All because of that butler…" Sparrow whispered. Then, in the next breath—
"How annoying."
The air itself rippled, thick and suffocating. A single pulse of energy swept through the corridor, and one by one, the prisoners slumped over, unconscious.
Sparrow tilted his head as he gazed at them. "Must be exhausting, living such a loud and unfulfilling life devoid of strength. Rest. You've earned that much."
Then, his attention snapped to the group.
The moment they blinked—he was gone.
Pasta's breath hitched. They all turned frantically, only to find him already in their midst. He leaned forward, eyes locked onto Emilia.
"You may pass," he whispered.
"Like hell, we will!" Kot and Pasta roared, their blades slicing through the air.
Sparrow barely spared them a glance. With effortless precision, he raised his hands, redirecting their strikes as if swatting away dust. In the same motion, he struck their necks.
A heartbeat later, Kot and Pasta hit the ground, gasping for air.
Sparrow turned to Bobby, who—after a brief pause—slowly sheathed his sword.
Then, his attention returned to Emilia and Pasta.
"Mighty Pasta… and Lady Emilia," he murmured. "A pleasure to meet you both."
Emilia stiffened. "H-How do you know my name?"
Without answering, Sparrow flicked his wrist, tossing a scroll toward her.
"The gates are locked for now," he said, already turning away. "That scroll will assist you in escaping. I trust you'll know how to use it."
Pasta remained frozen, staring at the mysterious man, a single question burning in his mind.
Who… is he?
But before he could voice it, Sparrow walked off into the shadows, his silhouette vanishing beyond the dungeon halls.
The small bird atop his head chirped one last time, its sound growing fainter and fainter—until all that remained was silence.