Hudson let out a long sigh, casting a sceptical glance at Mr. Swordsman as he withdrew his blade from the mercenary's back.
"Was that really necessary?" Hudson asked, arms crossed.
Mr. Swordsman slid his weapon back into its sheath. "Indeed. They had the chance to run, but they chose to fight."
Hudson's brow twitched. "You chased them."
"No, I didn't."
Hudson sighed again, surveying the aftermath. They stood deep in the woods, just a few miles from the city gate. Five mercenaries lay sprawled across the ground—some unconscious, others unmoving, courtesy of Mr. Swordsman's bursts.
Mr. Swordsman stepped forward and began rifling through their belongings. "They've got some decent stuff," he said, tossing aside a few watches, trinkets, and pouches of coins.
Hudson raised a brow. "Wait… are you looting the guys you just murdered?"
Mr. Swordsman paused, then pointed towards a wheezing old man. "They're alive. See? This one's still breathing."
Hudson shook his head. "I never knew you were always like this"
"Always been like this?" Mr. Swordsman asked, his tone suddenly sharp.
Hudson turned away. "Forget it."
The mercenaries still clung to life, but their belongings weren't doing them much good. It wasn't a fortune, but it could at least buy a decent meal.
"We need to move," Mr. Swordsman said, slipping a few valuables into the pouch at his waist. "If these gentlemen were telling the truth, then we have a problem."
Hudson remained silent.
Brushing the dust from his hands, Mr. Swordsman glanced toward the distant peaks. "Your boss and his men are headed for the volcano. We need to be quick."
Hudson exhaled. "And yet you're still here, looting from the dead."
"I told you—they're alive."
Suddenly, Mr. Swordsman stopped, his gaze sharpening as he turned his head.
"What is it?" Hudson asked.
"There's a fight," he said, walking forward. "Let's go, Hudson."
#
Emilia and the others had left the mansion, but Sparrow was nowhere to be found.
As they moved through the streets, Emilia kept her eyes fixed on the chart in her hands. It displayed several inverted flame symbols scattered across the town. At the bottom of the parchment, a poorly scrawled inscription read:
"Days of old, night of tales, shine our path, lead our way.
Our saviours now are mere lore and legends.
Guide us out, for even through the passage of time, your loyalty remains the same."
Pasta let out a sigh, scratching his ear. "The passage of time? I don't get it."
"Of course, you don't," Emilia muttered, folding the chart.
Pasta narrowed his eyes. "So do you?"
"Of course, I don't. Not completely that is," she admitted blankly, then sighed. "I just need time to decipher it."
Shrugging, she unfolded the chart again. "These flame markings are our only lead for now. If we follow them, maybe we'll find something."
"What about Hudson?" Little Bobby asked.
Pasta turned, pointing his sheathed sword at him. "What's with you and Hudson? You got a crush on him or something?"
Little Bobby shot him a glare. Pasta whistled and turned away, suddenly finding the town's architecture fascinating.
Emilia traced her fingers over the map and looked ahead. "There's a symbol close by. Looks like it's at the town square." She started walking faster. "Let's go."
The streets remained as energetic as ever. Performers danced in colourful attire, drums echoed through the air, and the rich scent of freshly grilled meat made Pasta's stomach tighten. It felt so good to finally out of that dark dungeon. The warmth of the sun, the songs of morning birds—it was a beautiful day. But for Pasta, none of it mattered. The meat was all that held his attention, rooting him to the spot.
"This is it," Emilia said, stopping in front of a weathered stone statue. It depicted a man holding a crown, and another hand held a torch aloft as if leading the way.
Little Bobby eyed it. "So the flame symbol led us here, huh?"
There was nothing particularly special about the statue—just another old relic of the past, its surface cracked and overgrown with moss.
Emilia ran her fingers along its rough edges, her mind drifting to a book she had read some time ago about the Realm protectors. But it was too soon to jump to conclusions. "It looks ordinary, but since it's marked by a flame on the map…"
She turned. "We need fire."
Kot rushed to fetch a matchstick and oil, pouring it over the torch and lighting it.
A few passersby slowed, their gazes locked on the burning flame.
They waited.
Nothing happened.
"Maybe we need to burn the whole statue," Pasta suggested, grabbing the jug of oil.
Emilia thwacked him on the head with the flat of her sword. "That's a terrible idea. We should check the others first—this has to be some kind of puzzle." She tapped her chin in thought. "We'll move on, but first, put out the fire."
"Yes, my lady." Kot doused the flame with a satisfied nod.
Following the map, they headed toward the next symbol.
Along the way, they came across a crowd gathered around a wall, murmuring amongst themselves. Emilia stepped closer, only to freeze at what she saw—wanted posters.
Each one bore rough sketches of her, Andy, Tori, Pasta, and Hudson. The accusations were clear: they were labelled as accomplices of the bandits, their arrival in town was suspiciously timed and their records of entry not found as well.
A chill ran through Emilia as she shrank back into the crowd, her heart pounding.
Kot and Little Bobby subtly pulled the siblings away before they drew too much attention.
#
The forest sang with life. The harmonious chirping of bluebirds bathed the air in melody, their wings fluttering playfully as they revelled in the crystal-clear waters of a nearby brook. The earthy aroma of loam and aged wood carried a sense of comfort—a feeling of belonging, of hope. It was, by all accounts, a perfect day for a stroll.
Yet, amid this serene beauty lurked a force so out of place that even the woodland creatures dared not approach. The birds took their song elsewhere, the critters buried themselves deep in their burrows, and the once-pleasant air grew heavy with an eerie stillness.
Tori stood at the heart of this disturbance, gripping her scythe. Her eyes twitched as some sort of energy seeped out of her form.
"Which way was it again?" she muttered.
She had been wandering the labyrinthine forest for what felt like an eternity, and for the third—no, fourth time—she found herself standing at the exact same fork in the road, staring at the exact same shimmering lake. A strong sense of déjà vu crawled over her skin, but she couldn't place why.
Time was slipping away. She had a volcano to reach, mercenaries to thwart, and most importantly, a meat banquet to plan. That final thought alone kept her from razing the entire forest to the ground. No animals meant no food, and no food was simply unacceptable.
"Come to think of it, there aren't many animals out here," she said, pulling her headphones.
She heard voices coming across the bushes. Peering in, she spotted a camp teeming with armed men, their voices carrying through the trees.
She exhaled slowly and pulled her head back. Then, after a moment, she smacked herself.
"Why am I like this?" she said, bonking her own skull a few more times before cautiously peeking through the leaves again.
"There's a lot of them," she whispered, shifting her scythe back into baton form. "Fighting them alone isn't an option. I should wai—"
Loud voices echoed behind her. She turned, only to bear witness to a sight no mortal mind could have ever prepared for.
Her grandfather—her Granddad—her Grand Pappy—erupted from the undergrowth, stark naked, riding a wailing, traumatised bull.
"YA SWEATY MEN AND LADIES, PICK UP THE PACE!" Andy bellowed, raising a fist in the air.
Tori did not move.
She did not speak.
All life drained from her face. Her pupils shrank. Her mind? Blank as she became a husk of her former self
And then more appeared. More naked old men. Charging past her, shattering her soul into fine powder.
"Aren't you Andy's kid?" came a voice.
Cumbleton—the only dressed man among them—waved a hand in front of her glazed-over eyes. No reaction. He sighed and patted her head as if comforting a grieving widow.
"I'll, uh… I'll make sure he puts some clothes on."
Tori turned her head an inch, her movements slow and mechanical, her mouth barely functioning. "O… K…"
"Look," he continued, trying to reel her back to reality, "your grandpappy's is really something. Beating up those mercenaries and protecting the resort was no small feat."
Tori's pupils regained some focus. Her gaze slowly lifted, locking onto his face.
"…What did you just call him?"
"Huh? You mean Grandpappy?"
Tori nodded.
"He said we should all call him that."
Tori's eye twitched. "We?"
Before he could respond, a new horror emerged from the bushes. Women—no, an army of women—clad in minimal attire, their weapons glinting in the morning light. Their breaths came heavy, not from exhaustion, but from admiration.
"GRANDPAPPY, WAIT FOR US!" they cried, their ample bosoms heaving as they dashed after him.
Tori stepped aside, mechanically allowing them to pass. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, willing the image out of her mind, but alas, it was already burned into her very being.
With a quiet sigh, she activated her scythe and cast a look at Cumbleton.
"Looks like the mercenaries aren't the only ones getting a beating today."
And with that, she stormed toward the camp.
Cumbleton watched her go, adjusting his coat as he shook his head.
"What a strange family."
#
Matthew remained in the bath, his thoughts drifting to the old days at the bar in Kanto. Life had been peaceful then.
Fame, wealth, power—he had been so close to having it all. With Ragnar's strength and influence, their ambitions had seemed inevitable. But everything had crumbled in a single night. Even now, Matthew wasn't sure whether to be relieved or infuriated that the swordsman had survived. He had wanted to kill him with his own hands, after all.
Letting out a slow breath, Matthew stepped out of the bath, drying off before slipping into his coat.
His gloves lay atop his desk beside several blueprints for improvements. Though he wasn't particularly skilled with technology, he had studied abroad for this kind of work—an uncommon privilege for someone from a closed nation. According to the other mercenaries, this was the very reason Lord Sparrow had entrusted him with the weapon in the first place.
The force it generated was now more powerful and could be aimed like a concentrated gust of wind, though at the cost of a longer reload time. To compensate, Matthew grabbed a sword. He wasn't much of a swordsman, but it would have to do.
"Matthew!! We're under attack!"
A voice shouted from outside.
Matthew wore a more suitable outfit and stepped out—only to be met with utter absurdity.
A group of naked men, young and old, had descended upon the camp, accompanied by women in indecent clothing. They were assaulting the mercenaries in a chaotic, almost surreal display.
"What the—?!" Matthew reeled, then snapped back into command. "Get all the manor workers to safety, now!"
It was a good first move. If anything happened to Lord Tony's precious workers, the repercussions would be dire.
The battle, however, was proving to be one-sided in the worst way possible. Despite the mercenaries' superior weaponry, they struggled against their opponents—not because they lacked skill, but because they simply couldn't handle the sight of naked attackers. Some, unable to control their thoughts, rushed toward the women, only to fall victim to their own distractions.
And then there was him—a man riding a bull, effortlessly knocking mercenaries aside like playthings.
Matthew clenched his teeth. "What kind of men did Lester leave me with?"
"Looks like you've got your hands full, young man."
Matthew turned to find Gordon standing nearby, Mary beside him.
"Oh, you're the guy from the carriage. You should join the others—it's too dangerous out here."
Gordon smirked, twirling his pan. "Yes, this is a dangerous situation. So let me help." He pointed towards the bull rider. "That one over there seems to be their leader. I'll take care of him."
Matthew shot him a look. "And what about the lady?"
"She's with me," Gordon said. "Mary isn't exactly a fan of this."
Mary let out a sigh. "For your information, Gordon, I'm not scared. I'm just ensuring your safety, that's all." Still, she stepped slightly behind him.
Matthew exhaled, already done with this nonsense. He waved a hand dismissively as he turned away. "Knock yourselves out," he said, stepping away to assist the mercenaries.
#
Andy smacked the bull's ass, sending it charging forward with a mighty kick that sent mercenaries flying in all directions.
Gordon approached Andy. Both of them locked eyes for a moment as Mary peeked from behind Gordon.
"I see you are a seasoned warrior," Gordon remarked, his voice carrying the weight of one who had seen far too much. "One unyielding to notions of shame and indecency."
Andy beamed, hopping off his sobbing mount and giving it a reassuring pat, though the poor creature only stared despondently at the sky, questioning its existence.
Mary averted her eyes, pressing a hand to her temple.
Andy stepped forward, squinting at Gordon. "I can say the same for you. Might you be their leader?"
"Can't say," Gordon said, extending a hand. "And you?"
Andy chuckled and shook his hand. "Can't say."
Gordon nodded. "Interesting. I thought you were."
Mary's eyes twitched. Gordon, the man who sometimes spoke like he'd been ripped straight from an overly dramatic novel, was actually speaking almost decently for once.
"What gave you that impression, kind sir?" Andy asked, mirroring Gordon's theatrical tone.
"Just a feeling," Gordon said, removing his shirt to reveal a physique sculpted by years of war and, presumably, aggressive kneading of dough. "You have the air of a battle-hardened man."
Andy nodded in approval. "I appreciate the compliment. Shall we settle this with a duel?"
"A duel, you say? Then may I have the honour of your name?"
"Call me Andy."
"Gordon."
Behind them, the battle between mercenaries and an increasingly enthusiastic horde of naked warriors raged on.
Mary, wisely distancing herself from them, peeked from behind a tent, watching with a growing sense of unease.
And then they clashed—bare fists against the frying pan. The impact sent shockwaves rippling through the camp, cracking the very ground beneath them.
From the sidelines, Matthew watched. "That's Lord Tony's cook," he said to himself. "Lester had told me a lot about that guy. Gordon is no ordinary chef. He once fought on the front lines of the Ninth Realm before retiring to follow his passion for cooking."
Andy grinned as he steadied himself. "You're strong."
Gordon smirked. "I try not to show off, but you're keeping up well."
They leapt back and lunged at each other once more, trading powerful blows—Andy's fists meeting the pan with ear-ringing force. Then, in a final explosive exchange, both men were sent hurtling backwards, demolishing multiple tents in their wake.
Mary rushed to Gordon's side. "I told you this was a bad idea!"
From the rubble, Gordon groaned but kept his grin. "Don't worry about me, Mary. It's been years since I've had this much fun."
Meanwhile, Andy remained sprawled out, the bull nudging him with its snout, checking if he had finally perished.
With a sudden jolt, Andy shot to his feet, sending the poor disappointed beast stumbling away in terror.
Both men locked eyes once more and dashed towards the other to attack again—until a third figure stepped between them, effortlessly stopping their next attacks.
"Cumbleton?" Gordon blinked in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
Cumbleton tossed the frying pan aside and turned to Andy. "Are you alright?"
Andy dusted himself off. "I'm fine. Why are you stopping us?"
Cumbleton sighed, then leaned in and whispered something in Andy's ear.
Andy's eyes widened in horror. "Oh dear, she's here?!"
He quickly scrambled toward the wreckage of the tents, frantically searching through the debris.
Gordon frowned, rubbing his sore arm. "What's going on, Cumbleton? Why are you helping this old man?"
Cumbleton exhaled. "Long story. He's a friend."
Meanwhile, Andy continued his search, tossing aside broken tent poles and ruined supplies.
"No, no, no—this is bad!!" he wailed.
Cumbleton turned to Mary. "I see you're doing well, Miss Mary."
She nodded, though her gaze remained fixed on the battlefield, where the battle showed no signs of slowing.
Cumbleton scanned the area. Tori had left for here moments ago, but now she was nowhere to be seen.
Then, finally, Andy let out a triumphant yell. "Found some!"
Emerging from the debris, he donned a battered chest plate and a pair of shorts that had clearly seen better days.
"What do you think, Cumbleton?"
Cumbleton gave him a long, tired look.
"Well… anything is better than nothing."
Matthew sprinted through the camp, weaving through the battlefield. A small burst of force from his gloves sent invaders crumpling to the ground, unconscious. It wasn't much of a challenge—too easy, in fact. And killing them? That would be nothing short of repulsive. There was something profoundly unsettling about taking the life of a naked man.
Then, he felt it—a powerful energy ripping through the forest, heading right for him.
Matthew's steps slowed as his fingers curled into a tight fist. His expression darkened.
"This…" he muttered under his breath, his heart pounding with recognition. "This is unmistakable. There's no mistake—he's here. No changes in the life force. There's no doubt... it's definitely him."
Power surged through his gloves, and with a single movement, he unleashed an invisible blast. The force tore through the camp and headed for the woods, tearing apart tents and uprooting trees.
But then—
From the depths of the dense forest, a figure streaked through the air at inhuman speed, carrying another man in his arms.
Mr. Swordsman.
"Hey, you're on your own," he said flatly before hurling Hudson skyward and dashing straight into the incoming blast.
Undeterred, Mr Swordsman swung his blade, dissipating the force as it sent ripples of energy. It shattered the trees in an instant and crushed the earth, creating a cloud of dust.
Matthew drew his sword and lunged into the dust, his blade slashing forward—only to be caught mid-strike.
"Oh, it's you from the bar." Mr. Swordsman's voice was calm, unaffected. "What brings you here?"
Matthew's lips curled into a grin. "I've finally got you now, you bastard."
Hudson landed hard, rolling into a crouch as he caught his breath. The clash of steel rang through the swirling dust.
Then—
"Hudson?"
A voice called his name. Gentle. Familiar.
His breath hitched as he pulled back his hood, stepping out of the smoke.
"Master Hudson!!"
The moment they saw him, the workers rushed forward.
Gordon, frozen at first, suddenly bolted toward him, his eyes shimmering. Tears streaked down his face as he shouted, "Master Hudson!!"
In an instant, they swarmed him, tears falling freely as they surrounded him. Hudson tried to steady himself but he couldn't hold it in and rather let their feelings overwhelm him.
"I missed you all," he murmured, his voice breaking. He barely had time to open his arms before they tackled him to the ground in an overwhelming embrace.
"Master Hudson, where have you been?! We were worried sick!"
"What happened to your suit? I'll have Unma make you a new one!"
"Hey, Master, you promised to play cards—let's play!"
"I thought you were dead!"
Their voices overlapped, questions flooding in one after another, leaving Hudson no room to answer. But he didn't need to—he could feel their joy.
Then, all at once, they pulled away.
Hudson blinked in confusion. What happened? Were they mad?
Then he heard it. A voice he hadn't realised he'd been waiting for.
"Hey, Hudson."
His breath hitched.
Mary.
She stood a short distance away, waving casually.
Hudson's eyes widened before he broke into a full sprint, closing the gap in an instant as he pulled her into a tight hug.
Mary wrapped her arms around him just as fiercely.
"I missed you too," she said softly, before pushing him back slightly and giving him a light punch to the chest. A teasing smile tugged at her lips.
"Welcome home, Master Hudson."
He returned her smile. "Glad to be back"