The chamber was part barracks, part forge, part shrine to forgotten wars. Reinforced walls bristled with racks of weapons—some forged of steel, others laced with runes that shimmered faintly under the low industrial lights. Aether-charged machinery hummed in the background, assembling something that defied classification. The air carried the weight of old battles—metal, sweat, and scorched magic.
They stood in a semicircle. Not in formation, but with presence—raw, unspoken. Each of them had the kind of stillness that didn't need to be loud to be dangerous.
The first to approach is a familiar face.
Mark.
He looked human enough—brown hair tousled like he never quite learned what a comb was for, a European face with sharp cheekbones, and an easy grin that made you question how much chaos he'd left in his wake. But beneath all that, Mark wasn't just different—he was born different.
He hadn't been bitten. He wasn't cursed.
Mark was born a wolf. A real, honest-to-gods wolf cub, found alone deep in the Carpathians by a scout team. No clan. No pack. Just instinct, claws, and a hell of a lot of bite.
Now, he walked on two legs, cracked jokes with a sharp tongue, and somehow had enough charisma to convince the Paladins to let him stay. Mostly.
"Look who didn't run screaming," he said, giving me a crooked grin and a lazy wave. "Did you miss me?"
I raised an eyebrow. "You were late fifteen minutes."
"Exactly. Fifteen minutes without me? Tragic."
He moved closer, eyes gleaming with something less human, something more feral hiding just under the surface. But he kept it under control—for now.
"Name's Mark," he continued, placing a hand over his chest like he was about to take a bow. "Just Mark. No surname. I ate it."
Gerard's voice cut in from the side. "He's... stable. Most of the time. But his alternate state—during shifts—is another matter."
Mark gave a toothy grin.
There was a pause. I met his eyes, and for a second, I caught a glimpse of something—loneliness, maybe. Or a memory too primal for words. Then it was gone, buried under another grin.
"Still cooler than you," he added.
I didn't respond. I didn't need to. I just smiled. He was already stepping back, giving space for the next.
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The next one stepped forward like a blade unsheathed.
Ronald.
His movements were honed, minimal—there was no excess. His sleeveless gi was threadbare from use, stained with memories of fights won and survived. Every muscle moved with the precision of someone who trained not to impress, but to survive.
"Ronald," he said. His voice was low, deliberate.
"No last name?"
He looked me over. "You haven't earned it."
There was no arrogance in it. Just fact. A world measured in merit, not words.
"I fight. I train. That's the order of things."
His gaze lingered, weighing me like an opponent yet to be tested. I could already feel the bruises from a future sparring match.
"You and I will cross blades soon," he added.
He didn't offer a hand. Didn't smile. Just nodded, sharp and deliberate.
"You and I will spar later."
"Says who?"
"Says us," he said, stepping back as I awkwardly smirked, looking at them.
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A low hum announced the arrival of the third. A flicker of light, the scent of ionized air. Then she was there—moving like lightning bottled in human form.
Eula Tang.
She barely came up to my shoulder, but there was nothing small about her. Her hair, split into waves of electric blue and midnight black, shifted with kinetic energy. Her gear looked like it was scavenged from ten different realities and fused by sheer force of will. And yet, it worked.
"I'm Eula," she said. "Field tech. Systems, weapons, augments. If it's broken, I fix it. If it's not, I improve it."
She handed me a silver ring etched with symbols that moved like liquid metal. I took it. It adjusted to my finger the moment it made contact.
"Dimensional pocket," she explained. "Tied to your neural pattern. It'll respond when you need it."
A flick of her wrist and she activated a data screen that hovered in midair beside her, running diagnostics on what I assumed was me.
"You're synced. Barely. Don't die, and I'll keep your systems optimal. Ciao!"
With that, she winked and turned, leaving a trail of softly glowing after-light behind her. Precision in motion, chaos in design.
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The room seemed to quiet just a little more as the next figure arrived.
Kaye Elesjo.
She didn't walk in—she arrived. Her armor was massive, layered with sigils that pulsed faintly, as though they were breathing. A tower of a woman, with a gaze that settled on me like a verdict.
"Felix," she said. Her voice was calm, grounded.
"Kaye. Vanguard."
Her shield was wider than her shoulders, heavy and silent. It bore the scars of past encounters like medals.
She didn't offer a handshake. Instead, she stepped forward and placed a hand over my heart.
"I take hits, so you don't have to. I take damage you cannot..."
"Stay behind or learn to stand beside me."
I nodded. "Understood."
She stepped forward and pulled me into a side-hug before I could react. Her embrace was warm and firm, grounding,
No, I was lifted on the ground. 'I'm choking you freaking hog!'
She put me down, "You're smaller than I expected," she murmured, amused.
"...Thanks?"
She smiled, then stepped back into place, standing tall and steady like a fortress.
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Silence...
Complete stillness...
Ashua 'Ahl Kul.
She didn't walk so much as glide. Her movements were ethereal, soundless. Silver-blue hair framed a face that didn't look real—so perfect it seemed sculpted, inhuman in its symmetry. Her eyes were cold, pale, and piercing.
Ethereal beauty with her spear-like ear of an actual Elf.
She didn't speak right away. Didn't need to. Her presence was enough.
"Ash," Gerard said softly. "Assassin. Tactician. Our sharpest blade."
Ash finally spoke, her voice like a breeze across frozen glass.
"Don't die."
That's what she said.
I nodded.
"I'll do my best."
"You'll do better," she replied, and the air itself seemed to still in deference to her words.
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I stood in the middle of them now.
Mark, the wild precision of instinct and survival.
Ronald, the discipline of perfect form.
Eula, the spark of boundless innovation.
Kaye, the immovable bulwark.
Ash, the blade that fell before the warning.
And Gerard, placing a hand on my shoulder with a quiet gravity.
"This is your circle now, Felix," he said.
I looked down at the ring, feeling the hum of its energy flow through me.
The Grail pulsed gently in my chest.
A beginning.
"So..." I said, exhaling slowly in a long tone.
Gerard gave the faintest smile.
Eula answered first. "Welcoming feast. Then karaoke. Then training. Then constant mission. In that order."
Mark let out a low, wolfish chuckle behind me.
The path ahead seemed chaos.
But I see I'm not alone.
And that made all the difference.