A week had passed since the battle, but the wounds it left behind refused to heal. The air in the hideout was heavy, thick with something unspoken—grief, doubt, exhaustion. The halls that once carried the laughter and shouting of men were quieter now. Too many had left. Those who remained carried injuries that would never fully mend. And Angelo…
He lay in a small, dimly lit room, wrapped in bandages, his face pale. His breaths were faint, barely there, like a candle struggling against the wind. No one spoke much about him, but every now and then, someone would stop by, peering in through the doorway before walking away, their steps a little heavier than before.
Rumors had started to spread. Some whispered that the boss had failed them, that staying was foolish, that they should've left while they still could. And many had. The ones who remained tried to push forward, but it was impossible to ignore the empty spaces, the missing faces.
Yet, through it all, the boss never wavered. He took the first watch every night, standing guard even when exhaustion clawed at his body. He didn't sleep much. Maybe he couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the fight—the blood, the deaths, the ones he couldn't save. So he stayed awake, listening to the wind, gripping his weapon, and waiting for whatever came next.
In Balmount Kingdom
The golden light of the afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows, but inside Lady Seraphina's office, the weight of unfinished business lingered. The soft scratching of her pen filled the room as she worked through documents, her focus unwavering. Across from her, Kaito stood in his usual silence, hands folded neatly behind his back.
Then, in a low voice, he finally spoke. "What will we do about the men who failed to bring back the weapon?"
Seraphina didn't look up. "There's nothing to do." Her tone was even, almost detached. "We paid them what they asked. Many of them lost their lives. That is payment enough."
Kaito studied her for a moment. "That's unlike you, my lady. You don't normally let failures go so easily."
She set her pen down, fingers resting lightly against the desk. "There's a difference between failure and loss, Kaito." Her golden eyes flickered up to meet his. "You don't punish men for dying."
There was a pause, brief but heavy.
Kaito inclined his head. "Understood." But then, after a moment of hesitation, he asked, "May I ask something else?"
Seraphina leaned back in her chair. "You may."
"Why?" His voice was quiet but firm. "Why was this weapon worth it?"
A long silence followed. Seraphina's fingers traced the edges of a worn file on her desk, as if debating whether to open it. Then, with a soft sigh, she flipped it open, revealing a rough sketch of a scythe wrapped in cloth.
"They say it belonged to Death himself."
Kaito's expression didn't change, but his eyes darkened slightly. "Death?"
Seraphina gave a small, dismissive scoff. "A legend. A myth. A fairy tale to keep fools awake at night."
Kaito's gaze didn't leave the sketch. "Then why have so many died for it?"
She shut the file with a quiet thud. "Because fools believe in fairy tales."
Kaito remained silent for a moment before speaking again. "Fairy tales don't make men disappear."
Seraphina exhaled through her nose, tilting her head slightly. "You sound as if you believe it."
Kaito's voice was measured. "I believe that some things cannot be explained. That there are forces in this world beyond what we understand." He glanced down at the file again. "And I believe that a simple scythe wouldn't make powerful men desperate."
Seraphina's eyes searched his, as if trying to read something deeper. Then, almost reluctantly, she asked, "What have you heard?"
Kaito hesitated for a brief second before answering. "That it's not just a scythe." His voice was quieter now, carrying the weight of something unspoken. "That when wielded by its true owner, it changes."
Seraphina's fingers stopped moving.
Kaito continued, his tone even but firm. "A sword. A spear. Chains. Whatever suits its master's hands." He glanced at the file again. "They say it's not a weapon at all. It's a part of him."
For the first time in the conversation, Seraphina said nothing.
Kaito's voice softened. "Have you ever wondered why there are no records of it? No known owners? No history?" He looked back at her. "Because no one who has ever wielded it lived to tell the tale."
The silence in the room felt heavier than before.
Then, Seraphina finally spoke, her voice quieter than usual. "Do you fear it?"
Kaito's expression remained unreadable. "I fear nothing, my lady." A pause. Then, "But I respect what I don't understand."
Seraphina leaned forward, resting her chin on her fingers as she studied him. "That's a rare thing in a man."
Kaito simply inclined his head. "Rare, but necessary."
Seraphina exhaled softly before shaking her head. "Whatever it is, it's no longer our concern. The knights failed. That is their problem now."
Kaito didn't reply, but his silence spoke volumes.
Seraphina gave a small, knowing smirk. "The captain will answer to his own people. I have enough to ruin him if I wish."
Her fingers brushed against the file one last time before she pushed it aside. "And if that weapon is truly what they say…" Her voice lowered slightly. "We haven't seen the last of it."
A cold wind swept through the camp as the moon hung high in the sky. After the night's watch, the boss entered his small cottage, exhaustion heavy in his bones. The wooden door creaked as it swung open, and the faint scent of pine lingered in the air. The room was simple—a bed, a table with a few chairs, and a dim lantern casting a weak glow.
But something felt wrong.
His instincts kicked in immediately. Without thinking, his hand moved to the sword resting by the door. His body tensed as he stepped forward, his sharp gaze scanning every shadow. The window was open, a lone crow perched on a branch outside, its caw breaking the silence.
He let out a breath. "Tch. Must've been the damn—"
A cold sensation brushed the back of his neck. A voice whispered, slow and deliberate.
"Don't move, or your head will explode."
His blood ran cold. The voice was familiar—too familiar.
"Who is it?" he asked, though he already knew.
A quiet chuckle. "Not a hard guess."
The boss gritted his teeth. "Zephyr..."
He turned slowly, facing the figure in the mage's robe. The flickering lantern barely illuminated Zephyr's face, but those golden eyes gleamed in the dark, sharp and calculating.
"You should be dead," the boss muttered.
Zephyr tilted his head. "Should I?"
The boss tightened his grip on the sword. "How did you find this place?"
Zephyr smirked. "This place reeks of death itself. Finding you was easy."
The boss forced a smile. "Then I guess I should've buried the bodies deeper."
Zephyr didn't laugh. His eyes flickered with irritation. "Tell me, was it worth it?"
The boss kept his expression neutral. "Depends. You here to kill me or just talk?"
Zephyr's response was swift. With a flick of his wrist, he severed the boss's arm. Blood sprayed across the wooden floor.
A scream tore from the boss's throat as he staggered back, clutching the empty space where his arm had been. His knees hit the floor with a dull thud.
Zephyr crouched beside him, watching with a quiet fascination. "Go ahead. Scream. No one will come."
The boss gasped, chest heaving. "You… bastard…"
Zephyr tilted his head. "I expected something more creative. Then again, losing a limb does make it hard to think."
The boss glared at him through the pain. "What… do you want?"
Zephyr exhaled slowly. "I need someone useful. And right now, that's you."
The boss clenched his teeth. "You want me to work for you? After this?" He motioned to his missing arm, blood still dripping onto the floor.
Zephyr's lips curled into something cruel. "I don't need your permission."
The boss let out a breathless laugh. "I'd rather die."
Zephyr leaned in, voice almost amused. "Even if it means your men die? Even if… your daughter dies?"
Silence.
The boss's breathing stopped for a second. His head snapped up. "How… how do you know about her?"
Zephyr grinned. "I know everything about you. About her. About the lie you built around her."
The boss's remaining hand trembled. "If you touch her, I'll—"
"You'll what?" Zephyr cut in smoothly. "You're in no position to make threats."
The boss struggled to push himself up, fury burning through the pain. "She doesn't even know. She's never been part of this—"
"And yet," Zephyr interrupted, "her life is now tied to yours. If you refuse me, she dies. Simple."
The boss clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached.
Zephyr watched him, waiting. Then, with a flick of his fingers, the boss's severed arm began to mend. The pain faded as flesh and bone reformed, as if nothing had ever happened. But the weight in his chest remained.
Zephyr stood, his voice calm. "You'll work for me. Or she dies."
The boss swallowed, his throat dry. He looked down at his hand—his hand, whole again. But the feeling of loss, of powerlessness, stayed.
Zephyr turned, heading toward the door. "I'll be in touch."
As he disappeared into the night, the boss sank to the floor, staring at the blood that no longer belonged to an open wound. His body was whole, but his soul felt crushed.
He buried his face in his hands, his voice barely above a whisper.
"What have I done…?"
Elara hung a white bedsheet on the clothesline, her fingers trembling slightly as the wind brushed against her skin. The morning was quiet, but inside, she felt anything but peace. The weight of everything—the loss, the pain, the uncertainty—sat heavy on her chest.
She heard footsteps behind her. Turning, she saw the boss approaching. His face looked worn, as if he hadn't slept at all.
"Boss?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.
He didn't answer. Instead, he walked up to her and pulled her into a tight embrace.
Elara stiffened. He never did this. Never.
"What's wrong?" she whispered, hesitant, her hands hovering in the air, unsure whether to touch him back.
"Just… let me hold you," he murmured, his voice hoarse.
Her heart twisted. Slowly, she let herself lean into him. She could feel the tension in his body, the way his fingers gripped the back of her dress like he was afraid to let go.
When he finally pulled away, he studied her face, something flickering in his eyes.
"You look just like… mother," he said quietly.
Elara's breath hitched. "What?"
He shook his head. "Nothing."
She frowned, reaching up to feel his forehead. "Are you feeling alright? You look like you haven't—"
He brushed her hand away. "I'm fine." His gaze shifted. "Where's Raphael?"
Her stomach dropped. She forced a small smile, but it was weak. "He hasn't spoken to me since the day he woke up. He doesn't eat properly. He leaves early in the morning, comes back late… and even then, he barely says a word."
The boss's jaw clenched, but he kept his voice steady. "Don't worry about it."
Elara's expression darkened. "How can I not worry?"
"Elara—"
"No," she interrupted, her voice breaking. "He's just a child. He lost everything. You think ignoring it will make it better?"
The boss sighed, rubbing his face. "It's… complicated."
"No, it's not." Her voice cracked. "It's not just about Raphael. Stubby doesn't talk to me anymore. Angelo is still in bed. Gregory is dead. Toru and the others are gone. The men who stayed behind—most of them are barely holding on, and I—" Her breath caught. "I don't know what to do anymore. I try to keep everyone together, but I feel like I'm failing. I feel useless, boss. I feel like… I'm just watching everything fall apart, and I can't stop it."
Tears slipped down her face before she could stop them.
The boss reached for her, pulling her into another hug. "I'm sorry, Elara," he whispered. "I never wanted any of this to happen."
She gripped his shirt, sobbing into his chest.
"I thought I was strong enough," he murmured, voice raw. "I thought I could protect everyone. But I couldn't."
Elara clung to him, crying harder.
After a long moment, he exhaled shakily. "There's a peaceful country not far from here," he said softly. "You, Stubby, and Raphael should go there."
Elara froze. She pulled back to look at him. "What?"
"It's safer. You'll have a better life."
Her lips trembled. "No. No, I'm not leaving."
"You have to."
"What about you? What about the others?"
He smiled, but it was tired. "We'll follow once things are settled here."
Elara shook her head furiously. "You're lying."
"I'm not."
She wiped at her tears. "Promise me. Promise me you'll come back."
The boss hesitated, then gave a small nod. "I promise. Cross my heart."
She searched his face for any sign of dishonesty, but all she saw was exhaustion.
After a long pause, she whispered, "When do you want us to leave?"
"Today."
Her breath hitched. "Did you and Stubby plan this?"
He scratched the back of his head. "Maybe."
She let out a weak, tearful chuckle. "Bastard."
He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I've been called worse."
Behind one of the cottages, Stubby and Raphael stood silently, listening.
Stubby sighed. "Kid, we probably shouldn't be hearing this."
Raphael didn't reply.
He didn't need to. The weight of their family's pain hung heavy in the air. And neither of them knew how to fix it.