Chapter Text

Some time after the events of Canto II…

“You Kurokumo bastards are a pain in the ass!”

How did it come to this?

“Speak for yourselves, you Blade Lineage dimwits~!”

“Dimwits!?”

Dante only wanted to take the new Identities they extracted out for a test run.

So why are they squabbling amongst each other as if they’re sworn enemies?

“Dante.”

Faust had gone forth, stepping in line beside them to catch his attention. “Faust is aware of your clueless nature in regards to Syndicates of the City. Allow me to educate you.”

Dante had just now at that moment turned towards her. If they had a face, it would display one of sheer confusion and utter concern. “<Yeah, I’ve been wondering about that. I fear… if they keep this up , I might have to…>”

Faust nodded in affirmation. “Of course.”

The scene before them was a chaotic tableau, dominated by four Sinners locked in a tense standoff, split evenly across the field.

On one side, Yi Sang and Outis stood side by side, their figures imposing in black hanbok layered over three-piece suits—the standard attire of the Salsu. Outis, her sword already drawn, radiated barely contained aggression, her eyes blazing with a fierce determination. In contrast, Yi Sang appeared more reserved, though his tired eyes mirrored the same intensity. His left hand hovered near the guard of his jikdo, the blade within its scabbard gleaming as it caught the light. Both stood poised, ready to strike at their perceived foes.

Opposite them were Hong Lu and Rodion, clad in black jackets over dark gray dress shirts—the uniform of the Kurokumo. Their katanas were also drawn, and they had assumed a strategic formation: Rodion in front with her blade held in a guarded position, and Hong Lu just behind, his stance open and offensive. Their eyes met those of their adversaries, not with fear but with a mocking confidence, their faces twisted into sneers as if daring Yi Sang and Outis to make the first move.

“Hey, you two~” Hong Lu addressed the two before him with a cocky grin. “I heard you all display your scars for all the world to see. Seeing as you both have so many… are you really that bad at dodging that you have that many scars on you~?”

Outis frowned at Hong Lu’s remark, pointing her blade in his direction. “The scars are a testament to our grit in battle. As for you? You sully your bodies in ink! How absurd.”

“Tch. And you’re one to talk about cleanliness,” Rodion counters, not losing her confident grin, “I can smell your tryhard sweat from here. Peeyew!”

The target of her insulting remark grit her teeth. “Why you—!”

“Outis.”

Her name was called. Outis turned towards her companion. Yi Sang had put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t let your anger get the best of you.”

Outis tightened her hold on her sword. “Yi Sang… these imbeciles… they have no right to judge our creed! It’s madness!”

Yi Sang pursed his lips for a moment before turning back towards his adversaries. “I know. And for badmouthing our name… our clan… our credence… everything that we stand for…” He then puts his hands on the grip of his blade, pulling it out of its scabbard slowly. “…I will see to it that their heads are severed from their necks in one fell stroke.”

The air between them crackled with anticipation, the tension so thick it seemed they were only moments away from clashing, the imminent violence threatening to erupt at any second. It was clear that nothing good would come of this encounter.

Dante looked ready to panic.

“Allow me to give an abridged summary,” Faust began, taking Dante’s attention once more. “The Sinners before you had assumed the Identities of the Blade Lineage and the Kurokumo Gang, two of the most prominent Syndicates in the City. And by concurrence, as coincidence may have it, they are rivaling factions sworn to destroy each other.”

“<What!?>” Dante’s clock hands had accelerated in pace as it ticked aggressively, his head letting off a loud steaming whistle in absolute shock. “<We have to stop them! We have to explain the situation and diffuse it, or else—!>”

“No.”

Ryōshū had stepped forward between them and Faust, cutting into their conversation. “I want to see how they paint their canvas. I.C.”

Dante stared at her, exasperated. “<Ryōshu, what are you saying…?>”

Ryōshū raised the cigarette to her lips, inhaling deeply before releasing a slow, deliberate stream of smoke. The tendrils of grey swirled in the air, creeping toward Faust, who, either unsettled by Ryōshū's abrupt intrusion into the conversation or repelled by the acrid scent, subtly edged backward, putting a few more inches of distance between them. “You wanted to see how they work, right? You have a first-class seat.”

Dante, clearly not liking that answer, turned his attention back towards the four Sinners in the distance before them. The air between the two pairs of Sinners was electric, each breath shallow and tense as they measured their opponents. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath, the silence stretching taut like a bowstring.

No one said a word. Utter silence.

“Hiyah!”

Then, in a blur of motion, Outis lunged forward, her blade flashing as she aimed a swift, precise strike at Rodion. Rodion, with practiced ease, met the attack, steel clashing against steel with a sharp ring that echoed across the field. Sparks flew as their swords ground against each other, neither giving an inch, their faces mere inches apart as they locked gazes—one with fiery determination, the other with a sardonic grin.

Simultaneously, Yi Sang and Hong Lu sprang into action, following in their compatriots’ footsteps. Yi Sang's movements were fluid, almost graceful, as he swiped his jikdo in smooth motions. His strikes were deliberate, each swing of his sword calculated, aimed not just to wound but to disarm. Hong Lu, however, was a storm—fast, relentless, his blade a whirlwind of slashes and thrusts that forced Yi Sang to stay on the defensive. The two danced around each other, their swords cutting through the air with lethal precision, neither finding an opening to exploit.

“Okay, this is getting ridiculous,” Ishmael called out from her spot behind Dante, arms crossed, “Are you seriously gonna make us work with them? If they’d continue like this, they’d end up killing each other.”

“Hark, I am beset with conflict in mine heart.” Don Quixote had stepped in as well, giving her own two cents. “Though they be mine comrades, they don the raiment and bear the countenance of those bound to wickedness! Alas, what a grievous plight…”

Dante rubbed the back of their neck, thinking to themselves. “<Ah, I’ll figure it out… m-maybe they should get it out of their system first? Then we can explain to them about the whole thing.>”

That’s just wishful thinking, however.

Outis, growing impatient, disengaged from her deadlock with Rodion and spun around, her sword whistling through the air as she aimed a vicious strike at Hong Lu's side. But Rodion was quicker, her sword intercepting the blow with a force that sent a jolt up Outis's arm. The impact pushed Outis back a step, her teeth gritted in frustration, while Rodion pressed her advantage, her attacks coming in rapid succession, forcing Outis to retreat further.

Yi Sang, sensing the shift in the battle, took a gamble. He feigned a retreat, drawing Hong Lu in with what seemed like an opening. As Hong Lu moved in to exploit the perceived weakness, Yi Sang pivoted, his sword flashing upward in a rapid arc. The tip of his blade caught Hong Lu’s jacket, slicing through the fabric and drawing a thin line of blood across his chest. Hong Lu hissed in pain, his eyes narrowing as he shifted his stance, becoming more defensive.

“Urk! Rodion—!”

Kurokumo Henchmen were less adept at defense, and Rodion knew that. With a growl of frustration, she broke off her assault on Outis and turned to Yi Sang, her blade coming down in a powerful overhead strike. Yi Sang barely managed to block in time, the force of the blow driving him to one knee.

“Ngh—!”

Outis, seizing the opportunity, moved to flank Rodion, her sword aiming for the unguarded side of her opponent. But Hong Lu was there in an instant, his blade intercepting Outis’s strike with a speed that made her curse under her breath.

The battle descended into a furious melee, the two pairs of Sinners trading blows in a deadly dance. Swords clashed with deafening intensity, each strike more desperate than the last. The ground beneath them was torn up by their movements, dirt and grass kicked up in the frenzy of their fight. Blood began to stain the field, seeping into the earth as cuts and gashes accumulated on all four combatants.

The other Sinners watched this deadly dance with different expressions on their faces. Ryōshū in particular had a huge grin on her face. “This… this beautiful sight…” She let out an exhilarated sigh, a puff of smoke escaping her lips. “P.E.A.K.”

“W-We have to stop them!” Sinclair insisted, calling out to his fellow Sinners in a worried tone, “They might die!”

“Like hell!” Heathcliff countered, crossing his arms, “You wanna get in the middle of that shitfest?”

Sinclair’s hands clenched into fists, the tension in his knuckles mirroring the tight line of his pursed lips as he struggled to contain his silent disdain in response to Heathcliff’s sharp retort.

“<Sinclair’s right, though,>” Dante cut in, turning towards the other Sinners, “<Someone needs to stop them eventually before they actually die. Any volunteers?>”

Their responses varied in number and intensity, yet ultimately converged into a general sense of disinterest or an outright reluctance to confront what was, in essence, a fourfold embodiment of Ryōshū. However, there were two notable exceptions.

“Ah, this strife must cease! Companions in arms shouldst not draw their blades 'gainst one another! 'Tis treachery!” Don Quixote turned towards Dante with a pleading look. “Manager Esquire, prithee, allow me to quell their strife!”

Right beside her, Meursault stepped forward as well. “I will do it if you want me to, Manager. All you have to do is say the word.”

Despite the influx of volunteers, something about the situation still unsettled Dante. Standing with their hands firmly on their waist, they cast their gaze downward, lost in contemplation as they tried to reconcile the lingering discomfort gnawing at the edge of their thoughts. “<You might be outnumbered, so let’s make it even…>” Dante turned towards two other Sinners. “<Ishmael. Gregor. Will you…?>”

Ishmael sighed, picking up her mace and shield. “Right, right. I’ll get to it.”

Gregor took out the cigarette from his mouth and threw it on the ground, snuffing it out afterwards with his foot. “Alrighty, Manager Bud. I’ll do what I can.”

Dante nodded. “<Please, don’t kill them. We need them alive.>”

Don Quixote gave an affirmative smile and took up her lance. “You can count on us, Manager Esquire!”

Amidst the chaos of the fight, Yi Sang's breaths came in ragged gasps, each one a struggle as he barely managed to parry one of Hong Lu’s strikes. With a desperate surge of strength, he countered, delivering a swift kick to Hong Lu’s chest. The impact sent Hong Lu sprawling backward, buying Yi Sang a fleeting moment of reprieve. 

Seizing the opportunity, Outis redirected her focus entirely onto Rodion. Her strikes, once measured, now grew wild and aggressive, each one driven by a reckless determination to end the fight. Rodion, who had exuded confidence at the outset, found herself faltering, her teeth gritted against the unyielding barrage. The rhythm of the battle slipped from her grasp, her earlier assurance crumbling under the relentless pressure.

But Hong Lu was not one to stay down for long. With a primal roar, he pushed himself back up, his eyes burning with renewed vigor. He charged at Yi Sang, his blade a blur of motion as he unleashed a relentless flurry of strikes. Yi Sang’s arms trembled under the unrelenting assault, his defenses slowly crumbling as each strike landed with increasing force.

Then, in a split second, Hong Lu spotted a weakness, a slight hesitation in Yi Sang’s defenses. Without wasting a moment, he readied his blade for another strike, aiming to exploit the opening before him.

“Time to die~”

Which was then promptly caught by a pair of metal gauntlets.

“…what?”

Meursault gripped onto Hong Lu’s katana, mitigating the blow aimed for Yi Sang’s neck.

“Wh—? You…!”

With a sudden, unyielding force, he deflected Hong Lu's sword, sending both the weapon and its wielder crashing to the ground in a disarray of limbs and steel. The Kurokumo Gang henchman crumpled to the floor, his blade slipping from his grasp with a resonant clatter. Yi Sang, sensing the intrusion of an unknown ally—or perhaps a new threat—rose quickly, his mind racing. Without a moment’s hesitation, he reclaimed his sword, surging forward with renewed vigor, intent on capitalizing on the confusion to tip the scales in his favor.

Which was then promptly pushed away by the blunt side of a jousting lance, causing him to sprawl all over the floor.

Curse the tunnel vision of an opportunity.

Don Quixote stepped between a downed Yi Sang and practically the rest of the fight. “Cease! I command thee to halt this folly! Ye shouldst not strive against one another! It is unjust!”

Yi Sang looked up, and at that moment, his eyes widened, seeing the one who pushed him down. “Y-You…?”

“Yi Sang!” Outis, locked in a fierce defensive struggle against Rodion, noticed the unfolding situation with sharp awareness. In a calculated move, she abruptly pushed Rodion back, breaking their engagement. Without hesitation, she redirected her focus and energy, swiftly moving to assist Yi Sang, recognizing the urgency of the situation.

Which was then promptly blocked by a wide shield.

“Nope.” Ishmael had slid in between Outis and Don Quixote, stopping the swordswoman in her tracks. Outis gritted her teeth in annoyance.

“You—!” She gripped her jikdo tighter. “How dare you stop me!” Outis stepped to the left, but Ishmael was quick on the uptake and sidestepped to where Outis was.

Rodion, now unchallenged with her adversary gone, surveyed the chaos unfolding on the battlefield. The boys had long since been disarmed, their weapons scattered as they were overwhelmed by these unexpected intruders. A momentary confusion clouded her thoughts, but her gaze soon fell upon her companion, Hong Lu, lying defeated at the hands of the big man. Realizing the opportunity at hand, Rodion seized the moment. With swift determination, she sprinted toward Meursault, her blade poised to strike a lethal blow from behind.

Which was then promptly deflected by a bug arm.

“What—!?”

Rodion staggered back, stumbling but still standing. Gregor, the one who had parried her blade, sighed. “Are you all done being shocked yet? I thought swordsmen had better spatial awareness.”

The Henchwoman’s eyes widened, seeing the one who blocked her path. “Captain!? But that…? Why did you…?”

And then it clicked.

“A-Ah, right, I…” She looked around, taking in her surroundings as it is for real this time, now only remembering the fact that she is indeed not within the T Corp. Backstreets. And then, she realized.

She’s a borrowed Identity.

“…ah, I remember now. I guess I forgot from all the heat… haha…”

The concept of Identities was an entirely different conundrum, one that Dante had only begun to grasp. As far as they understood, Identities represented alternate manifestations of the Sinners, reflections of their essence drawn from parallel worlds—fragments of potential timelines within the vast, branching multiverse. These Mirror Worlds, countless and ever-shifting, each harbored variations of reality, like an infinite kaleidoscope of possibilities.

Through Mephistopheles' engine, Dante could extract these alternate forms in the form of Identity Cards which served as manifestations of the Sinners' innermost selves. These Identities, drawn from the fabric of alternate realities, could be summoned in combat, enabling the Sinners to embody different versions of themselves. Faust had attempted to explain the intricate mechanics behind this process, though her explanations bordered on the incomprehensible. Still, Dante had gleaned enough to navigate the system—if only just.

Gregor stared at her for a moment, then frowned. “Yeah, it happens. No biggie.”

A chuckle reverberated across the field. “What a coincidence, huh? He of all people was the one to stop you, Rodya~” Hong Lu has long since sat up, having now just had a full grasp of the situation. “I guess we got a little too carried away…”

Outis, who now noticed the commotion, stopped her assault against Ishmael at once. “W-What? Just like that, you all…?”

And then her eyes widened in realization.

“Ah!” Her head then snaps towards Dante, and at once, she runs up to them hurriedly, still holding her blade. “F-Forgive me, Executive Manager! I lost myself in the heat of battle! And… ah, this is embarrassing…”

Dante stepped backwards a bit. “<Y-Yeah, it’s fine. Just as long as you’re done trying to kill each other… and stop waving that sword around? Please?>”

“Ah, my mistake, Executive Manager.” She sheathes her jikdo at once, then clears her throat, ignoring her recent outburst. “I was careless and let my thoughts consume me. It will not happen again.”

Don Quixote beamed triumphantly, a wide smile on her face. “Huzzah! What a delectable conclusion! Though thou mayest be my brothers- and sisters-in-arms wearing the garments of villainy, thou still art my brothers- and sisters-in-arms within! Forsooth!”

Yi Sang slowly stood up, using his blade as support to lift himself up. “A surprising development, it seems.” He sheathed his blade back into his scabbard. “This issue has resolved itself… for now.”

Faust steps forward, falling into step beside Dante once more. “It looks like the Identity stabilization process is successful. They should now be ready at your disposal, Dante.”

“<R-Right, of course.>” Dante exhaled softly, their gaze shifting toward the Identities. Rodion had quickly settled herself beside her companion, Hong Lu, while Outis had made her way back to Yi Sang's side. “<You four…>”

They turned to Yi Sang and Outis.

“<Blade Lineage…>”

And then to Rodion and Hong Lu.

“<Kurokumo…>”

Everyone waited silently with bated breath, waiting for Dante to say something.

And then…

“<You four are now under my jurisdiction,>” Dante began, crossing their arms as they talked, “<As long as you are under me, you are under no one else’s command. For now, it’s best that you would withhold yourselves and work together, barring any bad will between yourselves. And once I’m done asking for your assistance, you can go back to your normal lives. Are we all good with that?>”

Oh. Damn.

Heathcliff raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Huh. Looks like there’s a first for everything, huh, clockface?”

Dante turned towards Heathcliff with what’s practically a deadpan look on their face—that is, if they ever had one.

Yi Sang was the first among the new Identities to answer Dante’s request. “I find it reasonable to do so. Don’t you think so, Outis?”

Outis nodded. “Of course. As always, the Executive Manager is of sound judgment in this regard.”

Rodion rolled her eyes. “Ah, you simpletons… giving up so easily…”

Hong Lu chuckled at Rodion's comment. “So uptight~ and not a single moment wasted to react.” He turns toward Dante. “Hey, hey. Dante, was it?”

“<That’s correct, uh… Hong Lu,>” Dante answered hesitantly, “<What’s on your mind?>”

“I just wanna tell you before I take up this opportunity,” Hong Lu continued, “that I don’t like those who treat others with disrespect. Especially incompetent superiors who only know how to run their mouth.”

Outis’s eyebrows immediately furrow in anger, looking ready to choke the man. “Why you little—!”

Hong Lu raised his hand, halting Outis’s advance. “Hold it. I wasn’t referring to them… at least, for now.”

The woman only narrowed her eyes at this remark. Dante could only tighten his closed hands in anticipation.

“Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” Hong Lu says, gazing towards Dante with what looks to be an unreadable look, “I want to make sure that you are truly who you say you are. An Executive Manager. So please, for my sake, ‘manage’ my ‘executions’ well.” And then, he gave a small smile, as if he did not just give a mocking statement. “Until then, I’ll play your game. I can follow your commands no problem~”

Then with a slight chuckle, he added: “Obedience might be a tall order, though~”

Rodion sighed, shaking her head. “I guess… if he’s in, then I am too.” She puts her hands on her hips, grinning as well. “You can count on me~”

Dante gave a small sigh. This is gonna be a long day.

Ryōshū observed the unfolding scene with quiet intensity, her crimson eyes narrowing as they meticulously scrutinized the newly arrived Identities. Every movement, every subtle shift in their demeanor, was carefully cataloged in her mind. Slowly, she brought her cigarette to her lips, drawing in a deep breath of smoke. After a moment’s pause, she exhaled, the smoke curling around her like a veil, a controlled release of tension that mirrored the calm exterior she maintained.

“L.I.P.”

Chapter Text

Some time after the events of Canto III…

The Mirror Dungeons were, without a doubt, the most perplexing challenge Dante had ever encountered. These enigmatic realms not only introduced entirely new adversaries and uncharted landscapes—places unlike anything they had ever seen—but resurrected old foes, forcing them to relive battles they thought were long behind them. What was most astonishing, however, was the realization that all of these disorienting experiences—the endless rooms and ever-shifting environments—existed entirely within Mephistopheles, the bus Faust had ingeniously crafted.

At present, they stood outside the District 10 Casino, a place they and the other Sinners had raided just days before. The place was strikingly decorated with towering sculptures of stacked cars, carefully arranged for stability. Unfortunately, this led to yet another confrontation with the Tingtang Gang. Dante hadn’t expected to face them again, nor did they anticipate the gang’s behavior and attack strategies would mimic their previous encounter. Yet, they chalked it up to the chaotic and unpredictable nature of Mephistopheles’ mysteries.

Faust had not overstated her claim when she said only she could bring her magnum opus to life. Her genius and mastery of technology were undeniable, as evidenced by the creation of what amounted to an infinite pocket dimension contained within a moving vehicle.

That said, speaking of Faust…

“Purge! Purge every single one of them!”

This is a terrible situation to be in, especially for someone like them.

Dante had recently extracted several new Identities from Mephistopheles’ engine and decided to take them for a test run. Among these, two initially appeared unremarkable: the Identities belonging to Ryōshū and Gregor. These two assumed the roles of chefs, presiding over a modest yet highly acclaimed restaurant nestled within the depths of the W Corp. Backstreets. The establishment bore the simple moniker "R.B."—a cryptic abbreviation for Ryōshū’s Bistro, although Ryōshū herself preferred the enigma of its title. The bistro had earned a reputation for its exquisite meat dishes, but its true nature was far more sinister: the delicacies served were crafted from human flesh.

Dante felt an unsettling discomfort creeping into their thoughts upon learning of this grotesque detail. Although the knowledge that their fellow Sinners were bound by an immortality that rendered them impervious to permanent death dulled the immediate shock, a lingering unease festered beneath the surface. The macabre cravings that lurked within their companions, restrained only by their bizarre immortality, cast a dark pall over the atmosphere. Sensing Dante’s growing discomfort, Ryōshū and Gregor exchanged knowing glances, their playful smirks and offhand remarks making light of the horror as if their gruesome trade were nothing more than an inside joke.

Yet, this wasn’t the worst of it.

The remaining Identities Dante had chosen for combat came from the infamous Inquisition division of N Corp., a brutal faction known for its fanatical adherence to corporate dogma and its deep-seated aversion to prosthetics. These weren’t the typical soldiers—Kleinhämmer or Mittelhämmer—usually deployed by the division. By some twist of fate, Dante had summoned the very leader of the Inquisition subdivision herself: the One Who Grips. At her side stood her formidable lieutenant, the Großhammer, and perhaps most disturbing of all, an alternate version of Sinclair—now bearing the grim title of the One Who Shall Grip. This version of Sinclair, consumed by the rigid doctrines of the Scriptures, had been molded into the protégé of the One Who Grips, a twisted reflection of his former self and a chilling symbol of N Corp.'s all-consuming indoctrination.

While their fury toward Dante’s clock-headed prosthetic had been tempered by Dante's insistence that it was merely a mask, Dante could only hope that this fragile deception would endure. The bitter, soul-piercing glares that the N Corp. Identities cast toward Gregor, particularly when he spoke, made it clear that their contempt simmered just beneath the surface, barely held in check. Dante knew better than to push their luck any further.

At least Ryōshū and Gregor had the sense not to expose the truth.

Determined to make the best of their precarious situation, Dante resolved to press forward. With a few words of cautious encouragement, particularly towards Sinclair, they steeled themselves for the challenge ahead: the Mirror Dungeon. Yet, despite their resolve, a creeping sense of unease remained. They could only hope that everything would go according to plan.

“Ugh, her voice is so shrill,” Ryōshū complained, casually stabbing a Tingtanger in the gut with her knife and finishing him off, “I wish I could just end her right here.”

Gregor grumbled right behind her, chopping another Tingtanger up by the shoulder with his meat cleaver. “Gee, I’m sure glad you’re having the best time of your life. It’s not like you’re being actively bad-mouthed for your life choices or anything.”

“Shut it with your whining, heretic.” Faust, who had overheard their conversation, hissed at Gregor’s sarcastic comment, all the while choking a Tingtanger by the neck and impaling her victim with her giant nail. “You’re lucky that Dante can revive you without a second thought. Otherwise… I…” Stab. “Would.” Stab. “Hang.” STAB. “You. Like—” She raises the Tingtanger with her hand, firmly grasping his neck as electricity surges through her gauntlets, inflicting a painful jolt. “—THIS!”

In an instant, the Tingtanger erupted into a cascade of entrails and blood. Gregor, with clenched teeth, could do nothing but observe this perilous scene, muttering quietly to himself as he continued dismantling his adversary.

Faust let out a glorified huff, then, with a smirk, turned her head to her other comrades. “Großhammer. Sinclair. Are you finished?”

Meursault, who had just about finished dismembering his target, nodded, gliding over to her. “Here I stand.”

Sinclair followed suit, pulling out his halberd from the visceral mess that was a human being. “Yeah, I’m just about done here.” His head twisted around, facing Dante. “So, we’re finished now. What’s next, Manager?”

An odd length of silence passed before they answered—Dante simply nodded, pulling their PDA out. “<Ah, right. We’re just about done with this floor. I’ll give you guys a second to recuperate, and then we’ll head to the next one.>”

There were no spoken responses, only the casual nod or grunt of acknowledgment, leaving Dante to tinker with their PDA as the other Sinners reconvened. To say they "reconvened" would be generous—though allied by circumstance, the tension in the air was palpable. The murderous glares from the N Corp. Inquisitors spoke volumes, their silent hostility so intense that, if such looks had lethal power, Gregor would have been obliterated a thousand times over. Ryōshū, though merely guilty by association, would not have fared much better in the inevitable crossfire.

“Ugh, that guy’s blood splattered all over my face. Now my cig’s snuffed out. No good.” Gregor slouched against the leaning tower of cars, the faint scent of rust and oil mingling with the smoke from his spent cigarette. He flicked the damp butt to the ground, watching it sadly roll on the dirt below before reaching into his pocket for another. As he drew out the next cigarette, his gaze shifted lazily to his companion. “Oi, Ryōshū, got a light?”

Ryōshū rolled her eyes in annoyance, but complied anyway, taking out her lighter and throwing it at him. “Y.S.B.G.”

Gregor caught the lighter in one fell swoop with his right hand. “‘Grateful’, my ass. I’m stressed out over here. But, uh, thanks, anyway.”

Ryōshū made no visible effort to acknowledge Gregor's statement. Instead, her attention wandered, sweeping over her fellow compatriots. She had heard whispers about N Corp., a corporation infamous for its ruthless enforcement of internal policies and its unwavering intolerance for taboo violations. Their standards, especially about the Inquisition subdivision, were reputedly even more draconian, bordering on fanaticism. And now, as she observed, it was clear to Ryōshū that those rumors held some truth.

A few feet away, perched on a massive tire, Faust—the One Who Grips—was engrossed in a quiet conversation with her Großhammer, Meursault, who stood tall beside his master. Seated next to Faust, Sinclair appeared lost in his world. His eyes were fixed on the ground, unseeing, while his fingers fidgeted restlessly in his lap. His shallow, rapid breaths betrayed an inner turmoil he seemed unable to suppress. Ryōshū’s gaze sharpened as she took note of his distress. There was something oddly intimate in the way Faust’s hand moved, brushing through Sinclair’s hair with a tenderness that seemed out of place in this grim, unforgiving environment. The motion was deliberate, almost protective, as though she were trying to calm a storm brewing within him.

Ryōshū’s brows knitted together, her mind racing. Was there a deeper connection between the two of them? Perhaps some bond formed within their Mirror World, a parallel existence where relationships were different, where the dynamics between individuals took on new dimensions. What was it that tied them together so subtly, yet so clearly?

“Hey. You’re staring.”

Ryōshū jolted from her reverie, only to realize that Faust had caught her gaze lingering on Sinclair. Faust’s hand, once gently entangled in Sinclair's hair, now shifted possessively over his shoulder, while her other hovered precariously close to the massive nail she gripped with unsettling ease. “You know, I don’t usually mind curious eyes peering at mein Engel , but I don’t tolerate your look there, filthy apologist.”

Ryōshū huffed in disdain, drawing out a puff of smoke from the edge of her mouth. “I don’t care about your L.B.O. I just never heard about you Inquisition weirdos before.”

At the Head Chef's remark, Sinclair's head slowly lifts, a silent decision settling over him to finally engage with the conversation. His fists clench, knuckles white, as his gaze locks onto Ryōshū with an intensity that betrays the simmering tension within. Faust, however, merely laughs, a low, amused sound that contrasts sharply with Sinclair’s wordless fury. “Ah, what a shame. But it’s natural: heretics of your caliber would not be able to grasp the concept of purity.”

“She’s not wrong, though,” Gregor stepped in, adding to the conversation, no doubt wiping the look of arrogance from the woman’s face. “Frau Faust, I say this in the nicest way possible—”

The piercing clang of metal striking the floor echoed through the space, although it wasn't Faust who caused the sound. Instead, it was Meursault, who had driven his own nail into the ground with a forceful, deliberate motion, the impact resonating with an unsettling finality.

“Call her by her proper title.” The dark gaze of the Großhammer pierced through his broken mask, boring through Gregor’s soul. “The One Who Grips has shown you mercy. It would be wise for impure beings such as yourself to keep quiet if you continue to speak in such a manner.”

“Like I care,” Gregor countered, biting the filter of his cigarette in disdain, “You three have been giving me crap since the start of this Wings-damned expedition. If you want respect, then just work with me and don’t give me shit. I have enough from this woman here already.”

“Not enough, it seems,” was the only reply the black-haired woman gave to him as she took another puff of her cigarette.

Meursault’s grip tightens on his nail. Sinclair looked ready to jump and tear the two apart. Faust, meanwhile, had a wide smile on her face.

“Hmmm. As if you’re the one to talk about respect,” Faust mused, her blue eyes staring deep into Gregor, “Know this, Herr Gregor. Though we may be on the same side… I will never consider you my ally… you dirty, unclean heretic.”

Gregor struggled to meet Faust's eyes, but the longer he held her sight, the more his resolve crumbled. Her stare was like iron, sharp and unyielding, pressing down on him with an unbearable weight that seemed to crush his very soul. It wasn’t just a look—it was a challenge, a silent demand for him to retreat, and the pressure mounted until he could no longer bear it. His defiance faltered, his strength buckling beneath the force of her piercing gaze. With a reluctant sigh, he looked away, defeated. A faint, satisfied smirk curled at the corner of Faust’s lips as she exhaled a quiet huff, victorious.

“That’s what I thought.”

“<Alright, people. I’m done setting this up.>” Dante, casually drifting into the conversation without a hint of hesitation, called out to their fellow Sinners. With one hand tucked nonchalantly in their pocket and the other scrolling through their PDA, they seemed oblivious to whatever just happened. “<If you guys are ready, we can continue onto the next floor.>”

No one uttered a single word in response. If Dante had possessed eyebrows, they would have drawn together in a furrowed expression of concern.

“<Uhhh… guys, did you hear me?>” Dante did a double take. “<We’re moving on to the next floor.>”

“Yeah, yeah, heard you loud and clear, Manager Bud.” Gregor was the first to answer, standing up straight. “Come on, Ryōshū. Don’t wanna keep our Manager waiting.”

Ryōshū rolled her eyes. “Tch. Don’t tell me what to do.”

As the two cannibalistic chefs passed by Dante, they couldn’t help but notice the bitter, brooding look etched across Gregor’s face. Sensing the source of his discontent, without hesitation, they shifted their attention toward Faust's group, aware that whatever had sparked Gregor's mood likely stemmed from that direction.

“Faust. Meursault. Sinclair.” Dante put their hands on their hips. “What did you do this time?”

Faust simply huffed at the question. “You know very well I don’t entertain heretics, Dante. And you know how we feel about sympathizers.”

Well, this is certainly a rock and a hard place.

Dante sighed. “<Look. I get that you have…>” They ponder for a moment, trying to find the right word. “<…issues. But getting through this Dungeon is more important than whatever personal feelings you guys have. If you don’t wanna see them anymore, then you best get this over with.>”

Though blunt, the statement carries an undeniable weight of truth. Yet, judging by their hesitant expressions (did Meursault count? His expression is as frozen as ever, and the mask isn’t helping), it appears none of the N Corp. Identities are willing to act, their reluctance rooted in something deeper.

“Dante…” The response came from none other than the One Who Shall Grip himself. “Are you trying to tell us to curry favor for the impure? That heretic has been living his life tainted because of a stupid whim. His friend isn’t even better, going so far as to even encourage this behavior. It’s madness… if you’re ever thinking of telling us to work with them, then I’d rather die.”

Dante scratched the back of their neck. “<Aw, come on. It’s just a couple of minutes more. An hour, tops. It’ll be done before you know it.>”

Sinclair looked utterly offended, his eyebrows crunching tight. “You can’t seriously be doing this!”

“They have a point… unfortunately.”

Sinclair's eyes widened. His body reacted instinctively, his head whipping around to face Faust, whom he found in an unexpected state of distraction, her gaze distant yet intense as she absentmindedly gnawed at the thumb of her metal gauntlet. ”F-Faust! You can’t be serious! It’s…I don’t think I can take much more of it…”

Faust’s fists tighten, biting the cold metal all the more. “If we want to hurry this up, then we… must work with them. It’s the… best course of action for now.”

“Faust, I don’t know if—”

“Do you doubt Faust, mein Engel ?”

Sinclair’s lips clamped shut in an instant, his eyes, already wide, widened further in a moment of startled silence. Faust had turned sharply to fix him with a glare, her gaze silencing him more effectively than any reprimand could. “Well? Answer me. Do you?”

“…I-I…” His lips start to tremble, unable to formulate a response on the spot. His eyes begin to flutter about, instinctively wanting to avert his eyes anywhere else, but no matter how many times he looks away, he still finds himself locked in her gaze. “I… I don’t. I trust you, Faust.”

Faust’s lips form into a satisfied smile. “Good. Then you should know that the best course of action is to get it over with… even though someone is adamant about not switching them around.”

Dante mumbled a barely audible response to Faust's sharp remark, their words lost in the space between them. But if anyone had listened closely, they might have caught something about “bleed” or “Dungeon mechanics” or some similarly caustic comment. Regardless, Faust dismissed it without a second thought, her focus already shifting to the other Inquisitors gathered nearby.

“Come now, Großhammer, Sinclair,” Faust continues, beckoning her subordinates to sally forth, “Let’s join the Manager and the… others.”

As they leave, the Executive Manager let out a weary sigh, annoyance settling deeper with each passing moment. It had been several minutes, but the end of the Dungeon still seemed elusive, as if the labyrinth itself was shifting to keep them trapped in its depths.

The field stretched endlessly ahead, a sea of white flowers that seemed to glow with an unsettling luminosity, though the darkened sky above painted everything in shades of gloom. The wind howled through the expanse, whipping across the desolate landscape with a force that carried a biting chill. The sky above was a tumultuous, angry red, stained with the color of blood, as though the very heavens themselves had bled dry. In the midst of it all stood a lone figure, or at least, something that resembled one.

It was enormous, towering over the field like a monolith. Its form was indistinct, almost grotesque, a twisted mockery of something vaguely human in shape. Fluttering around it were petals—or were they hands? Dante couldn’t quite tell—waving gently as if beckoning them from afar. A silent call, a summons that filled the air with a tension neither seen nor heard.

“<What… is that?>”

The words echoed in the silence, almost lost in the winds. Dante wasn’t asking anyone in particular. It was a question born from confusion, unease, and perhaps a growing sense of dread.

As expected, Faust, ever the one to leap at the opportunity to demonstrate her knowledge, was the first to respond. “No doubt an Abnormality in the shape of a cotton plant, genus Gossypium.” She didn’t even pause to consider it, her voice precise and cold. “It seems to be partly drenched in a red liquid. Blood, most likely.” Faust's Identity within the N Corp. had sharpened her intellect to an even more dangerous edge, but the trait that Dante recognized—the compulsive need to respond to any inquiry—remained. This, it seemed, transcended any singular version of Faust they’d encountered. Always quick to solve, quick to flaunt her superiority.

The other Sinners stirred at her words, their murmurs weaving a low undercurrent of speculation as if they sought meaning in her revelation but were left grasping at fragments. It was an answer, yes, but not the whole truth. There was something more to the giant, something unsettling beneath its surface.

Rodion, with her Kurokumo swagger, tilted her head, her sharp eyes studying the scene before them. “Ah, what a beautiful sight of red,” she mused, her tone laced with sarcasm, but a glimmer of thoughtfulness lingered. “Looks like hell. Bloody… something.”

Heathcliff stood nearby, his grip tightening around the handle of his bat. He squinted, his eyes struggling to make sense of the distant figure. “That’s blood. Definitely blood,” he muttered, his voice low. Though he still lacked a new Identity, he had made peace with his role as support, guarding Dante alongside Ishmael and Don Quixote. It didn’t mean he had to like it, though; his scowl deepened with each passing second of inaction.

Ishmael, standing tall and unflinching beside him, confirmed his suspicions. “It’s wet with blood. Smells like it too,” she said matter-of-factly, her expression impassive as she gazed at the Abnormality.

A heavy pause followed, as Heathcliff, despite himself, inhaled deeply. The sharp, metallic scent of blood assaulted his senses. His lip curled in disgust. “Ugh… it’s a whole barmy mess,” he muttered before turning to Dante. “Oi, clockface. What’s your call on this?”

Dante hesitated. How had they handled situations like this before? Abnormalities were unpredictable, and every engagement with one was a gamble. The Sinners, their near-immortality making them fearless, would usually throw themselves at the problem and let trial and error sort it out. Death was never permanent; it was merely a pause in the cycle.

“<Uh…>” they began, trying to piece together a plan. “<Maybe we could—>”

“Verily, the creature now endeavoreth to commune with us!” Don Quixote’s voice, booming with exaggerated grandeur, cut through Dante’s words. She pointed dramatically at the figure. “Behold! It waveth towards us! This sense of familiarity… it doth beckon me to respond!”

Before anyone could stop her, Don Quixote raised her hand and waved back, her expression alight with nostalgia, as if greeting an old friend.

"Hail, thou! Over there!" she called out.

In an instant, the entire field reacted. The once still, ghostly flowers turned a deep crimson, as though soaked in the same blood that covered the Abnormality. Each bloom twisted unnervingly, facing them in unison, their petals sharp and jagged, like mouths opening wide in a silent scream.

Dante took a hurried step back, their heart racing within their chest. “<Uh… what’s going on?>”

A dark chuckle rippled from Faust. “Keheheh… the little Mittelhammer has gone and provoked the Abnormality. I fear it has taken offense,” she said with gleeful malice, watching as the blood-drenched field began to stir.

Rodion sighed, running a hand through her hair with a wistful shake of her head. “Ah, great. I was hoping we’d avoid a fight this time.”

“No time for regrets,” Faust snapped, her eyes gleaming with anticipation, her armored hand gripping tighter on her nail. “The Abnormality is approaching.”

The creature, with its crimson petals unfurling like grotesque wings, began to move toward them, its gait slow yet deliberate. Tendrils snaked out from its body, whipping through the air with a menacing hiss. Dante could feel the pressure building, the weight of danger pressing down on them like a vice.

Don Quixote, realizing the gravity of her actions, gripped her lance tighter, her bravado faltering for just a moment. “Ah! This creature doth approach!”

“It’s coming,” Meursault added calmly, his voice firm through his mask. “We have approximately thirty seconds before it reaches striking distance. Your orders, Manager?”

Dante snapped into focus. “<Alright! Faust, Ryōshū, Meursault, Sinclair, Gregor—you’re up! We need to figure out its attacks before it gets any closer!>” They pointed toward the advancing threat, voice tinged with urgency. “<Everyone else, cover me if it tries to get too close!>”

Hong Lu grinned lazily, drawing his katana. “I’ll stay on guard~”

Outis stepped in front of Dante with a sharp movement, her jikdo gleaming. “Stay behind me, Manager. I’ll protect you better than these ingrates.”

Her cutting remark slid over Hong Lu’s amusement without reaction.

Ryōshū stood on the sanguine garden, her irritation radiating as she ground the last embers of her cigarette into the dirt with her heel. She rummaged in her coat pocket for another cigarette, lips pressed into a thin line. With practiced precision, she placed it between her teeth, lighting it with a flick of her lighter. The small flame briefly illuminated her hardened features.

“Alright, Gregor,” she muttered, voice low and coarse. She drew in a deep breath of smoke and exhaled slowly. “Let’s C.T.U.”

Gregor, standing a few feet away, tightened his grip on the rusted cleaver in his hand. “Right,” he responded, voice rough, matching the heaviness in the air. “Let’s—”

Before he could finish, a voice cut through the tension like a blade through flesh. “You. Gregor.”

Gregor’s grip on his cleaver slackened for a moment, and his gaze shifted to the source of the voice. Standing just beyond was Faust, flanked by her Inquisitors. She stood motionless, her pale blue eyes trained on Gregor with an eerie stillness.

Gregor’s lips twisted into a sneer, the sound of annoyance escaping him in a low growl. "Tch. What do you want now?" The frustration in his voice was palpable. He had been five seconds away from tearing into the woman, and now he was forced to hold back, to restrain himself from the impulse that gnawed at him.

Faust, unfazed by his irritation, kept her gaze locked on him for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Her eyes, cold and unreadable, seemed to pierce through him, seeing beyond the surface, beyond his gruff exterior. Then, without a word, she turned her back on him, her attention shifting to the looming threat of the Abnormality, ready to unleash its fury.

“Try not to die,” Faust said, her voice devoid of emotion. "We’ll finish this quickly."

Gregor blinked, surprised by her sudden detachment. Her words were simple, almost dismissive, as if the monstrous creature they were about to face was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. For a brief moment, his anger gave way to confusion. But he quickly shook it off, his brow furrowing in frustration. He didn’t have time to question her motives or her cryptic words. The Abnormality was charging toward them with a vengeance, and they needed to act fast.

"Yeah, whatever. You too." His voice was gruff, a begrudging acknowledgment. It was the only olive branch he’d extend to her—and the last. Their mutual disdain was evident, but for now, survival trumped pride. They’d have to fight side by side, whether they liked it or not.

Despite their differences, they were bound by a singular purpose: the suppression of the Abnormality. Whatever had stirred the creature into a frenzy was irrelevant now. They would need to siphon every ounce of strength, skill, and resolve from each other if they hoped to leave this fight in one piece.

And though they’d never admit it, in this moment, they needed each other more than they cared to acknowledge.

Chapter Text

During the events of Intervallo I…

“Off the bus, everyone. This is where we're supposed to meet the client for our next mission.”

Faust’s voice cut through the hum of Mephistopheles’ engine just as the bus groaned to a halt. Its brakes screeched, the sound echoing against the streets of Nest K. The door hissed open, and one by one, thirteen figures disembarked—each bearing the weariness of too many hours cooped up in the cramped vehicle. Stiff muscles protested as they stretched, some cracking their joints while others took in the foreign sights of the district with curious eyes.

Heathcliff was the first to voice his disdain, his gruff tone breaking the brief silence as he scratched his head in frustration. “Gimme a break. Now we’re taking requests like frou-frou errand boys?”

Nearby, Gregor’s attention had already wandered, his eyes fixated on something more enticing than work. A long line stretched down the street in front of a restaurant, and his brow furrowed in curiosity. “Hm? Say, what’s that over there? It’s got a long line in front of it.”

Rodion, ever quick to pounce on a new indulgence, appeared at his side, her eyes lighting up as she followed his gaze. “Ahh~ Can’t you recognize this stirring scent? It’s fried chicken, Greg!!! Deep fried chicken brought to a crisp in expensive oil!”

Before Gregor could respond, a new voice slipped into the conversation, smooth and casual, yet oddly out of place.

“It seems you haven’t seen much of Nest K if you have yet to learn of Bodhisattva Chicken, the hottest trend around these parts.”

The Sinners turned to see a man walking in step beside them as if he’d always been part of their group. He was an unassuming figure at first glance—average height and build, pale grayish skin that matched the color of the overcast sky, with dark teal hair styled into sharp, barb-like spikes. His eyes, small and slanted, gleamed with a faint amusement behind rectangular glasses perched on uneven bangs. A black suit, slightly rumpled, hung loosely on his frame, its jacket unbuttoned to reveal a green tie and a K Corp. ID dangling from his chest. The man sucked thoughtfully on a lollipop, his free hand clutching a sleek, tablet-like device.

Hong Lu, ever the social one, smiled as if this strange interruption were nothing out of the ordinary. “Oho… Bodhisattva Chicken, is it? What is that?”

The stranger took a moment, savoring the question like a bite of something delicious before answering. “Permit me… to answer. Bodhisattva Chicken is a highly renowned restaurant known for its six-legged, eight-winged poultry whose blissful tastes and gracious quantities really make you feel great compassion. What’s more, they’re prepared for every preference. The buzzworthy biddy with the right amount of tenderness, the chubby capon with plentiful flesh to dig into, the chewy cockerel that’s perfectly al dente, and more. Now tell me, what do you want?”

Yi Sang hummed softly in thought, nodding ever so slightly. “…I may have heard of it erst.”

Rodion snickered at his side, nudging him playfully. “Isn’t this a surprise~ Our Yi Sang of all people is keeping up with the fads from under his rock?”

While some entertained the stranger’s banter, others were less amused. Heathcliff’s grip on the bat slung over his shoulder tightened, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. He sized the man up in silence before muttering, “So what’re you supposed to be? Can hazard a guess you don’t know who we are either, seeing as you brazenly shoved yourself in while we’re talking.”

Ishmael, ever vigilant, folded her arms across her chest, her voice sharp and cold. “…Can you even explain who we are?”

The stranger paused, his lips curling around the lollipop stick as he considered the challenge in their voices. He didn’t flinch under their scrutiny, nor did his easy demeanor waver. Instead, he simply smiled, the weight of something unspoken settling into the air between them.

Ignoring the wary stares from the group of Sinners, his gaze shifted to the scene unfolding ahead. “Gracious,” he mused, his voice carrying a note of amusement, “what could those things roaming around the restaurant possibly be? They don’t appear very normal to me."

At his remark, the Sinners turned their heads in unison, their eyes falling on the crowd near the restaurant. What they saw made several of them tense. At first glance, the figures resembled K Corp.’s Security Staff, with their distinct uniforms and protective armor. But something was off—where their helmets should have been, there were whole raw chickens perched atop their heads, complete with grotesque cartoonish eyes and jagged, menacing teeth where beaks should have been. The sight was absurd, but the slow, unsettling way they moved was anything but comical.

Dante, ever on edge, was the first to voice their concern, their unease palpable. “<I-Isn’t that K Corp’s staff…? What are they doing?>”

Meursault, ever the pragmatist, observed them closely. “I see individuals covering their heads with strange masks.”

Sinclair let out a nervous chuckle, though his smile was thin and unconvincing. “M-Maybe they’re some kind of mascot? It could be pretty cute when we look up close…”

The panicking mob begs to differ.

Ishmael shot him a flat look, her expression deadpan. “Those ‘mascots’ have people running and screaming, though?”

Gregor scratched his neck, visibly indifferent. “Seems a bit off, but let’s leave ‘em be. Doesn’t look like they’re coming this way, and I don’t particularly feel like getting wrapped up in something bothersome—”

“You’re right. They aren’t necessarily approaching us.”

Gregor froze at the voice beside him. The stranger from earlier had somehow appeared at his side, a small rock held loosely in his hand. Gregor's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And just what are you up to with that rock from the roadside, mysterious fella?”

The stranger didn’t answer. Instead, without so much as a glance at Gregor, he casually tossed the stone into the air before hurling it toward one of the chicken-headed figures.

The rock arced through the air, striking one of the strange creatures squarely on the side of its head. For a brief moment, everything was still—the Sinners watching with a mix of disbelief and trepidation, the creature frozen as if processing the hit.

Then, slowly, the chicken-headed figure turned, its cartoonish eyes locking onto them, its jagged teeth parting in a low, guttural growl.

“Giii… giii…”

Dante gripped the sides of their clock-faced prosthetic, emitting an anxious whistle as steam hissed from their head. “<What in the world did you do?!>” they demanded, but the stranger remained entirely oblivious to the question (as is with anyone who can’t hear Dante), tilting his head with an almost indifferent calm. He shoved his hands casually into his pockets, seemingly unfazed by the chaos unfolding before them.

“Yikes,” he muttered with a shrug. “I’ve made such a clumsy mistake. What will we do?”

Rodion’s gaze darkened, her grip tightening on her axe. “Likely story, kozyol… you aimed straight for its head.”

Hong Lu, however, seemed genuinely impressed, clasping his hands together in a cheerful clap. “Wow~ Your form was impressively stable.”

The man nodded politely at the compliment. “Why, thank you. I once aspired to be a big-City baseball player.”

Ryōshū’s red eyes gleamed with a menacing light. “I’ll play ball with you alright. Stay right there so I can knock your noggin outta the park.”

The stranger didn’t even flinch at the threat, glancing instead at the chicken-headed figures, who were now stumbling toward them with an unsettling persistence. “They’re approaching faster now. Shouldn’t you deal with them first before working up a slugger with my head?”

As Ryōshū’s hand hovered over the hilt of her sheathed ōdachi, the creatures closed in, their bizarre features clearer with every step.

“They have chicken heads,” Faust remarked dryly, gripping her zweihander.

Rodion dragged her hand down her face in exasperation. “Yup. Whole chickens.”

“Raw ones at that, too,” Ishmael added, hefting her mace and shield.

Gregor scratched his chin thoughtfully, his razor-edged bug arm twitching as he squinted at the bizarre creatures. “It’s like the ghosts of dead chickens’re clucking back from hell for revenge…” He glanced at the others with a faint grin. “So, uh… you guys think it’s because Sinclair left a chicken wing uneaten that one time since it was a hassle to get the meat off? Can’t think of anything else we might’ve done to call up hen havoc…”

Sinclair glared at him, clearly not amused. “Teasing like that won’t get to me anymore, you know… Besides, Rodya licked that one clean anyways…”

As the chicken-headed figures loomed even closer, the mysterious man quietly slipped behind Dante, positioning himself as if taking shelter. “Hm, it appears that combat is going to be our sole recourse.”

Dante glanced over their shoulder in disbelief. “<So why is this guy taking cover behind me, then?>”

But there was no time for further protests. The chicken-headed crowd lunged forward, their gnashing teeth and menacing weapons eager for a fight.

“TIME TO HOP ON!” Heathcliff bellowed, his voice ricocheting off the walls as gunfire exploded down the street.

With a manic grin, he unleashed another barrage from his rifle, the sharp report echoing through the dim streets as shell casings scattered like rain. Dressed in the iconic R Corp. 4th Pack Rabbit gear, he moved with calculated efficiency, dropping his rifle to thrust a serrated knife into the nearest chicken-headed figure. The creature jerked, giving an ungodly squawk as Heathcliff twisted the blade and withdrew it with a flourish. 

Dante observed, a mix of awe and concern brewing inside them. They’d read about R Corp. extensively—mercenaries of brutal efficiency and military-grade prowess, each “Rabbit” unit primed for any mission. Heathcliff was, in every sense, the embodiment of that reputation: loud, relentless, and utterly fearless.

“Do you always have to shout every time you attack?” Ishmael's voice cut through the cacophony as she darted beside him, her quarterstaff crackling with energy as she jabbed it into another chicken-head. “You're so damn loud, you walking artillery blast!”

Heathcliff scoffed, firing his rifle with practiced ease. “Better than your weird mumbling, missy! Drives me nuts sometimes!”

Ishmael’s expression darkened as electricity sparked from the antlers embedded in her head—a feature of her own R Corp. Reindeer Identity. The Reindeers, unlike the Rabbits, channeled mental fortitude into raw, physical force, their surgically implanted antlers amplifying their attacks. With a grim glare, she lunged at another chicken-headed creature, her antlers and staff pulsing in sync. “I do not mumble!”

“Do too, ya daft sod! Everyone can hear you warbling some nonsense or other!” Heathcliff yelled, unleashing another volley of slashes from his knife.

Amid the mayhem, Don Quixote leapt into the fray, her red katana glinting in the dim light. “Haha! Such banter dost remind me of mine own Ishmael and Heathcliff!” she called cheerfully, slicing clean through a chicken-head with practiced ease. Her movements were nimble yet decisive, a striking contrast to her bright, bubbly demeanor. “Ah, such nostalgic jesting! ‘Tis the language of camaraderie!”

The strange juxtaposition of Don Quixote’s Shi Association Identity was not lost on Dante. Known for their ruthless expertise in espionage and assassination, the Shi Association were notoriously silent and calculating killers. Yet here was Don, her boundless enthusiasm almost unnerving as she hacked her way through the enemy ranks with an air of gleeful nostalgia. The irony was almost dizzying.

Heathcliff paused, scratching the back of his head, casting her a bewildered glance. “Honestly, hard to believe that in some other life, you’re a Shi Association Director. I thought those folks were all grit and silence. Not, well...whatever this is.”

Don Quixote sniffed, visibly offended. “Fie! I assure thee, my joyous spirit is genuine! It doth strike terror into the very hearts of villainous knaves! Knowing they face an adversary who cannot be subdued!”

“Ah, but you know, no one is who they seem to be in the City~” Hong Lu chimed in with a mischievous glint, dodging a swipe from one of the chicken-heads before driving his karambit into its eye. Wearing his Tingtang Gang Leader Identity, he cut a striking figure. The Tingtang, famous for their towering car pagodas and presence in the casinos, were a faction steeped in gambling, art, and death in equal measure. “Behind closed doors, everyone’s got secrets, don’t they?”

Don Quixote, as dramatic as ever, huffed and raised her chin. “Secrets? I have none, only the pure, unyielding truth! Such is my strength, and it leaves all villains trembling before me!”

Rodion’s voice joined the fray, sharp and no-nonsense. “Talk all you want, but if you’d all focus, that’d be great. We’ve got a job here, and I’d rather not spend all day with chicken-heads pecking at my patience.” Her tone matched her no-nonsense expression as she swung her electric baton, crackling with a fierce hum, into a nearby chicken-head, the jolt sending it sprawling.

Dante recognized Rodion’s Identity as that of an LCCB Assistant Manager. It bore a striking resemblance to Effie, a composed yet rather judgemental agent they’d worked with in recent months. Rodion's stance and efficiency mirrored the same professionalism, although her pragmatism was punctuated with a dry, sardonic tone that seemed unique to her.

Gregor, his own smirk playing on his face, shot her a quick glance as he pummeled a chicken-head with his fist, flames erupting from his Liu Association South Section 6 uniform. “Sheesh, someone’s more stuck-up than usual. You’ve got my Rodya’s impatience down pat, at least. Guess she was always in a hurry for her next meal too…”

Rodion rolled her eyes, but there was a faint grin on her lips as she shrugged. “Wouldn’t say no to a quick bite myself. And you Liu guys know all the best places, don’tcha?”

Gregor’s smirk widened. The Liu Association, Dante recalled, was famed for their strength in numbers, their incendiary attacks, and their legendary appetites. Known for wading through hordes of foes with fire and steel, they were equally notorious for being the biggest foodies in the City.

Gregor finished off his opponent with a final punch, flames licking up his arm as he wiped sweat from his brow. “Damn. Now you’ve gone and made me hungry too.”

The skirmish had momentarily lulled, giving the team a chance to regroup. Around them lay the smoldering, squirming remains of the chicken-headed figures, though it seemed more were approaching from the shadows. Each of the Sinners stood ready, breaths coming in steady but fierce determination etched on every face.

Dante steadied themselves, feeling a strange pride well up despite the absurdity of their foes. They were surrounded by warriors—each bringing their own unique skills and eccentricities to the fight, each wearing the face of another, yet bound by a similar, relentless resolve. This band of misfits and mismatched Identities, despite their quips and banter, formed a strangely cohesive unit. And as the next wave of chicken-heads advanced, they knew they were ready.

The stranger, still watching from his place beside Dante, murmured with a faint smile, “Quite the lively crew you’ve got here.”

Dante gave a hesitant nod, fingers twitching in anticipation. "<Yeah, a bit unorthodox...but somehow, I think we've got this.>"

Heathcliff grit his teeth, gripping his rifle tight. “Oi, ya lot! More of these cluckin’ birdbrains comin’ our way! More incoming at… everywhere o’clock!”

Beside him, Ishmael sighed, sparing him a sharp glance as she twirled her quarterstaff, electricity crackling along its length. “You think I don't know that?” Ishmael's staff glowed with electricity. “Whatever. Manager, any orders?”

Dante hummed. “<Actually, you know what? Go ham. I'm feeling a little bit good about this.>”

Hong Lu chuckled, brandishing his karambit. “Well, if you say so. Time to put them down!”

Don Quixote’s laughter broke through the noise as she danced her way through the chaos, her red katana glinting as she cut down another foe with an exuberant cry. “Ha-ha! Such villainous birds cannot withstand the righteous blade of Don Quixote! I shall defend our noble cause with all the valor that resides in me!”

Heathcliff chuckled, slashing with his knife a few more times before glancing over at her. “You’re a twisted piece of work, you know that?”

“Merely zealous!” Don Quixote exclaimed, raising her sword high, her eyes alight with a frenzied excitement. “The righteous cause demands no less, dear Heathcliff!”

Just beyond her, Hong Lu moved like a shadow, his karambit flashing in the dim light. Each step seemed deliberate, calculated, as he slipped through the gaps in the crowd with a predator’s grace. He reached a chicken-head, fainting left, then striking right, his blade sinking into its side. “You all make so much noise,” he murmured, a hint of amusement in his tone, “Have you ever thought about just… enjoying the quiet?”

As Rodion moved forward, dispatching foes with swift, precise strikes, Gregor pushed his way into the fray, fists blazing with orange-red flames. With a practiced punch, he struck a chicken-head across the face, igniting it with a blast of heat. The creature let out a shrill, anguished scream as flames consumed it, and the air filled with the acrid scent of burning chicken flesh.

Rodion glanced over, an eyebrow raised. “Nice and crispy, Greg~”

Gregor offered a slight grin, punching another chicken-head that rushed toward him. “Thanks, Rodya. Though I wouldn’t say no to a bit of backup.”

“Then brace yourself,” Ishmael called, her staff still glowing as she gathered her strength. “Here they come!” She took a few steps back, her antlers starting to glow with a fierce, fiery hue that matched the electric energy coiling around her quarterstaff.

Just as she prepared to unleash the energy, Heathcliff’s skeptical voice cut in. “Wait a second there, missy—are ya sure you charged that thing enough? Looks a bit… lacking if ya ask me.”

“Too late for that, Heathcliff!” Ishmael shouted back, shutting her eyes as she focused on the charging energy. “I’m firing, so brace yourself!” 

She braced herself, intending to channel the energy directly at the oncoming horde, but something went awry. In her haste, the charged energy misaligned, sparking wildly from the staff as it veered—straight toward Heathcliff.

“Oi, what the bloody—” Heathcliff managed, eyes widening as the stream of electricity shot toward him. “WAIT A BLOODY—!”

The blast struck him full-force, the electric current surging over his body in a crackling cascade of orange sparks. His muscles seized, his face contorted, and for a moment he stood there, stunned and sizzling, smoke rising from his armor. The street fell silent as the chicken-heads faltered, momentarily halted by the spectacle.

After a few tense seconds, the crackling energy dissipated, leaving Heathcliff standing amidst a cloud of smoke. He swayed slightly, his hair standing on end, his skin still tingling from the shock. Finally, he blinked, turning a slow, incredulous look at Ishmael.

“…whoops,” Ishmael murmured, her cheeks flushed.

Heathcliff’s stunned expression gradually dissolved, wavering between disbelief and irritation. His mouth opened, a faint crackling sound escaping, still laced with shock. “‘Whoops’?” he repeated, his voice straining with exasperation. “‘Whoops’? You nearly fried me like a bloody breakfast sausage!” He shook out his arms, static fizzing down his fingertips, and glared at Ishmael. “Could at least give a warning before trying to electrocute me!”

Ishmael shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “A warning? I did tell you to brace yourself. You were just too busy with commentary to listen.”

Heathcliff threw his hands up. “I was making a point, not expectin’ a bloody thunderbolt in my face!”

Dante, watching the two with an amused, almost parental exasperation, raised a hand. “<Alright, that’s enough, you two. If you're done reenacting lightning strikes, maybe we can focus on the chicken-heads? They seem to be regrouping.>"

The lull in the battle was indeed ending; the chicken-headed creatures reformed their ranks. Their grotesque heads jerked and twitched, eyes glowing with malevolent hunger as they advanced. The street filled with their guttural squawks, a discordant chorus that echoed through the buildings around them.

“Looks like we don’t get a breather after all,” Rodion murmured, adjusting her grip on her baton as the wave of enemies broke into a sprint. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

Beside her, Gregor cracked his knuckles, flames flickering around his fists. “No complaints here. Time for round two.”

“Ha-ha!” Don Quixote called, raising her katana high. Her face lit up with fevered enthusiasm, her eyes wide with manic glee. “Once more, into the fray! Let us smite these poultry fiends as champions of justice and honor!”

With a nod from Dante, the team charged forward, a coordinated surge that seemed almost practiced despite their clashing personalities. Ishmael led the way, her quarterstaff slicing through the air, crackling with tight, controlled bursts of energy as she batted back each chicken-head that dared come close.

Behind her, Don Quixote wove through the chaos, spinning with exaggerated flair as her katana carved a gleaming red arc. Her laughter rang out like a bell, stark and eerie against the creatures' guttural shrieks.

Hong Lu moved with deadly efficiency, his karambit flashing as he felled enemies with swift, precise strikes. Despite the battle’s intensity, he moved with calm detachment, as if going through practiced motions. Occasionally, he glanced toward his comrades, a flicker of amusement in his gaze.

Heathcliff, now revitalized with both anger and vigor, tore through the lines of chicken-heads, his rifle tearing through the crowd with brutal accuracy. Shell casings rained around him as he fired in sharp, controlled bursts, each shot finding its mark. When he ran out of bullets, he wasted no time, immediately switching to his blade. “C’mon, ya chickeny freaks! Come and get some!” he bellowed, a wide, feral grin on his face.

Meanwhile, Gregor and Rodion worked in tandem, their movements synchronized. Rodion’s baton crackled with electricity, dispatching enemies with precise, brutal strikes, her focus unwavering. Beside her, Gregor’s fists blazed, each punch releasing waves of heat that scorched the air around them.

Dante reached for his PDA, pulling out an E.G.O. card and locking it in with practiced ease. “<Alright, they're close to dead! Time to wrap this up! Rodya! You’re up!>”

The transformation was immediate. As the card activated, the street morphed into an eerie, frozen landscape. Ice spread across the ground, the bitter chill frosting over the fallen chicken-heads and street walls alike. Rodion stood at the center, her form clad in shards of glistening frost, wielding a massive, frost-covered axe pulsing with glacial power.

Rime Shank.

Rodion inhaled, feeling the cold sear her lungs as she raised the axe high. “Well, I can’t shiver in the cold forever.”

With a fierce, sweeping motion, she leapt into the air, her body twisting with the weight of the frozen weapon. Time slowed, her figure suspended against the swirling frost, each second stretching as energy built within her. With a resounding crash, the axe hit the ground, unleashing a shockwave of frost that rippled outward, freezing everything in its path. The remaining chicken-heads were instantly encased in jagged ice, their grotesque forms shattering into fragments that scattered like deadly confetti across the frozen ground.

As quickly as it had come, the frost receded, the street returning to its original state, now littered with fragments of their shattered foes. Rodion stood at the center, her breath still misting in the air as she surveyed the aftermath, brushing a few stray shards from her shoulder with grim satisfaction.

Dante stepped forward, approval in their voice. “<That’s what I like to see. Solid work, team.>”

With the battle finally over, they took a moment to breathe. Heathcliff let out a low whistle, glancing at the icy remnants on the ground. “That was ace, lass. Remind me not to piss you off in the winter.”

Rodion chuckled, flipping her hair casually as her breath misted in the cold air. “Just doing my job, Rabbit,” she replied smoothly, though pride glinted in her eyes.

Dante’s voice, steady and reassuring, cut through their post-battle fatigue. “<Good work, everyone. You all did great today.>”

“Now that that’s settled,” Hong Lu’s voice cut through the lingering tension, smooth as silk, his usual easy-going smile firmly in place. He gestured casually toward the man leaning against a lamppost just a few feet away, seemingly untouched by the chaos that had unfolded around them moments earlier. “I think it’s about time we ask about our friend here, no? He’s been hiding beside us through that whole ordeal, cool as ice.”

The stranger simply raised an eyebrow, taking his time to finish savoring the lollipop tucked in his mouth. His eyes glinted with a kind of detached amusement as he watched them, as if he’d been sitting through an entertaining play. Finally, with a nonchalant tilt of his head, he pulled the lollipop from his lips with a soft pop, twirling it between his fingers as he spoke.

“Ah, right. Guess I should explain myself,” he said, his tone as smooth and unbothered as his appearance. But his gaze shifted, lingering pointedly on Hong Lu, whose intense stare had yet to waver. “But… maybe you should all go back to normal first, yeah? I’m not sure you’d even remember half of what I’d say in… that state. You guys are messing with my vibe. Real freaky.” His eyes darted to Heathcliff, who was still crackling faintly with static energy, before moving to Don Quixote, her eyes wide with a strange, intense gleam.

Hong Lu tilted his head, a bemused smile playing on his lips. “No offense,” he said, voice laced with humor, “but if you’re looking to keep a ‘vibe,’ maybe you shouldn’t be hanging around us in the first place.” He chuckled, slipping his karambit back into its sheath with a casual flick.

Just then, Faust, still in her N Corp. Identity, stepped forward with an air of quiet authority. “Dante,” she called out, her voice calm but laced with urgency. “Faust suggests that we revert to our original forms. The volatility of Mirror Worlds may destabilize, triggering chaos if we remain as we are.”

Dante nodded, glancing between their team and Faust. "<Got it. You heard her, everyone. Back to normal.>"

“Aw, man,” Rodion sighed, rolling her shoulders. “Just when I was getting used to it.”

Dante ignored her grumbling, pulling out the Identity Cards from their PDA with a flick of their wrist. Each card glowed a rich, golden light as they swiped it over the Sinners, enveloping them in a warm shimmer. Slowly, one by one, their enhanced, volatile forms peeled away, leaving each of them back in their LCB uniforms, their original selves restored.

“Bloody hell,” Heathcliff muttered, rubbing his temples as if trying to shake off a lingering headache. “I can taste static…”

“Easy for you to say,” Ishmael grumbled, massaging her temples. “I’ve got a splitting headache.”

Next to her, Don Quixote pressed a hand to her chest, her expression crestfallen. “Fie, it’s as if a shadow has crept over my soul. My heart feels so heavy… I was so close to releasing all my sorrows into the ether!”

Rodion chuckled, patting Don Quixote on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Chiquita. The worst of it is gone.”

Hong Lu, still radiating his usual cheer, beamed at the team. “That was fun, though! Imagine all the possibilities these Identities open up!” He leaned playfully toward Gregor. “Right, Gregor?”

Gregor’s bug arm twitches involuntarily at the mention of his name, and he shoots Hong Lu an unamused glare. “Don’t patronize me.” He turned back to the stranger with a resigned sigh. “Right, now that that’s been all sorted out, why don’t we get back to the point, friendly four-eyed stranger?”

Chapter Text

Some time before the events of Canto IV…

A bell tolled from somewhere in the red room, its sonorous notes stretching out like tendrils that seeped into every corner, coating the atmosphere in an unsettling stillness. The sound was dense, almost weighty, each ring like a hesitant pulse, as if the bell itself were afraid to break the silence. Against this unsettling backdrop stood a statue, a serene yet ominous presence, its form both reverent and unsettling. It chanted in a language none could recognize—harsh syllables curling into the still air, their meanings obscured, yet weighted with purpose.

Heathcliff, clad in his R Corp. 4th Pack Rabbit Identity, shifted uneasily, resting his rifle on his shoulder. His rugged stance, typically fearless, wavered in the presence of this inexplicable thing. He glanced around, hoping for confirmation from his comrades, hoping to break the disquiet. “So… anyone gonna comment on that… thing?” he muttered, his voice muffled yet piercing in the silence.

The statue loomed before them, sculpted from stone and strangely animated, seated on a bronze-colored pedestal. It was an image of Buddha, yet something had twisted its form—cracks laced through its surface, exposing flesh-like sinews beneath the stone. It held a delicate balance between beauty and decay, divinity and defilement. Its left hand rested in its lap, fingers curled inward in contemplation, while its right hand was raised with the middle finger touching the thumb—a gesture of understanding, of blessing, or perhaps of warning. A thin fracture ran across its face, cleaving through its serene expression to reveal a single, ominous red eye, glowing with a patient, watchful intensity.

Yi Sang, adorned in his Blade Lineage Salsu Identity, took a measured step forward. He observed the statue, his gaze sharp, analytical, but tinged with a certain reverence. “It is a Buddha statue,” he murmured, fingers grazing the hilt of his jikdo, as though the weapon were an anchor in the face of such strange profundity. “It depicts Śūnyatā—the concept of ‘nothingness.’” His voice was a quiet thread, almost lost in the tolling of the bell and the rhythmic chanting.

Dante, standing among the Sinners, tilted their clock head, gears whirring in a thoughtful, contemplative hum that merged with the ambient sound. “<So this is another Abnormality, no doubt,>” they intoned, voice soft yet steady. “<What do you think we should do?>”

Meursault, clad in his N Corp. Großhammer Identity was already stepping forward. His massive form cast a broad shadow over the statue, his face a mixture of stoic composure and calculation. “If I may, Manager,” he begins, “There are several options to consider, though three present themselves most clearly. First, we could try listening closer to the chant. The words may offer a clue as to its intent or nature. Second, there is the brass ring on its finger—its significance may not be trivial.” He pauses, his gaze steady and unyielding as he gestures toward the coin resting on a raised platform before the statue. “Lastly, we could try offering the coin to the statue. Given the iconography, this could act as some sort of ritual exchange.”

Dante absorbed this quietly, gears ticking in sync with the bell’s tolls. Encounters with Abnormalities in these Mirror Dungeons demanded caution, a subtle dance of restraint and intent. Push too far, and their patience would snap, releasing chaos; proceed too lightly, and their purpose remained concealed, lurking like a half-formed shadow. Sometimes, appeasement was rewarded—an E.G.O Gift bestowed upon those who approached with care. And yet, even the slightest misstep could shatter this balance, hurling them into combat rife with peculiar, unpredictable challenges.

“Listen closer, take the ring, or give it the coin,” Ishmael mused, her voice cutting through the quiet contemplation. She was dressed in her R Corp. 4th Pack Reindeer Identity, her antlers radiating a soft orange glow, casting curious shadows against the walls. After a pause, she turned her contemplative gaze toward Dante. “Your call, Manager.”

Dante placed a gloved hand against their chin, the ticking of their clock head synchronizing with the deliberation in their gaze. “<Giving the coin would be a good choice,>” they murmured. “<But I welcome other perspectives.>”

Outis, embodying the severity of her G Corp. Head Manager Identity, took a step forward. Her augmentations—large, chitinous horns curling atop her head—glimmered faintly with a strange psychic aura, lending her a quality that was part insect, part soldier. Her rigid stance, the precise, clipped tone of her words, brought to mind the unyielding loyalty of those who had served in the brutal Smoke War. “If you believe it wise, Manager,” she said with an unwavering gaze, “I shall bring the coin forward.” She straightened, awaiting only Dante's signal.

Their gaze drifted to Yi Sang, who was still staring at the statue, transfixed. His eyes, usually contemplative and distant, seemed lit by something deeper—a silent communion, almost reverence. Sensing this insight, Dante cleared their throat. “<Yi Sang?>” they asked, hoping he might share whatever vision he seemed to glimpse beyond the surface.

Yi Sang blinked, as if emerging from a dream. “It embodies the idea of a void—a vast emptiness that is, paradoxically, full,” he murmured again, voice barely above a whisper. “If we disturb it without purpose, we may challenge its nature… But if we approach it with an offering, perhaps we honor that emptiness rather than defy it.”

“Not entirely convinced, amigo ,” Sinclair countered, his voice unexpectedly carrying a calm wisdom. Clad in his Los Mariachis Jefe Identity, his sombrero casting a long shadow across his face, he radiated the charisma and controlled danger of a Syndicate leader. “Adding something could disrupt its harmony as much as taking something away. Balance is fragile.” He twirled one of the maracas he carried in one hand, as if to underscore his point, the motion slow and deliberate. “Like a rhythm that quickens, it could throw the whole song off key.”

Dante took a moment to process this. Los Mariachis Jefe Sinclair wore the Identity of the leader of the Syndicate Los Mariachis—a woman named Aida, known for leading her group with a deadly yet entrancing rhythm. With her white jacket, the commanding sombrero, and the lethal maracas she wielded, she was a figure both feared and revered. And Sinclair, embodying her essence, seemed momentarily transformed by the wisdom of rhythm and balance that Los Mariachis was known for.

The weight of Sinclair’s words stirred something in Dante. The tolling bell seemed to grow louder, almost insistent, as though it were a silent observer, waiting for the next move. Their gaze shifted between the statue, the ring, and the coin, aware of the watching eyes of each Sinner around them.

At last, Dante exhaled, a low hum escaping their gears. They gave a single nod. “<Outis,>” they instructed calmly, gesturing toward the coin. “<Approach the statue carefully. Let’s see if offering the coin will help us understand this… thing.>”

With a crisp bow, Outis moved forward, the air thickening as she crossed the threshold toward the statue. The chant wove around her, and the red ring behind the statue flickered, a dull glow intensifying. The tension in the room built, a crescendo of unspoken anticipation, as if each Sinner held their breath in wait.

And in that heavy, silent moment, the room waited, as if time itself had paused to see what would come next.

Outis’s fingers tightened around the coin, her movements deliberate yet tense as she stepped forward. Each step seemed to amplify the weight of the chanting, the tolling bell merging with her measured breaths. Kneeling before the statue, she placed the coin on the pedestal. The metallic clink echoed unnaturally, reverberating like a ripple across a still pond.

For a moment, nothing. The chanting stopped, the silence suffocating. Then, the ground trembled—softly at first, like a distant warning—before swelling into a deliberate quake. Dust drifted lazily from the ceiling as if the room itself was waking.

“Ah! Something hath emergeth!” Don Quixote, in her Shi Association South Section 5 Director Identity, exclaimed, her voice rising above the hum with a mix of awe and barely contained dread. Her katana flashed in the crimson light as she assumed a defensive stance, her wide eyes alight with a fervor that bordered on exhilaration.

Her outburst jolted Dante from their thoughts. “<Outis! Quickly! Fall back!>” Their clockwork voice carried an urgency that cut through the rising tension.

The statue glowed, its crimson eye blazing like a sun on the verge of collapse. The bell tolled once more, heavier this time, shaking the very air around them.

A low hum resonated, and the khakkhara staff rose beside the statue, its polished surface gleaming with ominous intent. The rings jingled faintly, deceptively soft against the room’s oppressive tension. Then came the light—a pulse of scarlet energy, streaking out in arcs before coalescing into shifting, shadowy forms. Slowly, these forms solidified, and the room seemed to hold its breath.

The first specter stood tall, clad in the dark, commanding uniform of G Corp’s former Head Manager. His face remained obscured, but the posture, the mandibles, and the unmistakable air of authority left no doubt in Gregor’s mind. His voice, sharp and cutting, echoed in the crimson haze.

“If it ain’t the deserter,” he growled, disdain dripping from every syllable. “Disappointing how you turned up, didn’t you?”

Gregor’s jaw tightened as he faced the ghost of his past, his bug-like arm twitching involuntarily. Even clad in the Liu Association’s uniform, he felt the weight of his history pressing against him. Outis’s voice broke through his grim thoughts, low and steady. “It’s a facsimile. The real one’s long dead.”

“It doesn’t feel any less real,” Gregor muttered, his tone bitter. He shot a glance at her uniform. “Besides… you’re not exactly helping, dressed like that.”

Beside the Head Manager, another figure emerged, dressed in a white jacket and crowned with the unmistakable broad-brimmed sombrero of Los Mariachis. Aida, leader of the notorious Syndicate, stood with her signature maracas in hand, their rhythmic clink breaking the heavy silence. Her sharp laugh pierced the air. “Did you think you’d get away with that little stunt, pendeja ?” Her focus turned to Rodion, her grin predatory. “Waltzing into the casino like you owned the place. You’ve got nerve, girl.”

Rodion, her LCCB Assistant Manager uniform pristine despite the tension in the room, forced a shaky grin. “Ahaha… well, what’s it to you, Aida?” Her usual confidence felt fragile, brittle in the presence of this specter.

Sinclair, standing nearby, shook his head as if to clear it, his face pale and drawn. “This isn’t real,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling. “They’re just… reflections.” He clenched his fists, the words sounding more like a plea than a statement.

But the third figure stepped forward, and Sinclair’s voice died in his throat. Chains rattled as the heavy nail of Guido the Persistent, Großhammer of N Corp., dragged across the ground. His armor gleamed dully in the red light. “You were given a chance to repent,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “and yet here you stand, clinging to your heretical ways.”

His gaze shifted to Dante, a sneer twisting his expression beneath the helmet. “And you. This pathetic puppet. You lead them down this path of damnation. To think they follow a soulless husk like you.”

Sinclair’s face darkened, a spark of defiance igniting in his hollow gaze. “I never wanted any part of you to begin with,” he spat, his voice trembling with anger. “Go back to hell where you belong.”

The temperature in the room plummeted, a chill settling into their bones as the followers seemed to grow sharper, more real. They fed on the doubt and fear in the Sinners, their mocking grins widening, their eyes gleaming with malicious intent. These were no ordinary foes. They were weapons forged from the group’s most profound regrets and failures, their very existence designed to drag them into despair.

Dante straightened, the weight of their task settling heavily on their mechanical shoulders. Their voice rose, clear and commanding despite the chaos. “<Outis, Sinclair, Meursault, Don Quixote, Yi Sang! Front line! Everyone else, guard me!>”

Outis stepped forward, mandibles glowing faintly as her eyes narrowed with resolve. Yi Sang unsheathed his jikdo, his expression calm yet focused, while Don Quixote’s fiery determination lit her gaze as she raised her blade high.

Across from them, the followers moved as one, their taunts converging into a single, chilling proclamation.

“We’re here to return the favor you’ve given us.”

The Head Manager’s mandibles flared, his sneer twisting into a toothy grin. Aida’s maracas shook with a rhythm that seemed to pierce the air, her gaze burning beneath her sombrero. Guido’s grip tightened on his nail, his glare icy and unrelenting through his mask.

“The consequences of your actions will catch up to you,” they intoned, their voices melding into one haunting harmony.

“And eventually…”

For the briefest moment, a crimson gleam flickered in their eyes, mirroring the light blazing from the statue.

“Karma… will come for you all.”

The battle continued to rage, becoming an exhausting war of attrition that pushed the limits of the Sinners' endurance to an almost unimaginable brink. Within the confines of the dimly lit chamber, time felt distorted, each fleeting second stretching into infinity, every breath transformed into a labored gasp as they struggled against the suffocating atmosphere. The walls, seemingly alive with an unsettling pulse, resonated with the same dark energy that radiated from the menacing statue dominating the room's center. Every movement, every strike exchanged in this relentless struggle, felt like it exacted a toll on their very souls; yet, despite the overwhelming odds, none of the Sinners dared to show signs of retreat or surrender.

Sinclair stood at the forefront, wiping away a streak of blood that smeared his face, his breaths sharp and erratic as he frantically scanned the whirlwind of their spectral opponents and the statue that seemed to watch over them like a grim judge of their fates. Shadows twisted at the statue's base, swirling with an intent malevolence, continuously shifting as if they were sentient. “How… are they still alive? We've been at this for ten minutes now!” Sinclair hissed, his voice quivering with a mix of frustration and disbelief that mingled with the dread permeating the air.

At his side, Outis expertly sidestepped yet another psychic wave issued by the Head Manager, her stance rigid yet unyielding against the torrent of pressure surrounding them. Her blade trembled slightly in her grip as she regained her balance, blocking a follow-up strike that sent a tremor rippling through the solid ground beneath her feet.

“They’re not alive,” she snapped, her voice a strained blend of fatigue and steely resolve. “They’re manifestations. Echoes of guilt. Of regret. What we’re fighting here isn’t flesh and blood—we’re wrestling with the heavy burdens of our own pasts.”

“Is that supposed to make this situation any easier!?” Sinclair growled, frustration bubbling over. He ducked quickly under a violent blow delivered by Aida and her maraca, which whooshed through the air with unnerving precision. The cruel laughter that escaped Aida's lips cut deeper than the shallow gash her weapon had left on his arm.

“You think you can outlast me in a dance, chico ?” Aida taunted, the maracas in her hands rattling with a beat that echoed ominously in his bones. Her movements were fluid—almost enchanting—and as she sidestepped Sinclair’s retaliation with ease, her grin grew wider, curling in amusement. “You’re a pale imitation at best. Stealing my mojo like you own it? Don’t make me laugh.” She twirls around, letting her maracas hit him. “And the best part? I get to rub it into your face forever. We don’t tire. We don’t bleed. You’ll collapse long before we do.”

Sinclair stifled a curse as pain shot through him. The maraca had skimmed his shoulder, sending a jolt of agony coursing through his body. He turns towards Aida with a murderous glare. “Don’t you dare put my efforts down. ¡Tu puta! ”

Aida could only chuckle at his insult. “At least you’re just as vulgar. Makes it all the more sad.”

“They’re invincible,” Outis muttered in a strained tone, struggling to regain her footing after deflecting another psychic attack that sent her skidding backward. She dug her heels into the ground, determined to remain upright, though the strain was evident in her quaking limbs. “No matter how hard we fight… they just won’t yield.”

The Head Manager stepped forward with a mocking smirk, his mandibles flaring grotesquely. “Like cockroaches, aren’t we?” he sneered, the venom in his voice palpable. He extended a hand, sending another wave of psychic energy crashing into Outis, causing her to step back. “Relentless. Plentiful. Deadly. You should know, Outis—this is what you signed up for. Remember? This is what G Corp. made you to be!”

With teeth clenched, she struggled to stand tall, raising her hand defiantly, blood oozing down her cheek but her glare radiating fierce determination. Psychic energy begins to radiate from her fingers. “I know what I signed up for,” she spat, her voice steady despite her exhaustion. “And I’ll see this through—even if it means beating you down again.”

Nearby, the clash between Meursault and Guido raged on. Meursault found himself caught in a deadly dance with Guido, the massive figure's gauntlets moving with an unforgiving precision. As Guido swung his colossal nail in a brutal arc, Meursault twisted just in time, deflecting the savage blow but returning with a quick thrust aimed at Guido's side. The blade sank deep into his armor, yet Guido remained utterly unfazed.

“Your efforts are meaningless, impostor,” Guido’s deep voice echoed ominously, as if it came from the depths of a cavern, amplifying his imposing presence. “Your cracked face shows your weakness. And as a hammer of The One Who Grips, I shall deliver retribution in her stead.” His armor clanked threateningly as he retaliated, delivering a vicious backhand that sent Meursault sprawling to the ground, the very impact shaking the chamber as he landed heavily.

Meursault, temporarily downed, gazed towards Guido with a fiery glare. He slowly lifted himself up from the ground, hurt, but alive. “And who are you to question my faith?”

“You’ve proven yourself unworthy the moment you sided with that heretic,” Guido intoned, his gaze cold and unyielding, fixed squarely on Meursault. “It is inevitable. Salvation is not for the likes of you.” The weight of his words resonated, filling the chamber with an oppressive sense of despair, the grim reality of their battle closing in around them.

Amidst the swirling chaos of the chamber, the statue stirred, its right hand moving with a deliberate grace, swinging the khakkhara like a pendulum imbued with an otherworldly force. The weapon surged toward Yi Sang and Don Quixote, both warriors bracing for impact as they met its fierce energy with their own blades. The sound of their clash echoed ominously, resonating through the expansive room like a solemn bell tolling a warning. The sheer power of the impact jolted Yi Sang, sending a tremor rippling through his arm as he tightened his grip around his weapon, refusing to give any ground.

“This… is a most difficult ordeal,” he murmured softly, almost as if he were speaking to himself rather than his companion. His eyes darted downward to the base of the statue, an instinctual search for any sign of weakness that he could exploit. In a sudden burst of determination, he launched a strike at the foundation, but the metallic ring of his blade against the hard surface only deepened his doubts, filling him with uncertainty. “I wonder… if we’re meant to survive this,” he pondered, his inner turmoil clear as he contemplated their grim fate.

Don Quixote, ever the fierce beacon of hope, responded with a voice that rang out with defiance, fueled by an unyielding spirit. “Nay! We shan’t falter now! The enemy is before us, and that is all that matters!” With a flourish that could only come from a true knight, she deflected the swinging staff and launched herself upward, her sword arcing down with fierce determination. The blade met the statue’s torso with a resounding impact, causing the vibrations to ripple throughout the chamber. “Impossibility is but an illusion of the mind! With conviction, we shall claim victory!” she proclaimed, her resolve blazing like a fire in the darkness.

Nearby, the Head Manager’s mocking voice cut through the air, laced with disdain. “Try as you might, you can’t surpass us,” he sneered, unleashing a fresh wave of psychic energy that sent Sinclair reeling from the force. Sinclair grunted as he struggled to regain his footing while Guido moved in to close the distance, forcing Sinclair to dodge the relentless thrusts of the vicious nail that jabbed out like a viper.

“Your guilt clings to you like a parasite,” Aida spat, her words sharp as she struck Outis across the head, knocking her back into a defensive position. “No matter how hard you try to bury it, it always comes back to bite you, gnawing at your resolve.”

With newfound focus, Yi Sang propelled himself forward towards the statue again, his blade raised high, ready to strike a telling blow. But before he could reach his target, Guido intercepted him with terrifying strength, tightening his grip like iron and hurling him toward Meursault. “Give up,” Guido growled in a gravelly voice. “Turn back now and remember this day as the day you failed.”

Not one to back down, Don Quixote surged past her allies, eyes filled with fierce determination as she plunged her katana deep into Guido’s gut. However, the strike proved worthless; he merely brushed her aside as if she were an annoying insect, slamming her into the ground with a sickening thud that echoed through the chamber.

“Tired yet?” Aida taunted, her voice dripping with mockery. “This party’s just getting started.”

Sinclair ignored her words, his gaze shifting to the statue. Its right arm began to glow again, the khakkhara spinning faster, threatening to stab at them. The staff struck Meursault, tearing away at his armor and knocking him to the ground.

“Focus on the statue!” Sinclair shouted, charging toward it despite his injuries. He leapt onto its base, driving his weapon into a vulnerable joint. The statue groaned, its movements slowing for a brief moment.

“<Keep it up!>” Dante’s panicked voice rang out. “<We’re wearing it down—just don’t let up!>”

In that heavy moment, all three followers paused—just for a moment—their eyes glowing with a sinister red light. Their voices mingled, resonating together in a haunting chorus, as if the statue itself were speaking through them, weaving a chilling message for the beleaguered warriors.

“All will fall under the weight of karma. The only path forward is to empty yourselves—empty yourselves of the thoughts that bind you.”

The followers stepped forward, their voices dripping with finality.

“You must choose—release your burdens, or perish beneath them.”

Chapter Text

During the events of Canto IV…

The tension in the room was already palpable when the unexpected visitor arrived. The mission had taken a strange turn ever since Dante had pulled four new Identities from the depths of Mephistopheles. What had seemed like a routine K Corp. escort job quickly grew more tangled: Dante’s latest acquisition all bore uncanny ties to the chaos unfolding around them. These Identities now felt like unwelcome coincidences—threads connecting them to the terror faction and other players in this unfolding drama.

And then, as if the universe itself decided to twist the knife, he walked in.

“Pleasure to meet you,” the man announced with an exaggerated bow, his voice smooth and unsettlingly cheerful. “I’m Niko, representative of Rosespanner Workshop.”

The bright red accents of his jacket seemed to catch every light in the room, and the oversized wrench-chainsaw slung across his back screamed practicality and menace in equal measure. His arrival felt impossibly well-timed, as though he had been waiting for just this moment to introduce himself.

Rodion’s sharp intake of breath broke the silence. “Dante, look at him—he’s from Rosespanner. Just like my Identity.”

Dante’s gaze shifted to Niko, their mind racing. The parallels between their newly acquired Identities and this stranger were too glaring to ignore. How could this be a coincidence?

The name echoed in Dante’s mind, a strange drumbeat of recognition. Another twist of fate, another odd connection, and yet one more question added to the pile they didn’t have time to answer.

Rodion’s words hung in the air, and Dante’s gaze shifted to Niko once again. The representative of Rosespanner stood there, smiling as if he knew something they didn’t. But it wasn’t Niko who caught Dante’s attention next—it was on Ran, one of the Technology Liberation Alliance members. She seemed completely unfazed by the presence of so many Fixers, her expression one of mild annoyance rather than fear, even after her own robots, used to cut through K Corp.’s front lines, have all been decimated.

“Boring,” she muttered under her breath, her tone cutting through the charged silence. Turning abruptly on her heel, she began to walk away, her colleague, Marile, hesitating as if unsure whether to follow.

“What…?” Marile’s confusion was palpable, and Dante saw the flicker of fear—or was it relief?—in his eyes. He glanced back at the group, sizing them up, before letting out a resigned sigh. “Sure… We’ll leave.” With a reluctant step, he followed Ran, disappearing into the shadows.

Dante’s mind was left reeling. What had just happened? Why had they simply left, despite the overwhelming strength of the Rosespanner group? The question gnawed at them, but before they could voice their confusion, Niko’s chuckling interrupted the moment. 

“Would you look at that?” Niko said, his voice dripping with amusement. “Our aura was so terrifying that they couldn’t help but flee.” His laughter was light, almost mocking, as though the entire situation were an elaborate joke.

Dongrang watched with faint amusement as Shrenne, the K Corp. researcher responsible for summoning the Rosespanner Fixers, made her way to the front. She was a short woman with a brusque demeanor, her posture tense as she pushed past the row of Fixers, her gaze narrowed as she approached him. Her expression was a storm cloud of irritation, while Dongrang’s own face bore a calm smile, the hint of a smirk flickering around the edges.

“Thanks, Shrenne,” he said, his tone as smooth as oil. “This made me seriously consider the possibility that your department might be picked as the best next year for the first time.”

Shrenne’s frown deepened, interpreting his words less as praise and more as a thinly veiled jab. She was too proud and too intelligent not to hear the patronizing note beneath his smooth tone. “Shame about your precious trophies being destroyed, huh?” Her words were crisp, and she crossed her arms, meeting his gaze with a steady glare.

Beside Dongrang, his secretary, Samjo, scanned the scene with a detached, calculating eye. He let his gaze sweep over the broken remnants scattered across the floor, arching a brow as if weighing his next words. The stick of a lollipop twisted between his teeth, his mouth quirking in quiet amusement. “Ms. Shrenne, pardon me for suspecting, but you did not perchance wait until the trophies were broken before bringing reinforcements, did you?”

Dongrang let out a small, humorless chuckle. “I don’t mind losing them. As long as the photo is fine.”

Their casual banter was lost on Rodion, who was tugging excitedly at Meursault’s sleeve, her face alight with a barely suppressed grin. Her voice was a half-whisper, one of those whispers that was loud enough to carry over the hum of conversation. “Meur, Meur! Look, it’s him! I can see it in his eyes—don’t you see it?”

Meursault’s attention now turned to Rodion, then, following her finger, he spotted the one at the forefront of the group, the Rosespanner Workshop Representative, standing there with his fellow subordinates behind him. “Yes. I do see him.”

Niko, an older man with streaked gray hair tipped in fiery red, exuded a commanding presence. His rose-red jacket bore the unmistakable Rosespanner insignia, while the monstrous wrench-chainsaw strapped to his back hinted at his dangerous potential. His earrings glinted under the harsh overhead lights, bronze diamond shapes that caught the eye.

“That's the ID Dante extracted yesterday!” Rodion’s voice was practically a shout now, a mix of excitement and disbelief. “I saw it! I saw it with my own eyes! And look at that guy!” She pointed to one of Niko’s lackeys, a man whose features seemed oddly familiar to Meursault. “Doesn’t he look like you?”

Meursault nods, keeping a face of neutrality. “Indeed, it is the truth.”

Rodion, unable to contain her enthusiasm, bounced on the balls of her feet. “I’m going to talk to him!”

Without a second thought, she took off toward him at a quick trot.

Ishmael, noticing this, turned to Rodion, her eyes widening. “Wait— Rodya—!”

Rodion didn’t slow down, her excitement carrying her forward heedless of the concerned look on Ishmael’s face. Heathcliff, who had been hovering nearby, shouldered his bat with a bemused look, watching Rodion go with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance.

“Huh?” he muttered, shifting his gaze to Ishmael, a sardonic glint in his eyes. “What’s that bird’s deal? Ain’t she a bit looney in the noggin, now?” His tone was more amused than critical, though a trace of disdain lingered at the edge of his words.

Ishmael let out a long-suffering sigh, glancing from Heathcliff back to Rodion. "I don’t know. She’s meeting her… new friend, I suppose. Something tells me this isn’t going to end well.”

Heathcliff snorted. “Poor sap doesn’t know what’s coming for him,” he said, smirking as he watched Rodion make a beeline toward Niko, her excitement undeterred by the older man’s slightly baffled expression.

Ishmael turned towards Meursault. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

Meursault did not spare a second to answer. “The Manager did not tell me to stop anyone from stepping out of line, and so, I did not act.”

Ishmael groaned, rubbing her temples in frustration. “Ughhh…”

Meanwhile, Niko raised an eyebrow as he noticed Rodion barreling toward him, his posture shifting from mild interest to surprise as the young woman closed the distance. He gave her a polite, if somewhat hesitant, smile, folding his arms as he waited for her to approach. The others exchanged uneasy glances, the tension in the room thickening as they watched the encounter unfold, each one wondering what bizarre turn of fate had brought them all together in this moment.

Ishmael was pretty sure this would all go down to shit real quick.

Ishmael stood corrected.

It wasn’t that Rodion couldn’t charm a brick wall into holding a conversation—no, Ishmael had long since accepted that truth. It was the sheer absurdity of the scene that caught her off guard.

“And then, you see~” Rodion’s voice bubbled with enthusiasm, her hands mimicking the flourish of a seasoned gambler. She slid an imaginary mountain of chips across an invisible table with a dramatic push. “I bet the chips and declared like this: ‘All~ in.’”

Beside her, Gregor let out a groan that sounded like it came from his very soul. “Haah… I wanna stop hearing it… it’s giving me nausea…” He pinched the bridge of his nose with his human hand, as if physically repelling the headache forming in response to Rodion’s theatrics.

Niko leaned back with a casual chuckle. “There’s nothing like headshake poker at J Corp.’s casinos. Those people who sit at the slot machines all day long—they’re all morons.”

The offhand remark caught Heathcliff’s attention. He had been leaning lazily against his bat, his expression vacant, but now his head tilted toward the group. “What? You mean there’s something up with the machines?” His tone was skeptical, but his curiosity betrayed him.

“This is something I haven’t told anyone else,” Niko said, leaning forward conspiratorially, his grin widening. His voice dropped to a near whisper, drawing them in. “You see—”

He launched into an elaborate explanation of J Corp.’s casino operations, weaving in just enough jargon and intrigue to make the listener feel they were being let in on a grand secret.

By the time Niko paused to take a breath, Heathcliff’s brows were furrowed in concentration. “Hold up,” he said, frustration clear in his voice. “You gotta explain in more detail…”

Behind the group, Dante stood quietly, their presence marked only by the faint, rhythmic ticking of their clockwork head. Watching the exchange, they tilted slightly, murmuring under their breath, “<Things are lively this time around…>”

Ryōshū, perched nearby with a lit cigarette between her fingers, exhaled slowly. Smoke curled lazily around her face as her red eyes glinted, smoldering embers of barely-contained disdain. After a long, silent drag, she muttered darkly, “D.L.I.”

Sinclair, ever the interpreter of Ryōshū’s cryptic remarks, leaned toward Dante and whispered, “She says she doesn’t like it.”

The ticking paused, just for a moment. Dante whispered back with quiet amusement, “<I know.>”

The scene unfolded like a patchwork tapestry, each thread pulling the Sinners and their eccentric guest together in strange harmony. It was strange, this fleeting moment of camaraderie amidst the chaos. Absurd as it was, there was something almost comforting about it.

“Oh, yeah, that reminds me.” Niko’s voice cut through the ambient noise of the group’s chatter like a knife, his tone carrying a blend of curiosity and unease. His gaze, sharp and intent, fixed itself on Rodion. “Rodya, can I ask you a question?”  

Rodion, mid-yawn, puffed up her cheeks in mock indignation, as if the mere act of being interrupted required a theatrical response. “Mmm?” she hummed, her tone playful. “What is it, Niko?”  

Niko hesitated for a fraction of a second before leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “I couldn’t help but notice earlier, when we were fighting all those robots…” He trailed off, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “What’s with that transformation thing you guys do every time you fight? And why do you and that stoic guy over there have my Workshop’s uniform?”  

Rodion’s playful demeanor faltered for a moment, her fingers drifting to scratch the back of her neck. “Oh, that…” she said, her voice dropping in volume. A sheepish chuckle escaped her lips. “Uhhh…”

Earlier…

The harsh fluorescent lights of the facility flickered ominously as Dante’s metallic voice echoed through the Sinners’ ears. “<Alrighty, Sinners!>” Their tone was brimming with an enthusiasm that felt oddly out of place against the sterile backdrop. “<Get ready!>”

Before Niko could ask what they were doing, a brilliant yellow light enveloped the group. It wasn’t the gradual build of sunlight breaking through clouds, but rather the sudden, blinding intensity of a star exploding to life.

One by one, the Sinners’ forms shifted. Their clothing, their weapons—even their postures—changed in an instant, as if the light had peeled back one layer of reality and revealed an entirely different one beneath.

Niko’s mouth fell open as he stared at Rodion. Her casual, somewhat disheveled look was gone, replaced by an ensemble he knew all too well: the Rosespanner Workshop uniform. Pale purple dress shirt, rose-red jacket, and even the oversized chainsaw-wrench hybrid weapon slung over her shoulder.

“Privyet~” Rodion greeted flamboyantly, flipping her hair with one hand while the other rested confidently on her hip. Her voice carried a sing-song quality as she struck a pose. “Presenting the representative of Rosespanner Workshop—yours truly, Rodya~”  

Niko blinked, the words catching in his throat. He wasn’t just surprised—he was utterly dumbfounded. “Wait…” His voice wavered, as though saying the words aloud might make the scene before him make sense. “That’s… you…”

Meursault, who had similarly transformed, walked up to Rodion, his gait as precise and measured as ever. His uniform mirrored hers, but instead of the chainsaw-wrench, he wielded a massive mechanical hammer. “I am here, Miss Representative,” he said, his tone devoid of any emotion.

Rodion sighed, rolling her eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you, Meur? It’s Rodya. Rodya, okay? Remember that!”

Meursault nodded, his expression remaining blank. “Understood. Rodion.”  

Rodion groaned, muttering under her breath, “Close enough, I guess…” She turned her attention to the rest of the group. “What about you two? You ready?”  

Yi Sang stepped forward, his transformation as dramatic as the others. His new form was ethereal, almost otherworldly. His white hanbok and gray overcoat shimmered faintly, while yellow flowers and dark, twisting branches grew out of his body. His left eye was obscured by blossoms, the other glowing a bright yellow. He carried a fan made of those same flowers, its delicate petals belying the power it likely held.  

“‘Ready’ is a rather brusque way of putting it,” Yi Sang said, his voice calm, almost detached. “But I suppose I am.”  

Heathcliff was next, clad in a tattered brown raincoat that seemed perpetually damp. Green umbrellas jutted from his back like strange, unnatural growths, and in his hands, he wielded a white-green umbrella. He sighed, his expression a mix of exasperation and resignation. “…never better,” he muttered.  

Rodion smirked. “Geez, Heath, could you try not being a downer for once? You’re more of a buzzkill than Yi Sang! And that’s an accomplishment!”  

Heathcliff groaned, his grip tightening on the umbrella. “It’s not me, it’s the ID…” He turned his gaze toward the advancing robots, his shoulders tensing. “…whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”

Niko, meanwhile, had turned toward Shrenne, who stood a few paces behind him. Her wide eyes and trembling hands betrayed her shock, though she was doing her best to mask it. She bit down on her thumb, her expression a mixture of dread and disbelief.

“Shrenne, are you seeing this?” Niko asked, his voice barely above a whisper.  

Shrenne snapped out of her stupor, shaking her head quickly. She met his gaze, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I… I’ll be fine,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.  

Niko turned his attention back to the fight. The Sinners had already charged into battle, their new forms clashing against the onslaught of mechanical foes. His eyes kept drifting to Rodion, who moved with a strange mixture of familiarity and grace. The way she swung her weapon, the cadence of her movements—it was uncanny. It was as if he were watching a mirror image of himself, only slightly askew.  

“Well, I’ll be…” Niko muttered, a nervous laugh escaping him. “What’s the purpose of me being here, then…?”  

Now…

“Mmm, I dunno,” Rodion said with a shrug, her carefree tone as maddeningly casual as ever. “To be honest, I never asked. Dante just puts us in these Identities, and then we fight. When we’re done, they remove them. Simple as that.” She chuckled, giving him a playful wink. “Sorry, my guy. I never bothered to ask. You can prolly ask Fau over there~”  

Niko turned toward Faust, who stood slightly apart from the group, her expression as calm and unreadable as ever. Before he could speak, she cut him off. “Information on Identities is prohibited,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.  

Niko sighed, throwing up his hands in defeat. “Worth a shot…”

“There’s a traitor in our ranks.”

Meursault’s tone was as steady and unshakable as ever, a declaration made with the same detachment one might use to state the time. “No doubt remains in the matter.”

The words hung there, suspended in the air, before crashing down on the group like a hammer. Everyone turned toward him, their expressions a mix of disbelief and confusion. The accusation was not just bold but staggering in its implications. A traitor? Among them? 

Meursault met their stunned silence with his unflinching gaze, interpreting it as a signal to elaborate. “It’s thanks to this spy that our course and plans were leaked from the moment we departed. To prevent further damage, it is right to dispose of them here and now.”

Dante, their clock-faced leader, turned their head slightly, as though processing the concept itself. The word “traitor” seemed foreign, alien—a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit into their already fragmented understanding of the world. Their ticking gears seemed to pause, the faint whir of their mechanisms the only sound they made.

Outis, ever the strategist, was quicker to respond. She inclined her head in agreement, her sharp eyes scanning the gathered group. “As it’s unlikely to be one of us,” she said, her voice cool and deliberate, “the rational course of action is to suspect your institute’s lackeys.” Her gaze shifted, almost imperceptibly, toward the contingent of K Corp employees and the Rosespanner Workshop Fixers standing apart from the Sinners. “This mission must be abandoned, Executive Manager. To allow ourselves to be involved in this nonsense is…” 

Her words trailed off, but the implication was clear: this mission, these people, were beneath them.

Samjo, one of K Corp’s own, bristled visibly. His glasses shone, the lenses catching the dim light in a way that made it twinkle. “I am repulsed by your accusation,” he said, his voice trembling with restrained anger. “Are you seriously suspecting us? I can assure you that we trust each other far better than you people who haven’t even been in the same firm for a year.”

But even as he spoke, Dongrang, his superior, shook his head slowly. “No, Samjo. Their hypothesis sounds plausible. I would’ve said the same.” His calm acknowledgment was like a slap in the face to his subordinate.

Samjo swallowed hard, his lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing. The unspoken words hung between them, thick with tension.

Dongrang cut him off with a glance that silenced any further objections. “You have something to say, don’t you?”

Samjo’s eyebrows tighten. “Mr. Dongrang…”

Meanwhile, Outis’s focus shifted. Her sharp gaze landed on the Rosespanner Workshop Fixers. “That group of Fixers hasn’t used regeneration ampules a single time since we came in here,” she observed coldly. “Any sane combatant would kill to have those.”

“There is one more thing,” Meursault interjected. His voice was calm but carried a weight that commanded attention. “When we encountered Ran… they were distancing themselves from her in advance. The only explanation is that they knew there would be an explosion.”

All eyes turned to Niko, who stood with his arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Oh, bother…” he said, his tone almost playful. “Why not consider the possibility that my intuition is just that keen? What if we weren't using the ampules because these buddies and I are built healthy?”

Dongrang’s eyes crinkled with amusement, though his smile was anything but warm. “Hmmm… I’ve brought a truth tablet just in case.” He reached into his pocket and produced a small red capsule. “I’ll believe you if you testify the same after taking it.”

Niko took an instinctive step back, his smirk faltering. “Truth tablet? That red thing?  How can I take that suspicious-looking drug…?”

“Sorry, did you have a choice here?” Dongrang interrupted, crossing his arms. “How strange. If I were you, I’d take the tablet—or make more desperate excuses.” His tone was mocking, needling. “You’re so gladly squandering your chances to clear yourselves of suspicion, it’s almost like you’re asking to be killed. Or…” he added, his smile growing sharper, “did you decide to kill us all and get away with it?”

The Sinners, one by one, drew their weapons. Even Dante, hesitant though they seemed, reached for their PDA, the glow of its interface casting an eerie light on their clockwork face.

Niko raised his own weapon, a wrench-chainsaw hybrid that whirred to life with an ominous growl. His subordinates followed suit, their stances tense and ready. “I thought a researcher’s job was writing papers…” Niko quipped, though his voice was tight with anger. “And you’re out here writing fiction, you deranged maniac.”

Heathcliff grinned, his bat resting casually on his shoulder. “Showing your true selves now that you’re cornered, eh?”

Niko gritted his teeth, the grin that had once seemed so confident now a desperate baring of teeth. “I even taught you my secret to winning at the slot machines, and this is how you return the favor?”

With a roar, he charged, his weapon revving as he swung it toward the group. 

“<Alrighty, Sinners!>” Dante’s voice rang out as they tapped a button on their PDA. “<Get ready!>”

A brilliant yellow light enveloped the Sinners, one by one transforming them into their respective Identities. When the light faded, Rodion stepped forward, her chainsaw-wrench weapon meeting Niko’s in a shower of sparks.

“Well, well, well,” Rodion drawled, tilting her head as though sizing him up. “If it isn’t fate biting me in the ass.”

Niko chuckled darkly, his lips curling into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “I should be saying that.”

“Ha! That’s the joke, priyatel’,” Rodion replied with a laugh.

Their weapons strained against each other, the grinding noise relentless as each combatant pushed for dominance. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, they broke apart, both sliding back to their respective positions. Rodion barely flinched as she steadied herself, while Niko’s subordinates rallied behind him, their eyes burning with determination.

Niko’s grin widened, but the light in his eyes turned darker, sharper. He pointed his weapon directly at Rodion, its revving engine a menacing backdrop to his words. “If you’re good enough to be cracking jokes in this situation,” he began, his voice rising into a challenge, “I guess we’re more alike than I thought.”

Rodion grinned back. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Chapter Text

Some time during the events of Canto IV…

The screening room at K Corp. Headquarters was steeped in an oppressive tension that pressed down like a suffocating weight. Darkness enveloped the space, broken only by the faint, sickly glow of a flickering fluorescent light overhead, its hum barely audible beneath the heavy silence. Shadows clung to every corner, swallowing the room in an inky void that seemed alive with unspoken dread. The air was thick and cloying, tainted by the acrid tang of chlorine, sharp and stinging in the nose. It wafted from a pool of viscous liquid nearby, its surface shimmering faintly in the dim light.

Standing at the center of this grim tableau was Dongbaek, leader of the Technology Liberation Alliance. Her presence was as incongruous as it was commanding. She wore a tattered brown hood beneath a once-white lab coat that now hung in filthy tatters above her ankles. Her jeans were worn, their ends rolled up unevenly, and her sneakers—black with faint white accents—were scuffed and dirtied from countless battles and long marches. She looked every bit the revolutionary, but it was her eyes, dark and resolute, that truly set her apart. They burned with a mixture of sorrow and defiance as she stared up at the weeping creature above, unflinching in the face of its suffering.

Across from her stood Dongrang and the Sinners, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and tension. The scene would have been almost absurd if not for its gravity. That this hooded rebel, so disheveled and unassuming, was once a dear friend to Dongrang and Yi Sang was a twist none of them had anticipated. The shared history between the three hung unspoken in the air, adding another layer of complexity to the standoff.

Dongrang broke the silence first, a wry smile playing on his lips despite the tension. His gaze lingered on the viscous pool of unrefined tears beneath the creature, his tone laced with grim humor. “So, are you satisfied, Dongbaek? You were right, and Samjo probably turned into the original form of humanity or something like that in the vat of tears. Congratulations.” His voice faltered slightly as he gestured toward the still-rippling pool where Samjo had disappeared moments before. “Now… what do you really want?”

The mention of Samjo’s abrupt demise hit the room like a blow. The Sinners shifted uneasily, the weight of yet another senseless death pressing down on them. It wasn’t the first time they’d witnessed a comrade fall, nor would it be the last. Dante, standing at the periphery, clenched their hands tightly around their PDA. They knew better than anyone that death was a constant in their line of work. Collateral damage, rewound lives—it was all part of the grim cycle they’d come to accept. But that didn’t make it any easier.

Dongbaek’s gaze didn’t waver from the weeping eyeball as she finally responded. “The Singularity,” she said, her voice low but firm. Permanently destroying it and everything related by using the concept incinerator.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with finality. The concept incinerator—a weapon capable of erasing not just physical objects but the very memory of their existence. To use it on the technology that made K Corp. would mean obliterating K Corp. at its core, erasing its legacy from history itself. No one would remember its achievements, its horrors, or its atrocities. It would be as though it had never been.

Dongrang’s smile vanished, replaced by a deep frown. He took a step closer to her, his movements slow, deliberate. “Concept incinerator, huh? You’ll use it again?” His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of unease in his tone. “ So, Dongbaek… Let’s say that you do successfully return to an age of nothingness… What comes next?” His words grew sharper, each one cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. “Chop trees, build huts, make clothes out of leather… Is that the kind of life you want?”

He paused, his expression hardening as he stared her down. “Mourning the lost lives of trees and animals you’ve killed? Look, Dongbaek… With an attitude like that…” He gestured toward her, frustration evident in his voice. “…you’ll be nothing more than a primitive amateur. Are you really sure that’s what you want?”

Dongbaek’s eyes flickered, her calm exterior faltering for the briefest of moments. But she didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she turned her gaze back to the eyeball, watching its tears fall with quiet intensity. She had no illusions about the cost of her crusade. She knew what it meant to wield the concept incinerator, to erase history and start again from nothing. But the sight of that monstrous creature, bound and suffering, seemed to steel her resolve.

The air in the screening room of K Corp. Headquarters crackled with tension, a silence heavy enough to smother any semblance of composure. The faint hum of machinery droned on, blending with the distant, muffled cries of the creature that loomed above them—the bloodshot eyeball, weeping endlessly. Dongbaek finally tore her gaze away from the creature, her figure stiff as she turned to face Dongrang. Her tattered lab coat billowed faintly, the frayed edges swaying like reluctant remnants of her past.

“You…” she began, her voice low but cutting, “always ask stupid questions. Then and now.” Her words carried the weight of years unspoken, a resentment sharpened to a deadly edge. “WWe decided to use vile technology as tools to get rid of their vile creators. Thus, no one can remain in the future we envision. That’s why we could be free—from the obsession with survival.”

Dongrang’s eyes narrowed, his posture tensing as he processed her words. A faint, humorless chuckle escaped his lips, his tone mocking. “Haha, what are you talking about? So you weren’t envisioning a future; you just can’t let go of the past.”

The sting of his words hung in the air, but before Dongbaek could respond, another voice broke through the charged silence.

“Both of you… Stop this.” Yi Sang stepped forward, his pale face etched with quiet frustration. His eyes, usually distant, were now sharp and focused. “I don’t want old feuds repeating before my eyes.”

Dongbaek’s gaze shifted toward him. For a fleeting moment, her expression softened, a crack in the armor of her resolve. She studied him as if seeing a ghost she wasn’t prepared to face. “Yi Sang,” she said quietly, her voice losing its sharpness. “You look fine.”

The softness in her tone was not lost on Gregor, who stood beside Yi Sang. He bit down on his cigarette, his jaw tight. “You say it like you’re relieved,” he growled, his voice low and biting. “Didn’t you want him—”

“You’re right.” Dongbaek cut him off, her tone cool and even. “I wanted him to die.”

Her words hit like a gunshot, reverberating in the uneasy stillness of the room. She didn’t flinch, her expression unchanging. “But I’m sure he wished for the same. He wouldn’t resist while it dug into his heart.” Her gaze flicked back to Yi Sang, and this time, a faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips—cold, cruel, and inscrutable. “It was unpleasant. It felt like I was granting your wish.”

Yi Sang stood frozen, his face unreadable, though his silence spoke volumes.

Gregor let out a wry chuckle, shaking his head. “Seems to me both of you got a few screws loose,” he said, taking a long drag from his cigarette. The ember flared bright, reflecting in his narrowed eyes. “You think pushing someone off a cliff can be justified because that person was hesitating?”

“Hesi—” Dongbaek almost repeated, her voice rising slightly as her frustration bubbled to the surface. She then exhaled sharply, the sound carrying more weariness than anger. “Why don’t we hear it from the person himself, then?” Her gaze bore into Yi Sang, daring him to speak.

Yi Sang lowered his head, his dark hair falling to obscure his expression. “…I have no words to say.”

Dongbaek scoffed, her lips curling into a faint sneer. “This conversation is over, then. I’m frankly glad it is.” Without another word, she shrugged off her lab coat, letting it slide to the floor in a crumpled heap. The action was deliberate, almost ritualistic, as if shedding the last vestiges of her former self.

As the coat fell, her hood unfurled, pooling around her feet. Beneath it, she wore a tattered brown raincoat, its surface glistening as though perpetually damp. The air around her seemed to grow heavier, charged with an almost tangible menace. The fabric shimmered faintly, droplets forming and cascading to the floor like rain falling from nowhere. Two umbrellas unfurled from her back. They sprouted like grotesque flowers, unfolding with a sickening elegance. Their frames gleamed, sharp and menacing, the fabric stretched taut like the wings of some predatory insect. A third umbrella appeared in her hand, this one held aloft like a weapon, its pointed tip gleaming wickedly in the dim light.

Dante’s breath caught in their throat. The sight of the outfit triggered a jolt of recognition, a memory clawing its way to the forefront of their mind.

‘This… this is Heathcliff’s Identity. Sunshower.’

The realization sent a chill down their spine. 

Dongbaek’s cold gaze swept over the group, her fingers tightening around the umbrella’s handle. “I’ll take this opportunity to kill two of my old companions with my own hands,” she declared, her voice unwavering, cutting through the air like a blade. “Then I‘ll seize and burn the Singularity.”

She leveled the umbrella at them, the motion smooth and deliberate. The room seemed to darken as her presence grew more menacing, the dripping raincoat, the ghostly umbrellas, the defiant fire in her eyes—all of it converging into a singular force of unyielding resolve.

The standoff was over. Now, the battle would begin.

The clash in the screening room was nothing short of chaos, a cacophony of steel and willpower. Dongbaek stood at the center of it all, a solitary figure against a storm of assaults. Her movements were almost too quick to track, her umbrella slicing through the air like a blade, deflecting blows with effortless precision. The Sinners pressed forward, relentless in their assault, and though a few strikes found their mark, the shimmering surface of her E.G.O. suit absorbed the brunt of their attacks, its strange, otherworldly properties making it nearly impenetrable.

Despite the numerical advantage, the Sinners couldn’t overwhelm her. Dongbaek moved with the fluidity of someone who had fought alone for a long time, weaving between attacks and countering with a ferocity that belied her lone status. It was clear this wasn’t her first battle against insurmountable odds.

Then, with a sudden flourish, four umbrellas materialized around her, each one radiating an oppressive aura. They fluttered to the floor ominously, the fabric of reality seeming to ripple around them as if their mere presence distorted the air. Dongbaek shifted her stance, her umbrella raised defensively, her eyes flashing with grim determination.

Dante’s gears spun faster in agitation as they took in the new development. Their voice rang out, sharp and commanding, echoing across the room. “<There’s something going on here!>” The urgency in their tone made even the most battle-hardened of the Sinners take notice. “<Everyone, focus on the umbrellas!>”

Outis was the first to respond. The veteran soldier wasted no time, her G Corp. Head Manager Identity augmenting her reflexes to a razor edge. She moved like lightning, her psychic blast resonating as it struck one of the umbrellas. With a crackling burst of energy, the construct shattered, its fragments vanishing into nothingness.

Meursault followed close behind, his Rosespanner Workshop Fixer Identity lending him the sheer strength needed for the task. His hammer swung down in a wide arc, the impact resonating like a thunderclap as another umbrella crumbled under the force. He didn’t pause to admire his work, his stoic expression unchanging as he prepared for his next move.

Two umbrellas remained.

Yi Sang stepped forward, his Effloresced E.G.O::Spicebush Identity granting him an ethereal grace. His movements were deliberate, almost hypnotic, as he spun in place, his ornate fan cutting through the air with surgical precision. A single flick of his wrist sent a blade-like gust toward the third umbrella, reducing it to splinters that scattered like leaves in the wind.

Rodion, clad in her Rosespanner Workshop Rep. Identity, hefted her massive chainsaw-wrench hybrid with a grim smile. She brought the weapon down in a brutal arc, the final umbrella exploding into shards of spectral light.

The room fell eerily quiet for a moment, the oppressive aura lifted, but the battle was far from over.

Amid the flurry of destruction, Heathcliff remained still. He stood apart from the others, his Lobotomy E.G.O::Sunshower Identity unmistakable in its resemblance to Dongbaek’s own garb. The sight of her—her rain-soaked coat, her twin umbrellas unfurling like petals of a sorrowful flower—held him transfixed. His fingers tightened around the handle of his weapon, but he made no move to strike.

Instead, his gaze lingered on her, as though the scene before him pulled at some long-buried memory. Her presence seemed to echo in his mind, dredging up fragments of a past he had tried to bury. The similarity of their outfits, the unmistakable air of despair and resolve she exuded—it all reminded him of himself. Of the time when he, too, had fallen into a pit of hopelessness. Of the person who had reached out to him then, who had cared for him despite his flaws and failures.

For a moment, the battle faded into the background. Heathcliff’s mind wandered, haunted by the parallels between himself and Dongbaek. She was what he might have become, had his story played out differently. A reflection of a future he had narrowly escaped, yet couldn’t help but recognize.

He shook his head, forcing himself to snap out of his reverie. ‘Not now,’ he thought. ‘This isn’t the time to brood.’

Dongbaek, her eyes burning with determination, turned her attention back to the Sinners. The shattered umbrellas seemed to have done little to diminish her resolve. If anything, she looked more dangerous now, her grip on her weapon tightening as the room grew heavy with her presence once more.

Heathcliff squared his shoulders and raised his weapon. Whatever ghosts of the past haunted him, they would have to wait. He had a job to do, and he wasn’t about to let his companions down.

The air crackled with tension as Dongbaek brandished her umbrella, its glossy surface catching the dim, fractured light of the battlefield. “Sink it all…” Her voice was low, but it carried a chilling conviction that seemed to sap the room of warmth.

Without hesitation, she lunged forward, her umbrella cutting through the air like a scythe. The five Sinners readied their weapons, forming a defensive line to intercept her. For a moment, their coordinated stance seemed sufficient—swords, hammers, chainsaws, and fans all raised in unison. But Dongbaek was faster, her movements almost inhuman in their precision. She weaved between them like a shadow, striking with a ferocity that left them scrambling to keep up.

Each impact of her umbrella was deceptively light, almost gentle, yet the effects were anything but. With every strike, a strange weight seemed to settle on their chests, their hearts feeling heavier, their breaths more labored. It wasn’t just the physical damage; it was as if her blows reached beyond their flesh, gnawing at something deeper, more vulnerable. Wounds that had been sealed reopened as though coaxed by an unseen force, rupturing anew. The Sinners struck back with everything they had, their weapons clashing against hers in a cacophony of steel and plastic, but Dongbaek’s strikes always found their mark eventually.

It was only a matter of time.

Heathcliff’s own umbrella rose to meet hers, and for a brief moment, the battlefield seemed to narrow to just the two of them. Their umbrellas clashed, emitting a hollow resonance that seemed almost absurd given the weight of their confrontation. Dongbaek’s strength was unrelenting, her strikes precise and unyielding, but Heathcliff stood his ground.

Their eyes met for a fleeting second. There was something familiar in her gaze, something that dug into him in a way no physical blow could.

Dongbaek’s words were barely audible, more a whisper than a challenge, but they struck like a thunderclap. “Is what you’re doing worth it? You know what I’m after. You’ve experienced the same things, after all.”

With a sudden burst of force, she swept his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. She loomed over him, her umbrella poised like a sword, the tip hovering near his chest. Her eyes burned with a mix of fury and something else—disappointment, perhaps.

“Tell me,” she demanded, her voice low but unyielding. “Is your loyalty to this company worth everything?”

Heathcliff froze, her words hitting him harder than any strike could. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he could do nothing but stare up at her. His mind raced, fragments of memory clawing their way to the surface. Her question wasn’t rhetorical. She knew. Somehow, she knew about the Identities somehow, about the price they all had to pay to wield them.

The realization hit him like a blow to the gut. “You…” he began, his voice faltering. “How do you know about that? What do you have to do with any of this?”

Dongbaek’s expression didn’t waver. She simply waited, the weight of her silence demanding an answer.

Heathcliff clenched his fists, memories flooding back unbidden. “I stuck around… because of her,” he said finally, his voice trembling with something between anger and grief. “Because Cathy was there. She… she made our lives a little brighter. And you…” He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering to Dongbaek. “You and her made something amazing together. I was amazed at what you guys did.”

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, and for a moment, the battlefield seemed to fade away, replaced by fragments of a time long past. Heathcliff’s mind swirled with memories—of laughter shared in fleeting moments of peace, of hope kindled in the darkest of times. Cathy’s smile, her unwavering determination, and the bond she had shared with Dongbaek. It had been a lifeline for him, something to hold onto when everything else seemed to fall apart.

But why was he talking like this now? Why did these memories feel so vivid, so raw? He barely knew Dongbaek—didn’t he?

Dongbaek’s frown deepened, her grip tightening on her umbrella. “So it’s real,” she murmured, almost to herself. Her gaze flicked to Heathcliff, then past him, as though seeing something that wasn’t there. “I obviously don't recall that, which means... the glass window… it’s been with you as well this whole time. And you did something to it... Of course…”

Her words trailed off, but the weight of them hung heavy in the air. Heathcliff’s mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of memory and implication. Before he could say anything more, however, Yi Sang darted forward, his fan cutting through the air in a swift, calculated arc. The blade-edge of the fan sliced toward Dongbaek, forcing her to leap backward. Her movements were sharp, but for the first time, they faltered slightly, her footing unsure. She spun her umbrella defensively, her teeth gritted in frustration. 

“Get it away...!” she hissed, her voice raw, as though the very presence of the fan ignited something unbearable inside her.

Rodion, blood pounding in her ears, sprinted toward Heathcliff, who was still on the ground, a dazed expression on his face. Her chainsaw-wrench hybrid dragged slightly against the ground behind her, leaving a shallow scar in the earth. “Oi, buddy! Heath!” she called, skidding to a stop beside him and grabbing his arm. With a grunt of effort, she hauled him to his feet. “Stay sharp. We’ve got a job to do.”

For a moment, Heathcliff just stared at her, his eyes unfocused. His thoughts seemed distant, as if he were somewhere else entirely, lost in a maze of memories. But then he blinked, shaking his head as though to clear the fog. 

“No, you’re right.” His voice was steadier now, more resolute. He brushed the dust off his coat, then adjusted his grip on his umbrella. “I… I don’t have to question anything for now.”

Across the battlefield, Dongbaek’s expression darkened. Her teeth clenched tighter, her knuckles white as she tightened her grip on her weapon. “You people are annoying!” she spat, her voice venomous. She charged again, her movements sharp and aggressive, but Outis was already moving to intercept her. 

Outis leaped into the fray with precision, her G Corp. Identity lending her speed and strength. She launched herself forward, her heel connecting with Dongbaek’s umbrella in a jarring clash. Sparks flew as metal struck plastic, the sound reverberating like the crash of distant thunder. Dongbaek staggered slightly, but Outis wasn’t done. She let out a sharp, piercing screech, her voice like a blade, and the force of it sent Dongbaek reeling backward.

Dongbaek clutched her head, her face contorted with pain. “Why can’t you understand…?” she murmured, her voice trembling. Her shoulders shook, and for a moment, her composure cracked. “Urgh… these stinging memories… they’re eating me alive…”

From behind the others, Heathcliff stepped forward, his movements slow but deliberate. His umbrella hung loosely at his side, but there was something unshakable in his stance. “I guess that’s the difference,” he said quietly, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade through fog. His gaze was fixed on Dongbaek, steady and unrelenting. “Between you and me, I mean. The difference is that this—this right here—is where you fail.”

Dongbaek’s head snapped up at his words, her expression a mix of anger and something deeper: hurt, perhaps. 

Heathcliff didn’t flinch. “Me, on the other hand… the time where I failed has already passed. I’ve got nothing left to lose.” His voice dropped, tinged with a somber weight. “Because I lost everything already.”

Yi Sang’s fan wavered slightly in his hand. His sharp eyes, always calculating, softened as they shifted to Heathcliff. “Wait…” he murmured, his voice low. “Heathcliff. You don’t mean…”

Heathcliff nodded, his somber expression unchanging. The battlefield around them seemed to fade, its chaos dulled by the gravity of his words. “We probably won’t remember this when we return to normal,” he said, his tone resigned but reverent. “But she was a great woman. You know?”

For a moment, Yi Sang said nothing, his eyes searching Heathcliff’s face as if trying to decipher a puzzle he hadn’t expected to find. And then something shifted in his expression—a flicker of recognition, or perhaps a memory. It was hard to tell. 

His gaze lowered slightly, his fan now held limply at his side. “Yeah,” he said at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. “She was.”

Dongbaek’s grip on her umbrella tightened, her hands trembling. Whatever she had been prepared to say died on her lips. For a moment, the battlefield was still, the clash of weapons and the roar of chaos forgotten. There was only the sound of their breathing and the unspoken truths that hung between them.

And then, as if spurred by some unseen force, Dongbaek’s eyes hardened. She raised her umbrella once more, the faint trembling in her hands gone. Whatever pain lingered in her expression was buried beneath a cold, steely resolve.

“Fine,” she said, her voice low and brittle. “If you’re so eager to cling to the past, then I’ll bury it—and you—with my own hands.”

The clash erupted in an instant, a symphony of chaos and fury. Dongbaek stood at the center, her umbrella whirling like a deadly shield, deflecting each blow with uncanny precision. Her feet barely touched the ground before another strike came her way, forcing her to pivot, twist, and counter with relentless efficiency. The five Sinners moved in concert, their attacks flowing seamlessly, giving her no time to breathe.

The battlefield erupted into a storm of steel and fury as Dongbaek swung her umbrella with unrelenting precision. Her movements were fluid, each deflection a calculated act of survival. The five Sinners closed in on her from all sides, circling like wolves closing in on their prey. It was a coordinated assault—a relentless rhythm of attack and retreat—but Dongbaek met them blow for blow, her umbrella whirling through the air like an extension of her will.

Dante’s voice cut through the chaos, urgent and sharp. “<Don’t let her recover! Keep the pressure on! Outis, go first!>”

Outis lunged forward in response, her body a blur as psychic energy surged through her. Her horns glowed faintly, arcs of violet light crackling from her temple to her fingertips. She thrust her hand forward, fingers splayed, and Dongbaek staggered as an invisible force slammed into her. The air rippled with power as Outis’ will struck like a hammer, forcing Dongbaek’s umbrella up defensively to absorb the blow.

“Urgh!” Dongbaek grit her teeth, her knees bending under the weight of the attack. But before she could retaliate, Dante’s voice rang out again.

“<Meursault, now!>”

Meursault was already moving, his Rosespanner hammer raised high above his head. With the momentum of a charging bull, he brought it crashing down toward her. The ground shuddered under the force of the swing, and Dongbaek twisted to the side at the last second. The hammer struck where she had stood, sending dust and splintered earth flying. But even as she avoided the direct blow, the shockwave sent her staggering back.

Dongbaek barely had time to raise her umbrella again before Yi Sang stepped in. His fan spun in his hands like a razor-sharp windmill, petals of shimmering light fanning out as he swung it with deadly grace. The first strike connected with her side, and though it left no visible wound, Dongbaek gasped—her breath faltering as her chest tightened, her heart growing inexplicably heavy.

“Enough of this!” Dongbaek spat, wrenching herself free of Yi Sang’s barrage. She struck back, her umbrella slamming into him with surprising force. Yi Sang stumbled, his fan spinning from his grip, but before Dongbaek could press the advantage, another roar cut through the air.

“Here I come!” Rodion, grinning ferociously, charged in with her chainsaw-wrench hybrid. The weapon roared to life, teeth grinding and screeching as she swung it in a wide arc. Dongbaek turned, bringing her umbrella up to intercept. Sparks erupted as steel met steel, the screeching sound almost deafening. Rodion’s strength pressed forward, the teeth of her chainsaw gnawing at the umbrella’s edges, and Dongbaek was forced to sidestep, redirecting the clash before the weapon could break through.

“Persistent pests!” Dongbaek hissed, her breathing now ragged. She spun, sweeping her umbrella low in an attempt to trip Rodion, but a sudden blow struck her from behind.

“<Heathcliff!>” Dante barked.

Heathcliff surged forward, his umbrella thrust like a rapier. The tip struck Dongbaek’s shoulder, forcing her to pivot and twist, deflecting his strike at the last moment. The two locked into a frenzied duel, umbrellas clashing in rapid succession. The sharp crack of plastic reverberated through the battlefield as they struck and parried, each movement faster than the last.

“Still hiding behind that thing?” Heathcliff growled as he pushed forward, forcing Dongbaek onto the defensive. “You’re not untouchable.”

“Neither are you,” Dongbaek shot back, spinning and delivering a hard kick to his ribs that sent him sprawling backward.

“Heath!” Rodion shouted, her voice tense, but Heathcliff staggered to his feet, shaking off the blow with a determined glare.

“<Keep going!>” Dante’s voice thundered. “<Now! Together!>”

The five Sinners struck as one.

Outis sent another psychic blast hurtling forward, knocking Dongbaek off balance just as Meursault closed the distance, hammer swinging in a devastating downward arc. Dongbaek deflected with her umbrella, but the strain showed in her arms, the force of the blow jarring her to her core. Yi Sang moved in, his fan sweeping across her torso, and Dongbaek faltered again as that unnatural heaviness gnawed at her resolve. Rodion followed, chainsaw teeth grinding through her umbrella’s shaft, forcing Dongbaek to retreat step by step.

Dongbaek fought back with desperate strikes, deflecting, spinning, and retaliating, but she was being overwhelmed. For every attack she blocked, another struck true. A crack spread across her umbrella, the plastic fracturing under the repeated force. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her movements losing their precision.

And then Heathcliff was there, closing in for the final blow.

He lunged forward, his umbrella thrust like a spear, slipping through Dongbaek’s waning defenses. The tip pierced her side, the force of it driving her backward. Dongbaek gasped, her eyes widening in shock as she stumbled. Her umbrella fell from her trembling fingers, clattering to the ground with a hollow sound.

She collapsed, sprawling across the cracked earth, blood trailing from her wound. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, her body refusing to obey her. She tried to push herself up, her arms trembling under her weight, but the strength had left her.

For a moment, the battlefield fell silent, save for the ragged breathing of Dongbaek as she lay sprawled on the ground. Her fingers trembled, clutching at the dirt beneath her as though sheer determination could force her battered body to rise again. But it was clear she wouldn’t. The fight had drained her completely, and the pool of blood gathering beneath her only reinforced that grim reality.

Chapter Text

Some time in District 19, about sixteen years ago…

“Hey, you look lonely.”

The voice broke through his memory like sunlight slipping through half-closed shutters.

Yi Sang turned his head, black hair falling into his eyes as he blinked in mild surprise. He had been perched quietly on a weathered fencepost, knees drawn to his chest, watching chickens peck idly at the dusty earth in the field below. The air was thick with the scents of soil and hay, heavy and unchanging, the kind of stillness that only country afternoons could provide.

The voice came from behind.

He turned his head further and saw her—a girl his age, black hair cut to her shoulders and slightly uneven, as though someone had taken scissors to it without much care. She was small but sturdy, a child accustomed to carrying things heavier than herself, and in her hands was a large woven basket, its contents steaming faintly in the cool air.

Steamed potatoes.

Yi Sang stared—not at her, but at the basket. His dark eyes narrowed, faintly confused. Who walked around lugging a basket of potatoes?

The girl noticed immediately. Her gaze darted between the boy and the basket she held, and her face lit up with sudden realization. “Oh!” she exclaimed, breathless as though she had stumbled upon the discovery of the century. “You want some?”

His mouth opened, and he shook his head quickly, already feeling the heat of embarrassment rise in his cheeks. “No— I don’t, I was just—”

But his protests fell on deaf ears. She had already plucked one from the basket, wrapped in a rough scrap of cloth, and pressed it insistently into his palm. He froze, startled by her forcefulness. The potato was warm—hot, even—the heat seeping through the thin cloth into his fingers. Wisps of steam curled from its surface, like fleeting ghosts escaping into the open air.

“Try it,” the girl said, her voice brimming with pride and earnest excitement. “My eomma makes the best baked potatoes!”

Yi Sang blinked down at the offering, then back up at her. She stood expectantly, her expression a mixture of triumph and curiosity, as though waiting to witness the precise moment her gift melted away his initial hesitation.

He hesitated for a moment longer. Then, carefully, he turned the potato in his hands and blew on it—soft, careful puffs of air that stirred the steam but did little to cool its heat. Once satisfied, he pressed his thumbs against the skin, splitting it open with a practiced motion. The fluffy, golden interior beckoned him, faint tendrils of steam curling upward like the smoke of a small, dying fire.

He took a bite.

Soft. Delicately salted. There was a surprising sweetness to it, the earthiness of the potato complemented by something extra, though he couldn’t place what. He paused mid-bite, his brows furrowing faintly in surprise. How could something so simple taste this good?

From the corner of his eye, he saw the girl’s smile widen into a chuckle. “What did I tell you?” she said proudly, rocking back on her heels. “My eomma makes the best baked potatoes, don’t you think?”

Yi Sang swallowed quickly and nodded, unable to find his voice. The warmth of the potato seemed to spread beyond his hands, crawling up into his chest like a small flame, kindling something quiet and unfamiliar.

The girl beamed, her smile lighting up her face in a way that seemed out of place against the muted browns and greys of their surroundings. “Dongbaek.”

He looked up at her again, confused. “What?”

She laughed lightly, holding the basket closer to her chest. “My name. Dongbaek. That’s what people call me.”

Her tone carried a confidence that startled him. Yi Sang didn’t know many children who spoke with such ease, as though they were unafraid of the world or its judgment.

“…Yi Sang.” The name left his lips before he realized he was speaking. He glanced away immediately after, his voice quieter. “I’m Yi Sang.”

Her smile widened again—how many times could she smile like that?—and she repeated his name like it was a cherished gift. “Yi Sang! That’s a nice name.” She took a step closer, her head tilting slightly as if examining him more carefully now that she had the chance. “It’s nice to meet you, Yi Sang.”

He hesitated, unsure how to respond to such unabashed kindness, but his gaze met hers again. In that moment, their eyes locked—two children in a world that felt so much larger than themselves—and something in him stilled.

The sound of chickens, the creak of the fence, the faint rustle of distant leaves—all of it fell away, leaving only the two of them suspended in the quiet certainty of that fleeting moment.

“Oi, Dongrang, you’ve been with that cow all day! Come and play with us!”

The voice rang clear, light and teasing, belonging to the girl leaning halfway over the wooden fence that framed the field. Her black hair swayed in the breeze, tousled and unkempt as though she had sprinted across half the village just to find him. Beside her, a quieter figure stood with his hands tucked into his pockets—Yi Sang, his pale face framed by the same jet-black hair, though his was straighter and much more composed. Unlike Dongbaek, Yi Sang didn’t call out; his eyes merely followed Dongrang with their usual calm indifference.

Dongrang sighed and looked up from where he knelt in the grass, his hand gently stroking Geum’s back. “So what?” he called back, his voice colored with a low grumble. “This cow at least doesn’t judge my t-shirt!”

At that, Dongbaek puffed out her cheeks, her pout exaggerated in a way only children could pull off. “Oh, come on! That was a goofy t-shirt anyway! You know it’s true!”

“Shut up!” Dongrang barked, his voice defensive and sharp. He patted Geum firmly as if to rally support from the calf. “I like the t-shirt. And so does Geum!” He turned to the calf, earnest in his plea for solidarity. “Don’t you, Geum?”

The calf, oblivious to the drama unfolding around him, blinked slowly and let out a long, nonchalant moo.

Dongbaek groaned, throwing her arms up in exaggerated defeat. “Urgh, I can never take him away from that thing,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Turning on her heel, she faced Yi Sang with a dramatic huff. “Yi Sang, you get him to come here.”

Yi Sang, ever the diplomat, let out a small sigh as though he had been thrust into this situation more times than he could count. “I think you need to apologize to Dongrang first.”

“Eh?” Dongbaek froze, incredulous. “Why should I apologize?”

“You made fun of his shirt,” Yi Sang pointed out simply, with the measured patience of someone explaining a universal truth.

“But it’s true!” Dongbaek shot back, throwing her arms wide. “It looks ridiculous!”

“You hurt his feelings,” Yi Sang replied evenly. “Jump over the fence and apologize to him.

Dongbaek’s face scrunched with resistance, her stubbornness flaring visibly, but Yi Sang’s unwavering gaze held her still. For a moment, she considered arguing further, but then—perhaps realizing it would be a losing battle—she gave a loud, exaggerated groan of surrender. “Fine!”

With the fluid ease of a child who spent most of her days vaulting fences and climbing trees, Dongbaek swung her legs over the wooden fence. Her feet hit the ground with a soft thud, and she dusted off her skirt before striding purposefully toward Dongrang, who was still crouched in the grass.

“What do you want now?” Dongrang muttered, not even bothering to look at her. He remained focused on Geum, his hand rhythmically brushing over the calf’s back as if the two shared some private understanding.

“I’m sorry for making fun of your shirt,” Dongbaek mumbled, her tone uncharacteristically restrained.

Dongrang froze briefly, as though caught off guard by the sincerity in her voice. Slowly, he turned his head just enough to look at her sidelong. “…Yi Sang put you up to this, didn’t he?”

Dongbaek hesitated, her lips parting slightly. For a moment, she looked like a deer caught in torchlight, uncertain and on the spot. “N-No…” she began weakly, but her voice betrayed her.

Dongrang sighed, a sound more resigned than annoyed, and stood up with deliberate slowness. “Whatever. You won’t stop until I say yes anyway.” He gave Geum a final, fond pat on the head. “Alright, I’ll play with you guys.”

“Yay!” Dongbaek’s face lit up instantly, the tension evaporating from her features like mist under sunlight

Dongrang, ignoring her cheer, leaned down and patted Geum once more. “You can go back to the others now,” he said gently.

The little calf let out another moo—this one more subdued, almost like a farewell—and plodded off across the field, its small hooves sinking into the earth as it disappeared toward the larger herd grazing in the distance.

Dongbaek watched him go, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “You really like that cow,” she remarked quietly.

Dongrang straightened up and glanced at her. “He was left behind by his mother,” he explained, his tone unusually solemn for a boy his age. “Someone had to take care of him somehow.”

“You’re so nice,” Dongbaek said, her voice bright again, and she flashed him a grin before spinning on her heel. “Come on! Yi Sang’s waiting!”

The two children dashed back toward the fence, their laughter trailing behind them. With a practiced vault, they climbed over the wood and landed on the other side, where Yi Sang stood waiting with his arms crossed.

“Took you both long enough,” Yi Sang said flatly, though the faint curve of a smile ghosted the corners of his mouth. “Come on. Let’s go play now.”

“Yes!” Dongbaek cheered, her energy uncontainable. From the folds of her skirt, she pulled out a paper-wrapped jegi, the small feathered toy shimmering faintly in the afternoon sun. “Let’s play jegichagi! I bet I can get more kicks in than you two!”

“Is that a challenge?” Dongrang asked, the faintest flicker of competitiveness lighting up his features.

Yi Sang scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “Don’t be fooled, Dongrang. You’ll never win against her. She’s too fast.”

Dongbaek puffed out her cheeks in mock indignation. “Well, you can’t keep up either!”

“Here we go again…” Dongrang muttered, though a small, reluctant smile tugged at his lips.

And with that, the three children ran off together, their laughter mingling with the wind and disappearing into the golden horizon. They fell into familiar patterns of taunts and challenges, as friends do, the jegi bouncing between them in arcs of light and motion. The weight of the world was still far away, held back by their innocence and the safety of the sunlit field.

The three children sprawled across the grass, limbs akimbo, their breath ragged from hours spent chasing the fluttering jegi back and forth across the field. The toy itself lay forgotten in the dirt, its purpose fulfilled for the day. Above them, the evening sky shifted hues, melting from the deep gold of sunset into a tranquil violet. Wisps of clouds lingered, barely touched by the sun’s final embers, and in their wake, the first stars began to pierce the dusky veil.

Dongbaek, sprawled on her back with arms stretched wide like she might take flight, suddenly pointed upward, her finger a thin line against the darkening heavens. “Hey, look. The stars are coming out now.”

Two pairs of eyes—one a vivid green that reflected the fading sunlight, the other deep and black, like an endless night—lifted toward the sky. They squinted through the dim.

“There’s one,” Yi Sang murmured, his voice quiet as if he feared speaking too loudly might startle the lone celestial body from its perch.

Dongrang followed Yi Sang’s gaze. True to his word, there it was—a single star glimmering boldly amidst the darkening expanse. It seemed brighter than it should, as if it had chosen to shine just for them.

“A bright one,” Yi Sang added softly, almost to himself.

The trio sat in companionable silence for a moment longer, the sounds of the world settling around them. Crickets began to chirp, hidden somewhere in the tall grass, their steady rhythm blending with the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze.

Dongrang, ever the one to break silence before it became too comfortable, suddenly sat up. His movements were slow, as though the day’s exertion still weighed on him. “Hey,” he began, his tone low and uncertain, “do you ever think we’d stay like this forever?”

“Huh?” Dongbaek turned to him, propped up on her elbows now, her black hair tangling messily around her face. She blinked, bemused. “What do you mean?”

“Being friends,” Dongrang clarified, his gaze fixed on the patch of sky where that solitary star gleamed. “Like this. Do you think we’ll always stay this way?”

The question hung in the air, heavier than it should’ve been, drawing the day’s warmth out of the grass beneath them. Yi Sang’s eyes shifted from the star to Dongrang’s face, studying it as if the answer might already be there.

For a moment, none of them spoke. The weight of the question seemed to press on their small shoulders, each of them too young to carry such uncertainty yet somehow burdened by it all the same. Finally, Yi Sang broke the silence, his voice calm but sincere.

“I hope we do,” he said simply, with no pretense or hesitation.

“I hope so too!” Dongbaek chimed in, her smile blooming like a promise in the growing dark.

Dongrang let out a chuckle, though there was a hint of relief in its undertone. “Alright then,” he said, his voice softer now. “I’ll say it too.” He lifted his gaze to the fading heavens, his green eyes catching that distant, burning star.

“I hope we become friends forever.”

Forever. A word so grand, so infinite, it seemed strange to hear it uttered by children. And yet, as the three of them lay there beneath the wide, uncaring sky, it didn’t feel like a dream too big to hold. Not yet. Not in that moment.

Some time during the events of Canto IV...

Yi Sang turned sharply, his calm demeanor hardened into something more resolute. “Manager,” he called, his voice measured but urgent. “If you will.”

Dante turned at the sound of Yi Sang’s voice. The dull tick of gears echoed faintly from within Dante’s prosthetic head. “<What is it, Yi Sang?>”

Yi Sang didn’t hesitate. “Whatever Identity you just used last time,” he said, the words deliberate. “The one with camellias. When the moment comes—let me use that one.”

Dante froze, gears audibly whirring within their frame as though processing Yi Sang’s request. Slowly, their mechanical head turned toward the others—toward Dongbaek and Dongrang. Dongbaek was slumped against the crumbling wall, her chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Beneath her raincoat, crimson seeped outward, staining the ground like spilled ink.

“<Alright,>” Dante said finally, their voice softer this time, almost reluctant. “<I trust you, Yi Sang. I was planning on it, anyway.>”

A shift.

Dongbaek stirred. It began subtly at first—a tremor in her limbs, a faint glimmer of yellow falling from beneath her raincoat like flecks of light. Petals.

“Miss Dongbaek…” Sinclair’s voice broke the silence, his words tinged with awe and dread in equal measure. “Your body…”

She didn’t answer him. Her lips moved, though the words seemed to slip into the emptiness around them, like whispers carried away by the wind. Petals turned to branches, dark and gnarled, sprouting from the fabric of her clothes as though something ancient and blooming had begun to take root inside her.

“I’ll bury it…” Dongbaek murmured, her voice distant, hollow. She rose, one agonizing inch at a time, blood trailing down her limbs as her expression hardened. The branches crept upward, their buds opening into clusters of delicate yellow flowers.

“…Deep in the sand,” she continued, her gaze distant as if seeing something none of them could. “Hide them… for someone to find… someday. We… didn’t discover the technologies because we were better or had exclusive rights to…” She huffed a labored breath, glaring at Dongrang. “You may be right, I fooled everyone including myself into working for my own goals. It was… the land we tilled… that was fertile…”

Her words reverberated like an incantation. Yi Sang watched her closely, his expression unreadable. He knew. And Dante knew.

Spicebush.

She wasn’t just a girl anymore. She was becoming something else .

Dongrang's wry smile lingers, curved like a scythe, though his eyes betray something deeper—a flicker of memory or regret buried beneath his steady bravado.

“That’s disheartening to hear,” Dongrang remarks, his voice steady yet edged, as though testing the limits of Dongbaek’s composure. “Are you going to discredit all our efforts that went into plowing the soil, missing out on sights of flowers?” His voice drops lower, the softness of it almost cruel. “Back then, we were naive amateurs, and the past you refuse to forget is just a fleeting moment seen through rose-tinted glasses.”

Dongbaek does not respond at first, standing like a lone tree weathering a storm. She is motionless, her expression unreadable save for the faint quiver of her jaw. The petals that drift around her, bright and fragile, feel almost mocking in the dim light, as though nature itself is too cruel to offer her peace.

Dongrang’s words do not stop. “Did your colleagues who gave their lives to the cause know this, though? That the cause you exclaimed was only a specious banner to lure people with?” He tilts his head, almost pitying now. “...that it was as vain as a cloud on the sky?”

The wind picks up, rustling through the broken landscape, carrying with it the scent of something faintly sweet—spicebush, yellow and cloying. Dongbaek finally moves, her head shaking slowly as her fingers curl into fists at her sides. The petals that had been scattered on her clothes seem to gather anew, clinging to her body as though drawn by some unseen force.

“No…” Her voice comes out soft, cracked like dried earth, yet steady. “And yet…” Her posture shifts. She is straight now, unbowed. “I’m finally seeing myself better now.”

The petals grow thicker. They cling to her raincoat in swaths of yellow as more begin to fall from beneath it, impossibly growing from the fabric itself. “Which is why I should plant the sprout and cover it with dirt with my own hands. Isn’t that right?” Her eyes, dark and sharp, rise to meet Dongrang’s. “The bud has fallen… and our fruit has long since withered… it must be covered with dirt again… let other fruits be borne…”

Rodion swallows, her hands curling and uncurling at her sides as if unsure whether to grab her weapon or let them hang uselessly. Her voice cracks with tension. “Hey… Is it really okay to let her be? You know, your mind doesn’t work right when you’re using E.G.O…”

Her words trail off as Heathcliff steps forward, his sharp gaze fixed on Dongrang, suspicion flaring in his narrowed eyes. “Now hold on,” Heathcliff growls. “Are you doing this on purpose…? Taunt her as much as you can…”

Outis’s frown deepens into something darker, her voice a hushed accusation. “And wait for her to tire herself out…”

Dongbaek does not acknowledge any of their concerns. She doesn’t even seem to hear them, her gaze drawn upward toward some unseen horizon. There is a hollowness in her expression, a darkness pooling just behind her eyes. “Back to the innocent times…” she murmurs, as if speaking to herself. Her voice grows heavier, her words weighted by something unspeakable. “Now without us.”

Dongrang’s smirk falters ever so slightly, his brows knitting together. “Ah, innocence. ” The word drips with disdain. “No words are as embarrassing as that.”

“Oi, keep it together!” Heathcliff snaps, his voice rising as he moves closer.

Dongrang exhales a soft laugh, though it is devoid of joy, more like the wheeze of someone out of breath. “No one can shake your mind like I do. Then and now. Isn’t that right?”

The words are a spark on dry tinder.

Dongbaek finally looks at him fully, her shoulders squared and her dark eyes unwavering. A tremor courses through her limbs—not of weakness but of something raw and growing. “No.” Her voice cuts clean through the tension. “I feel like my mind is blooming wider than ever.”

The earth beneath her seems to shift. There is a crackling sound—soft at first, like twigs snapping underfoot, and then louder as it begins to echo. Around her, the petals coalesce, swirling as though caught in an invisible current. Branches tear through the raincoat she wears, ripping seams and shredding fabric as they break free. The air thickens with the sweet, choking scent of spicebush flowers as the branches unfurl.

“I’ve always wished to be a bud, soon to burst into bloom.” Dongbaek intones, her voice carrying above the cacophony. “Shrouded in scent all over the body…”

The raincoat gives way with a final rip, falling in tatters to the ground. Beneath it, Dongbaek stands transformed. Her figure is draped in a white hanbok, the flowing fabric untouched by dirt or blood. Over it, a simple gray po overcoat hangs like a shroud, its edges brushing the broken earth. Her feet, clad in simple brown leather sandals, stand firm as roots digging into soil.

But it is the flowers—those flowers—that claim her. Yellow camellia blooms sprout from her head like a crown, their petals vivid and alive. Branches twist along her arms and spine, intertwining with her form as if they are a part of her now. In her hands, two weapons manifest: in her right, a fan adorned with flowers that flutter faintly with every movement; in her left, a spear of knotted, bark-like wood, its jagged edges sharp as glass.

Effloresced E.G.O.

Dante grips their PDA tightly .

Dongbaek raises the spear, its length humming faintly with some unseen energy. Her voice is calm—steady as an oath. “Even if this is my own heart-wrenching path, understood by no one…” She levels the weapon toward them, her dark gaze unreadable through the cascade of yellow petals. “I’ll still leave behind a morrow, strong and fertile like fallen petals.”

“So my intuition is correct,” he mused aloud, his tone almost detached, as though the realization held no personal weight for him. “This Identity... it bears an uncanny similarity to you.”

Dongbaek’s gaze snapped to him, her brows knitting together in suspicion. “Then you know.”

Yi Sang shook his head slowly, his movements deliberate, almost mechanical. “No,” he said, his voice calm and deliberate. “This is something beyond simple knowledge. A convergence of the improbable. I recalled that you once posed a question to my... colleague, Heathcliff. That is why I intercepted you.”

Her eyes narrowed, sharp as the spear she gripped in her hand. “Are you going to tell me what's going on in those Mirror Worlds of yours, then?”

He shook his head again, this time with a faint edge of finality. “Does it matter? You'll die soon enough.”

The declaration hit like a blade in the dark, but Dongbaek held her ground, her grip tightening on her weapon. “Just humor me this one time,” she said, her voice firm and unyielding. “At least tell me this: are you the one who took my place as the Technology Liberation Alliance Leader where you come from?”

Yi Sang’s gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing as if dissecting her words for hidden meaning. “Why should I tell you?” he asked, his tone mild but his intent unmistakable.  

Heathcliff groaned, cutting into the exchange with a low, exasperated growl. Dressed in his Lobotomy E.G.O::Sunshower Identity, he stood with an air of restless irritation, his weapon resting against his shoulder. “Bloody hell, you lot... We've got more pressing concerns than this. Like, I don’t know, caving each other’s skulls in?”

Rodion chimed in from a few paces back, her voice carrying a wry humor as she leaned casually on her weapon, clad in her Rosespanner Workshop Rep. Identity. “Hmmm, I dunno,” she drawled. “I prefer talking it out, you know? A little less ‘skull-caving,’ a little more chatting over food.”

“Talking is for cowards,” Ryōshū, in her R.B. Chef de Cuisine Identity, interjected, her voice sharp and clipped. She flicked the ash from her cigarette, her crimson eyes gleaming dangerously as she adjusted her grip on her blade. “N.O.T.T. No time for pleasantries. I prefer we S.T.A.B.”

Sinclair nodded solemnly, standing in his Los Mariachis Jefe Identity, the vibrant hues of his attire at odds with his grim demeanor. “Señorita Ryōshū is right,” he said, “There’s no way we’re walking away from this without bloodshed. All we can do is... slice them all to bits.”

Ryōshū turned her gaze to Sinclair, a low hum escaping her lips as she regarded him with vague amusement, the cigarette between her lips trailing a thin wisp of smoke. “Hmmm.”  

Rodion sighed audibly, rolling her eyes. “Fieldwork is nice,” she muttered, “but this? Why can’t we ever just get a break?”

From the rear of the group, Outis stepped forward, her insectoid horns twitching faintly as she spoke with commanding authority. In her G Corp. Head Manager Identity, her tone was anything but gentle. “Enough whining,” she snapped. “Don’t think you can desert from this confrontation, soldier. The only way forward is through violence. Prepare yourselves.”

Dongbaek watched them with an air of detached amusement, her head tilting slightly as though appraising their motley assembly. “You are an interesting lot,” she said, her voice carrying a note of mockery. Her petals began to stir again, spiraling faintly around her as her presence grew more menacing. “Too bad... I'm going to shatter you all.”

And then, without further warning, she surged forward.

Chapter Text

Some time in District 20 in a distant Mirror World, about two or so years ago…

Dongbaek’s fingers curled around the edge of the heavy blanket, the fabric coarse beneath her grip. Even though her voice remained even, there was no mistaking the quiet intensity with which she spoke.

“We only made minor modifications to Brother Young-ji’s work.”

A glance passed between her and Catherine, wordless but filled with an anticipation so electric it could have crackled in the still air of the candlelit chamber. With a single, practiced motion, the two pulled away the covering, letting the cloth slide like water over the surface of the table. The gathered members of the League of Eleven Littérateurs inhaled sharply, their voices rising in soft exclamations of awe and curiosity.

Before them stood a device unlike any seen before: a circular frame, polished to a near mirror sheen, held upright by an intricate stand of interwoven metals. At its heart, a crystalline lens gleamed, catching the dim light of the room and twisting it into something ethereal. But what truly held the room captive was the image shimmering within its center—

Stars. A sea of them, caught in the dusky hues of a sky at twilight. Purple, deepening into velvety indigo, kissed with the embers of a dying sun. It was not a mere reflection, nor a simple projection—it was a window. A threshold. A glimpse into another reality.

The Mirror.

Catherine stepped forward, unable to mask the excitement bubbling beneath her words. “We wanted to capture every possibility, every glimmer of what could be, and reflect it in its truest, unvarnished form.” She let out a small, almost breathless laugh, her eyes alight. “That’s why I’ve been thinking of calling it simply—‘Mirror’.”

A pause. A smile that carried the weight of boundless dreams. “I hope that this will be a tool not just for knowledge, but for joy. For stories. For glimpses of wonder we never thought possible.”

Yi Sang’s sharp, contemplative gaze lingered on the device, his expression unchanging save for the brief widening of his eyes—quick, subtle, but unmistakable to those who knew him. “A… thing to be working on,” he murmured, his voice light but edged with the unmistakable pull of curiosity. “This must have taken you quite some time.”

Across from him, Heathcliff’s brow furrowed, his skepticism tempered by the unmistakable flicker of amazement in his gaze. The device’s colors—the sheer vibrancy of it—shattered the usual sepia haze of their dimly lit surroundings, bleeding through the peach-stained shadows like the first streak of dawn. He exhaled sharply through his nose, arms crossing over his chest.

“Is this why I haven't been able to see you lately?” he said, his voice rough but quieter than usual. His gaze flickered to Catherine. “To discover this?”

A chuckle broke through the reverent hush, rich and unmistakably amused.

“Oi, Dongrang, why are you laughing like that, huh?”

Dongrang, watching them with the air of a cat entertained by the antics of its prey, shook his head. “Oh, nothing,” he mused, his lips quirked in a teasing grin, “It’s just funny that you’re talking so ferociously when your eyes are full of curious twinkles.”

Yi Sang blinked, looking away quickly as if to regain his composure, but the subtle tint of color dusting his cheeks betrayed him. “Ah. Just an observation.”

Heathcliff, however, recoiled, his usual sharp scowl deepening as color flooded his already-scarred face. “Wh—” He turned to Catherine, gesturing wildly. “Cathy, will you tell him to shut it? Bloke’s getting on my nerves.”

Catherine, instead of answering, only laughed, warm and unrestrained.

Dongrang’s smirk widened. “Why don’t you hide your astonishment of a child who’s tried ice cream for the first time on your face first?” His tone was infuriatingly smooth. “You and Catherine may have been the last to join the League, but you share an unshakable fascination with things beyond your understanding.”

The chamber swelled with laughter. Low chuckles, full-bodied guffaws, the occasional wheeze of someone unable to contain their mirth. The kind of laughter that came from a place of genuine camaraderie, from the sheer delight of discovery, from the shared realization that, for this moment, they were all connected by something extraordinary.

Voices overlapped in bursts of excitement.

Eyes, wide with wonder, reflected the glow of the Mirror.

Hands reached out, almost afraid to touch the impossibility before them.

Pure, unfiltered joy radiated through the room—brighter, perhaps, than even the stars held within the looking glass.

Some time during the events of Canto IV...

The scent of camellias was thick in the air, a heady perfume that clung to the senses as if the very walls of the K Corp. screening room were steeped in its essence. The space was vast yet oppressive, the mechanical hum of the facility drowned beneath the echoes of combat. The sterile glow of overhead lights flickered, casting elongated shadows that twisted like specters across the polished floor.

Dongbaek moved like a ghost, a blur of silk and steel, weaving through the strikes of her attackers with an effortless grace. Her po overcoat billowed as she danced between them, her every movement precise, calculated. The Sinners encircled her, weapons gleaming under the artificial glow. Rodion lunged first, her massive chainsaw-wrench hybrid roaring as it descended, a monstrous arc meant to carve Dongbaek in half. But she was faster—her camellia wood hand fan met the strike with deceptive ease, halting the deadly swing in midair. A deafening clang resonated as metal met wood, vibrations coursing up Rodion’s arms. Her teeth clenched, eyes narrowing, but before she could react, Dongbaek had already spun away, a swirl of silk slipping beyond reach.

Meursault was next. He stepped forward with the precision of a machine, his enormous mechanical hammer swinging down like a judge’s gavel, final and absolute. The force behind it was enough to shatter stone. But Dongbaek merely tilted her head, sidestepping at the last possible moment. The weapon collided with the ground where she had stood, sending a tremor rippling through the floor, shards of polished tile bursting into the air like shrapnel. A beat of silence hung between them—then, in the space of a breath, Dongbaek retaliated. Her fan snapped open, a blur of lacquered wood and razor-sharp edges as she struck out, forcing Meursault a step back.

“<Outis! Next!>” Dante’s voice rang sharp and clear over the fray.

Without hesitation, Outis stepped forward, her insectoid horns pulsating as psychic energy coiled around her fingertips. The air crackled as an unseen force built up, distorting the very fabric of reality around her hands. With a sharp exhale, she unleashed a concentrated blast, its impact rippling through the space between them before slamming into Dongbaek mid-dash. The force sent her reeling backward, her heels digging against the smooth ground as she fought to steady herself. Dust and shattered tile flared up around her, the scent of camellias briefly overpowered by the tang of scorched air. But she did not falter. Gritting her teeth, she willed her body forward once more, her spear glinting like polished ivory in the dim light.

“<Sinclair! Retreat! Ryōshū! Take over!>”

Sinclair barely managed to twist away as Dongbaek’s spear whistled past him, its deadly edge grazing the air where his throat had been. He withdrew in a blur of movement, his breath hitching, but Ryōshū wasted no time in taking his place. Her kitchen knife gleamed wickedly as she darted in, her movements sharp and decisive. The two weapons met in a flash of steel and lacquered wood, sending a cascade of sparks into the air. Every strike was a deadly exchange, every feint met with an immediate counter.

“You fight like this is worth something,” Ryōshū muttered, her tone edged with disdain. “Give up.”

Dongbaek narrowed her eyes. "Everything is worth something. You just don't see it."

She twisted her grip in an instant, breaking the deadlock and forcing Ryōshū back with a sudden, violent shove. With her opponent momentarily off-balance, Dongbaek seized the opening, her spear carving through the air in a ruthless arc. The blade found its mark, slicing cleanly across Ryōshū’s torso. The R.B. Chef de Cuisine barely reacted—only the twitch of her jaw and the deepening furrow of her brow betrayed the pain as she bit down harder on the cigarette between her lips, stubbornly refusing to cry out.

“<Now! Heathcliff! Yi Sang! She’s open!>”

Heathcliff moved first, his brown raincoat flaring behind him like the tail of a striking hawk. He lunged, his umbrella an elegant deception, its sharpened point driving forward with the precision of a fencer’s rapier. It struck true, piercing into Dongbaek’s side. A sharp hiss escaped her lips, and though the wound was shallow, it still left its mark. Before she could recover, Yi Sang followed through with near mechanical precision, his own hand fan unfolding with a whisper of silk and steel. He moved with eerie smoothness, his expression unchanging as his blade-like fan sliced through the air, its edge cutting into her flesh.

A pause. A heartbeat of silence, broken only by the ragged breathing of the combatants, the scent of camellias lingering thick between them like an omen.

Dongbaek exhaled, her eyes narrowing. “You people are so annoying…”

She lifted her fan, snapping it open with a flick of her wrist. Her movements were deliberate, precise. Then, she turned—graceful as a dancer—and with the motion came a storm of yellow camellia petals, swirling around her in a golden tempest. The petals spun like tiny golden stars, catching the artificial light of the screening room before consuming it entirely.

A hush fell over the battlefield. The Sinners barely had time to react before their surroundings shifted in an overwhelming cascade of golden bloom.

The sterile walls of the screening room melted away, dissolving like ink in water. In its place, a vast riverside emerged—ancient, eternal, untouched by time. The ground beneath them had changed, no longer the cold, unfeeling steel of K Corp.'s facility but smooth stone, worn down by centuries of rushing currents. Yellow camellia petals blanketed the riverside, drifting lazily in the gentle breeze that whispered through the landscape. The towering camellia trees stretched toward the heavens, their branches laden with blossoms that painted the sky in soft, sun-kissed hues.

Above them, the artificial ceiling had vanished, replaced by an endless expanse of blue, unmarred by the harsh fluorescent glow of the screening room. The light here was warm and natural, filtering through the dense canopy in a shifting dance of gold and green. The air was thick with the scent of camellias, richer and more vivid than before, as though the flowers themselves breathed with life.

Dante’s breath hitched. “<What in the world…?>”

It was more than just an illusion, more than the reality they had seen countless times within Limbus Company’s own artificial E.G.O. This was something different, something real. This was Dongbaek’s personal E.G.O.—her own power, her will made manifest.

Her gaze burned with frustration as she turned to face them. “Why are you so insistent on stopping me?” Her voice was laced with fury, but beneath it, there was something else—desperation. “You’re dooming this City further if you continue on this path.”

Heathcliff scoffed, his expression darkening. “Yeah, uh-huh. Have you ever thought that maybe this isn’t the best way to go about it?”

Yi Sang stepped forward beside him, his expression unreadable, his voice flat. “The irony of that statement is…”

The scent of camellias thickened as the battlefield morphed into a dusky haze of yellow petals and shifting air. The four blooming shrubs beside Dongbaek shuddered, their branches coiling with unnatural energy. Crackling discharges of yellow light burst from them, streaking toward the Sinners like lightning bolts, illuminating the rocky riverside in stark, eerie flashes. The air crackled with static, heavy with an energy that twisted reality itself.

Dante’s clock hand clicked into place. “<Rodion! Meursault! Block the blasts!>”

Rodion planted her feet, her boots digging into the earth as she swung her chainsaw-wrench into a defensive stance. The jagged metal screeched, its grinding teeth forming a crude barrier against the incoming energy. Beside her, Meursault’s massive hammer came down like a fortress gate slamming shut, absorbing the brunt of another attack. Sparks danced across their weapons as the kinetic force threatened to push them back, but both remained unmoved, their grips tightening against the unrelenting power.

“<Sinclair, Ryōshū! Dodge and flank!>”

Sinclair spun away in a blur, his puffy white jacket flaring with the motion. He barely avoided a grazing strike, the heat of the energy blast licking at his face. His maracas shifted from pink to cyan, glowing in sync with his skeletal face paint as he pivoted on his heel, swinging them in an elegant arc. Ryōshū, meanwhile, moved like a phantom, darting through the chaos with a grace that belied the bloodied knife in her grip. She slid low, the sharp edge of her blade glinting in the refracted energy as she zeroed in on the camellia shrubs.

“<Outis, fire back!>”

Outis raised a hand, her insectoid horns pulsing with violent light. A tremor ran through the air as an invisible force burst from her palm, rippling through the battlefield like a wave of pure willpower. The shockwave slammed into one of the shrubs, tearing through its dense structure. Petals and shattered bark flew outward as it collapsed into itself, reduced to lifeless fragments.

“<Heathcliff, Yi Sang! Press forward!>”

Heathcliff surged ahead, his white-green umbrella twirling with an almost hypnotic grace. The air around him shimmered with the heat of battle as he brought it down, its sharp edges rending through the second shrub in a single motion. Behind him, Yi Sang moved in eerie silence, his spear of darkened branches lancing forward. The third shrub barely had time to react before it was impaled, its essence unraveling in a desperate burst of yellow energy. Yi Sang twisted away at the last moment, his po overcoat trailing behind him as the petals dispersed harmlessly into the wind.

Then, Dongbaek moved.

She pivoted sharply, her hanbok and po overcoat flaring with her movement. Meursault’s hammer came crashing down toward her, but with a single precise flick of her flower fan, she deflected the blow, redirecting its force into the ground. The impact sent a shockwave through the earth, displacing dust and petals, but she remained unshaken.

“You stand against me, yet you don’t understand,” she muttered, her voice sharp with frustration. “Why do you insist on this senseless struggle?”

“You talk too much,” Ryōshū scoffed, launching herself forward, blade flashing. Her footfalls were soundless against the petal-covered ground.

Dongbaek countered effortlessly. Her spear twisted, intercepting Ryōshū’s knife and redirecting the attack with such fluidity that it was as if she had foreseen it before it happened. Ryōshū’s balance faltered for a fraction of a second—long enough for Dongbaek to retaliate. She shifted her weight and struck, a sharp gust of wind carrying the force of her blow.

In that instant, the final camellia shrub let out one last desperate discharge.

Dante’s eyes snapped to it. “<Rodion! Take it out!>”

Rodion smirked. “On it.”

With a single, brutal swing, her chainsaw-wrench hybrid roared as it carved through the shrub, reducing it to shreds. The petals disintegrated, their luminous energy fading into the void.

Dongbaek exhaled sharply. The battlefield was bare now—only her and the Sinners remained. The air still pulsed with residual power, the echoes of the battle lingering in the rustling leaves.

The battle erupted into chaos as Dante gave the next command.

“<Everyone—attack at once!>”

Without hesitation, the Sinners lunged at Dongbaek from all angles, their weapons flashing under the eerie golden light of the riverside.

Rodion came first, her chainsaw-wrench revving as she swung downward in a brutal arc. Dongbaek met the strike with her fan, the force of the impact sending a shockwave through the air. The camellia wood absorbed the brunt of the mechanical teeth, redirecting Rodion’s attack harmlessly aside. Rodion gritted her teeth, wrenching her weapon back, but before she could swing again, Meursault was already in motion.

His mechanical hammer came down like a guillotine, a brutal arc of destruction. Dongbaek pivoted at the last possible moment, raising her spear to meet the strike. Sparks exploded as wood and metal clashed, the sheer force of his attack shaking the ground beneath them. But even against the weight of Meursault’s strike, Dongbaek did not falter—she shifted her stance, redirecting the hammer’s momentum so it crashed harmlessly to her side, sending cracks spiderwebbing through the dirt.

Sinclair and Ryōshū lunged next, their movements synchronized yet utterly unpredictable. Sinclair’s maracas flared cyan, illuminating his skeletal face paint as he weaved in from the left. His movements were deceptive, his hands a blur as he aimed for her ribs with a lightning-fast jab. Dongbaek twisted, her fan snapping shut in a precise counter, catching his wrist and forcing him back with a sharp flick. He staggered, a hiss escaping his lips as he tried to recover, but Ryōshū was already upon Dongbaek, her kitchen knife flashing in an upward arc toward Dongbaek’s exposed legs.

A hair’s breadth before the blade found its mark, Dongbaek leaped. Her sandals barely brushed the air before she twisted mid-motion, her spear hooking downward to intercept Ryōshū’s knife. The clash sent Ryōshū skidding backward, her cigarette clenched tightly between her teeth as she adjusted her grip, already preparing another attack.

Outis struck next, her horns pulsing with psychic power as she unleashed a crackling blast of energy. Dongbaek moved instantly, her fan sweeping upward in an elegant arc. The force of the blast rippled through the air, but the moment it met her fan, it dissipated like mist before the sun, folding in upon itself until it was nothing more than scattered energy. Outis recoiled, her eyes narrowing in frustration at the effortless counter.

Heathcliff snarled, his tattered raincoat flaring behind him as he lunged forward. His umbrella gleamed under the golden light, its pointed tip aiming straight for Dongbaek’s heart. The precision of the strike was undeniable, but Dongbaek met it with an equally precise counter. A flick of her wrist, a whisper of movement, and Heathcliff’s attack veered just past her shoulder, the umbrella sliding off-course. He stumbled, his balance disrupted just enough to keep him from regaining the upper hand.

Then, Yi Sang moved.

Unlike the others, his approach was not reckless—it was methodical. His spicebush fan unfolded with a whisper, his stance measured, his golden eye locked onto Dongbaek with unreadable intensity. In his other hand, the sharp branch poised like a spear, its jagged tip aimed with unwavering precision.

Their weapons met in a violent clash.

Yi Sang’s branch and Dongbaek’s spear collided with such force that the ground beneath them groaned in protest, small stones jolting into the air from the impact. A surge of energy exploded outward, golden petals bursting around them like a whirlwind. The battle condensed into a rapid flurry of motion—fan against fan, spear against branch, each movement honed and deliberate.

Their attacks were precise, almost poetic in their execution. Yi Sang’s golden eye narrowed as he analyzed each feint, each counter, each slight opening. And then, he saw it.

Pivoting sharply, he twisted his body and struck out with his branch, knocking Dongbaek’s spear aside just enough to break her stance. Before she could recover, he followed through—his fan swept forward, striking her squarely in the chest with the force of a thunderclap.

Dongbaek flew back, tumbling across the ground before landing in a crouch, her breath coming in slow, measured inhales.

Then, the battlefield shifted.

Golden brambles erupted from the ground where she had stood, snaking outward like living creatures. Before the Sinners could react, the tendrils of camellia-wrapped vines coiled around them, ensnaring their limbs and locking them in place.

Rodion cursed, struggling against the vines tightening around her wrench. Meursault barely twitched as the thorns pressed into his skin. Sinclair and Ryōshū thrashed against their bindings, but the brambles only tightened in response. Heathcliff’s raincoat flapped wildly as he fought, but even his strength couldn’t break free. Outis clenched her teeth, her horns flickering with energy, but her psychic powers did nothing against the ever-growing vines.

In mere moments, all of them were immobilized.

All except Yi Sang.

He stood alone, his spicebush fan still raised, his golden eye meeting Dongbaek’s from across the battlefield.

Dongbaek’s eyes flickered in acknowledgment. She recognized the shift in the battle. This was no coincidence. This was a duel.

Silence.

Then, she exhaled slowly, rising to her feet. The petals around her stirred, whispering against the wind.

The battlefield stood still for a moment, the only sound the rustling of golden petals caught in the breeze. The brambles wrapped tightly around the Sinners, leaving Yi Sang as the only one left standing. He and Dongbaek stared at each other across the rocky riverside, tension crackling between them like a distant storm.

“This fight,” she murmured, her voice calm yet laced with something unreadable, “belongs to us alone.”

Then, something shifted.

Dongbaek’s breathing deepened, slow and measured, her fingers tightening around the spear and fan in her hands. A pulse of energy radiated from her body, sending a ripple through the golden petals around her feet. Her golden eye burned brighter, the branches growing from her back shuddering as if awakened by an unseen force.

She was getting stronger.

Dante, watching from the sidelines, felt a jolt of panic strike through them. “<Yi Sang, be careful! She’s—>”

“—I know,” Yi Sang interrupted, his voice as calm as ever. He turned his head slightly toward Dante but kept his golden eye trained on Dongbaek. “There is no need for concern.”

Dante swallowed hard, gripping their PDA tight. Dongbaek wasn’t just any opponent—she was powerful before, but now, against Yi Sang specifically, something about her movements became sharper, faster, almost overwhelming.

She lunged.

“<Dodge! Now!>”

Yi Sang moved an instant before her spear could pierce his side, the sharp edge slicing through the air where he had been standing only moments ago. The golden petals scattered as he leaped back, his spicebush fan flicking open in his hand.

“<Counter with the fan—go for her left!>”

He did. His movements were fluid, almost effortless, the fan sweeping out in a precise arc aimed at her exposed side. But Dongbaek’s spear twisted mid-motion, intercepting the strike with a sharp clash that sent another shockwave through the battlefield. Sparks flared where their weapons met, the force of the impact causing the brambles around them to tremble.

She pushed forward.

Yi Sang barely had time to brace before she struck again, her fan snapping toward his face while her spear drove low toward his ribs. The speed was unnatural, faster than before. He twisted, parrying the fan with his own, while his branch-like spear intercepted her thrust. The air cracked with the sheer force of their clash, their feet grinding into the rocky ground as they pushed against each other.

Neither yielded.

“<Again! Strike downward—force her back!>”

Yi Sang pivoted, his fan snapping shut as he brought it down in a sharp, downward arc. Dongbaek raised her own to block, but this time, the force of the impact was enough to stagger her. She stumbled back a step, her sandals scraping against the stone.

It was the first time she had lost footing.

The realization flashed in her golden eye, and for the first time in the battle, her composure wavered.

Yi Sang straightened, his visible eye unreadable, but instead of waiting, he advanced. With a sudden burst of movement, he struck, his fan snapping outward in a sharp, controlled arc. Dongbaek barely had time to brace as the force of the impact sent her reeling. Before she could recover, Yi Sang pressed his advantage, closing the distance between them in a blink.

The sharp pounding on the door reverberated through the cramped study, shaking the dust from old, yellowed bookshelves and sending a tremor through the candlelit room. The scent of aged paper and wax mingled with something heavier—something cold, something foreboding.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Where is Young-ji, the League of Eleven Littérateurs’ leader, and his glass technology?”

The voice outside was sharp, authoritative, and seething with the self-assuredness of someone who had already decided the fate of those within. A T Corp. Class 4 Collector. The kind of enforcer sent when patience had run out and the sentence had already been written.

Yi Sang, Dongbaek, Catherine, Heathcliff, Dongrang, and Sang-heo stood frozen, exchanging looks that carried far more than words ever could. Their breath came shallow. The glow of the candlelight cast their shadows long and flickering against the walls, fractured by the tall, creaking bookshelves that loomed over them like silent spectators.

The knocking grew more violent. Bang. Bang. Bang.

“This is the price you pay for the time you’ve spent wrongly,” the Collector continued, each syllable landing like the strike of a hammer. “Open the door to the basement.”

Yi Sang's brows knitted together, his mind racing. “How do they know about the basement?” His voice was barely a whisper, but it sent another ripple of unease through the room.

Heathcliff exhaled sharply through his teeth, his usual sardonic edge giving way to something colder. “Some nitwit ratted us out. Bet it’s that asshole Gap-ryong.” His fingers flexed at his sides, restless, hungry for something to do. Something destructive.

“That matters no longer, Heathcliff,” Sang-heo interrupted, shaking her head. Her voice, always firm, was now a taut string threatening to snap. “We must run. Now.”

But Heathcliff only turned, eyes glinting, towards Catherine. A slow grin spread across his face—one that did not reach his eyes.

“…Say, how about I treat you to a stunning fireworks display for the last time, eh, Cathy?” His voice was almost too light. Almost. “Fire can be a rather pretty flower when seen from a distance.”

Catherine's breath caught in her throat. What does he mean?

She wasn’t the only one who understood too late.

Yi Sang’s gaze darkened, the gears in his mind clicking into place. “Ah. So you're doing that, then?” he murmured, his voice quiet yet final. “That thing we planned for when everything goes awry…”

Sang-heo turned to them, eyes flashing with alarm. “Yi Sang… Heathcliff… are you planning to—”

Yi Sang cut her off with a single glance. “Let me ask one last time.” His voice was eerily calm, but the weight of his words pressed down on the room like an executioner’s blade. “None of you here are traitors, right?”

Heathcliff merely shook his head, that knowing grin still lingering.

Dongbaek, tense, merely pressed her lips together, her fingers clenching into fists at her sides before giving a slow shake of her head.

“No, I would never,” Catherine said, the conviction in her voice sharp and immediate.

Sang-heo let out an incredulous huff. “You’re asking a ridiculous question.”

Their eyes turned to Dongrang.

Outside, the knocking had turned to full-fledged pounding, the kind that splintered wood and rattled the metal hinges. The moment was slipping.

Dongrang parted his lips to speak—

And then the world shattered.

The explosion came without warning, a blinding burst of heat and force that ripped through the room with violent hunger. The wooden beams groaned and cracked, flames licking up the walls in greedy tongues. The shelves, once weighed down by countless works of philosophy and poetry, collapsed in an instant, their contents swallowed by the inferno.

A deafening roar, a shockwave tearing through them, hurling bodies against the floor, against the walls—against each other.

Smoke filled their lungs, choking out screams before they could form.

Everything—everything—was fire and chaos.

And just like that, the door, the pounding, the voices outside—

All of it was drowned in the storm of their destruction.

His spear thrusted forward, precise and relentless, meeting her guard with a resounding clash. Dongbaek gritted her teeth, her muscles straining as she fought to hold her ground, but Yi Sang did not let up. His attacks flowed seamlessly, an elegant but ruthless barrage, forcing her further back with each impact.

Then, with a final, decisive strike, he twisted his body and swept his fan upward. The force of the blow struck true, and Dongbaek’s stance finally faltered—her body lurched as she staggered backward, her footing momentarily lost. A flicker of shock crossed her face as she fought to regain balance, but it was too late. Blood seeped from the efficient strikes poised at her torso. Dongbaek gripped her wounds tight, stunned momentarily, but still standing.

Dante exhaled sharply, gripping their PDA tighter. For the first time, they saw an opening.

The battlefield seemed to exhale, a sharp, breathless pause stretching between one moment and the next. Dongbaek’s body shuddered, her form wavering under the force of Yi Sang’s decisive strike. Her balance faltered, her feet skidding against the rocky ground. For the first time since the battle began, her defenses broke.

And with that break, so too did her hold over the others.

The golden brambles that had ensnared the Sinners trembled, their grip loosening as if some unseen force had severed the strings that bound them. The thorny vines, once coiled tight around their limbs and torsos, began to unravel, unwinding like silk caught in the wind. One by one, they were released, the enchanted bindings snapping and withering into scattered petals that dissolved into the air.

Rodion was the first to react, rolling her shoulders with an exaggerated groan before stretching out her arms and cracking her knuckles. “Hoo-wee!” She let out a sharp whistle. “Yi Sang, that was amazing! Seriously, didn’t think you had it in you.”

Yi Sang remained still, his visible golden eye locked on Dongbaek. His breath was steady, but there was something sharpening in his gaze—an edge of contemplation that had not been there before.

Outis, brushing stray brambles off her uniform, straightened with a huff. “Your efforts are recognized, soldier,” she acknowledged curtly. “No doubt thanks to our Executive Manager’s precise commands. But there is no time to waste. Our opponent is vulnerable.”

The Sinners followed her gaze, their focus settling on Dongbaek.

She was hunched over, her body tense with pain. Her spear had dipped lower, her hand pressing against the wound at her torso where Yi Sang’s strike had landed. Blood—dark, rich, and gleaming—seeped between her fingers. Her chest rose and fell, shallow but controlled, her grip tightening around her weapon as she fought to steady herself.

Despite the pain, despite the wavering in her limbs, Dongbaek’s golden eye burned.

Yi Sang studied her carefully. His mind turned, spiraling down a familiar path, calculations layering upon themselves like endless sheets of parchment. This sight—this moment—it meant something.

“Perhaps…” he murmured, his voice barely above a breath. “This is… a warning.” His fingers twitched, his gaze clouding over in thought. “Yes. A warning from the future of a Mirror World besides my own.”

The others exchanged wary glances.

Heathcliff sighed and stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Yi Sang’s shoulder. “I get what you mean,” he muttered, his tone uncharacteristically even. “But we should save that for later, yeah? We got a job to do.”

A flicker of clarity returned to Yi Sang’s expression. He blinked, refocusing on the present, and gave a short nod. “Right. Of course.”

From the sidelines, Dante’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding.

“<Sinners!>”

The weight of their call fell upon all of them, setting their blood alight with battle-ready fervor.

“<Give it everything you have!>”

And with that final order, they moved.

A wave of bodies surged forward, steel flashing, boots pounding against stone. The golden petals that littered the battlefield were kicked into the air as they rushed toward their wounded opponent, their weapons drawn, their resolve unshaken.

Dongbaek, despite her wound, lifted her gaze. Her fingers curled tightly around her fan and spear, her breath stilling as the Sinners descended upon her.

Chapter Text

Some time before the events of Intervallo II…

Déjà vu.

A fleeting whisper of the past reaching out to grasp the present. A sensation like fingers trailing across the skin—intangible, yet undeniable. It was a trick of the mind, an illusion brought upon by familiarity, and yet, as Dante stood there, looking upon the scene unfurling before them, they knew with absolute certainty: this moment had already happened.

Or rather, it was always meant to happen.

The air was heavy with unspoken words, thick with the scent of anticipation, like the breath before a storm. In hindsight, perhaps Dante should have expected this. When they had activated the newly extracted Identities, when the threads of fate had been woven anew, perhaps this inevitable clash had already been etched into reality. And now, it stood before them—a tableau of warriors, poised on the precipice of battle, the tension sharp enough to draw blood.

On one side, the Blade Lineage stood like shadows cast in moonlight—silent, disciplined, and deadly.

Faust, Don Quixote, and Sinclair had donned the mantle of the Blade Lineage Salsu, their forms draped in the signature garb of the assassins: black undershirts with high collars and ample sleeves, overlain by flowing dopo robes, the fabric whispering with each measured breath. The red cords binding their jikdo blades to their waists stood in stark contrast against the dark fabric, as though woven from the very essence of fate. There was no individuality in their uniforms—only purpose. And yet, their stances betrayed their differences.

Sinclair stood with rigid tension, his left hand gripping the top of his scabbard, knuckles white with restrained energy. His breath was measured, but Dante could see it—the tremor just beneath the surface, the silent war waging within his gaze.

Faust, ever the enigmatic one, carried herself with a languid elegance. Her left hand rested lightly atop her sword’s pommel, her expression unreadable, as if she were privy to some greater truth that none but she could comprehend.

And then there was Don Quixote—an anomaly, as always. Her stance was the most aggressive, her jikdo already unsheathed in her right hand while the scabbard dangled lightly in her left. Though she bore the same uniform, there was something unmistakably her in the way she stood, the way her vibrant energy could not be suppressed even by the weight of tradition. Even in this role, she clung to her individuality—her yellow and brown running shoes, Rocinante, breaking the otherwise seamless uniformity of the Blade Lineage.

Standing before them was their Mentor. Meursault.

He towered above them, a monolith of unwavering strength. His bamboo conical hat cast a shadow over his face, hiding all but a single glowing blue eye, peering through a tear in the lattice. That single, glinting eye was enough—it was as if he could see straight through to the marrow of one’s soul. He was dressed in a white collared shirt beneath a black vest and red tie, a contrast to the assassins under his command. His own black dopo robe billowed slightly, his hwando unsheathed in his grasp, the gleam of metal catching the dim light. Unlike the others, his presence was not one of silent anticipation, but of certainty. He did not waver, did not tense. He was a force already set in motion, a blade that had been honed beyond the need for hesitation.

They were warriors bred from the art of killing. Silent as the wind. Swift as the falling blade.

And yet, opposite them stood the Kurokumo Clan, unmoving, their presence a storm waiting to break.

Ryōshū and Heathcliff, clad in the garments of the Kurokumo Henchmen, stood flanked by their Captains—Gregor and Ishmael—each a pillar of defiance against the precision of the Blade Lineage. They were not assassins who moved unseen in the night. They were warriors who thrived in the chaos of bloodshed, who wore their scars like badges of honor.

Ryōshū, a cigarette perched between her lips, exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around her like a spirit refusing to dissipate. The black kimono she wore was adorned with delicate floral designs, the softness of its artistry a sharp contrast to the brutal reality of the sword resting against her hip. A black haori draped over her shoulders, shielding the cloud tattoos that wound their way up her arms, curling around her neck like ghostly serpents. A long scar cut across her face, a testament to battles fought and survived. Upon her back, her ever-present ōdachi loomed, while the katana at her side rested, waiting. She was a portrait of death painted in elegance, and yet, she grinned—mocking, taunting.

Beside her, Heathcliff rolled his shoulders, his dark gray shirt shifting just enough to reveal the telltale ink of the Kurokumo Clan branding his skin. His slacks hung loosely, held up by a leather belt that did little to contain the quiet menace exuding from his frame. Unlike Ryōshū, he held his ōdachi already unsheathed, resting casually against his shoulder. The metal gleamed, but what shone even brighter was the ring on his right index finger, catching the dim light.

And then there were the Captains.

Gregor, standing beside Ryōshū, was a sight to behold. His Kurokumo robe fell open over a black suit jacket and white undershirt, revealing his chest marred with scars and inked with the Clan’s swirling cloud motifs. His right arm had long since been replaced—a mechanical prosthetic, decorated with those same curling clouds, a testament to his unyielding loyalty to the Clan. An eyepatch obscured his left eye, but even with only one, he regarded the opposing side with a grin—lazily confident, the scent of alcohol lingering faintly in the air around him. His fingers rested on the hilt of his katana, but they did not tighten, did not tremble. He was already at ease in the face of battle, as if conflict was nothing more than an old friend.

There, too, was Ishmael, standing across from Meursault, right beside Heathcliff. Her kimono, dark and loose, barely clung to her shoulders, slipping off just enough to reveal the swirling tattoos beneath. Her hair was bound in a bun, secured by her rope hairband, decorated with two wooden hair sticks that swayed slightly as she breathed. She stood poised, gripping the detached scabbard of her ōdachi with both hands, holding it in front of her like a shield, her gaze sharp and unyielding.

The two forces stood at an impasse, a breath away from shattering the fragile stillness.

And Dante?

Dante remained silent.

Not out of indifference, nor out of cowardice, but out of sheer, suffocating dread.

For they knew—knew—that the wrong word, the wrong movement, even the wrong breath could be the catalyst that shattered this fragile equilibrium.

Two factions, two blades drawn in the dark.

The past and present coiling into one.

Déjà vu.

A nervous chuckle broke the taut silence, brittle and uncertain.

“Ahaha… looks like déjà vu, eh, Dante?”

Rodion’s voice, usually warm with laughter, wavered with unease. Her grip on her axe was too tight, fingers whitening against the wood. The sharp contrast between the mirth in her words and the tension in her stance was not lost on Dante. Even she, for all her bravado, knew the weight of the moment.

Outis, ever the disciplinarian, huffed in irritation. Her arms crossed, her posture rigid with disapproval. “Such behavior is unideal! As Sinners under our Executive Manager’s command, they must be united!” Her teeth ground together audibly, as though physically pained by the disorder before her.

Yi Sang exhaled, the sound drawn-out and weary. “Mmm… ‘unideal’ would be correct… and yet…” His gaze, unfocused yet contemplative, drifted across the scene. “As we were in their position before… we were once the same, were we not?”

A hearty laugh interrupted the air, cutting through the heavy atmosphere with the ease of a well-tempered blade. “Don’t worry, Manager!” Hong Lu clapped a reassuring hand on Dante’s shoulder. “I’m sure they’ll come around eventually!” His usual cheerfulness rang through, as if the battlefield they stood upon was nothing more than a dinner table squabble.

Dante’s head ticked in silent contemplation, gears grinding within their prosthetic clockwork skull. There had to be a way to break this standstill.

And yet, the more they calculated, the more the paths all led to ruin.

The Blade Lineage and the Kurokumo Clan stood at an impasse, neither willing to break first, neither willing to yield. If Dante forced one side into submission, resentment would fester like an untreated wound. If they allowed this to continue, the divide would only widen, turning fissures into canyons.

A true dilemma.

Such was the weight of the Executive Manager’s yoke.

Dante clapped their hands together, the sound sharp in the air. “<Okay, uhhh, guys?>” Their voice was deliberately light, almost casual, but even they could hear the forced edge behind it. “<Break it up. This song and dance is kinda done already, so, uhhh… can you please stop?>”

Gregor scoffed, his grin widening, the scent of alcohol wafting off him like a second skin. He swayed ever so slightly, his stance deceptively loose—like a predator waiting to pounce. “Not when those Blade Lineage bums turn tail and kneel,” he slurred, the amusement in his voice laced with barely restrained aggression. “I’m losing my patience.”

Ishmael exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Urgh… and of all times… you just had to be drunk…” She straightened, her fingers tightening around her scabbard. “But yes. Such is the Kurokumo. We will never back down.” Her eyes slid toward Meursault, cold and assessing. “And as it stands, it seems… neither will they.”

A plume of smoke drifted lazily from Ryōshū’s lips as she flicked ash from her cigarette. “B.A.H. This is getting old. I wanna G.T.F.O.”

A moment of silence.

Sinclair furrowed his brows, hesitance flickering across his face. “…‘Gut them fully outwards’…?”

A pause. Then Heathcliff turned to him, blinking, his expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief. “Holy shit, why did you interpret it like that? I don’t think that’s—”

“He’s right.”

The Kurokumo stilled.

Ryōshū, previously disinterested, now grinned like a feral dog catching the scent of fresh meat. Her red eyes gleamed, wild and sharp, as she took a step forward, gaze fixed on Sinclair as though sizing him up for a kill. “Such a shame you’re on the other team. Maybe I should lobotomize your brain with my katana… so that you’ll see you’re better off as an interpreter for my S.A.N.G.R.I.A.” A chuckle, dark and amused. “Ah, but what brain would I pick on, if it’s the empty skull of B.L.S.?”

Sinclair’s fingers curled tightly around his scabbard. His gaze, usually hesitant, now burned with something deeper. Something dark. His voice, when it came, was low and venomous. “You dare…”

“Forsooth!”

A new voice cut through the tension, loud and impassioned.

Don Quixote stepped forward, her blade poised and ready, the grip on her scabbard tightening. Her eyes gleamed with righteous fury. “What manner of wickedness is’t that thou wouldst indoctrinate one of our own into thy company? Thou Kurokumo Clan knaves art naught but villainous scoundrels! Truly, I should cleave thee into quarters and offer thee to the rats!”

“Hah, as if!” Heathcliff shot back, teeth bared in a smirk. “You could try! But I think your ugly-ass skin speaks to the fact that you can’t dodge for shit. It’s like you want to get hit!”

Faust, who had remained silent until now, exhaled softly. Her eyes were closed, her posture contemplative. Then, slowly, she spoke.

“And yet, you speak of possessing superior skill,” she murmured, her tone light, but cutting. “Knowing full well your own is marred with the black ink of augmentative tattoos.” Her eyes opened. They landed on Heathcliff first, then swept across the entire Kurokumo faction.

“All of you, mind you.”

For a split second, nothing moved.

Then—

A spark of anger ignited in Heathcliff’s gaze, his body rigid with restrained fury. “Oh, now that’s just low!”

“And such is the truth.”

It was the Blade Lineage Mentor, Meursault, who spoke next, his voice steady, measured, and absolute.

His blue eye cut through the lattice of his conical hat, a piercing gaze that fell upon the Kurokumo Captains like a blade itself.

“Who are you to deny it?” he asked, his tone devoid of inflection, and yet carrying the weight of inevitability. “You are constantly under the oppression of a tyrant Finger. To them, your stones are under their control.”

He took a single step forward.

“We, the Blade Lineage, are a free spirit that broke from our own oppressors. And as such, the stones we control are ours and ours alone.”

His head tilted ever so slightly, his gaze unwavering.

“To compare us both,” he finished, “would be meaningless.”

A pause.

“In this round of baduk,” he said, “we were the victors before it began.”

And with those words, the world itself seemed to still.

The silence before the storm was brief.

No warning, no signal—just the sharp shing of steel leaving its scabbard, the breath of a moment before impact. Then, the field erupted into chaos.

Gregor moved first, his katana drawn with a slow, lazy ease that belied the force behind it. He stepped into Meursault’s range, his stance wide, drunk on confidence and liquor alike. His blade came down in a controlled arc, aimed for the gap between Meursault’s collar and shoulder—where bone was close to the surface.

Clang!

Meursault met him with his hwando, the force of their clash sending vibrations through the ground beneath them. Gregor grinned, teeth bared, and pushed harder.

At the same time, Ishmael lunged forward like a viper, her ōdachi striking at Sinclair’s side with a surgeon’s precision. Sinclair twisted, his jikdo rising to meet hers. The air sang with the force of metal upon metal, and as their blades scraped, sparks flared between them.

Faster.

The thought echoed in Sinclair’s mind, not his own, but a presence he felt behind him—Meursault.

The Blade Lineage was moving as one now, their strikes more precise, their bodies adjusting to a rhythm only they could perceive. Meursault’s presence bolstered them, their movements sharpening like whetted steel, each step more controlled, each attack more deliberate.

Don Quixote weaved between the combatants, evading every incoming strike with a manic energy, her footwork erratic yet effective. Her laughter rang through the battlefield as she narrowly ducked beneath Heathcliff’s ōdachi, his blade cutting through the air just inches from her head.

“Hah! A swing so slow, I could pen a sonnet in the time it takes thee to strike!” she taunted, flipping back on nimble feet.

Heathcliff scowled. “The hell are you—?!”

His irritation cost him.

Faust stepped in from his blind spot, her jikdo sliding against his blade in a calculated push, knocking his grip slightly off balance. She followed with a sharp, downward slash—aiming not to wound, but to force him into a position he couldn't recover from.

But Heathcliff was built for this.

With a growl, he let the attack land. The moment the blade bit into his shoulder, his body tensed, his right hand tightening around the hilt of his ōdachi.

Then, in the same motion, he swung.

A devastating counter.

Faust barely had time to twist her blade, shifting into a defensive stance as Heathcliff’s sword came crashing down like a guillotine. She braced against the impact, her arms straining, but she held firm.

Nearby, Ryōshū engaged Don Quixote, her movements slow, deliberate. Where Don Quixote danced, Ryōshū waited.

When Don Quixote struck forward, her jikdo flashing towards Ryōshū’s throat, the Kurokumo swordswoman merely raised her katana, catching the blade at the perfect angle to redirect the force.

“You’re fast,” Ryōshū mused, a smirk curling her lips. “Too bad I—” She twisted her sword, locking Don Quixote’s in place, her free hand reaching for the smaller girl’s collar. “—am better.”

But Don Quixote, ever unpredictable, let go of her jikdo. She ducked low, dropping into a roll, using her momentum to snag her blade again mid-motion before kicking off from the ground.

“Ha-HA! A fine attempt, villain, but thy tricks shall not best me!”

Ryōshū blinked, impressed despite herself.

A sharp clang snapped her focus back to the battlefield.

Meursault had finally lost a clash.

Gregor’s blade had scraped past his guard, the force of the impact knocking Meursault’s hwando slightly off course. Gregor’s grin widened. “Looks like you’re not that untouchable—”

And then, Meursault moved.

It was not a step. Not a turn. Not an adjustment.

It was something absolute.

A simple, fluid shift of weight, a flick of his wrist—his blade sang through the air in a motion so sharp, so swift, that even the sound of it came after the strike had already landed. Gregor’s body reacted before his mind did. He barely had time to pivot, to minimize the damage, but it wasn’t enough.

Schlick!

Blood splattered the ground in a fine arc. Gregor staggered back, clutching his side, his grin faltering as he looked down at the deep, clean cut slashing through his ribs.

Meursault straightened, his posture unshaken, his glowing blue eye cold beneath his hat.

“Your bones,” he intoned, voice low, steady, final.

He raised his hwando again.

“I will claim them.”

Dante gripped their head, fingers pressing against the warm metal of their clock face, its flames flickering in erratic, frantic bursts. Panic welled up inside them, a desperate sense of urgency pressing against their ribs like an iron vice. The battlefield had become a blur of flashing steel, flowing blood, and clashing philosophies given form in the dance of death.

“<This is spiraling out of control…!>”

“Executive Manager!” Outis’s voice rang clear through the chaos, sharp as the edge of a honed blade. She stood rigid, unwavering even as the fight raged on behind her. “We must subdue them! This insubordination is compromising our mission! I strongly advise that we never use these Identities again.”

Dante turned to her, still clutching their head. “But what if I need them for something specific?”

Outis blinked at that. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she seemed to consider it. Then, with a quick nod, she straightened her posture and declared, “Right, of course. I should never doubt your genius, Executive Manager.”

Rodion exhaled loudly, gripping the handle of her axe as she surveyed the escalating brawl. “But how do you suggest we stop them?” Her gaze flicked back to Dante. “Hey, can’t you just, y’know, yank their IDs out or something? Like, pop them out of your PDA?”

Yi Sang let out a deep, weary sigh, shaking his head. “That would not suffice.” He crossed his arms, his usually serene expression clouded with a rare gravity. “Detaching an Identity in the midst of battle would be catastrophic for one’s psyche. Mentally speaking, it would be akin to experiencing sudden displacement—thrown headfirst into a battlefield with no sense of continuity, like being forcibly teleported in the heart of a brutal war between two Wings.” He grimaced. “The shock alone would fracture their sense of self. The failsafe designed to preserve the Sinners’ sanity may not hold under such duress.”

Dante let out a static hum, the ticking in their head growing more erratic as they processed the impasse. “<So we’re stuck.>” They tapped a finger against their PDA, mind racing. “<Then we only have one option. Outis!>”

Outis straightened instantly. “At once, Executive Manager! I will do as you command!”

Dante nodded, conviction solidifying in their tone. “<Good. Then I have an idea…>”

The battle raged on with no sign of slowing. The Blade Lineage pressed forward with unrelenting precision, their strikes coordinated, their rhythm honed to lethal perfection under Meursault’s cold gaze. Their attacks sought critical openings, weaving through the Kurokumo Clan’s defenses like a thousand well-placed cuts waiting for the final blow.

And yet, the Kurokumo refused to yield.

Gregor and Ryōshū stood steadfast, their swords locking and deflecting incoming blows with sheer force, while Heathcliff held his ground, waiting for his moment to turn pain into retribution. Ishmael was the storm that never settled—ducking, weaving, her sword cutting in at angles meant to bleed her foes dry. She led the counter-offensive with ruthless efficiency, her instincts a blade sharper than steel.

Blades met. Sparks flew. The ground beneath them was wet with the scent of iron.

Then, the tables turned.

From behind the Blade Lineage, a sudden force crashed into their ranks—Rodion and Hong Lu, now clad in Kurokumo colors, launching a flurry of attacks that forced them forward. The shock of the sudden ambush disrupted their formation, a ripple of confusion breaking their deadly rhythm.

At the same time, the Kurokumo found themselves under siege from behind—Outis and Yi Sang, draped in the garb of the Blade Lineage, moving with the fluidity of assassins as they struck at the gangsters’ flanks. The Kurokumo were caught between two forces, their momentum faltering.

Both factions were being herded.

Both factions were being cornered.

Sinclair faltered for a breath, realization dawning in his golden eyes. “We’re—”

Ishmael’s brows furrowed as she turned sharply, recognizing the shifting tides. “We’re being boxed in.”

Dante’s voice cut through the tension, steady and commanding. “<Now, Outis!>”

A single E.G.O. card slid into their PDA.

Outis’s body twisted as reality itself seemed to shudder around her. The transformation was both grotesque and mesmerizing—her once-pristine uniform now obscured by a flowing black cape, fastened at her throat by a luminous purple brooch. Beneath its shadow, the mass of withered branches entwined her torso and limbs, pulsing with a slow, otherworldly energy. A crown of shriveled roots encircled her brow, and a thick, cloying scent filled the air—rotting apples, damp earth, decay—as the environment shifted to the darkness of an overshadowed forest, the tall trees encompassing the two factions like a group of looming giants.

Ebony Stem.

Her voice rang hollow, otherworldly, as though spoken through the whispering of dying trees.

“If this is to seize victory…”

The ground beneath them shuddered.

Then, from the earth itself, a mass of blackened spikes erupted.

It was as if the battlefield had come alive, jagged thorns piercing skyward in a sudden, violent burst. The vines spread like a flood of darkness, tendrils wrapping around limbs, locking joints, ensnaring warriors mid-motion. Sharp, serrated edges bit into flesh, raking against armor, drawing thin trails of crimson as the battlefield was consumed by the thorned labyrinth.

Swords halted. Breath hitched.

The battle was over before it could begin again.

Gregor snarled, struggling against the spiked prison holding his arm. “What the hell—?!”

Heathcliff cursed, his blade pinned against his own body by the unrelenting vines. Ishmael gritted her teeth, forced to a standstill, her breath sharp and ragged.

Only two figures had seen it coming.

Faust and Ryōshū stood just beyond the reach of the encroaching thorns, their bodies untouched, their gazes locked on each other.

Faust had stepped back just in time, calculating the moment the E.G.O. would manifest, her ever-knowing eyes giving her the foresight to evade.

Ryōshū, on the other hand, had felt it. The scent of decay, the shift in the air—she had trusted her instincts, and they had guided her to safety just before the thorns had ensnared the others.

A beat of silence settled over the battlefield.

Dante exhaled, flames on their clock face flickering as the tension in their frame slowly unwound.

Their gamble had worked.

“Hoo-wee!” Rodion’s voice cut through the hush, lighthearted as ever as she sheathed her katana with a satisfied flourish. “That was a job well done! Good job, Outie!”

Outis exhaled, the faintest smirk curling at the corner of her lips. “This victory is not mine to take.” She lifted her chin, her dark eyes filled with something akin to respect as she looked toward Dante. “This was only possible because of the Executive Manager’s brilliant strategy. We subdued them swiftly because of their guidance.”

Dante, still reeling from the chaos, gave a weak, almost hesitant laugh. “<Uh, yeah. Sure. Brilliant strategy.>”

Hong Lu wandered over, resting his katana lazily on his shoulder. He tilted his head at the massive thorns sprouting from the ground, idly reaching out to poke at one of the jagged protrusions. “Ooh, they’re sharp!” he mused, fascinated. Then, his gaze slid to Heathcliff, who was bound within the dark spines, barely able to move without pain lancing through his body. Hong Lu’s grin widened. “Hey, Heathcliff! How does it feel?”

Heathcliff’s eye twitched. He looked up at his fellow Kurokumo Henchman, rage simmering beneath his bloodied exterior. “Urgh… you little…” His words trailed off into a muttered string of curses, sharp and venomous, but ultimately powerless.

Standing just at the edge of the battlefield, untouched by the chaos, Faust remained still. Her posture was calm, composed—a stark contrast to the twisted wreckage before her. She ran a gloved hand down her arm, brushing away nonexistent dust, before tilting her head toward Dante.

“As expected,” she said simply. There was no urgency in her tone, no hesitation. Only quiet, unwavering certainty. “A most logical conclusion.”

Dante stared at her incredulously. As expected? It was as if she had already known how this would unfold, as if she had foreseen every step leading up to this moment.

A slow, amused exhale came from the other side of the battlefield. Ryōshū crouched low, her katana’s tip lightly pressing against the earth. The cigarette between her lips still burned, the ember casting a soft, eerie glow against her pale skin. Her crimson eyes flickered with something dark—something close to satisfaction.

“F.O.D.,” she murmured, exhaling another cloud of smoke. “Corpses drained of blood into a single river.”

Her gaze flicked toward the thorned prison holding Gregor, Heathcliff, and Ishmael, their blood staining the blackened stakes. She smirked.

“Not bad.”

Dante swallowed hard. They weren’t sure whether that was a compliment or a warning.

A strained groan echoed from within the thorns. Sinclair, caught fast in the brambles, glared at Ryōshū with a mix of wariness and irritation. He recognized the acronym, and he did not like it. His voice came low, teeth clenched. “Urgh… you smug bastard…”

Dante shook their head. This whole situation was ridiculous. But at the very least, the worst of it was over. They had managed to stop the fight before it spiraled completely out of control. Now, the once-warring factions found themselves trapped together, struggling against their bindings, no longer able to fight—only to endure.

It was a forced ceasefire, but a ceasefire nonetheless.

Outis, still clad in her E.G.O., stepped forward. Her voice was cold, impassive. “This should be sufficient.” She turned to Dante, awaiting their command. “Executive Manager, shall I add more spikes? Ensure their submission?”

A chorus of protests erupted from the thorn-trapped fighters.

“The hell you will!” Heathcliff barked, wincing as he tried—and failed—to pull himself free.

“Khh… fie… these restraints… wilt not subdue… my path of justice…!” Don Quixote struggled valiantly against her bindings, but the thorns only coiled tighter.

Faust, watching from her position, tilted her head slightly toward Yi Sang, as if silently asking for his input. Yi Sang gave the slightest shake of his head. Faust sighed. “I suggest,” she interjected, her gaze settling on Outis, “that we do not test the limits of their restraint.”

Dante exhaled sharply, rubbing the side of their clock-like skull as the ticking within steadied into something less frantic. This was… manageable. Probably.

They clapped their hands together, their voice cutting through the grumbling of the trapped fighters. “<Alright! Listen up!>”

The battlefield fell into tense silence.

Dante took a deep breath. “<I don’t care what grievances you have, or how badly you want to carve each other up—this infighting stops now.>”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then, slowly, realization dawned upon them all.

The red haze of battle lifted, the violent, instinctual urges fading into something colder—sharper. They were Identities. The people they were fighting weren’t truly their lifelong enemies. Their real selves—their core selves—were still lingering beneath the personas they had assumed.

Gregor let out a long, lazy sigh, shifting slightly against his thorned bindings. His smirk was tired, resigned, not quite reaching his eyes. “Tch. Guess we got no choice.”

Ishmael exhaled, resting her forehead against the twisted spikes that held her. “Fine.”

Meursault, ever the pragmatist, loosened his grip on his hwando, closing his eyes. “...Understood.”

Dante allowed themselves a breath of relief.

Crisis averted.

For now.

Chapter Text

Some time during the events of Intervallo II…

The Sinners had been knee-deep in scrap for days now, the rhythm of their labor forming a grating, mechanical symphony against the ceaseless industrial hum of District 21. The air was thick with the scent of rust and brine, mingling in a concoction that stuck to the back of one’s throat like oil. A few meters away from the heart of the action, Dante observed in silence, their gaze shifting between the figures at work and the two Sinners who had been weighing on their thoughts the most—Heathcliff and Ishmael.

The journey to this place had been fraught with tension, an unspoken dread hanging over Ishmael like the leaden clouds that often choked the district’s skyline. The moment Mephistopheles had emerged from the tunnel leading away from U Corp., the sprawling expanse of the Great Lake glistening in the distance, she had gone pale. From that instant on, she had been restless, murmuring dire warnings under her breath, her usual sharp tongue dulled by something closer to fear.

“The others aren’t ready,” she had muttered time and time again, her fingers digging into her sleeves as if she could anchor herself away from the inevitable.

That had been an understatement.

Now, they found themselves in the underbelly of the district, at a grimy Workshop known as Molar Boatworks, where the Mephistopheles was undergoing a grotesque metamorphosis. What was once a vessel for land-bound travel was being forced into an unnatural evolution, twisted into something seaworthy with the help of salvaged metal and crustacean sinew. The air was thick with the acrid scent of welding and the stench of something far more organic—the viscera of the mutant trash crabs that prowled these backstreets, their remains now repurposed as building materials.

Dante had to admit, the modifications were coming along better than expected. The Fixers of Molar Boatworks were a brutal and efficient breed, their expertise honed in the harsh realities of the district’s merciless docks. They worked tirelessly, their hands calloused and stained from years of labor, hammering, welding, and stitching together the grotesque pieces of their craft. But brute skill alone was not enough for what was to come.

And so, Dante had taken it upon themselves to draw from Mephistopheles’ ever-humming engine, reaching deep into its mysteries to extract new Identities that might bolster their ranks. The results had been…

…unexpected.

“Aha, holy shit! This is good stuff!”

“You and I both, sister! What did I tell ya? This crab brain juice rocks!”

“Way better than regular alcohol, right? It’s great!”

The Workshop rang with raucous laughter, the voices of three women weaving together in a drunken harmony. Dante turned their gaze towards them—Olga, the Molar Boatworks operator, and two freshly-extracted Identities of the Sinners, both of whom had seemingly cast aside their former burdens in favor of reckless indulgence.

Olga herself was a survivor of an ordeal few could comprehend. Once, she had been nothing more than a book, her body and soul reduced to ink and paper within the infamous Library. But fate had seen fit to return her to flesh, and now she stood as a Fixer of the Workshop, overseeing the modifications to Mephistopheles with a knowing smirk and a bottle in hand.

Then there was Outis. Once rigid, militant, and unquestioningly obedient to Dante’s every word, she now carried herself with an ease that was almost unrecognizable. Her competence remained, but it was drowned beneath a newfound impulsiveness, her strict discipline traded for rampant alcoholism. The moments where her old self resurfaced were rare—and they only ever seemed to appear when someone attempted to wrest the bottle from her hands.

And then there was Ishmael.

Dante had expected her to remain in a state of mounting anxiety, her fears tightening their grip with every moment spent in proximity to the lake. Instead, the Ishmael that now stood before them was… flippant. Relaxed, even, though perhaps a little too much so. Where before she had been plagued by worry, now she misjudged situations with alarming frequency, her sharp instincts dulled by an easygoing attitude that teetered on the edge of recklessness. And like Outis, she had taken a liking to the unnatural liquor distilled from the brains of the mutant crabs—a grotesque but evidently effective vice.

The three of them laughed and drank like old friends reuniting after years apart, their camaraderie instant and effortless. If Olga was surprised by the emergence of two reflections of herself—past and present—she made no mention of it. Instead, she embraced them as though they had always belonged, raising her bottle high as she welcomed them into her world of intoxication and steel.

From a distance, Dante turned to Faust, their expression unreadable despite the blank face of the prosthetic clock that composed their head. The silent question lingered between them, and without lifting her gaze from the blueprints before her, Faust responded with her usual knowing certainty.

“<So I know about Sinners being multiple Identities of a singular individual, but this is…>”

“Simply the effect of the engine.” Her voice was as measured as ever, her attention unwavering from the designs before her. The Blade Lineage Salsu Identity she currently bore did nothing to diminish the weight of her words, her poise as commanding as ever. “Faust has tailored it to better accommodate this change ever since our last altercation. Faust has also modified the engine so that the volatility of the Mirror would delay its defragmentation onto the Identities of the Sinners by 400%.”

Dante let the information settle, recalling the last instance of such an anomaly—when both Heathcliff and Yi Sang had emerged bearing Identities connected to Dongbaek. If nothing else, this new adjustment meant the Sinners would retain their newfound forms for a longer duration. A welcome change, should their battles stretch beyond expectation.

Even so, as Dante cast another glance towards the drunken trio—Olga, Outis, and Ishmael—something about the sight felt off. The ease with which they had fallen into their revelry, the way their laughter echoed through the steel and rust of the Workshop…

It was almost as if they were trying to drown something out.

For now, Dante said nothing.

For now, they simply watched.

The heavy metal door groaned as it was thrown open, the hinges screeching in protest. A gust of stale air rushed into the Workshop, mingling with the pungent scent of oil, rust, and crab liquor. Gregor, clad in his Kurokumo Clan Captain Identity, stepped inside with all the grace of a storm-tossed ship, his boots scraping against the Workshop floor. His expression was a scowl carved into stone, his narrowed eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat.

Behind him, the clinking sound of metal scraping against itself echoed as he dragged a net filled with hunks of jagged scrap and fresh crustacean carapace. Strands of viscous, iridescent blue blood still clung to the netting, shimmering under the dim Workshop lights like the bioluminescent depths of the Great Lake. He shook off the weight with an audible grunt, the pieces scattering across the floor in a heap of jagged refuse.

“Fucking hell…” Gregor exhaled sharply, straightening his back as he rolled his shoulders with an audible pop. He swept a glare across the Workshop’s occupants. Olga, Ishmael, and Outis were huddled around a workbench, bottles of crab brain liquor clinking in their hands, their laughter thick and slurred with intoxication. His brows twitched. “You ladies enjoying yourselves?” He gestured behind him with his thumb, where the remains of the mutant trash crab still festered outside. “’Cuz we just finished skinning the damn thing.”

Olga, already halfway through another swig of liquor, chuckled and waved him off, her smile lazy and her eyes half-lidded. “Ah, don’t be a wet blanket! Come on, Captain, have a drink!”

Gregor blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “…Huh? Really?”

Ishmael, laughing a little too loudly, slung an arm over Olga’s shoulder, her grip loose and uncoordinated. Her flushed cheeks glowed under the dim industrial lighting, and there was an almost manic energy in the way she forced her mirth. “Sure! I’m sure a… little break to pass the time is fine! Right?”

For a moment, Outis hesitated. Her drunken haze flickered, a brief sobering moment flashing behind her darkened gaze, like a soldier recalling the discipline drilled into her bones. But as quickly as it came, it vanished. She clutched her head, squeezing her eyes shut as if willing herself to drown in the illusion once more. When she reopened them, the fog of intoxication had fully returned, and she grinned with a wide, almost predatory mirth.

“R-Right! Yeah! Why don’t you siddown, huh?” she slurred, waving a hand towards an empty crate nearby.

Gregor’s grin widened, his teeth flashing like a wolf that had finally been let inside the coop. “Please! Don’t mind if I do!” He swaggered over to them, plopping down onto the crate with a heavy thud. “Gimme some of that!”

From the other side of the room, Dante dragged a metal hand down the face of their clockwork head.

<Oh, nice. Another drunkard has joined them.>

The door groaned again as Ryōshū strolled inside, her movements fluid, unhurried—like a blade gliding through the air before the strike. She balanced a rusted metal tray in one hand, the other lifting her cigarette to her lips as she exhaled a plume of grey. Upon the tray lay the prize of the hunt—crab meat, charred and steaming, arranged with a sense of precision that belied the less-than-ideal circumstances of its preparation. It looked palatable. Dante wasn’t fooled. From the grumbling of the other Sinners, that didn’t mean it was.

Dante knew that her R.B. Chef de Cuisine Identity would be better at cooking dishes, but she actively refused to cook for them once she found out that they’re using seafood instead of human flesh.

Ryōshū set the platter down with an unceremonious clank. She tilted her head slightly, exhaling another puff of smoke before muttering in a tone as dry as sandpaper, “Grub’s here. E.W.H.”

Outis perked up immediately, her lips stretching into a drunken grin as she reached out for a piece, her fingers barely maintaining their coordination. “Oh, great! Thanks a lot, Shū! You really know how to—” A hiccup wracked her body mid-sentence, momentarily cutting off her words. “—take care of Big Sis, huh?”

Ryōshū’s gaze flickered toward her, unreadable. She took another slow drag of her cigarette, her sharp features carved into something impassive.

“For how many times I’m telling you,” she exhaled, letting the words curl into the smoke, “I’m not your Ryōshū.”

Outis blinked at her, eyes narrowing as if trying to see through the haze of alcohol and fractured memory. Then, slowly, as if the thought was melting into her drunken stupor, her grin widened. “...So it would seem.” She shrugged, carelessly popping a piece of the dubious crab into her mouth. “Well, whatever! Wanna join us?”

Ryōshū let the silence stretch between them before flicking the ash from her cigarette with a practiced flick of her fingers.

“N.I.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and strode towards a darker, quieter corner of the Workshop, vanishing into the shadows.

Deep within the heart of the Workshop, beneath the hum of flickering industrial lights, the transformation of Mephistopheles was well underway.

Here, away from the drunken revelry and careless laughter of the others, the work was tireless, methodical. Sparks danced like fireflies in the dim-lit space, welding torches spitting embers as scrap metal was reforged into something seaworthy. The steady, rhythmic clang of metal on metal rang through the air, the scent of scorched steel and oil mingling with the ever-present salt of the district’s damp atmosphere.

Mika and Rain, Olga’s trusted subordinates, were at the center of the effort. Their hands moved with the precision of seasoned Fixers, synchronizing seamlessly with the wonders of U Corp.’s Singularity. The resonance tuning forks—wondrous, albeit eerie devices—allowed them to meld materials as if they had always belonged together. A single strike of the mallet, a reverberating hum, and the once-broken pieces of scrap reformed, fused into Mephistopheles like the closing of a wound.

Standing at the periphery, Charon watched in hushed awe, her gray eyes tracing the smooth transitions of metal as if committing them to memory. The way the scrap twisted and reformed with each pulse of resonance—like flesh knitting together—was almost unnatural.

Beside her, Vergilius stood unmoving, his crimson gaze locked onto the Fixers. He said nothing, but there was an intensity in his red gaze, an unspoken scrutiny that made it clear—he was watching everything.

But the two Workshop Fixers were not alone in their task.

Yi Sang, clad in his Molar Office Fixer Identity, stood before a spread of Mephistopheles’ schematics, his expression one of deep contemplation. His gaze flitted between the blueprints and the vessel before him, his fingers occasionally ghosting over the edges of the paper. His insights were precise, well-measured—every suggestion laced with an almost poetic reverence for the engineering before him.

What struck the others most, however, was not his intellect but his uncanny resemblance to Rain.

Or rather, Rain’s past self.

The man Yi Sang was now, with his knowledge and the echoes of a Fixer’s hard-won wisdom, bore an eerie similarity to the Rain that had once existed before he was turned into a book—before the Library had devoured and reshaped him into something new.

And then, there was Sinclair.

Though he bore a different title—Molar Boatworks Fixer—his knowledge of U Corp.'s Singularity and Molar Boatworks engineering made him invaluable to the project. He moved with careful diligence, his brow furrowed in deep thought as he worked alongside Mika and Rain. But unlike Yi Sang, the resemblance Sinclair bore was to the Rain of the present—the Rain who had survived the ordeal of the Library and emerged, changed, but whole.

And so, as they stood together—Yi Sang, Rain, and Sinclair—there was something unnerving about the symmetry of it all.

Like past, present, and an alternative future, standing side by side, hammering steel into a single, unified purpose.

Mika, frankly, was a little jealous.

Her gaze flicked between them—their quiet discussions, the way they seemed to instinctively understand each other, the effortless synchronization of their thoughts. It was as if they were pieces of a puzzle snapping into place, a perfect set. And then there was her.

She scoffed quietly to herself, shaking her head. Whatever. It’s fine. She had other things to focus on.

Across from her, Rain lifted a thick steel brick, inspecting its weight in his hands. “Hmmm, what do you think of putting this piece here?” he asked, tilting his head toward a section of the hull.

Yi Sang barely glanced up before shaking his head. “No, that won’t do. That piece is too thick. If placed here, it may compromise the engine’s resonance stability.”

Rain exhaled sharply, setting the steel brick down with a dull thud. “Tch. Fine.”

“Ah, then what about this?” Sinclair interjected, holding up a wavy sheet of metal. “We could connect the forks here and here—” he gestured with his hand, pointing at key structural points of the ship’s hull “—so that it fuses properly. That should give us the reinforcement we need without throwing off the engine’s balance.”

Mika tilted her head, arms crossed as she considered it.

“…Yeah, I guess that looks right,” she admitted, nodding. “Let’s try it.”

Rain rolled his shoulders before gripping the metal sheet firmly, setting it into position. He picked up a hammer from the workbench beside him and brought it down in a solid, steady rhythm, flattening out the ridges in the sheet. The sound rang through the Workshop, a dull, satisfying reverberation.

“Alright,” Rain muttered, stepping back. “Mika, drive the fork in.”

Mika grabbed the resonance tuning fork, its prongs vibrating faintly in her hands as if alive with anticipation. With practiced care, she aligned the prongs around the sheet. Then, gripping her mallet, she struck the fork.

A low, pulsing hum filled the air.

The metal shivered.

The wavy sheet melted seamlessly into the hull, its edges vanishing as if it had always been a part of Mephistopheles. The transition was so smooth, so organic, that it almost felt wrong—as though the machine itself had merely remembered what it was supposed to be.

Charon exhaled softly, her hands gripping the edge of her coat. The sight, the sound of it—it never ceased to unsettle her.

Vergilius, however, remained as impassive as ever, his expression betraying nothing.

Mika set the fork down and wiped the sweat from her brow, glancing at the others.

“Well,” she said, flashing a grin. “Looks like it worked.”

A soft chuckle broke through the ambient sounds of metalwork.

“For lack of a better phrase,” Yi Sang mused, his voice tinged with amusement. His faint smile lingered for just a second longer before he returned to studying the blueprints spread across the workbench. With a small motion of his hand, he gestured toward a section near the base of Mephistopheles. “Anyways, we can move on to the parts near the wheels.”

The others nodded in agreement, shifting their focus back to their respective tasks.

As the clatter of tools resumed, Mika hesitated, glancing over at Yi Sang. A question had been weighing on her mind ever since the peculiar similarities between their worlds had been pointed out.

“Hey, uh, Yi Sang,” she began, her voice tinged with curiosity. "I gotta ask. So the ‘me’ in your world… I know that my Big Sis was your Outis—that tan-skinned woman. And then we have you, who was Rain. Or rather, Rain used to be like you.” She paused, then continued, tilting her head. “So what about me?”

Yi Sang's gaze lifted from the blueprints, his expression momentarily contemplative as he considered the question.

“Ah,” he hummed, nodding as if he had already pondered this before. “In the context of parallels between my Mirror World and this one… you would be Ryōshū. Or rather, Ryōshū would be you.”

Mika blinked.

Rain, on the other hand, outright scowled. “Really? Ryōshū? The murderous, chain-smoking lady that belts out acronyms every five minutes? That one?”

Sinclair rubbed the back of his neck, offering a hesitant defense. “Ah, well… I don’t think she’s really as terrible as you make her out to be…”

Mika let out an exaggerated groan, turning toward Rain as if seeking backup. “Seriously? Is this really what you guys thought of me? Before we became Boatworks, I mean?”

Rain exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Nah. I mean, you nag all the time, sure, but it’s always for Big Sis’s well-being. Other than that…” He trailed off, shrugging. “I can’t think of anything that bad.”

Mika crossed her arms, pursing her lips. “Still, I swear, whatever Mirror World you’re from is hella confusing.” Her gaze flickered back to Yi Sang, a wry smirk forming. “In fact, I think your coworker Rodion’s a better fit to be Big Sis than Outis.”

A silence fell between them.

Yi Sang blinked once.

Rain exchanged a glance with Sinclair.

“On that remark…” Yi Sang murmured, his voice thoughtful.

“Well, I can’t deny that…” Sinclair admitted, scratching at his cheek.

Mika threw up her hands. “Who am I to judge, huh?” She then turned toward Sinclair, nudging him with her elbow. “Alright, what about you, buddy? Who’s your Mika?”

Sinclair's face immediately brightened. “Oh, that would be—!”

A sharp voice cut through his words like a blade.

“C.I.T.E.”

All conversation halted.

The scent of nicotine preceded her arrival, the faint wisp of smoke curling through the air as Ryōshū stepped into the Workshop. Even without speaking, she was already an imposing figure—but clad in her Kurokumo Gang identity, with its inky black cloud tattoos coiling over her skin, she looked even more formidable.

Her crimson gaze flickered toward Rain and Mika, a knowing glint in her eyes. Immediately, the two stiffened.

Then, her gaze shifted to Yi Sang.

“C.F. needs you. Pah.”

Yi Sang didn’t need clarification. C.F. was Dante.

“Ah, of course, Ryōshū,” Yi Sang replied smoothly, rolling up the schematics as he prepared to leave. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

As he moved, Rain furrowed his brows. “That reminds me… The other Sinners were supposed to be back with the scrap parts by now. What gives?”

The answer came before anyone could respond.

A distant chorus of chuckles, heckling, and general chaos echoed from outside the Workshop.

Rain sighed. “...Right. Of course.”

From the sidelines, Vergilius—who had remained largely silent up until now—rubbed his temple, exhaling through his nose. He was supposed to be their guide. The one keeping the Sinners on track. And yet, time and time again, they insisted on veering off course, indulging in distractions, pointless chatter, and drunken antics.

“...Forgive the Sinners,” he muttered, shaking his head. “They tend to derail from the mission at any given opportunity. But you must understand—these past days have been hard on them.” His red gaze flicked toward Mika. “Should I intervene?”

Mika snorted, already rising to her feet. “Nah. I know how to deal with them. It’s not my first time.”

She rolled her shoulders, stretching as she dusted off her hands.

“Besides…” Her gaze swept over the Workshop—the remnants of old identities, new Fixers, the eerie parallels that had surfaced.

A small smirk played on her lips.

“I think I’m liking the new company.”

“Y’know what’s cool about alcohol?” Gregor slurred, lifting the bottle as if making a grand proclamation. It was a bottle of murky green liquid dangling between his fingers. The dim lighting made it gleam like toxic sludge—which, given its origin, wasn't too far from the truth. “It makes people honest.”

The dim lighting cast shadows across his face, his usual grin sharpened by amusement.

“Sure, it kills your liver, makes you sloppy... lotta downsides, yeah, yeah. But I gotta say—" he leaned forward conspiratorially, voice dropping into a hushed whisper as though revealing the secrets of the underworld, “it’s got its uses.”

Olga raised her own bottle in agreement. “True dat, my man.”

Gregor smirked before taking another swig, the burn of alcohol doing little to slow him down. His words spilled out like the liquor in his hand—steady, unfiltered, and carrying the weight of years lived in the underbelly of society.

“If you’re part of a Syndicate… I mean, if you survive long enough in a Syndicate, that is…” He waved his hand, the movement lazy but deliberate. “You’ll start getting some underlings. Three, four? That’s easy. I can figure ‘em out after chatting, working with ‘em a few times. But once you start handling ten or more? That’s when things get tricky.”

Across the table, Outis leaned back, idly spinning her empty bottle against the wood.

“Man,” she groaned, “two’s already enough. They’re always hounding my ass about everything.”

“Hear, hear,” Ishmael chimed in, head bobbing in a lazy rhythm. Her cheeks were flushed, her voice carrying the unmistakable cadence of someone several drinks past sober. “I dunno how ya do it, Greg.”

Gregor’s grin widened, teeth flashing in the dim light. “They’re supposed to be my eyes and ears, hands and feet, right? But one bad apple in the bunch? That’s it. That’s all it takes to fuck everything up. So I still gotta stay hands-on. And lemme tell ya…” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That shit gets annoying.”

He slammed his drink onto the table for emphasis.

“And that, ladies, is when alcohol comes in useful.”

A chorus of cheers erupted from the drunken trio.

Gregor continued, emboldened by the audience. “Y’see, if I act like I just downed a whole-ass barrel, they start thinking, ‘Oh, man, I got assigned to some brainless drunk as my Captain!’ Especially the new recruits—poor bastards’ve never even seen me sober.”

He abruptly pushed himself up to his feet—nearly toppling over in the process—before steadying himself with an exaggerated flourish. His shadow flickered wildly against the walls, mimicking his movement like a drunken specter.

“That’s when they let things slip,” he continued, wagging a finger. “Little things, details. Who they really are. And once I know that—” his grin sharpened “—I know exactly who to trust.”

He threw his head back and downed the rest of his bottle in one go, slamming it onto the table once finished. “Pretty useful, huh? This alcohol…” He let out a satisfied sigh. “Now, c’mon! Gimme another!”

Another round of cheers followed, punctuated by Ishmael reaching across the table to shove a fresh bottle of crab brain juice into Gregor’s awaiting hand.

On the sidelines, Dante stood silent, watching the scene unfold with the face of a person who had long since lost control of the situation. Their prosthetic clock head betrayed no expression, yet somehow, their exasperation was palpable.

Gregor had been talking nonstop for thirty minutes.

Just as Dante attempted to interject, Olga raised a hand, silencing the other drunkards with an amused smirk.

“Wait, wait, Greg, my boy,” Olga mused, tapping her bottle against the table. “Now that ya say all that… are ya drunk, or not?”

A moment passed.

Gregor blinked. He glanced down at the empty bottle in his hand. Then at the dozens of bottles scattered across the table. Then back at the expectant faces of his drinking companions.

His brow furrowed, lips pressing into a line.

Then—

“You know what?” He threw his arms up.

“I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE!”

Laughter exploded through the Workshop.

The walls practically shook from the sheer force of their revelry, their raucous cackles mingling with the distant sounds of the city beyond.

Somewhere amidst the chaos, Dante let out a long, slow sigh.

“Big Sis!”

The raucous laughter died in an instant.

Olga, Outis, and Ishmael froze as the sharp call shattered the drunken haze clinging to their thoughts. For a brief moment, their fogged minds attempted to process the intrusion before snapping back into focus—or at least, as much focus as their alcohol-addled states could muster.

Near the side door, Mika stood with arms crossed, flanked by Rain, their gazes locked onto their so-called superior with matching expressions of thinly veiled disappointment. Beside them, Yi Sang and Sinclair completed the ensemble, though their eyes were fixed elsewhere—Yi Sang’s sharp gaze settled firmly on Outis, while Sinclair’s stare burned into Ishmael.

And in that moment, all four of them shared a singular thought.

‘Not again.’

“A-Ah! Mika, Rain!” Olga’s words spilled out in a frantic attempt at recovery, her hands waving just a little too enthusiastically. “I was just… being hospitable! Yeah!”

Rain’s expression twitched. “You were the one that brought out the crab juice to begin with!” His voice carried a wearied exasperation. “Please, for the love of the Wings, stay professional…”

“Oh, come on—” Olga began, only to be interrupted by a hiccup.

Rain’s glower deepened.

“This is highly unacceptable,” Yi Sang intoned, his voice steady but edged with thinly restrained disapproval as he addressed Outis. “Recall the moments where I was forced to drag you from places you had no business being in, solely due to your… copious insobriety.”

Outis opened her mouth to counter, but the alcohol dulled her thoughts, making them sluggish, unwieldy. “…But… I’m your superior…” she mumbled, trailing off into incomprehensible muttering.

Sinclair, his expression firm, turned to Ishmael. “Big Sis, you need to stop! This isn’t supposed to be you! We’re here to help, not to watch you drown yourself in—”

“Fucking— leave me be!” Ishmael snapped, gripping her bottle tighter before downing another fiery gulp. “Let me drink away my troubles in peace…”

Dante, Faust, Gregor, and Mika watched the entire exchange unfold with a mix of detached amusement and intrigue.

It was the same every time.

The same reactions. The same arguments. The same inevitable cycle of chaos and reproach.

It was almost entertaining.

As the confrontation dragged on, Ryōshū entered the scene with calculated ease, falling into step beside Gregor. A haze of cigarette smoke lingered around her, the ember of her cigarette glowing faintly in the dim light.

She flicked her crimson gaze toward Gregor, studying him for a moment before speaking. “And what about you, Captain?”

Gregor shrugged, his demeanor infuriatingly casual. “They offered, so I stayed.” He gestured vaguely toward the now half-empty bottle of crab brain juice. “Who am I to refuse free booze?”

A chuckle slipped from Ryōshū’s lips. “Never change, Captain.” She exhaled a plume of smoke. “Never change.”

Nearby, Faust—still carrying herself with the cold precision of Blade Lineage Salsu—cast Gregor a sideways glance, her expression unreadable yet undoubtedly critical.

“If this is your Captain,” she mused, her tone laced with thinly veiled condescension, “I wonder how he hasn’t died yet.”

Dante braced themself. This wouldn’t be the first time Faust took a jab at the Kurokumo Gang, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Ryōshū, unbothered, sighed lightly. “There’s a reason why he’s Captain.” She took another slow drag of her cigarette, exhaling before finishing, “Y.A.R.D.”

Faust offered no retort. She merely turned, dismissing the exchange with icy indifference, and moved on.

Mika let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing her temples as if the mere act of dealing with her superior was physically draining her lifespan. Then, she turned to Rain.

“That’s it. Rain, get the hose.”

The air shifted.

Sinclair’s eyes lit up in recognition, a flicker of shared experience crossing his face. “Wait—you have the hose too?”

Rain nodded solemnly. “It’s necessary.”

At those words, panic set in.

Olga and Ishmael’s glazed-over expressions snapped into sudden clarity, their dulled minds clearing just enough to understand the sheer terror of what was about to happen.

“NOT THE HOSE!” Ishmael shrieked, clutching her bottle as if it were a life raft. “ANYTHING BUT THAT!”

“Mika! Rain! My trusted subordinates!” Olga pleaded, her voice taking on a desperate, dramatic edge. “Surely, there is room for negotiations!”

Yi Sang and Outis, still half-drifting in the buzz of intoxication, shared a puzzled glance.

“The hose?” Yi Sang inquired, brows furrowing. “What’s the hose?”

Sinclair’s expression darkened. “It’s much worse than it sounds.”

Rain crossed his arms. “It doesn’t jolt them up immediately, but… still effective.”

Yi Sang was about to press further, but Outis, finally processing the looming threat, bolted upright in a wobbling, disoriented stumble.

Olga and Ishmael wasted no time. They grabbed her by the arms, forcing her up with uncharacteristic coordination for two completely drunk women.

“Sister-in-arms!” Olga bellowed. “Come with us if you want to live!”

“Okay, but wh— WHYyyyYYY—!???”

Outis’s protest trailed into a screech as she was dragged away, her feet barely touching the ground as the two women hauled her toward the exit.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Mika called, already in pursuit, Rain right behind her. Sinclair followed as well, a determined fire in his gaze. Yi Sang, still confused but now intrigued, hesitated for only a moment before deciding to follow.

And just like that, the door slammed shut behind them.

Silence.

The Workshop stood still for a beat.

Then—

“Welp!” Gregor’s voice broke the quiet, his tone downright delighted as he leaned forward and swiped another bottle from the table. “More for me!”

Before anyone could comment, the door burst open again.

Rodion entered like a storm, clad in her Rosespanner Workshop Rep. Identity, her arms hauling in several bundles of scrap metal. The weight didn’t seem to bother her, but her expression twisted the moment she took in the sight of Gregor nursing a drink.

“I got more of the—”

She stopped mid-step.

Her sharp eyes scanned the Workshop. The table covered in empty bottles. The vacant seats. The lingering scent of alcohol and debauchery.

And then, she saw Gregor.

A lazy grin. A bottle in one hand. Another already half-empty beside him.

Rodion’s eye twitched.

“…Wh—” Her voice hitched. Then, with a tone of pure betrayal—

“YOU STARTED DRINKING WITHOUT ME?!”

Gregor, still wearing that same stupid grin, gave her an innocent shrug.

Ryōshū, standing off to the side, let out a sharp laugh.

And somewhere, in the distance, the muffled screams of three drunkards facing the wrath of the hose echoed through the night.

Dante, meanwhile, had a single thought in mind.

<I still wanted to talk to Yi Sang…>

Chapter Text

Some time during the events of Canto V…

The main engine of Mephistopheles loomed before Dante, a leviathan heart bound in chains, its core pulsating with an eerie, otherworldly glow. Suspended in the deep void, the orb throbbed like a living thing, its radiance casting spectral shadows against the cold metal of the extraction chamber. Stars hung distant beyond the reinforced viewport, their indifferent light a stark contrast to the infernal power locked within this machine.

Behind them, Faust observed in silent scrutiny, her hands clasped behind her back, the faint glimmer of the core reflecting in her impassive gaze. Though her expression was unreadable, her presence was a weight upon the room, an unspoken demand for efficiency.

Dante’s prosthetic head ticked softly, the rhythmic sound filling the chamber as they stared into the abyss. A thousand extractions had passed through their hands, and yet the sight of the bound engine never ceased to send a shiver through what remained of their mortal frame. The air felt charged, thick with anticipation and something else—something wrong.

“Get ready for extraction, Dante.”

Faust’s voice, crisp and clinical, sliced through the tension like a scalpel.

Dante nodded. They had done this before. They knew the process. The motions were second nature. And yet… something gnawed at them.

They reached out, fingers brushing against the cold panel beside the engine’s maw. With a hiss, the compartment slid open, revealing the core of the operation—a canister, its glass walls containing a red, crystalline substance that pulsed like frozen fire.

Lunacy.

A fuel unlike any other, its essence distilled from the very fabric of identity and consciousness. The lifeblood of extraction, the catalyst for transmutation. Ten Identities’ worth, locked within its delicate, rose-shaped lattice. And yet, as always, uncertainty loomed—would they be new? Would they be mere echoes of the past, fated to fracture into useless Shards?

Dante’s fingers curled around the canister, lifting it with a precision honed through repetition. In the grand machine of Mephistopheles, their role was both simple and inexorable—extract, convert, and persist. A cycle without end, as ceaseless as the ticking of their own mechanized skull.

“Are you hesitant, Dante?”

Faust’s voice carried no judgment, only analysis. Her mind, an intricate lattice of calculations, had already accounted for every possible delay, every deviation from protocol.

“If you’re worried that Walpurgis Night has an effect on Mephistopheles or the Sinners, don’t be. This is just another extraction.”

Walpurgis Night.

An anomaly within an anomaly. A phenomenon as unfathomable as the Mirror itself. Even Faust, with all her knowledge, could not fully explain its reach. It did not follow the laws of probability, nor did it adhere to reason. It simply was—a chasm into which logic was devoured, leaving only uncertainty in its wake.

The boatbus trembled, the walls flashing in erratic pulses of green light. The alarms screamed in protest, a discordant symphony of wailing klaxons and blaring sirens. The Mephistopheles was reacting.

Was it Walpurgis Night? Or was it something worse?

A sharp intake of breath.

“Dante? Are you there?”

Faust’s voice anchored them to the present. The Sinners—those who relied on them—were suffering for their hesitation.

Dante’s grip tightened around the canister.

No more delays.

They took a breath, steadying themselves against the machine’s hum, and pressed the canister into its slot. The engine roared to life, and the extraction began.

The orb at the heart of Mephistopheles pulsed, its glow shifting from its usual golden radiance to an unnatural, neon green. A sickly, almost corrosive light bled into the chamber, illuminating the contours of metal and flesh with a hue that did not belong in this world. Dante’s mechanical head clicked in rapid succession, their internal mechanisms struggling to process the shift.

Then, with a sharp crack, the chains binding the orb convulsed—twisting, writhing like serpents stirred from their slumber. They shot out into the void, vanishing into the unseen depths beyond the Mirror, seeking… hunting. The air around Dante buzzed, thick with the electric weight of the unknown.

Then, the voice came.

“Wow~ We can just kill people left and right and get praised in this Office?”

The sound of shattering glass ran through Dante’s mind, not heard through their ears but felt—an echo that resonated through their very existence. The cadence, the inflection… they knew that voice. Hong Lu. But not the Hong Lu they knew.

From the pulsing chains, a form emerged, its shape coalescing into a man—a twisted reflection of someone familiar yet entirely foreign. This Hong Lu was different.

His arms gleamed with bionic augmentation, the artificial sinew and steel plating glistening beneath the hellish green glow. A black cloth mask concealed his mouth, though his eyes—calm, mirthful, unreadable—remained visible. Over his body, he wore an orange parka coat, its white fur lining stark against the darkness, two belts strapped across his torso. The sleeves were thick, with pockets running along the sides, the fabric shifting as he moved. Beneath, a black t-shirt clung to his form, a contrast to the light gray trousers tucked neatly into dark gray shoes.

And in his hands—

Twin scythes.

Blades curved like the grin of a crescent moon, honed to a razor’s edge. The way he held them, fluid and practiced, left no doubt—this Hong Lu was no mere warrior. He was an assassin.

Dante’s mind pieced together the fragments of memory tied to the name that flickered before them. The Hook Office. A Fixer Office known for its ruthless efficiency, its operators more akin to executioners than peacekeepers.

Their voice came out steady, almost detached as they read the inscription floating above the apparition:

“<Fixer Hong Lu of the Hook Office.>”

The Identity—his Identity—smirked beneath the mask, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Mhm. I hear you loud and clear, Manager.” A casual roll of his shoulders, the scythes twirling effortlessly in his grasp. The blades sliced through the stagnant air, whispering of lives cut short, of silent executions performed in the dead of night.

“I’ll follow you, as long as I get to killing~”

And then, just as quickly as he had appeared, his form shattered, condensing into a small, tile-like trinket that tumbled into Dante’s waiting palm, then joined by the Shards condensed from the Identities they already have. The metal was cool against their fingertips, a tiny, weightless thing—and yet, it thrummed with barely contained violence.

The chamber remained still, the chains now dormant once more, hanging loosely around the pulsating orb.

That was it.

For this ten-pull, at least.

Dante exhaled, the quiet sound almost lost beneath the fading hum of the engine. Their mechanical head ticked in measured intervals, processing the presence of this new Identity. A shade from another path. A history rewritten.

They had one more pull in standby.

Another canister of Lunacy slid into place, the hiss of pressurization whispering through the chamber like a serpent’s breath. The Mephistopheles engine pulsed once more, its unnatural green glow spilling over the metallic walls, casting eerie reflections that slithered and warped with every flickering light.

The chains stirred, groaning as they twisted and spiraled outward, stretching into the unseen void beyond the ship’s hull. They moved with purpose, as though guided by unseen hands, hunting for another Identity to bind.

Then, the voice came.

“Starting work on the Contained Abnormality T-01-54.”

Another glass shatter. It struck like a whisper from a long-buried past, threading itself into Dante’s mind with an almost clinical detachment. Cold. Precise. Familiar.

Another Sinner.

Another Faust.

From the green-lit abyss, she emerged.

This version of Faust stood tall, clad in the remnants of an old world—a past long since buried in the ruins of Lobotomy Corporation. A twisted mockery of a three-piece suit enveloped her form, its pristine design corrupted into something else entirely. A straitjacket. The belts meant to restrain dangled uselessly from her arms, swaying with each measured step. A metallic wrap covered her mouth, obscuring her expression but failing to silence the authority in her presence. In her hands—if they could even be called such—she wielded a massive metallic hammer, its weighty form stained with untold history. A single armband adorned her left forearm, marked with a bold, solitary letter: ‘M’.

Faust—Dante’s Faust—shifted at the sight, her usual composure disturbed ever so slightly. A glimmer of recognition flickered in her gaze, an almost imperceptible reaction, but it was there. This Identity had ties to something deeper.

Lobotomy Corporation.

The former Wing of District 12. A name now spoken only in hushed whispers, a story woven from fragmented records and the accounts of those who had somehow survived its collapse. What had once been an empire of Abnormality research and containment had crumbled into obscurity, its sins buried beneath layers of corporate decay.

This Faust had lived it.

Dante’s voice came, distant and mechanical as they read the designation aloud:

“<Lobotomy E.G.O.::Regret.>”

The Identity paused, then dipped her head in a slow, accepting nod.

“<You work for me now.>”

The response was instant. “But of course, Manager.” Her voice was level, unwavering. There was no doubt, no hesitation—only certainty. “Such is what must be for our work to come to fruition.”

And just as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone. Her form twisted and compressed, condensing into a tile-like trinket that dropped soundlessly into Dante’s outstretched palm.

But before Dante could withdraw their hand, the engine pulsed again.

Something else had arrived.

Not an Identity. No.

Something rarer.

Something deeper.

A new voice broke through the void, its tone low and edged with restrained fury.

“This straitjacket… isn’t nearly enough to hold back my violence.”

Dante’s mind clicked through recognition—Meursault.

But not as they had known him. This was something else entirely. A fragment of his psyche, crystallized into something tangible.

An E.G.O.

The energy in the chamber shifted. The air grew heavier, pressing down upon them as the E.G.O. condensed into a singular, weighty object—an iron coin, its surface marked with intricate, unknowable engravings. It hovered for only a moment before dropping into Dante’s waiting grasp.

TETH-grade. Interesting.

And then, as if drawn by the culmination of the extraction, the fractured remnants of already obtained Identities began to coalesce—Shards merging into the pool, a resource for future refinement.

The chamber fell into silence.

The alarms ceased.

The Mephistopheles was quiet once more.

Faust—Dante’s Faust—shivered, her mechanical composure faltering for the briefest of moments. Then, she blinked, regaining herself.

“Let’s go back, Dante.” Her voice was steady once more, betraying no emotion. “The alarm has already stopped.”

Dante nodded.

“<Okay, guys. I got the stuff.>”

The Mephistopheles hummed softly behind them as Dante stepped out of the Backdoor, their PDA in hand, its dim screen reflecting the neon haze of the ship’s underbelly. The metallic air was thick with the lingering scent of burnt ozone, remnants of the extraction process still hanging in the atmosphere.

Faust followed closely behind, her gaze distant yet calculating, as if still processing the weight of what had transpired.

Before them, gathered in the ship’s dimly lit bay, stood the Sinners.

Gregor was the first to greet them, his ever-present grin flashing like a flickering lightbulb, half-genuine, half-exhausted.

“Hey, Manager Bud,” he called out, shifting his weight with practiced ease. “You finally made it back. The alarm stopped, so there’s nothing to worry about now.”

Dante barely had time to acknowledge him before Hong Lu chimed in, his voice carrying that telltale lilt of curiosity.

“Well, I think you may have to think again, Gregor,” he mused, tilting his head ever so slightly. “They have a look on their face that says, ‘We’re going to the Refraction Railway today.’”

Dante’s mechanical head clicked audibly. “<But my face is a clock…?>”

Hong Lu simply laughed, the sound light and airy, as if Dante had just stated the most charmingly naive thing in the world. “It’s all about the eyes, Dante~”

Dante made the executive decision to end this conversation before it spiraled any further. Some battles weren’t worth fighting.

Rodion folded her arms, stepping closer. “So, Dante, what did you get?” she asked, lips curling into a knowing smirk. “New IDs? E.G.O.?”

“<Both, actually,>” Dante confirmed. “Good to know you guys are getting excited.”

Heathcliff scoffed, arms resting lazily behind his head as he leaned against the boatbus’s frame.

“Just in time, Clockface.” Then, with a casual nod, he gestured toward a familiar figure standing just a little apart from the others. “Look, ol’ Ishmael’s back with us.”

Dante turned, their attention drawn to the unmistakable tangle of orange hair by Meursault’s side. Ishmael stood there, arms crossed, her gaze lowered but no longer distant.

She had come back.

From moping in her room, most likely.

There was an undeniable tension in her shoulders, but she was here. That counted for something.

“<You good, Ishmael?>”

She lifted her head, her expression unreadable for a moment before she exhaled sharply.

“Yeah, whatever. Just get on with it.”

A work in progress.

But they were getting there.

“<So!>”

Dante clapped their hands together, the sound sharp and decisive. “<Anyways, yeah, we ARE going through the Refraction Railway today.>”

A collective groan rippled through the gathered Sinners, echoing like a funeral dirge.

Rodion sighed dramatically, flopping onto the backrest of her seat. Gregor ran a hand through his hair, muttering something about needing a vacation. Heathcliff rolled his eyes, arms still slung lazily behind his head. Even Hong Lu—who usually found amusement in everything—tilted his head with a look of exaggerated contemplation, as if considering whether this ordeal was truly worth his time.

Dante, undeterred, crossed their arms. “<Oh, come on, guys. Don’t be like that,>” they said, feigning exasperation. “It’s mostly to test out the new stuff I got. Come on. Try to be a bit more enthusiastic about this.”

Before anyone could grumble further, Outis straightened her posture, her voice cutting through the lethargy like a blade.

“A soldier who is unenthusiastic about the war never survives.” Her eyes gleamed with fervent intensity, as if the very idea of slacking off in the face of battle was a personal insult. “Our Executive Manager is doing their absolute hardest to support and lead us in combat. We should support our Executive Manager’s decisions in everything they do!”

Dante remained silent, their mechanical head ticking ever so slightly. The other Sinners voiced their defeat in an exasperated groan. Some were more exaggerated than others, but they all clearly showed their disdain.

But it was Ishmael who stiffened.

Her reaction was small—so subtle that it nearly passed unnoticed. But Dante caught it. The slight tensing of her shoulders. The way her fingers curled just a little too tight against her arms. It was only for a moment, but it was there.

Sinclair shifted uncomfortably, then attempted a weak defense. “Well, I mean, it’s not too bad,” he reasoned, hands fidgeting at his sides. “If Dante wants to try out something, then that should be fine, right?”

“Alright, whatever, I’m getting impatient,” Heathcliff interrupted, cracking his neck. “So who’re the lucky people? Who got the new stuff?”

Dante glanced at their PDA, scanning the list before answering. “<Faust and Hong Lu got two new Identities. Meursault, meanwhile, got an E.G.O.>”

“Oh?” Hong Lu was the first to perk up, his usual smile widening into something a little too pleased. His eyes gleamed with intrigue. Meursault, on the other hand, barely reacted. His gaze flickered toward Dante for a mere fraction of a second before returning to its usual impassivity.

“<Yeah,>” Dante confirmed, “<I hope the Identities are amicable, at least…>”

Yi Sang’s voice floated in, his tone as distant and detached as always.

“So that begs the question,” he mused, clutching a bucket as the Mephistopheles gently rocked over the waves. His face, already pale, had taken on an unsettling greenish hue. “Erstwhile mentioned, Faust, Meursault, and Hong Lu would most likely be outfitted for fighting in the Refraction Railway. That leaves four more slots open for combat.”

“<I’ll figure that out eventually.>”

Dante’s head tilted downward, optical sensors scanning the PDA screen. Their mechanical fingers swiped through the available Identities, calculating. Planning.

“<I’ll let you know who I pick. For now, get ready for the Railway, all of you.>”

They turned to face Ishmael.

“<Ishmael. You okay with that?>”

There was a pause.

For a moment, Ishmael looked like she might say no.

Her eyes flickered—something deep, something restrained—but in the end, she just sighed.

“…Sure. No problem.”

Dante didn’t push her further. A work in progress. They were getting there.

“And with that…” Yi Sang exhaled deeply, tilting his head toward the sky. “…I am free from the suffering that is this busboat once more…”

His moment of poetic relief was immediately cut short by a violent lurch of his body. His eyes widened.

“G-Give me a moment… ghhhk—”

He barely managed to reach his bucket in time.