Chapter Eight: The Grand Cathedral, the Templar, and Blind Faith

Herscherik climbed out of his carriage in front of the Grand Cathedral, looking up at the massive construction. By day it was a solemn piece of white-stone architecture, but now that it loomed above him in the dark of night, it seemed like an ominous evil lair. It was his enemy’s headquarters, after all.

The Grand Cathedral was located on the outskirts of the capital, some distance away from the castle town but close to the late Baron Armin’s orphanage—close enough that people from the church could inconspicuously visit the orphanage often under the guise of providing aid. It left Herscherik with a bitter taste in his mouth, assuming that this had been the primary reason they’d taken advantage of the orphanage in the first place.

“It’s much larger than I expected,” Herscherik simply said.

“It also serves as the headquarters of the Church in Gracis,” Kuro chimed in. He had eschewed his all-black spy wear in exchange for his butler’s uniform. According to him, this outfit concealed even more weapons. Of course, Herscherik couldn’t tell what weapons were hidden where.

Then, Herscherik’s curiosity was piqued. “Do either of you believe in a god?”

“None,” Kuro immediately answered.

Herscherik chuckled at this expected response and looked to Oran, who had kept his white knight’s uniform on. Since the uniform was designed for knights specifically, it didn’t inhibit his movement in any way.

“I want to believe that there’s a Garden Above after I’m dead,” he said. “I guess I have faith in that sense, but not enough to join the Church.” The Garden Above was a place where good souls dwelled after their body’s death in this world until being reborn into their next life. It was similar to the concept of heaven in Ryoko’s world, while the equivalent of hell was called the Darkness Below. “What about you, Hersch?”

“Um...?” Herscherik’s answer was indecisive despite bringing up the question himself. I didn’t really think about it when I was Ryoko.

Japan was a country without much attachment to religion when Ryoko was alive. Everyone had a right to choose their own faith, including none at all. Ryoko did not subscribe to any specific religion, though she celebrated Christmas, went to Shinto shrines on occasion, and expected to have a Buddhist funeral like most other Japanese people of her time. She did have an interest in mythology, though.

While Ryoko was an otaku spinster with an affinity for the world of fiction, she was also a realist. She’d had her share of religious missionaries knock on her door once she began living on her own. One day, when she was waiting for a package to be delivered, she made the mistake of answering the door when she would have ignored them otherwise. The missionary, despite Ryoko’s polite rejections, blabbered on and on after assuring Ryoko that their conversation would be quick. Then, the missionary had said that, as long as Ryoko would believe the same things they did and pray, her problems would be solved and she would be saved, granting her a life of happiness.

That had rubbed Ryoko the wrong way. “So, your god’s so petty that he refuses to save anybody who doesn’t pray to him?” Admittedly, she had been frustrated by feeling pressured into a conversation she had no interest in while she was waiting for her much-anticipated package. As the missionary fell silent, Ryoko, who usually kept herself calm and collected, layered on the attacks. “Hardships are your god testing us...? Is he some kind of sadist? You say all your believers have to do is pray, but you want people to pay money when they join your religion or attend your services. Isn’t it all about money, then?”

The missionary retreated quickly after Ryoko had rambled all of that off without emotion, firing off a confused “You’ll never get married with that attitude” on their way out.

Ryoko later looked up the religion online to find that it was an extremely shady cult.

Because of experiences like that in his previous life, Herscherik hadn’t revered any god in this life, either. He knew, most of all, that praying to some far-off entity wouldn’t change reality. On the other hand, he understood that some people did rely on religion. Not everyone was strong enough to make it through life alone. Herscherik wouldn’t blame anyone for finding a reason to live in a god or faith. Religion could be a source of support, as much as a parent to some.

But not them. They took advantage of those who believed. Investigations had revealed that everyone who had attacked Herscherik’s party in the castle town had been members of the Church of Light. Also, Kuro had discovered that Hoenir was the leader of a faction of the Church that worshiped Saint Ferris, a notorious hotbed of extremists.

Saint Ferris was the hero of mysterious origins who had united the world in the New Dawn Era. That hero later earned the title of saint and joined the gods in the Garden Above, according to myth. His zealots shared the goal of recreating this worldwide unification to bring about equal peace to all, and they would employ any method necessary to achieve their goal.

Kuro had also discovered that weapons had been smuggled into the Church just recently. When you combined weapons with zealotry, there was only one possible result.

Herscherik opened his pocket watch. Exactly eight o’clock—an hour before the arrival time designated in the letter, and the time of the attack that Herscherik had coordinated with Marx. “It’s time. Let’s go.”

Oran opened the door and walked through it, followed by Herscherik, then Kuro. They proceeded through the majestic Grand Cathedral to be greeted by a man in armor, carrying a sword.

“We thank you for your time, Your Highness Prince Herscherik, Seventh Prince of the Gracis Kingdom,” said the armored man with a respectful bow. He looked to be in his mid-thirties with unremarkable features.

Herscherik didn’t like the half-smirk on the man’s face, which one could hardly call polite. A knight of the Church... A Templar, Herscherik guessed. Templars mainly guarded important figures in the Church or civilians and hunted monsters on occasion—mostly the same duties as a knight of the kingdom would have. The main difference between the two was that Templars could come from any birth or background. Graduating from the knight’s curriculum at the academy was a prerequisite for becoming a knight of the kingdom; even soldiers were required to have a certain degree of academic training. Templars, on the other hand, had no requirements for the job. Anyone who volunteered could become a Templar-in-training. To become an official Templar, however, one had to forsake worldly attachments and suffer through the long and arduous training regimen.

“I’m not interested in your thanks. Why isn’t the one who requested my presence here to greet me?” Herscherik spat out.

“His Holiness is tending to another matter at the moment. My apologies, Your Highness.” Despite his words and attitude, his tone was decidedly not apologetic.

With a hand on the hilt of his sword, Oran took a step forward. “Apologies? After threatening royalty?”

“Threaten? I would never. His Holiness has instructed us to provide His Highness with the warmest of welcomes.”

At his answer, the several doors that led out of the Grand Cathedral were flung open as battle-ready Templars flooded in and surrounded the party.

“Fifty, give or take,” Kuro muttered. Meanwhile, warriors with swords and lances blocked the main entrance, leaving them with nowhere to run.

“You already know how many Templars there are, don’t you, Black Dog?”

“What do you think? I estimate about a hundred or so official Templars here. The rest must be fortifying the grounds.”

From the conversation between Kuro and Oran, Herscherik figured that his brothers would not easily be able to break in, even if they made it there in time. He assumed that Hoenir had gathered every loyalist Templar he could find for this occasion. “I think he and I would disagree on what a ‘warmest welcome’ entails... Unless these Templars are going to cut a cake with their swords and serve it on their armor.”

The Templar who had greeted them didn’t bat an eye at Herscherik’s sarcasm. “We simply follow His Holiness, wherever he may go,” he declared, drawing his sword. The blade reflected the light in the room, prompting the other Templars to draw their own swords, set their lances, and nock their arrows.

“It’s sad to see you all displaying your weapons before the eyes of the gods,” Herscherik said, dryly. “And here I had heard that Templars were proud servants of the people, showing compassion to all.” As he spoke, his mind was racing to find a way out of their predicament. We don’t have too much time. While he didn’t expect his men to lose, exactly, he imagined that it would take considerable time for them to neutralize all of the Templars. They had to make it to the chapel within the cathedral by nine o’clock if they wanted to save Shiro and Jeanne. They couldn’t afford to waste a second.

“Take Hersch and go, Black Dog.”

Before Herscherik could ask how they were going to escape from being surrounded, Kuro picked him up in his arms as if he was a piece of luggage. The gesture was so natural that it took Herscherik a moment to process.

“Huh?”

“Keep quiet, Hersch,” Kuro warned without an explanation. He didn’t wait for Herscherik to answer before springing to action. Kuro flung out his other arm and leaped into the air. With his master still clutched to his chest, he swung through the air towards the door, which was easily twice as high as a full-grown adult, at the end of the cathedral. They approached the door in a rapid charge, but Kuro landed on his feet with cat-like grace just before impact—still carrying Herscherik in his arms, of course.

Oran and Kuro alone understood what had happened. Kuro had flung a wire hidden in his sleeve to anchor it into a chandelier, then pulled on it to swing from the ceiling like a pendulum. While this seemed like an easy maneuver on paper, Kuro had to consider the angle of fulcrum, the durability of the chandelier, and his own weight combined with that of Herscherik. Not many others could have pulled it off as easily as he had.

I don’t know how that wire works, exactly... Oran thought. But he is an ex-spy, after all. He’s sure light on his feet. He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, though.

“The world’s... spinning...” Herscherik’s feeble mutter broke through the silence. Ryoko had always had inner ear problems (which was why she hated roller coasters) and so did Herscherik.

Kuro called to Oran, left alone surrounded by the Templars. “Catch up, Sir Delinquent.”

“I’ll be right there as soon as I’m done,” Herscherik’s knight of service called back, drawing his sword with one hand and waving them off with the other.

Herscherik looked at him. “Oran!” Even though he knew how skilled his knight was, he couldn’t help but worry as he saw him outnumbered fifty to one.

Oran dismissed that concern with a beaming smile. “Go ahead, Hersch. I’ll be right there.” Oran wasn’t nervous, so Herscherik gave a confident nod in return.

Kuro flung the door open and sprinted out.

Oran watched them leave and then glanced around the room. None of the Templars moved. Were they expecting this...? Oran thought. No, they planned for this exactly. Oran recalled what Herscherik had told him before leaving the castle.

Once Kuro had returned Herscherik to his room, Cecily took Violetta to change out of her dirtied clothes with the rest of the triplets in tow.

“I’m still not sure what Hoenir is after,” Herscherik had said. “But if he’s after me, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” Herscherik then spat out, “He won’t consider his demands met unless I go alone, but neither my father or brother would allow that. They might let me go if you two came along, though, even if they don’t like it... And I have no choice but to go.”

Hoenir well understood how Herscherik and his family would act, and had anticipated that the royal guards would arrive after a certain amount of time. He had robbed Herscherik of choice. His assumption was that he would try to separate them within the cathedral. “I don’t want to walk into his trap...” Herscherik had muttered. “But we may not have an alternative.”

Divide us? Let them try. I’ll catch right up. Oran wore a dauntless grin, ready to break through any trap he found himself in. Both he and Kuro had gotten out of a lot of tough spots over the past year. They had learned to trust each other in combat. Oran held his sword in a relaxed stance, as if he was just beginning his daily training.

“You expect to fight us all off alone?” One of the Templars frowned. As Hoenir had commanded, they had successfully separated one of the men of service from the prince. But even as he stood against an army of fifty Templars, the man seemed far too calm.

“Curious, huh? I am too...” Oran gave a laugh as if he was talking to an old friend. “I’m curious how you expected to take me on with nothing but numbers on your side!”

In an instant, Oran closed in on the man and kicked him square in his unguarded midsection. Taken by surprise after expecting the sword, the man was slammed against the altar. The Templars next to him swung their swords at Oran, who simply twisted to avoid the blades and struck at their outstretched arms in retaliation.

An arrow immediately came flying at Oran, but he knocked it out of the air easily. Oran defended against all of the Templars’ rapid-fire attacks and methodically took down each one. In a matter of minutes, Oran was looking down at a dozen injured Templars crawling on the ground—without even breaking a sweat.

During Operation Fortune Favors the Bold, Oran had fought bandits, street thugs, mercenaries, and even crooked knights or soldiers, arresting them all alive. When it came to combat experience, he was more seasoned than the Templars, whose main duties were training, bodyguarding, and hunting monsters. They were no match for Oran, who trained every day, had seen plenty of combat, and could easily take them down non-lethally.

This battle, however, was unlike any other Oran had faced before. Even though most of the Templars on the ground should have been unconscious or at least in too much agony to stand, they all rose to their feet. That should have been impossible... but then Oran saw a gleam of madness and euphoria in their eyes.

He recognized that gleam. They’re using that drug... Oran could feel his own heart freeze over. That was the drug that had taken his fiancée from him. He couldn’t help but loathe its very existence, and his grudge against it would last his entire life. While the drug provided the user with a feeling of euphoria and ecstasy, it was designed to bolster the user’s physical strength and dull their sense of fear and pain, turning them into monsters.

“What could possibly be worth using that? What could be worth wasting your life for?” Oran’s quiet wrath reverberated through the Grand Cathedral. It only took a single dose to make someone an addict until they died—which wouldn’t be long, since the potent drug strengthened one’s body far past its natural limits. Even if the drug had somehow been developed further, Oran didn’t believe that the side effect would ever have been eradicated.

The Templar who first greeted them raised his sword. “To serve His Holiness in his supreme quest!”

“In the name of Saint Ferris!” the rest of the Templars chimed in. Their shouts soon became a booming chorus, shaking the Grand Cathedral.

“Zealots...” Oran spat out. Then, he gave a self-deprecating snicker. “Guess I don’t have much room to talk.”

“What was that?” the first Templar asked, his religious ecstasy interrupted.

Oran flicked his blade, and the blood on his blade marked the pristine floor of the Grand Cathedral with a crimson splatter. “Just like you have blind faith in Hoenir and your god, I trust my master.” While the zealots and Oran both had something they were willing to risk their lives for, there was a definitive difference between them. “But that’s where the similarities end. If my master goes down the wrong path, I’ve sworn to stop him, even if that means killing him.” That was what Oran’s master wanted most of him: to stop him from going down the wrong path, even if it meant his death.

In a way, Hersch is crazier than all of us. He kept a knight by his side with specific orders to kill him, after all. With a chuckle, Oran raised his sword. “Hoenir’s wrong,” Oran declared.

The Templars enraged. “His Holiness has never been, and will never, be wrong!”

“That’s what I mean. He’s already conditioned you not to question him,” Oran quietly countered. The men who served Hoenir had already been brainwashed to believe that their leader was flawless. Every human being struggled to make some decision and worried if they were right or wrong, save for the extremely fortunate, the mad, and those who had given up on forming their own thoughts. Herscherik is always worried if what he’s doing is right, or if he would go down the wrong path. While many might have stopped in their tracks over such worries, Herscherik was always able to keep moving forward, though with great effort. What’s more, he encouraged those who had stopped, giving them a helping hand and the courage to go on.

“Have you ever taken a life, Oran?” Herscherik had asked one day. Oran answered that he hadn’t. He had fought people before, but had never killed anyone. He had never needed to. Herscherik heard this answer, and continued with determination in his eyes, “I’m powerless. That’s why I need to rely on you two all the time.” When it came to combat, Herscherik was more of a hindrance than a help. However, Oran saw nothing wrong with that. Herscherik could leave any battles to him and the butler. They were more than capable of doing so.

Herscherik had countered that, saying, “Oran. Killing someone doesn’t end when the deed is done. Even if it’s the worst criminal in the world, you rob them of the rest of their life, and change the lives of those around them for better or worse... From that moment on, you carry their life and the vengeance of those close to them on your shoulders. That’s what I think.”

In fact, some of the newer knights or soldiers sometimes left the military after making their first kill, their minds consumed by it. Some others found sick pleasure in taking lives. Oran had wondered if Herscherik was concerned for his sanity, but immediately thought better. Herscherik was kind enough that he wouldn’t have chosen him for his knight if that had been a concern. Oran concluded that Herscherik was concerned for those whom Oran might kill.

“You don’t want me to kill anyone?” Oran had asked.

Herscherik had shook his head. “Not exactly. I can’t tell you that. How could I, when they’ll be trying to kill you?” Herscherik gazed into Oran’s eyes. “If you ever kill someone, you’ll have done it on my orders. It will be on my shoulders... It’s presumptuous, I know, but it’s all I can do. So,” he added, “don’t hold back. Don’t be afraid to take a life,” Herscherik had declared.

If anyone else had told him that, Oran might have scoffed at such an empty speech. But knowing how Herscherik was always sincere, his words carried incredible weight with Oran.

“My master’s too soft on his men,” Oran muttered. Did the little prince expect any scion of Aldis to be raised with an idealistic philosophy like that? From the day he was first given a sword at a young age, Oran’s father had always told him never to take up a weapon unless he was also prepared to take a life. As long as he wielded a blade, his father had always told him, there would come a day for him to make that choice.

I became a knight to achieve my dream... To make Hersch’s dream come true. Oran stared down the Templars inching towards him. “I won’t hold back, anymore. Now, it’s life or death.”

With those words, a massacre commenced in the Grand Cathedral. Oran turned to decapitate a Templar that leapt to attack him from behind. Another, completely unfazed by the death of his comrade, thrust his lance at Oran, but he dodged it with maximum efficiency before grabbing the weapon, slicing off the Templar’s arm that held it, and stabbing him in the throat with his sword. He threw the lance with the arm still attached to it into the face of a Templar who had been aiming an arrow at him. Oran didn’t bat an eye as Templar blood splattered him, unleashing his sword without mercy.

Eventually, the Templars stationed outside had rushed in after seeing that their comrades were losing the battle against a single man, but Oran slew every single one of them. When he took the life of the final Templar, his white uniform, handsome face, and even his sunset-colored hair was completely painted red... and not a drop of it his own.

This event would later be told in a chapter of the story of the Twilight Knight, titled “The Twilight Knight Vanquishes One Hundred Zealots.”

Some time before the massacre, Kuro sprinted down the long hallway, his master in his arms. He had memorized the layout of the entire Church grounds including the Grand Cathedral; as a result, he knew where the hallway would lead and had a guess as to how they could efficiently reach their destination. He gave a quick glance at his master, who kept quiet with a concerned frown.

“Are you worried about that meathead again, Hersch?”

“Hm...? Oran said he’s fine, so he’ll be fine. Are you worried, Kuro?” Herscherik muttered through his butler-sickness, which had led to an upset stomach and a frown on his face.

“No.”

“Of course...” Herscherik chuckled. Even as they bickered with each other, it was clear to see that they trusted each other—not that they would ever admit to it. “Of course I’m worried. But I believe in him. I know you do too, Kuro.”

Kuro scowled at the observation. He carried on with caution until he reached a door, where he lowered his master to his feet before the prince ended up doing his best impression of one of those merlion water-spouts.

Kuro opened the door as he scoped for any presence beyond it. Once satisfied that no one else was around, they went through it. The room beyond was octagonal, each corner holding a stone statue of a god. The dome-shaped ceiling depicted the Garden Above in beautiful stained glass. In contrast, the flooring was of dark stone that represented the gate into the Darkness Below. Herscherik had recognized these depictions because they reminded him of a picture book he had read early on in his studying.

There was a door that led further into the cathedral, opposite the door they had just come through.

“This is the hall right before the chapel... Which is most likely past that other door, but—Hersch!” Kuro grabbed Herscherik, who had been curiously observing the area, and leapt away. Heavy clinks rang through the room. Herscherik looked over Kuro’s shoulder to see two needles the size of his palm quivering in the ground. Another one had pierced Kuro’s right shoulder.

“Kuro!” Herscherik cried.

Kuro set his master down and yanked out the needle without much care. “I’m fine.” He stared across the room. “Come out, now.”

There was no response. After a short sigh, Kuro threw the needle into the seemingly unoccupied shadow of a statue. The shadow flickered like candlelight, and the needle was deflected. A tall and lanky man emerged from it, and Kuro stepped in front of the prince protectively.

“You live up to your reputation, Shadow Fang. The element of surprise wasn’t enough,” the man recited with a monotone, mechanical voice.

Herscherik carefully observed the figure from behind Kuro’s back. He was an expressionless man with dark clothes and a hood over his face, which reminded Herscherik of the men who attacked the orphanage. He has to be the one I saw.

Herscherik had seen him when he had felt a sense of being watched. A moment later, the three attackers and Baron Armin had fallen to the ground. When Herscherik looked back to where he was, the man had disappeared.

Herscherik felt an indescribable sense of dread and tugged at Kuro’s sleeve. Kuro kept his eyes on the man, placing his hand on Herscherik’s head.

“Go on, Hersch. We don’t have much time.”

“But...” Herscherik hesitated, looking at Kuro’s shoulder where the needle had struck him. He had been expected for them to be separated, but he was worried about how Kuro was moving his arm.

“Don’t you trust me?” Kuro asked.

While Herscherik couldn’t see Kuro’s face, his tone was filled with perfect confidence.

“Okay...!” Herscherik sprinted towards the door at the end of the room. He charged forward, flung it open, and disappeared into the other side.

Kuro and the attacker waited for Herscherik to leave in silence, without looking away from each other.

“You’re the one Hersch saw at the orphanage.” Kuro’s remark was left unanswered. “That’s fine. I wouldn’t admit it, either. I can only imagine how embarrassing it was to be spotted by a kid,” Kuro mocked.

“Keep talking,” the man calmly answered. “You only have until the poison kicks in.”

Kuro knew that the needle was poisoned from the paralyzing sensation in his right shoulder. His dominant hand was growing numb now, suggesting that the poison was quickly spreading through his body. “You may have a point...” In an instant, Kuro closed his distance between the man and stabbed the knife in his left hand towards the man’s face.

The attacker just barely dodged the knife, but couldn’t do the same for the kick that Kuro followed up the strike with; this he was forced to block with crossed arms. Then, Kuro switched the knife to his poisoned right hand, swinging it in an attempt to slice the man’s throat. The attacker took a step back at the last second to dodge the attack. After this flurry of blows, the man’s hood had been torn, blood trickling from a red line on his forehead.

The attacker wiped the blood with the back of his hand, staring at Kuro with eyes that had finally broken his mask-like non-expression. “How can you still move?” His eyes showed his disbelief that any human could stay standing while afflicted by his poison of choice.

“If you want to poison me to death, you have to reach for the top shelf.” The knives in Kuro’s hands vanished like a magic trick. “This one hits pretty hard, but not hard enough,” Kuro said, as the attacker glared at him as though he was some kind of abomination.

Not only was Kuro well-versed enough in poisons enough to see through Jeanne’s assassination attempt, but his body had been engineered to withstand most poisons, too. It wasn’t something he chose for himself, but he was now grateful for it. His immunity was now helping him protect Herscherik.

“Why do you... or that knight, for that matter, serve the youngest prince, who has nothing?”

Perhaps the man’s curiosity was natural. The seventh and youngest prince had no patrons, no power, nor any talent to speak of. He was too young to even attend the academy. Any outsider would have struggled to understand how a powerful spy like Kuro, or a member of the famous Aldis family, the country’s best lineage of knights, would choose to serve him.

“Nothing?” A dangerous light flickered in Kuro’s deep, ruby eyes. “I have never met anyone who has as much as Herscherik does.” Strength and knowledge were only worth so much. Power meant less than money to someone like Kuro, who had spent much of his life in the underground.

“What do you want from your master?” Kuro asked his attacker. “Strength? Intelligence? Fame? Power, or money? Not good looks, I hope.” Kuro had no interest in such superficial qualities. He had seen all sorts of people through his life, from the highest of the elite to those on the bottom of the ladder. He had seen the darkness and the light of this world, all of its beautiful qualities as well as the ugly ones. He had seen too much, lost hope, and had given up.

But Herscherik was different from anyone he had ever encountered. A dedicated worker. Kind and stubborn. Straightforward but wise. Weak but strong. His master shone brightly with all of his paradoxical qualities. “Anyone who underestimates Herscherik is only revealing how insignificant they are. In a way, your archbishop has a good eye for talent,” Kuro smirked. Herscherik was on to Hoenir’s plan, although he suspected that something else was afoot. “If he’s shallow enough for Hersch to see straight through his plans, he won’t stand a chance.”

“That’s why you let him go...”

Kuro smirked. “You didn’t expect to get to our prince this easily, did you?” Kuro stood, relaxed. Even though the effects of the poison were mitigated, numbness was still creeping into his limbs.

The attacker raised his hand and the shadows of the gods’ statues flickered, revealing more men dressed like the first, now surrounding them. They formed a circle outside of Kuro’s range.

“I’m short on time. Let’s make this quick.” Kuro moved his hands slightly. A whish followed—and two heads flew into the air. The other attackers widened their eyes in shock, mirroring the expression on the severed heads of their comrades. The headless bodies slumped to the ground, the stump of their necks erupting in a fountain of blood.

“What... did you do?” the first man asked. His target hadn’t moved a single step, but two of his men had been decapitated as if by the invisible scythe of Death himself.

“What’s the point of answering? You’re just going to the ‘Darkness Below,’ as the Church puts it?” Kuro swung his arms again.

“Back off!” the man reflexively shouted, and then followed his own advice. His men did the same, but one of them staggered, leaving blood to spew from his neck before he fell without a word. While his head wasn’t completely detached, his neck was halfway severed.

“That poison is starting to take effect...” Kuro shrugged, and shook his hands again. Red lines danced through the air before contracting into his sleeves. Soon, the attackers realized that these were blood-soaked wires.

“What is that thing...?!” The man groaned at the completely foreign weapon, his face frozen from fear rather than to hide his emotions. He couldn’t understand how a barely visible wire could sever body parts, nor how it was being manipulated without a weight on the other end.

“Why should I answer you?” In a flash, Kuro held a knife in each hand. He had decreased their numbers with a surprise attack, but his poisoned body wasn’t exactly in top form. Not that he had any intention of losing. But this might take longer than I thought, Kuro silently complained—and leapt towards the enemy to take them down.

Herscherik caught his breath as he stood before the door. After running here, his breathing was heavy and his knees were shaking. No, Herscherik acknowledged the faint fear within him. His knees weren’t just shaking from the run. He was alone now, left without the two men who had always protected him. Things had gone mostly as he’d expected.

His men didn’t look happy when Herscherik had predicted this outcome. “We don’t have to walk into their trap,” they had countered. Even still, Herscherik stuck to his decision. If he didn’t walk into this trap, Jeanne and Shiro would die. Just as fortune favored the bold, there was no reward without risk. I thought I’d been through a lot, but here I am. Herscherik had been in many dangerous situations during his operations. He had nearly been kidnapped, assaulted, or even killed. At every turn, his men of service had protected him.

Now, they weren’t here. Herscherik slapped his thighs to brace himself. The full-force slap had left his legs and palms stinging for a moment, but at least the shaking had stopped. Woman up...! Or... I guess it’s man up, now! Herscherik opened the door to an explosion of light.

“Watch out!” a voice called, as she felt her arm being yanked back.

She staggered at the sudden movement, but someone had caught her from behind, keeping her from falling. A car drove away as it furiously honked its horn. A fold-up umbrella lay in the middle of the crosswalk.

“What?” Her brain froze. This was the first time she had ever been embraced by a man outside of her family. Who could have blamed her for over-reacting a little?

The man’s voice continued from above, “Who goes that fast when you can barely see the road? You should have checked the light, too... Wait, are you... Hayakawa?”

It took her a few moments before Ryoko realized that the man was talking to her. “Um...” She looked up to see a tall man in a business suit, his slicked-back hair ruffled a bit. He wore a well-tailored suit and coat, but his broad shoulders and back had gotten wet from the rain, presumably after pulling Ryoko into his arms. The man was calm and good looking, like someone who would be featured in a magazine as the quintessential Man Who Gets the Job Done.

“Don’t you remember me? Come on, we went to high school together.” The man grinned.

Something about his grin jogged Ryoko’s memory. She recognized a few things about him. “Are you...? Takanashi?”

“Bingo!” Takanashi cheerfully smiled. “It’s been a while, Hayakawa.”

Ryoko could feel her heart skip a beat at that smile. She caught, in the corner of her eye, the torrential downpour turning into an ordinary drizzle.