The front gates groaned open beneath Lionel Xavier's touch, not from age, but from deliberate design—reinforced hinges molded from iron and bone, etched with markings too ceremonial to be practical. He stepped out without urgency, boots brushing against the blood-streaked stone, his coat swinging just behind his stride like it hadn't known hesitation in years.
The air was still carrying death.
But he didn't flinch.
Ahead, in the dim halo of the courtyard torches, five figures stood spaced but unified—Amari at the front, Kusarigama tucked loosely behind his back; Maverick, shoulders cocked, tonfa gleaming faintly beneath cloth wraps; Kenneth upright, staff leveled across his spine; Johnny loose-limbed and sharp-eyed beside Milo, who held his sais with unspoken intent.
Lionel didn't slow.
Didn't raise a blade.
Didn't summon anyone.
He simply smiled—a thin sliver of expression that spoke more to boredom than malice.
