Under the dim glow of mana-lamps along the city walls, the chaos at the market gate suddenly shifts. Two towering Mikhland guards step forward, like statues of bronze come alive, blocking the path of the three Latino assailants. Their towering figures clad in silver armor gleam faintly, reflecting violet light, and the aura they emanate makes the crowd scatter into silence.
Kỳ's eyes light up, his voice sharp with mocking excitement:
— Those fools don't bribe them all! Now's the time to strike!
With that, he surges forward, leaping with the agility of a hawk descending upon prey. Quang Minh turns to me, tension carved across his face yet with a glint of fervor in his eyes:
— It's time to act!
Before I can respond, he lunges after Kỳ. But soon I notice the bribed guards creeping back toward the two hulking soldiers. They whisper something—indistinct, yet to me it is nine chances out of ten they are splitting the payoff. As expected, the towering soldiers stage a mock battle with the three Latinos, their blades clashing noisily, movements fierce but their eyes vacant.
They even pretend to lose. The bribed guards put on their own theatrics: mouths agape, feigning shock, or perhaps convincing themselves that the Latinos are truly formidable fighters. In that farce, the trio drags away an unconscious Hải, vanishing swift as shadows.
When Quang Minh and Kỳ try to give chase, the two massive guards deliberately hinder them, steps sluggish and exaggerated. They then turn to quarrel among themselves, voices loud and hollow, clearly stalling for time.
[Cursed farce… but how should I respond?] My mind swirls with impatience. Just then, I sense something strange emanating from both Kỳ and Quang Minh, something far from ordinary.
I seize Quang Minh's arm, ready to throw himself into the fray with Kỳ. But he shakes me off, his face flushed, brows knotted, his voice rough, seething beneath restraint:
— Zihao, why are you stopping me? Let me and Kỳ finish them! We have the power of demons!
[So that's it…But what kind of demonic power ? Maybe I should left it for later.] At last, the strange feeling becomes clear. I study Quang Minh's movements, then ask bluntly:
— Your senses… they've been heightened by demonic power, haven't they?
Quang Minh barks back, loud and curt:
— Yes!
I lock eyes with him, unwavering:
— Then you can track their scent.
He freezes. His entire body goes rigid, the fire of anger in his gaze extinguishes, replaced by raw disbelief. We stare at each other for a long moment, while Kỳ, alone, fights a fierce one-on-two battle with the towering guards, each strike wild and relentless.
I give a small nod, affirming my words.
Quang Minh grits his teeth, growls:
— You want me to imitate a dog to find them?
I reply with calm, heavy words:
— Yurang once swallows coal to change his voice and avenge his master back in the Spring and Autumn era. Do you mean to say a man centuries later dares less?
Quang Minh's neck stiffens as he shouts back:
— I'm not Chinese!
I roll my eyes, sigh, my lips sinking with weariness:
— But, right now, it's the fastest way. And remember, you don't need to crouch down. There's no wind, their scent hasn't drifted anywhere yet.
Reluctantly, his expression shifts—from resistance to reluctant acceptance. He lowers his head slightly, begins to sniff out their trail. I exhale, grab Kỳ from the brawl, and urge the group forward once more.
Under the dim veil of night, shadows ripple across the clearing where the chase drags us. The horse's hooves beat against the soil with a rhythm that echoes like a war drum, and dust rises in pale columns beneath the wavering lamplight of the distant city. My eyes strain against the darkness—vision clouded, the faces of our enemies blurred by poor illumination. Still, I discern enough: one of them, cloaked and armored in a manner suspiciously similar to Veritas, rides hard to seize Hai. With practiced swiftness, he swings Hai's limp form onto the horse, pulling him away into the shrouded road, leaving two of his cohorts behind as a shield to bar our path.
I halt, the rush of blood heavy in my ears. My hand slips into the folds of my cloak, drawing forth my weapon—not a sharpened sword, but a peculiar rod forged in the likeness of one. Its edges are dull, yet its weight, balance, and curvature are designed to counter blades, to hold against steel by force and precision rather than by sharpness.
The man before me raises his long sword, its steel whispering as it cuts through the air. His figure is short, compact, but firm; the confidence of someone who trusts his weapon and his own training. He advances, and his eyes, gleaming faintly in the night, lock into mine. I meet his stare without flinching, the tension between us coiling like a spring wound too tight.
The clash comes sudden. His blade descends in a diagonal arc, a swift, practiced stroke. I lift my weapon, meeting the strike with a resonant clang. Sparks snap, dancing in brief orange flashes before fading into the dark. We circle, measured steps scraping the dirt. Our gazes hold, unyielding, eyes like two predators gauging which will falter first.
Again, his sword cuts through the space between us. Again, my staff-like blade rises to intercept. Steel strikes steel, the vibration pulsing through my arms. We circle. The silence between clashing echoes louder than the noise itself—glances sharpen, breaths quicken, waiting for the next break in rhythm.
He strikes. I block. We circle.
He strikes. I block. We circle.
This dance repeats, again and again, as though we are trapped in an endless spiral of anticipation and denial. The repetition becomes maddening, yet I cannot risk recklessness. [He is testing me. And I am testing him. We measure one another not in words but in the refusal to yield ground.]
On the far side, my peripheral catches sight of Quang Minh and Kỳ. The other mercenary is less fortunate. Surrounded by the fury of both, his armor is dented, his sword shattered in half, his shield warped like a crushed kettle drum. Their blows rain upon him not with elegance but with pure aggression—boots slamming, fists striking, unrelenting force born of wrath still simmering from earlier betrayals.
I turn back, catching the faint flash of teeth as my opponent grits against me. His stance is steady, but not flawless. My own weapon lacks edge, and so my offense lacks killing intent; his swordsmanship, though competent, lacks the precision to break through my guard. Thus, we are locked in this ceaseless mimicry of strike and counter, as though two reflections bound by mirrored fate.
Then comes laughter—low, harsh, and from behind. Quang Minh and Kỳ have subdued their opponent. When I glance again, he is bound tightly to a tree by rope woven from fibrous plants torn hastily from the ground. Around his head, wildflowers have been absurdly tucked into the knots, mocking decoration upon a prisoner of war.
For a heartbeat, I fail to grasp their intention. That is, until Kỳ sprints away and returns just as swiftly, palms cupped, his grin feral. When he approaches the bound man, he flings his hands wide open. A cloud of bees bursts forth—dozens of small, golden-winged creatures that swarm and land across the prisoner's body.
The man stiffens instantly, trembling like a bowstring pulled taut. His eyes widen in terror, yet the bees do not sting. Instead, they crawl lazily across his armor and skin, pausing to collect pollen from the flowers absurdly woven into his binding. The scene is grotesque and comical in equal measure, the silence of his fear broken only by the faint buzz of wings.
Kỳ turns to me then, his eyes gleaming, raising a hand in signal. I understand. With a swift motion, I hurl my blunt blade at the short man still dueling me. He raises his sword instinctively, deflecting the throw with sparks flying as the steel glances off.
That instant of distraction is enough. Kỳ rushes forward, foot lashing out in a sharp kick meant to sweep his legs. But the opponent is alert, seasoned. He braces, weight dropped low, one leg rooted like an iron pillar. The impact reverberates, his face twisting in pain yet unyielding. Then, with sudden force, his arm shoots forward, pushing Kỳ away violently. Kỳ staggers back, balance lost, and falls flat, dust clouding around his sprawled form.
[Impressive.] I cannot help the thought. [This one is no mere thug. He carries discipline in his movements, training etched into muscle and bone. His resilience commands respect, even here.]
But numbers carry their own weight. Even as Kỳ falls, Quang Minh emerges behind the swordsman with brutal swiftness. His arms coil around the man's shoulders, locking them like iron clamps. The mercenary jerks, twists, but Quang Minh holds fast, sinews straining, teeth bared in determination.
Kỳ, quick to recover, crawls and lunges forward, grabbing the man's legs and pinning them down with the raw strength of stubborn persistence. The once-fearsome swordsman buckles under the combined press of two bodies, caught in a snare of sheer manpower.
Only then do I exhale, chest easing for the first time since the confrontation begins. The night air is damp, smelling of churned earth, sweat, and the faint sweetness of crushed flowers still dangling mockingly from the other captive's bindings. My fingers flex loosely around the empty air where my weapon has left my hand. Relief washes faint but tangible through my veins, tempered with caution.
[For now, we have balance. Yet shadows still stretch further on the road ahead. And Hai… he slips farther from reach.]
Under the dim and restless canopy of the night, the prisoners sit slumped against the base of the trees where we have tethered them. Their hands are bound, their eyes burn with both fatigue and disdain, and they refuse us even the courtesy of speech. I question them with the patience of a scholar and the persistence of a soldier, but their lips yield no truth. When pressed, they speak in their own tongue—Portuguese—whispering harsh syllables to one another, a code meant to isolate us, to ensure their words carry meaning only for their ears.
[They mock us by silence. They build walls of language against us, trusting that our ignorance will shield their secrets.]
Kỳ shifts uneasily, the firelight glinting against the frustration in his eyes. He turns to me, his voice urgent:
"Zihao, what should we do with them?"
Before I can shape a measured reply, Quang Minh interjects, his tone brisk, almost dismissive.
"The enemy has taken Hai," he says, his eyes narrowing. "So we take two of theirs. One for one, two for one—call it even. That is a fair exchange." His words fall with the careless certainty of someone who thinks in terms of barter rather than lives.
The air hangs heavy with the weight of decision. I glance at the captives, then at the night sky, ink-dark and scattered with stars. The hour grows late; shadows lengthen with cold patience. I exhale and nod.
"Very well. We keep them until dawn. Perhaps tomorrow, with clearer heads, we will know the next step."
The next day arrives clothed in quiet beauty. September 11th, 1300, sorry, September 1st, brings a pale sun filtering through the branches of a small forest alive with cherry blossoms. Their petals drift down in languid spirals, soft pink and white confetti against the earth, settling on shoulders and hair as though blessing the gathering with fragile grace. Yet beneath that beauty, the tension of our purpose presses against every chest.
Shinji emerges from his house with the measured calm of a man from another world. The sliding door gives a muted click, and he steps onto the porch in his flowing kimono, its fabric whispering with his movements. His gaze falls upon us immediately—myself, Quang Minh, Kỳ, Veritas—all standing amidst the blossoms. But most of all, his eyes linger on the two bound men, half-hidden among the bamboo, their presence undeniable even in silence.
Shinji's voice, steady but questioning, breaks the quiet.
"Zihao… who are those two?"
I step forward, straightening my posture though fatigue tugs at my shoulders.
"They are hostages," I reply, my tone clipped yet formal. "Taken from an unknown faction, but they will serve as coin to ransom Hai. Until then, they remain here."
The words weigh on me as I speak them. [A man reduced to bargaining chip. A life bound in ropes so that another life may return. Yet this is the ledger of survival—we trade what we must, lest all be lost.]
Around us, unease stirs. Veritas stands stiff, his usual poise strained; Quang Minh folds his arms with a scowl; Kỳ fidgets, eyes restless. Even the forest itself seems to hush, petals falling more slowly, as though hesitant to disturb our heavy mood.
Apart from us, Helene sits alone upon a low stone. Her hair catches the morning light like fine threads of copper, her hands cupping the small crystal Hai has left behind—a piece of copper(II) oxide, glimmering faintly. She turns it in her palms with quiet fascination, eyes narrowed in the focus of a machinist who sees in every fragment the seed of invention. Yet her solitude speaks louder than her curiosity; she sits outside our circle, an observer rather than participant, her mind already turning to designs none of us can yet imagine.
Then, as though summoned by contrast, Joon-soo arrives. His steps are slow, deliberate, his face carrying not tension but a serenity that borders on arrogance. He waves lazily to us, his expression relaxed, almost bored. Suspicion sharpens in the glances we cast him, yet he remains unfazed—walking beneath the blossoms as if they bloom only for him, tilting his head to the sky, closing his eyes to savor a moment no one else can afford. Then, as if nothing presses upon us, he turns toward me and speaks with infuriating calm:
"Now," he says, spreading his hands, "let us begin forming the group. Aldo is expected back this afternoon."
He steps to the center of the clearing, lifting both arms high, voice swelling with mock solemnity.
"First of all, we need a name. From this day forward, we shall be known as The Strays—the insult Zheng Li spat at Zihao's companions when Veritas, Aldo, and Helene first crossed paths with him and his scheming allies. A curse reshaped into our banner. And let us waste no time in false democracy over such a matter—this is settled. Now, onward!"
The brazenness of it leaves silence in his wake. Even the prisoners twist their heads, bewildered spectators to a play. My jaw tightens, though I say nothing. [So casual. So careless. To seize upon an insult and call it identity. Is this arrogance or jest?]
But Joon-soo presses forward, unfazed by our muted disapproval.
"Next, a motto," he declares with a gleam in his eye. "The name is perfect already, born flawless, but every great banner must have a cry."
Kỳ's voice breaks the silence, sharp and resolute:
"Independence – Freedom – Happiness." His chest swells as he speaks, the words forged from ideals older than time.
Helene raises her gaze from the crystal, her voice softer, yet deliberate:
"Unity and Justice and Freedom."
No others offer words. Suspicion, irritation, or silence binds their tongues.
Joon-soo smiles, as if the stage has played exactly as he imagines. He sweeps his gaze across us, then proclaims with triumphant flourish:
"Thank you for your opinions! But I choose this: Liberty – Democracy – Chaos!"
The air bristles instantly. Kỳ shoots to his feet, finger stabbing through the air like a blade.
"No one sets such a motto!" he thunders, anger flashing in his eyes.
Joon-soo merely tilts his head, lips curling into the shadow of a smirk, and without so much as a reply, pivots.
"Let us speak of a logo then. This time, we shall vote."
Helene, prepared, reveals her work: a phoenix forged in lines of precision, a symbol reborn from fire, beautiful and fierce. Kỳ counters with his own creation: a pig caricatured as a capitalist beast, crude yet pointed, the satire plain.
When the votes are cast, the result splits us in half—three and three. Each face unyielding, each voice unbent. Then comes an unexpected presence: Lianne, once Neva, emerges from the trees. She casts her vote for Helene, tipping the balance to four against three.
But Joon-soo, with the flourish of a jester cloaked in the robes of a king, raises his hand and adds his own vote—to Kỳ's side. The balance snaps back to four against four. And with a voice of mock solemnity, he declares:
"Thus, we shall have no logo. This is the will of The Strays. Each must have different want for the logo. Hence, no official logo won't go against any of our wants !"
The absurdity hangs in the air, heavy as smoke. [A farce. A meeting cloaked as governance, unraveling into theater. How shall we march as one if every step is fractured by jest?]
The formation of the group is postponed, to await Aldo's return and his deciding voice. Dissatisfaction churns in every heart—save one. Joon-soo, smiling still, basks in the chaos as if it were his design.
The prisoners remain bound through the afternoon, forgotten in the theater of our quarrels. Only Shinji, quiet and composed, remembers them. He carries rice, beans, and vegetables, setting them gently before the captives. Their eyes soften for the briefest instant, though their tongues remain sealed.
As the sun bends low, staining the blossoms with gold, I depart. My place is not among arguments that yield nothing but frustration. Instead, I walk to Tarif's gate, where shadows stretch long upon the road, to wait for Aldo's return.
[Perhaps his voice shall restore sense to this gathering. Or perhaps he, too, shall be swept into the circus. Either way, we cannot remain as we are. Hai's absence lingers like a wound, and without resolution, this group of Strays may scatter before it ever takes a first true step.]
The cream puff melts thick and sweet on my tongue, almost suffocating. Powdered sugar coats my lips, sticky against the heat of my breath. Joon-soo is beside me, cheeks puffed full, eyes darting like a startled animal. And then—
A shadow cuts across the courtyard.
Aldo.
He doesn't walk. He doesn't jog. He erupts. His body bends and reforms with that uncanny elasticity of his, the earth cracking under his steps as though some beast—not a boy—charges toward us. For a heartbeat I think he is about to slam straight into me, but no—the trajectory is precise, surgical. His gaze is locked elsewhere.
I follow the line of his eyes.
Three figures.
Young men, about eighteen or twenty, standing as if they own the very air. Two Korean, one Japanese by the sound of their voices, their posture, their quiet way of measuring the space between us. They are laughing at something, but the laughter dies the moment Aldo halts ten paces from them.
Aldo doesn't speak. He only glares. His pupils shrink to slits. His body hums with some subterranean energy, as though every nerve in him is already committed to the kill.
Something prickles across my skin.
[This is bad.]
I glance at Joon-soo. He has stopped chewing. His mouth is still swollen with pastry, cream glistening at the corner of his lip, but his eyes—wide, too wide. Recognition. Shock. Maybe fear.
I want to ask, Who are they? but the words snag against the roof of my mouth.
Instead, Aldo's voice—low, sharp, the kind of voice you do not ignore:
"Run."
Nothing more.
Just that.
Joon-soo's throat makes a sound like a swallowed stone. Then his hand shoots out, gripping my sleeve so hard I hear the fabric strain. He's trembling—not the trembling of a coward, but of someone who has glimpsed a ghost he thought was long buried.
[Why does he look like that? Who are those men? Why now?]
I want to resist. Pride coils in my chest like a stubborn flame. Part of me whispers: [We are the Strays. We are not merely ordinaries anymore. We are not prey to be hunted through alleyways like vermin.]
But another part, colder, wiser: [We are not invincible either. This is not a story where the hero draws his sword and wins because destiny said so. If Aldo—calculating, merciless Aldo—says run, then the numbers are already against us.]
So I move.
We bolt, cream puffs forgotten, sugar trailing in the air like fragments of innocence. The sound of our footsteps collides with the drumbeat of my pulse. Behind me, I hear Aldo's stride: steady, deliberate, keeping us between him and them. A shield made of flesh and mind.
But the tension clings like a second skin.
I cannot stop myself from glancing back.
The three young men have not followed. Not yet. They simply watch. One smirks, one tilts his head as if curious, and the third—eyes narrowing—meets mine across the distance. The look pierces me, as if he already knows my name, my history, perhaps even my soul.
[This is not over. People who look at you like that never let go. They wait. They circle. They will come again.]
Joon-soo tugs me harder. "Faster," he mutters, half-choked, finally swallowing the last of the pastry. His voice is raw, as if torn from a wound.
I want to demand: Do you know them? But there is no time. The air behind us feels heavier, like gravity itself is watching.
Aldo's voice comes again, sharper this time: "Don't look back."
I don't listen. I look one last time.
And in that moment, the smirking one raises a hand—just slightly—as if waving goodbye. Or promising that next time, there will be no escape.
A chill worms into my bones.
We run.
The afternoon swallows us, streets twisting like veins in some great beast. The taste of cream still lingers, cloying and absurd against the taste of fear in my throat. My lungs burn, my mind complains.
[Is this our fate? Always running? Always the weaker side, measuring survival by the breath? They say this is the tradition of the Strays: if the enemy is weak, smurf them; if strong, flee. A bitter joke. A necessary creed. But how long before even running is not enough?]
Aldo does not answer. Joon-soo will not speak. And me—Zihao—I am left with the echo of those eyes, and the knowledge that something has shifted.
The chase has not yet begun, but already, I feel the weight of the hunt.