3 days later...
[Setting: Amsterdam Schiphol Airport, Netherlands]
The mag-lev bench hummed softly, a faint silver glow beneath it. On it, Ryan and Denzel sat in a silence as vast as the hangar around them. Both were dressed in formal suits and ties, a stark contrast to the emotional chasm between them. Ryan let out a sigh, the sound swallowed by the distant echo of announcements. Denzel remained a statue, his profile carved from ice, eyes fixed on some unseen, painful point in the middle distance.
"So," Ryan tried, his voice too loud for the quiet between them. "You're just not going to talk? At all?"
The silence stretched,tightening like a wire. Ryan ran a hand through his hair. He knew grief was a cage, but he'd never seen Denzel lock himself inside one so completely.
He was about to attempt another pathetic joke when a voice, familiar and bright, cut through the tension.
"Hey!Denzel! Ryan!"
Ryan turned, a genuine smile breaking through his frustration. "Olivia?" He scanned her face, then the space behind her. "What are you doing here?"
Olivia's smile was for Ryan, but her eyes were on Denzel, probing his stony facade. "What's up with you?" she asked, her tone softening.
"Nothing." The word was a door slamming shut. A cold, final response.
Sheesh, Ryan thought. He's not thawing for anyone.
Before the awkwardness could solidify, Olivia's companions arrived. Ryan's eyes widened as he recognized the severe elegance of Emma, Mistress of the Lumiere Guild, and the calm, watchful presence of Milo, her Vice Guild Master.
"No way," Ryan breathed, his head swiveling between Olivia and Emma. The same sharp cheekbones, the same eyes. "You two are related?" The words tumbled out as his hands flew to his head in disbelief.
"Mind your tone, young man," Emma said, her voice low. Her gaze alone was enough to send a cold trickle down Ryan's spine. But her attention was already shifting, drawn to Denzel. A flicker of confusion, then dawning recognition, crossed her features. "You... you look just like Leon. The S-ranker who—"
"Emma," Milo interjected, his hand a gentle but firm pressure on her arm.
Olivia jumped in, her voice artificially bright. "So, your flight is to Paris too, right? For the conference—"
"Yes," Denzel cut her off, his voice clean and sharp as a scalpel. "I am Leon's younger brother."
Emma's face softened with immediate regret. "My apologies. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't," Denzel said, the single syllable offering no forgiveness. "We weren't really that close."
[ANNOUNCEMENT: FINAL CALL FOR ALL PASSENGERS, FLIGHT PARIS II. BOARDING GATE CLOSING IN FIVE MINUTES.]
The automated voice shattered the moment. Emma collected herself, the guild mistress mask falling back into place. "It seems we must go. We'll see you in Paris, Denzel." Her eyes held his for a beat too long. "I'll be watching you."
As the trio moved away, Ryan let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Well, that was... intense. We should get going too."
"Sure," Denzel said, finally standing.
As they walked towards the gate, Ryan clapped a hand on Denzel's rigid shoulder. "So you're a cyborg now? Just... relax, man."
They boarded their flight, the destination clear: Paris, France, and the gathering of the world's most powerful players.
---
[Location: An Undisclosed place, Somewhere on Earth]
Seven silhouettes, dark and indistinct, sat arrayed around a crescent table that seemed to drink the light from the room. Their collective gaze was a physical weight, pressing down on the silver-haired man who knelt before them, his head bowed.
"So," the silhouette on the far left intoned, its voice a dry rustle. "What brings you before the Omnipotents today?"
The man took a sharp, steadying breath. "The conference between the S-rank players begins tomorrow. Your plan to frame the Andras Cult for the killings proceeds smoothly." He dared to lift his head, pulling back his hood to reveal a face etched with grim determination. "But I must humbly make a request."
"Speak," commanded the central figure, its voice resonating with an otherworldly depth.
"I ask that the Omnipotents grant me another shard of the World-Heart. Karus's betrayal has begun sooner than anticipated."
A low, chorused chuckle echoed around the table. "Ooh... we see," the central silhouette murmured. "Do not trouble yourself, Hasten. We foresaw this deviation. Keep your profile low. Wait. In two years, the Primordial Throne itself will be yours."
A wave of relief washed over Hasten. He bowed deeply. "Thank you, Omnipotents."
As he retreated from the chamber, the shadows deepened, and a meeting that held the fate of the world in its grasp continued, utterly unnoticed.
Who—or what—were these beings?
What was the true extent of their power?
Were they even human?
Only time would tell.
---
Meanwhile...
Not every S-rank player was fond of conventional travel.
"Hahahaa! This is amazing!" roared a hairy, bulked-up man, his laughter echoing across the open waves of the Indian Ocean. He stood, balanced perfectly atop a giant sea serpent as it cut through the water at a terrifying speed. His wild joy and primal demeanor were eerily reminiscent of a certain god of myth.
This man was Su Bu Lang—Asia's Rank One.
On the other side of the world, another top player employed a more technological, yet equally bizarre, method.
[MACH 20]
A man in a perfectly tailored suit and tie zipped across the stratosphere, his face a mask of utter nonchalance, as if breaking atmospheric records were a daily commute.
"I'll be there in no time," he muttered, spotting the European coastline. He pressed back against the air itself, as if it were a solid springboard, and launched forward with renewed, impossible velocity.
[MACH 25]
[Player Name: Kyle]
[Title: America's Rank 2]
[Main Ability: Supernova]
---
[Location: Paris, France]
The S-rank players had begun to descend upon Paris. The city braced itself, the air thickening with latent power and unspoken rivalries.
In the descending aircraft, Ryan grinned, his knuckles white as he gripped his armrest. "I wonder how strong the other S-rank players are."
"Hmmm," Denzel murmured. But his mind was not on the collective. It was focused on a single, burning target. A faint, cold grin finally touched his lips, the first genuine expression Ryan had seen all day.
"I hope he will be there," Denzel whispered.
Ryan stared at his friend, a knot of worry tightening in his stomach.
He's losing it.
END OF CHAPTER