Training had always been a part of Pyrrha's language. Even long before. When she was a young teenager, she had always trained. MMA, sparring, all the likes. Now, that training had simply transferred over to LUCID.
To this organization that protected the world.
The rhythm of breath and motion, the feel of steel against her palms, the precise pulse of her aura flowing through her body and transforming the metal to different shapes... these were the constants that grounded her. Every repetition was a prayer to perfection, a dialogue between intent and execution. Every hour spent in the LUCID training chambers brought her one step closer to mastery.
So it was strange, almost alien in fact, to be walking through Vale on a quiet weekend morning without her rune frame, her spear or any objective to meet. Her shoes thumped softly against the cobblestone walkway, and she felt an odd kind of emptiness in her chest, not sadness, but displacement. The kind one feels when removed from a purpose too long held.
It was Mocha's idea, of course.
Pyrrha wasn't even sure what had prompted the girl to reach out. They were teammates who worked together in the same squad and training division. Pyrrha was even considered half a mentor to Mocha, training her in the art of fighting. But friendship... wasn't exactly something Pyrrha had thought Mocha particularly sought. She was unpredictable, erratic, and dangerously imaginative — a whirlwind that drifted between brilliance and chaos in equal measure.
Mocha had always been that way. Even before that crazy ritual shenanigan that occurred months ago.
While Pyrrha pushed herself through the rigid structure of progression, treating every rune like a step in a carefully constructed ladder, Mocha had approached the same system as though it were a game. Her curiosity was boundless. She didn't see danger, only future possibilities.
Pyrrha could still recall those early experiments vividly. The first time Mocha created a rune and demonstrated it—her Homingrune—she'd practically turned the testing range into a shooting gallery of chaos. Her arrows curved through the air in graceful spirals, chasing down moving targets with unnerving precision. The mechanics had been beautiful and delicate, deliberate in an inherently wild way. However, It wasn't long before Mocha grew bored of it.
Then came Explosion.
Even now, Pyrrha could remember the absurd incantation that preceded every activation — that long, theatrical declaration shouted into the echoing halls of the training facility.
"Crimson black of a night eternal. I am the unshadowed that brings about the light of dawn and hold the alias of destruction incarnate. Let this world witness my grandeur and sovereignty. Explosion!"
Everyone in the division had memorized it by the end of the first week, mostly because there was no escaping it. Mocha's detonations had been spectacular, even artful in their devastation. She'd laughed every single time, the sound bright and genuine even as smoke filled the air.
That, too, she discarded when it lost its novelty.
And now she was obsessed with Pixel.
Pyrrha had seen that Rune in action multiple times. Mocha had been standing in the middle of a simulation chamber, surrounded by floating squares of color and light, each block vibrating with her condensed aura energy. When she'd raised her hand, the blocks had snapped together into a colossal weapon that resembled something pulled straight out of an arcade game: a gleaming, jagged-edged cannon of radiant hues.
The ensuing beam had cut a line across the entire chamber, pixelating the floor as it went. Pyrrha had been stunned, not by the power, Rank 0's were... relatively weak, all things considering. No, Pyrrha was stunned by the absurdity of that Rune. It defied convention, reality and even reason.
Mocha had merely grinned and said something about "channeling imagination."
Pyrrha had realized then that Mocha's true gift wasn't strength. It was freedom.
The girl lived untethered by fear of failure or expectation. While Pyrrha treated every moment of her existence like a test to be passed, Mocha treated life as an experiment to be enjoyed. It frustrated Pyrrha, in a way, and yet, deep down, she envied her for it.
Now, as she walked toward their meeting point in Vale, that envy sat quietly beside her curiosity. She had no idea why Mocha had invited her out. The message had been simple enough — Hey, Pyrrha, let's hang out today. There's something cool happening downtown.
Pyrrha had considered declining. There was training to be done, after all, and reports to review. But her Ferrous Rune had already reached comprehension, and lately, she'd found herself unable to focus. Every motion in practice felt too mechanical, empty of meaning. Her body obeyed, but her mind lingered elsewhere.
Perhaps, she thought, Mocha had sensed that.
The closer she came to the heart of Vale, the livelier the streets became. Vendors lined the sidewalks with colorful banners, and she could hear faint music drifting from the plaza ahead. Bright signs hung from lampposts, covered with stylized letters and symbols she didn't quite recognize. She could see small crowds moving in one direction — toward the convention center.
It was only then that Pyrrha realized what Mocha had meant. A "comic con."
She had heard of such things before. Places where fans gathered to celebrate stories, games, and heroes. She'd seen glimpses of it online — people dressed in elaborate costumes, carrying replicas of weapons that seemed more fantastical than functional. To Pyrrha, it felt like stepping into another world entirely.
She paused on the sidewalk, watching as a group of attendees hurried past — laughing, adjusting their armor, holding up painted shields. The craftsmanship was incredible. Some even carried imitations of magical rune circles etched into their props. For a fleeting moment, Pyrrha imagined what it would be like to be one of them — someone who could live in fiction without the weight of reality.
Her life had always been about combat, responsibility, and the pursuit of strength. Yet here were hundreds of people celebrating those same ideas through imagination.
It was… humbling, in a strange way.
She wondered if her younger self — the girl who used to train in the ring against opponents — would have smiled at the sight of it. Maybe she would have. Maybe she would've even joined in.
Pyrrha found herself walking slower as she approached the entrance, her thoughts drifting further back. To her family. To her father's quiet encouragement as she learned to balance her kicks and punches. To the unspoken hope that one day, her strength would make them proud.
Those memories felt distant now — dulled by time, sharpened only by longing. In her pursuit of power, she had chased perfection but lost touch with the very things that once gave her strength meaning.
She exhaled softly. Perhaps this was why Mocha had called her out. To remind her that life wasn't just about progression. That sometimes, it was about living.
When she finally stepped through the glass doors of the convention center, the noise hit her all at once — laughter, music, chatter, and the soft hum of energy from the displays. Every corner of the hall pulsed with color and movement. It was overwhelming, yet strangely invigorating.
And then, amid the crowd, Pyrrha spotted her.
Mocha stood near the entrance of an exhibit booth, a hand on her hip, and spectacled eyes gleaming with mischief. She wore a casual jacket over her black shirt, hair tied up messily in a bun that somehow suited her. Next to her was a large pack. Pyrrha had no idea what was inside.
Even from a distance, Pyrrha could tell she was grinning.
When Mocha saw her, she raised an arm high and waved energetically, nearly smacking someone with the oversized foam sword she was carrying. Pyrrha couldn't help but sigh at the sight.
As she drew closer, Mocha tilted her head and said, "Took you long enough, Pyrrha! Ready to see what real fun looks like?"
Pyrrha's lips curved in the faintest of smiles. "Fun," she repeated quietly, as if tasting the word. "I suppose I'll find out."
And for the first time in a long while, she meant it.
.
.
.
Mocha had always been akin to a force of nature, once she decided on something, the rest of the world simply had to move aside.
If the entrance had been crowded, the interior was a full sensory assault. Neon banners hung from every beam, booths overflowed with trinkets and glowing props, and artificial fog curled through corners where a fantasy stage show was playing. Every few seconds, a camera flash lit the air.
Mocha moved through it like she belonged there.
"Look, Pyrrha! Witches!" she exclaimed, pointing toward a group dressed in black robes and carrying ornate staffs. "Oh, and those wizards over there actually have real smoke effects coming out of their hats! Oh my god, I love this place."
Pyrrha could barely keep up. Mocha was weaving between costumed fans like an excitable cat chasing laser dots. Her energy was infectious, though — each new display, each new eccentric stranger they met only seemed to fuel her more.
It wasn't until Mocha suddenly stopped and pointed toward a small stage area that Pyrrha noticed the people standing there.
At first, Pyrrha didn't recognize them. A group of five — all in dark, mismatched robes, holding props made to look like ancient grimoires. They were performing something halfway between a comedy skit and a ritual. The crowd was laughing as one of them, a tall boy with glasses, dramatically shouted, "Behold! The demon within my right arm yearns for freedom!"
Another, a girl with messy hair, threw herself to the ground, crying, "Don't let it see the light of day, or the world will fall to ruin!"
The audience clapped, some even joining in the exaggerated chanting.
But Pyrrha didn't laugh. She blinked, taking a closer look.
There was something oddly familiar about those faces. The boy's sharp posture. The girl's over-the-top expressions. And the blonde girl at the side — she could swear she'd seen her in passing before. It wasn't until Mocha waved and shouted, "Greg! Maurice! Jenna! You guys made it!" that it clicked.
The Occult Research Society.
A lifetime ago — or at least, it felt that way — Mocha had been their president. Back before her "accident." Before that failed ritual that had pulled her unwillingly into the Dream Realm and brought her under LUCID's watch.
Pyrrha was at the forefront of that incident, seeing that entity first hand. The club had been investigating ways to gain the sight to... "see the hidden world." When the event happened, every member had been knocked unconscious and poor Mocha had been dragged into the dream realm. The rest? Their memories had been quietly erased by Beacon's specialists.
For their own good.
So now, watching those same club members laugh and reenact mock incantations with foam staffs and paper seals — blissfully unaware of how close they'd once come to something real — stirred something in Pyrrha she couldn't name. Nostalgia, perhaps. Or pity.
Mocha, on the other hand, seemed thrilled.
"Still as dramatic as ever!" she said, striding toward them. Her voice was bright, teasing. "You've upgraded your props though, that's nice!"
Greg, the one with glasses, blinked in confusion before recognition lit up his face. "Haha, you made it too, leader!"
Mocha smirked. "You know me, I can't resist a good show."
Pyrrha lingered a few steps back, watching the exchange. The others didn't notice her, too caught up in goofing off with their president. They were talking about old club projects, how the new members were more into "cosmic horror" themes now, and how their little society had become a regular feature at events like this.
It was strange, Pyrrha thought, how memory worked. How neatly reality could be rewritten. None of them had the faintest idea that their "ritual gone wrong" had opened a breach to the very realm LUCID now fought to contain.
Still, there was something endearing about the way they carried themselves.
They handed Mocha a prop staff, and within moments, she was swept into one of their LARP scenarios — "The Great Sealing of the Demon Arm."
Pyrrha found herself standing at the edge of the mock stage, watching as Mocha took to the role with an actor's flare. She spun the staff like a baton, bellowing in an exaggerated tone, "Begone, vile spirit of destruction! May the cleansing flames of my soul return thee to the abyss!"
Maurice pretended to stagger back, clutching his arm. "No! If the demon within me awakens, none of us will survive!"
"Then perish dramatically!" Mocha cried, slamming the staff down.
They all fell to the floor in mock agony.
Pyrrha couldn't help but to smile. It was ridiculous. Pointless. And yet, the laughter felt genuine. For someone like Mocha, who had seen things far worse than these people could imagine, this kind of play must have been… comforting. A slice of the life she'd lost.
When the performance ended and the group dispersed to grab food, Mocha came back toward her, cheeks slightly flushed from the excitement.
"See?" she said, still grinning. "Fun, right?"
Pyrrha tilted her head. "You have interesting friends."
"They're members of my evil cult."
"That's… not comforting."
Mocha snorted. "Relax, it's all harmless. Besides, it's good to see them doing alright. They don't remember a thing, but maybe that's for the best."
Pyrrha nodded, her eyes softening. "Maybe."
Her gaze shifted downward then, catching the pack strapped across Mocha's back. It had been bouncing against her shoulders all day, oddly rectangular in shape, wrapped in canvas. Curiosity got the better of her.
"What's in the bag?" she asked.
Mocha paused mid-step. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face.
"Oh," she said lightly. "You'll find out soon enough."
Pyrrha frowned. "That's not reassuring."
"Good. It's not supposed to be."
Before Pyrrha could press further, the convention's loudspeakers crackled to life. A cheerful voice boomed across the hall:
"Attention, attendees! The Vale Comic Expo Cosplay Competition will be starting in thirty minutes! All participants, please make your way to the main stage!"
Pyrrha turned back to Mocha — who was now positively glowing with mischief.
"No," Pyrrha said immediately.
"Yes," Mocha replied, just as quickly.
"Mocha."
"Pyrrha."
"What did you do?"
Mocha slung the pack off her shoulder and unzipped it just enough for Pyrrha to see a flash of fabric — red, gold, and unmistakably shiny. "I signed us up earlier. We're going to be the stars of the show."
Pyrrha stared at her. "You didn't."
"I absolutely did."
"I'm not wearing that."
"Too late. Our slot's in ten minutes, and I already submitted our theme."
Pyrrha groaned audibly.
"Oh, come on," Mocha said, patting her arm. "You're the perfect straight man to my chaos. Think of it as… experiential training in public composure."
"Mocha."
"Yes?"
"I'm reconsidering friendship."
"Too late for that too," Mocha chirped, tossing her the costume. "Now come on, partner — let's give them a show."
And as Pyrrha stood there, staring down at the ridiculous outfit in her hands, she couldn't decide whether to laugh, sigh, or run for the nearest exit.
But Mocha's laughter was infectious, and — against her better judgment — Pyrrha followed.
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AN: Advanced chapters, up to 10 are available on patreon