Humans often speak of lust as though it were only flesh and fire. Yet, at its core, lust is not simply the hunger of the body. It is the wish to spread a fragment of the self–whether through the heat of carnal embrace, or through something more abstract like knowledge, conviction, belief. To lust is to demand the world take in what one carries inside, to insist that one's self not vanish unshared.
Imogen's footsteps echoed through the cold corridors of the Castle of Maidens. The torches burned, but the light did not warm.
Her mother's silhouette glided just ahead–long white hair trailing behind her, the tips stained red like candlewax dripped into snow. Imogen's breath broke in sharp bursts as she chased, desperation spurring her faster, until–
She tripped.
Stone bit into her knees. The sharp sting forced a cry from her throat as she collapsed, palms scraping across the floor.
"Mother!" she cried, her voice cracking, echoing through the endless halls. "Stay with me! Please… just once… just look at me!"
But her mother never turned. Not even a glance over her shoulder. The figure kept walking, calm, unreachable, as though Imogen's pleas were nothing but drafts of wind in the hollow castle.
Tears blurred her vision. Her mechanical eyes flickered faint red, struggling to focus.
"How–" her voice broke, raw with a brat's defiance and a child's despair. "How can I live a happy life if you won't even tell me how?!"
Her cry cut through the silence, echoing endlessly.
Then, as though the walls themselves had grown lips, a voice drifted in.
It was close–warm against her ear. Yet it was far, as though whispered from beyond the furthest horizon.
Neither cruel nor kind. Neither damning nor saving.
"You too… will have to express your real self."
Imogen's eyes widened, her breath shuddering in her throat.
The torches dimmed. The voice lingered, smootching her ear like silk brushing against glass.
And the castle of Maidens grew darker still.
"Marriage… is beautiful." The voice said, "To bind the self to another. To take one's fragment of the world, and fuse it with theirs. To lust, and to love–these are not opposites. One always gazes back at the other."
Imogen hugged her arms tight around herself, trembling, knees still raw against the stone. "Then… then if I love, if I find that, can I really live happy?"
The voice hummed, not in answer, but in weight.
"Tell me," Imogen pressed, her brat's edge softened by desperation, "when I reach X Corp's nest… when I meet him–the boy who promised me marriage… will I get it then? Will that be enough to make me happy?"
A laugh without mockery, gentle yet vast, spilled through the dark.
"You already hold the answer. Look, child. Into yourself. Into the moment when the seed was planted. For only then will you see how fragile, how sacred, how futile a promise may be."
The stone dissolved. The castle's corridor folded inward and outward, as if peeled away by unseen hands. Imogen rose unsteadily, feet carrying her forward without thought. She stepped through an archway that had not been there a breath ago–
–and into sunlight.
A green field stretched out, grass tall and swaying under a calm breeze. The sky was painted with streaks of late afternoon gold.
At the heart of it stood a tree, massive and ancient, roots dug deep into the soil.
Imogen blinked.
A younger Imogen, pale hair tied messily, already carrying the glint of rebellion in her crimson-tipped locks. She was perched atop one of the tree's sturdy branches, legs swinging lazily.
And beneath her, a boy. Barely eight years old, clutching a cardboard sword. His swings were clumsy but desperate, driven by some childlike fire. He cut the air again and again, sweat on his brow, lips pressed tight.
Imogen remembered this. The exact weight of the summer air, the scratch of bark beneath her palms, the stubborn little boy who would not stop swinging until his arms ached.
She leaned forward, peering down, as the memory replayed before her eyes.
The boy swung his cardboard sword again, his little body wobbling with every strike. Dust rose from the earth at his feet. Above, younger Imogen let out a brat's laugh, half-mocking, half-admiring, as she dangled her legs over the branch.
The voice rippled through the memory, soft yet resounding, echoing in the marrow of her bones.
"Curious, isn't it? An orphan child of the backstreets… slipping into the Castle of Maidens, a fortress meant to guard royalty and bloodlines. No one saw him come."
Imogen's eyes flickered. "I remember… he always came through…"
"A secret passage. One forgotten long ago. Buried in stone and dust, waiting for someone foolish enough, desperate enough, to discover it. By chance, or by fate, he alone knew."
The memory shifted. The boy paused in his training, sweat dripping down his face, and looked up at the tree where Imogen sat. He grinned, childish but fierce, as though telling her with his eyes to See me and Believe me.
The voice curled like smoke.
"Your parents kept you caged. The Grey King with his endless designs, your mother with her silence. Pisanio came often, yes, a companion and a shield—but he was the servant's loyalty, not the world's. He was bound to protect, not to dream."
Imogen's younger self leaned down from the branch, sticking out her tongue in her brat's defiance. "You'll never be a real swordsman with that thing!"
The boy puffed his cheeks, swinging harder, the cardboard blade trembling in his little hands.
"He was your only breach," the voice continued, smooth as silk. "Your only opening to the outside. A boy with nothing but the backstreets in his veins and fire in his heart… and you, the little princess locked away in her walls. Of course you would look at him and see not just a friend. You would see the world."
The voice hummed.
"And so your lust was born. You longed for him because he was outside. Because he was not the walls. Because he showed you a life unchained."
The boy finally dropped his cardboard sword, letting it stick upright in the dirt. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, then tilted his head up to the branch where Imogen was perched.
"I come here every day because I want to see you."
Imogen swung her legs like a pendulum, smugness already bubbling in her expression. She puffed out her chest. "Of course you do. I am beautiful."
The boy blinked once, then grinned without hesitation. "Yeah. You are. That's why I come."
Imogen's face turned hot. She nearly slipped from the branch. "W-well–! You're supposed to say something cooler than that!"
"I don't need cooler," the boy said matter-of-factly, picking up his sword again. "I just want to say the truth."
Imogen crossed her arms, scowling to hide her blush. "Idiot. You're supposed to fight dragons and monsters for me, not just… say stuff like that."
"Then I'll fight them. All of them. Every day, if it means I can keep coming here to see you."
Imogen stared at him. The brat in her couldn't resist the chance to tease. She plucked a leaf from the tree branch and flicked it down at him. It landed in his hair, and she burst out laughing. "Look! You've been defeated by the mighty Leaf Monster! Your cardboard sword is useless!"
He yanked the leaf out and threw it back up at her, missing by several feet. "No way! I'll beat the Leaf Monster too! Just you watch!"
They both laughed then–laughter that echoed in the still, guarded courtyard of the Castle of Maidens. The laughter of two children who should never have met, bound together by a secret door in the stone and a hunger for something outside of the roles carved for them.
The boy dropped his sword and climbed up the tree, hauling himself up with messy determination. Imogen tried to kick him down, squealing like a brat, but he caught the branch beneath hers and pulled himself up until he sat right across from her.
"See?" he said, panting. "I can climb as high as you."
Imogen stuck out her tongue. "You're still beneath me. Always will be."
But her smile betrayed her words, and his grin matched hers. Their eyes met–his with the scrappy fire of the backstreets, hers with the glow of a girl trapped in a cage yet daring to dream.
Even at that age, the connection was undeniable.
"You know," he said, voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone, "there's a tale fixers tell in the backstreets. About Sir Amadace."
Imogen tilted her head, feigning disinterest but listening all the same. "Another boring sword story?"
"Not boring! He was a fixer who went on a grand quest. He fought monsters, traveled through fire and storms, crossed ruined cities. And at the end of it all, he didn't just win treasure or glory." The boy's eyes shone. "He got to marry the girl he loved. They lived happily ever after."
Imogen raised a brow. "That's the ending? Marriage? That's so… silly."
"It's not silly," the boy insisted, leaning forward. "It means everything he fought for wasn't just fighting. It was for someone he cared about. For a home he wanted to build with her."
For a moment, the boy went quiet. His little fists clenched around the hilt of his cardboard sword, and then he blurted out:
"Then I'll do it too! I'll fight through anything. Monsters, knights, even kings if I have to. And when I'm done–" He paused, cheeks heating, but he pushed on, "–I'll marry you, Imogen."
Imogen froze. Her mouth opened, then snapped shut again. Her ears burned red. "Wh-what–! Idiot! You can't just… just say that like it's part of your stupid sword story!"
"I can," the boy said stubbornly, meeting her eyes. "Because I mean it."
Imogen flailed, almost losing her balance on the branch. "You're just a brat from the backstreets! I'm… I'm a princess! You think you can just make promises like that?"
"Yes." His answer was immediate.
Imogen's heart stuttered. She looked away, lips trembling, not knowing how to argue. Finally, she huffed and pointed down at the ground.
"Fine. I'll accept your promise. But only when I get outside of this place. Only when I can leave these walls."
The boy grinned wide, as though she had already agreed to everything. "Then I'll be waiting. And when that day comes, I'll marry you for real."
Imogen rolled her eyes, but her blush betrayed her. "You're extremely stupid."
The boy laughed, clutching his little sword like it was already real steel. And in that childish oath, sealed beneath the branches of the tree, something was planted inside her heart that would never truly fade.
The world around Imogen's memory began to shimmer, then fracture. The tree, the boy's smile, the castle walls–all of it crumbled like brittle paper as flames consumed the dreamscape. The green fields turned to ash, the castle of maidens blackened in roaring fire.
"When all else collapses, when illusion is devoured, soon you too will ignite. You will be reborn in burning desire."
The fire surged–and Imogen gasped awake.
Her eyes fluttered open to find herself held tightly in Kamina's arms. The roar of steel on energy greeted her ears. Kamina braced his katana with both hands, sparks flying as it absorbed the brunt of a glowing slash from Caius. The force pushed his heels across the stone floor, grinding gouges into it, but Kamina snarled through gritted teeth, refusing to give ground.
Another beam followed, Caius's blade whipping upward with a sharp flourish, sending a crescent of white-blue energy across the stairwell. Kamina twisted, his katana intercepting the arc, but the impact launched him and Imogen back into the wall with a bone-jarring crash.
On the opposite side, Pisanio's duel with Locke was a storm of steel and deception. Locke darted back with a swirl of his coat. Each flick of his wrist launched another glinting blade. Pisanio deflected them, his longsword flashing, redirecting the strikes so not even one grazed him.
In a sudden burst, Pisanio pressed the flat of his sword against the wall, channeling force through his stance. He swung outward, his strike tearing into the wall and unleashing a wide, glowing slash. The energy slash went straight for Caius.
Caius barely tilted his blade, absorbing the hit in a shockwave that rattled the entire structure. The collision sent cracks spiraling along the walls.
But Pisanio didn't stop. Using the recoil of his own energy slash, he spun, his sword carving a brilliant cut. The momentum amplified the lingering glow, birthing a second energy slash, sharper and faster than the first.
Caius was forced onto the defensive. He braced his blade with both hands as the attack screamed toward him. Sparks burst, the stairwell filled with blinding light, and Pisanio closed the gap in an instant.
Steel rang against steel as the two knights collided. Step by step, they drove each other across the narrow stairwell, slashes of energy whipping out with each swing, scorching walls, ceiling, and stone beneath their boots.
"What… what is going on?"
"Yeah, you're catchin' on quick, brat. You're the eye of the storm–hah! And it's only gonna get worse!"
The words barely left his mouth before a glint flashed from the corner of his vision. Knives, three in quick succession, whistling through the air. Kamina twisted, his katana flashing, batting them aside in ringing arcs. Each deflected blade buried itself into the stone walls with a wet thunk.
Locke stood a few steps higher on the stairwell, his coat shimmering like a theater curtain hiding a thousand tricks. His expression was manic but still charming, that of an actor desperately refusing to break character.
"I couldn't afford to stop pretending," Locke declared, his tone theatrical but fraying at the edges. "I couldn't let myself fall back to what I truly am… a lowly, useless wretch. No, no–never again! I must stay higher than myself!"
From within his coat, he drew three slim vials glowing with sickly green light–HP Ampules. Without hesitation, he jammed two into his own flesh, one after the other. The fluid surged into his veins, glowing faintly beneath his skin like neon lightning. The cuts on his arms sealed shut, bruises faded, the twitch in his leg stilled. His breathing deepened, steadied, as though reborn.
Kamina's eyes narrowed, catching the third vial Locke still clutched. He lowered Imogen carefully onto the ground, patting her shoulder.
"Stay put, kid. I'll get us somethin' good outta this."
"Oi! Lemme get one of those things."
"You're asking me for a healing gift in the middle of battle? Oh, that's just absurd, even for you."
Kamina surged forward, muscles snapping like coils, katana still sheathed in his hand. He ducked low beneath a spray of hastily-thrown blades, the sheath arcing upward like a hammer.
CRACK!
The blow smashed into Locke's wrist. His fingers spasmed, the vial slipping free. It clattered on the stair, rolling, gleaming green in the half-light.
Locke hissed, clutching his hand. "Damn you–!"
Kamina kicked the dropped ampule toward himself with the heel of his boot, katana now drawn, his grin widening.
"Rise and shine!" Kamina hurling the glowing green ampule high into the stairwell.
A metallic snap echoed above–CLANK! A mechanical hand shot out from the shadows and snatched it midair. The syringe hissed as its needle sank into flesh, the vile green fluid rushing in.
From the upper railing, Shmuel's battered figure emerged. His chest, once carved open by Caius's energy slash, knit itself back together in rapid pulses of green light, muscle fusing, bone aligning, skin sealing without a scar. His breathing steadied, but his eyes were sharp, bloodshot with fatigue.
"...Tch." Shmuel wiped the green drool from the corner of his mouth, voice low and cracked. "I was going to die for real if it wasn't for that Ampule. My body still hurts like hell, though."
Then he dropped.
WHAM!
He plummeted down the stairwell, caught a steel bar with one arm, the momentum swinging his body before he landed beside Kamina and Imogen.
"Oh… that's not in the script." Locke's coat shivered as he drew out blade after blade.
But Kamina was already surging forward with the katana raised high. "Script? Screw your script!" He batted aside the knives.
Shmuel lunged in from the other side, his mechanical fist winding back. With a thunderous CRACK, it smashed through Locke's defense, nearly breaking his guard completely.
Locke tried to slip back into his performer's rhythm, twisting, coat billowing as more hidden blades spilled out. But Kamina was there–his katana's sheath cracked across Locke's jaw. Shmuel followed up, a piston-driven uppercut to Locke's gut, the impact echoing like cannon fire through the stairwell.
Locke gagged, blood and spit flying. His knives scattered, clattering uselessly to the steps.
And then both came down together–Kamina's katana pommel hammering into Locke's temple while Shmuel's mechanical fist smashed his ribs.
THUD!
The Gentleman Bastard crumpled against the wall, coat twitching like a curtain dropped at the end of a failed show. He slumped, unconscious, a broken smile still clinging to his face.
Down the stairwell, steel scraped against steel, sparks flashing as Caius and Pisanio circled each other, blades poised for another exchange.
Then–thud. Locke's body hit the wall above.
Caius's eyes flicked upward. The faintest wrinkle crossed his stern brow. Slowly, deliberately, he drew back from Pisanio, his longsword catching the torchlight one last time before he slid it into its sheath with a sharp click. The resonance of the steel rang heavy, like the closing of a judgment.
Pisanio, chest rising and falling with exertion, mirrored the motion. His sword lowered, then folded back into its scabbard with equal finality. The stairwell settled into tense silence, their duel suspended as if frozen in amber.
Caius adjusted his gauntlet and looked between Kamina, Shmuel, and the slumped Locke. His voice carried authority, steady yet edged with something colder.
"You may think you've won this battle," he said, words echoing down the stairwell. "But the war that follows is greater than you imagine. So long as the princess remains outside Brithelm's walls, the blood will not stop spilling. Syndicates will keep circling. The streets will never be safe for her."
His gaze hardened, fixing on Imogen. "Everything ends only when she is returned to her rightful place–safe and sound within Brithelm."
Pisanio's jaw tightened, but he said nothing yet.
"Safe and sound?" he repeated, the phrase twisting out of his mouth like a curse. "You think hiding behind walls and chains is living? You think breathing in a cage is the same as breathing free?" His grin split wider, teeth flashing. "If you're gonna die in this city–then die burning. Better to burn out like a star than rot quietly in the dark!"
It was a statement so abrupt, so absurd in the face of the city's grinding reality, that it rang almost insane. Surviving in this place was already a miracle. But Kamina's voice made it sound like a challenge the city itself had to answer.
Before Caius or anyone else could move, Kamina hefted Imogen up and slung her over his shoulder, like a warrior carrying a banner rather than a burden. His legs coiled.
"--I'm taking her where she wants to go!"
Then he launched himself downward, boots hammering against the steel steps, descending the stairwell in a spiraling blur. Dust shook loose from the walls.
"Hey–wait up!" Shmuel hurled himself after Kamina, his still-sore body grinding through the pain.
Pisanio gave Caius one last hard look, then turned sharply on his heel and followed.
And at the bottom waited the city–the highrise's cracked lobby yawning open like the mouth of a beast, spilling out into the neon-lit chaos of the streets below.