As Roger expected, the pistol was a double-barrel flintlock. Loud, smoky, primitive.
He had only ever seen such things in books. Useless to him. He tossed it aside and drew one of his blades instead.
With the tip, he lifted Wald Turner's chin. The man's face blanched, the red glass of his artificial eye catching the light.
"Now will you agree to my terms?" Roger's voice cut cold as steel, sending chills down spines.
"O-of course!"
Wald had never seen an arm swell into such monstrous size, had no idea how it had manifested—but one thing was clear: this young man was tied to humanity's natural enemy, the Titans.
What was he?
A Titan's servant?
Wald trembled, lips quivering, his cigarette slipping from his fingers.
Roger's eyes swept the survivors. Several men had been smashed dead outright. Others lay maimed. Counting the living—Wald, the driver, and two others.
Too many.
Roger swung his blade. A lightly wounded thug fell, screaming, begging for mercy before his head was struck off.
Four left.
"Take me into the capital." Roger's words were not a request but a command.
He yanked Wald out of the Titan's dissolving grip by his collar, handling him like a rag doll.
"Y-yes! Please, this way, the carriage is ready!"
Wald forced a smile, groveling as he ushered Roger into the coach.
Roger noted the gilded trim—carriage of a noble.
He climbed in, taking Wald's seat.
"Hyah!"
The driver cracked the reins, terrified. Two shaken thugs followed on foot, unwilling but too frightened to run.
The carriage rattled out of the dead quarter.
Across from him, Wald sat pale as chalk as Roger casually drew another blade.
"I'll keep my word!" Wald stammered, terrified the steel would flash across his throat.
But Roger ignored him. He removed the shattered blade from its hilt, fixed a fresh one, then tossed the broken steel like a spear.
Whistle—
It pierced one thug's skull cleanly.
The last survivor froze in horror. He knew why: he had lagged deliberately, planning to slip away at the next corner.
Now, drenched in sweat, he scrambled to the coach, clambering onto the driver's seat to prove his loyalty.
Roger let the curtain fall, yawned. Healing his heart had drained him, and manifesting the Titan's arm again had burned more stamina.
But Wald misread the yawn—saw it as a test, a ploy to bait him into striking during supposed weakness.
So cunning… so dangerous…
Wald's nerves shredded. He only wanted this demon gone.
"M-may I know your name?" he asked, trying to break the silence, to gauge him.
Roger glanced at him.
"Less talking will keep you alive."
"…Yes."
Silence returned.
At the gates, Roger peeked through the curtain.
Cloaks marked with unicorn crests—Military Police. He knew the symbol.
Civilians ahead were searched, some arrested on the spot.
But when their ornate carriage rolled forward, no one spoke. No inspection, no questions. The MPs looked away, eyes sliding past.
Status shielded them.
Roger's lip curled. The same rot as Marley—obsequious to nobles, blind to their crimes.
Still, the coach rolled through unhindered.
Now came the harder part: searching for the Founding. Alone, he would fail. He needed locals. His gaze slid back to Wald.
The gang boss fidgeted, craving a smoke, but didn't dare light one in the presence of this volatile stranger.
Roger studied him in silence.
Wald felt the stare like needles.
"I'll do whatever you command," he broke at last. "You want the capital, you want shadows—must be important. The crown?"
Roger blinked, mildly surprised at the guess. Sharp, for a gang leader.
But soon his crown would topple.
"Wald. Take me to Stohess District."
"Th-there? Why?"
"I want to see your gang. I've time to spare."
"…"
"Problem?"
"…None."
Wald swallowed his pride, already guessing what Roger intended.
"Pit Lidoz Tavern, Babut."
"Yes, boss."
The carriage veered east.
Roger leaned back, listless, gazing out the window.
Wald, jittery, filled the silence.
"I must warn you. Ahead lies the industrial zone and the underground streets. Filthy, foul air. If this is your first time, mind yourself."
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