The moment the black-armored enforcer stopped their truck, the air thickened.
Pressure rolled off him like a storm front—dense, suffocating.
Ratty's breath stuttered.
Even without drawing a weapon, the man radiated power. The insignia on his arm—House D'Armand.
An A-rank Combatant.
His instincts screamed danger.
That strange sense of threat that had kept him alive all these years surged up, stronger than ever.
One look at him, and Ratty knew: even if everyone in the truck fought together, they wouldn't last ten seconds.
Marcus—broad, steady, a solid B-rank.
Damian and Ethan—C-ranks, fierce but mortal.
Caleb—sharp-eyed, wiry, another C.
And Noah—quiet, unassuming.
Compared to the man outside, they all felt smaller.
Weaker.
Ratty's stomach knotted. What do we do now?
Then Noah moved.
The click of his seatbelt sounded louder than a gunshot.
He pushed the door open and stepped out into the light.
For a heartbeat, Ratty couldn't breathe.
A faint shimmer—soft and golden—rose from Noah's skin.
Not bright, not blinding, but gentle, like sunlight diffused through mist.
It wrapped around him, bending the air itself.
Even Ratty's pulse slowed, his chest loosening against his will.
It wasn't power that pressed—it was presence.
Warm. Trustworthy. The kind of calm that made you want to listen, to believe, to surrender.
Noah's expression didn't change, but something in him did.
He looked… luminous.
The black-armored warrior's face twitched—tension slipping from his jaw.
That killing edge dulled, replaced by faint confusion… then ease.
The man blinked, as though waking from a long, grim dream.
"Good morning," Noah said softly, voice low and soothing—the kind that melted walls before you noticed.
The soldier's reply came almost automatically. "Morning."
No trace of hostility remained.
Then, as if greeting an old friend, Noah reached into his coat and drew out a small packet—crystal cores wrapped in paper.
He slipped it into the enforcer's gloved hand with effortless grace.
The soldier looked down.
A pause—then a quiet chuckle escaped him. His massive hand lifted in an easy wave.
Metal groaned. The gate began to open.
Inside the truck, silence held for a beat—until Caleb broke it with a grin.
"Still as smooth as ever, Noah. You could charm the guards of hell into letting you in."
Ethan laughed. "He's never failed once."
Marcus's chuckle was low, approving. "Whatever it was—it worked."
Laughter spread through the cabin, tension bleeding away like smoke.
Everyone except Ratty.
He stared at Noah, who was calmly fastening his seatbelt again, the faint shimmer gone as if it had never existed.
For a moment, Ratty had seen something impossible—something beyond strength.
Was that… a Psionic ability? he thought, heart pounding. Or something more?
"Soul Soothe," Damian murmured beside him, his breath warm. "Pretty impressive, huh?
And you… you're something else, being able to see right through it."
Ratty's heart stuttered—too fast, too loud.
He wasn't sure if it was fear… or something else.