Niko's mouth was dry. His breath scraped in and out like sandpaper. They were closing in—casual, confident, like they'd already won.
And maybe they had.
His back ached. His legs throbbed. His pulse was skipping. Blitz wouldn't be enough. Not now. Not like this.
But he had to try something.
A dozen ideas flared and died in his brain in the span of seconds—punch through, fake surrender, scream and hope they flinched. Nothing stuck.
Then something else flickered.
A reckless, wild thought.
He let out a quiet, almost amused breath. "If this doesn't work…" he muttered, a tired smirk tugging at the edge of his lips, "guess I'm a smear on the Sanctum wall."
No more hesitation.
Niko's feet lit with power, a crackle of pale-blue coursing up his legs. His core tensed as he poured half—half—of his remaining energy into one single, blinding surge.
Blitz.
Not a dash this time. Not a boost. This was a detonation.
His body launched—not running but skimming air itself, a blur so fast he left the sound behind. The world around him smeared to a smear, guards jerking back in surprise too slow to even raise their hands. His feet barely touched the ground, gravity had no grip on him.
He flew down the hall.
Past the guards.
Through them.
A whiplash of concussive force trailed him like a sonic wave, catching the stunned enemies too late to brace. The vacuum he created sucked the breath from their lungs, cracked bone, spun them off their feet like bowling pins. Half of them slammed into walls, crumpling. One slammed face-first into a steel column with a sickening thunk. Blood hit the floor.
Niko skidded to a halt behind them, boots sparking against the stone, chest heaving. He nearly fell—his knees buckled—but he caught himself, one hand braced on the floor.
Then, before they could recover—
He focused.
The remainder of his energy—25%, maybe less—burned through his veins. He pushed it outward, not with rage, not with desperation, but with will.
Thin threads of white-blue energy unspooled from his fingers—delicate but dense, like molten webbing. They twisted and looped, tethering to the ground, the walls, even one another. Living cords of power.
He stood up, eyes wide as he stared at his own hands.
"…It worked," he breathed.
The strands pulsed with his heartbeat.
It actually worked.
The guards—those still standing—staggered to their feet, coughing, bruised, weapons reforming. Their confidence wasn't shattered, but it was cracked. One glanced at the tendrils with a furrowed brow. Another wiped blood from his nose.
The one with the shadow dagger laughed, though less loudly this time.
"Got some tricks after all, huh?"
Niko didn't answer. He just stepped back once, a smirk forming on his bruised face.
But deep inside, a thought whispered:
One wrong move, and I burn out. One more surge… and I drop.
The next move had to count.
And the guards were already closing in.
…
…
…
The plates were cleared, the last of the steam rising from the soup he hadn't really liked but finished anyway. Juno sat alone now, leaning back in the chair like he owned the place—hands behind his head, a toothpick dancing between his lips. The warm, lantern-lit restaurant buzzed softly with conversation, but no one sat within three tables of him. Whether that was coincidence or instinctual caution was anyone's guess.
Mena had just stepped out, silent as ever after his one-off command.
"Go find a tavern."
She'd nodded. Wordless, obedient. Gone like a wisp.
Juno watched her vanish through the front door with a faint hum in his throat. She'd been quiet lately. Not in a bad way. Just… observant. Watching him more than usual. Maybe she saw something changing.
Maybe she was right.
He blinked once, slowly, and leaned forward on his elbows, the toothpick now idly rolled between pale fingers.
The White Ghost…
He didn't say it aloud. He didn't need to. The memory was carved into his bones.
The blur of movement.
The cold precision of her strikes.
That impossible calm in her gaze—as if she was never actually worried, even when he was throwing everything he had at her.
I wouldn't have run out of energy, he thought, if I wasn't using the shadow blade with Heavenly Divider.
It had been a mistake.
Too much too soon. Flash over endurance.
He scoffed to himself and rubbed at his temple. "Starting to feel like the strong ones just keep showing up," he murmured. "And I keep treating them like they're playthings."
But they weren't.
Iri wasn't.
And now, he was starting to see the problem: brute power didn't mean a damn thing if it fizzled out before the fight was over. The House wasn't just about overwhelming force. Not anymore.
It was chess now.
Strategy.
And the pieces were getting sharper.
He pushed his chair back, the wood legs scraping gently on the stone floor, and stood with a stretch. His joints popped. His violet-tinged eyes scanned the quiet restaurant. A couple looked away. A waiter shuffled past quickly.
Juno made his way up to the host—a thick man with sun-browned skin and an apron spotted with sauce stains.
The host blinked at him. Twice.
There was a kid standing in front of him. No taller than his collarbone. Couldn't be more than fifteen—baby-faced with skin so pale it looked like the moon had kissed him, and hair like a swatch of midnight. His black eyes gleamed oddly, and in the right light, there was violet tucked behind the dark.
The host opened his mouth, then thought better of it.
Juno tilted his head. "Where can I find a blacksmith in this city?"
It was phrased casually, but his tone had a weight behind it—something you wouldn't expect from someone so young, or so slight.
The host scratched his beard, glancing out the window. "There's a few," he said slowly, "scattered in the eastern districts. But if you want the best…"
He hesitated.
Juno raised a brow.
"…You'll want the one at the Dark Tower."
Juno's lips parted faintly in understanding.
The tower.
Of course.
He'd seen it the moment they arrived—rising like a spine out of the Pale Arc's shimmering skyline. A monolith of black stone, its windows gleaming like teeth. Taller than any building for miles, draped in banners and smoke. There was a chill about it, even from a distance.
He hadn't asked what it was.
Didn't care at the time.
Now he did.
"Right," Juno muttered.
He turned, gave the host a lazy wave, and stepped out into the late afternoon glow.
The Pale Arc was still humming—markets bustling, floating banners swaying in warm wind, the sun slowly beginning its descent. He looked toward the center of the city. The tower waited there like a needle in a golden tapestry.
He yawned, eyes narrowing. "It's too damn far," he said to no one in particular.
But he started walking anyway.
Hands in his pockets. Shadows coiling faintly around his boots.
And above him, just for a second, a passing cloud crossed the sun.
And it flickered.