Berlin | Lucil and Silver's Domain
A sprawling wooden mansion rises from an island. The garden before the mansion is a carpet of scarlet blooms; each petal glows beneath a vast crimson moon. Beyond the veranda, a black-glass sea mirrors that blood-red orb, its waves whispering against the shore like steady heartbeats.
Inside, a wide map of Berlin stretches across the main table, pins and chalk lines marking streets and strongholds.
Lucil and Silver stand over it, cloaked—but in opposite colors: Lucil wears Silver's pale mantle, while Silver dons Lucil's deep-crimson coat. Their eyes—rose-shaped pupils for Lucil, crescent moons for Silver.
Lucil's condition is dire. Both arms are shredded with deep cuts, thorny roses blooming from the wounds to staunch the blood. A fresh, jagged scar bisects his throat, still angry and red. Even so, determination keeps him upright.
"Jake is a major threat," Lucil rasps.
Silver nods. "We have to unite the Tower and the Circle. This war is already brutal—if we don't stand together, the mage world ends here."
Lucil exhales a bitter laugh. "How can a single weapon wipe out centuries of arcane knowledge? He beat me with that… thing. He infused this primitive killing machine with mana."
"It's a gun," Silver says quietly.
Lucil pushes away from the wall, jaw clenched. "Next time, we're not on opposite sides."
"Next time we're in Japan, right?" Silver asks.
Lucil tilts his head. "Which country were you born in?"
"America. And you?"
"Russia."
Silver gives a small, thoughtful nod. "Japan it is, then."
Lucil allows himself a faint smile. "That's the circle."
The crimson moonlight pulses through the windows, casting twin shadows—one rose-edged, one moon-shaped—over the map of Berlin, as the brothers plan the turning of the war.
Lucil lifts trembling fingers to the raw scar across his throat, the petals circling it fluttering in silent pain.
"A gun—infused with magic," he mutters. "Silver, we'll have to change eighty percent of our techniques."
Silver nods, jaw tight. "Devastating. Centuries of training, useless… because of a gun."
Together they exhale the word, half-amused, half-bitter: "A gun."
Laughter breaks through their fatigue—dry and weary, but laughter all the same.
"I'm working on a short-range blink and layered rose shields," Lucil says, rolling his stiff shoulders. "They're rough, but they're coming together."
"I'm drilling faster shots and single-target devastation spells," Silver replies. "And shields—lots of shields."
Lucil arches a brow. "Thought you never get hit."
Silver lifts his cloak. Three puckered bullet wounds scar his abdomen. "This pain's different," he admits. "We have to train here, in this domain—adapt our skill sets and avatars for the world that's coming. If killing grows more efficient, our magic has to keep pace."
Lucil nods once. "I'll never use that kind of weapon."
"I will, if I must," Silver says quietly. "To end Jake—and his ideals."
Lucil's eyes harden. "Then we need counters for his magic. I have to reach melee range."
"I'll handle shields and disruption."
Lucil hesitates, voice low. "I didn't want to kill Joul. I warned him. But I need to take this modern weaponary seriously. If i dont learn this blink. I swear i would be dead. I need to adjust a lot"
"I killed some of your allies too," Silver says, gaze steady. "We all have lines we won't cross. No point hating each other for it."
"If someone tries to kill us, we fight back," Lucil murmurs. "But never civilians. We're already monsters."
"Honorless monsters," Silver agrees with a wry grin. "But at least we don't hide behind innocents—that's the one scrap of grace we've got."
Lucil meets his friend's moonlit eyes and nods.
Silver spreads a stack of casualty reports across the war map, their corners curling in the moon-lit breeze. ""We have to stop Jake. He's wiped out half our forces—mages from every nation are deserting because this war's burning on a dozen fronts. If Jake makes another move, it'll be catastrophic."
He exhales and taps a finger on the map's blood-red center. It shows Edinburgh "Second point—we need a contingency. I doubt we survive the year. Odds are, we die."
Lucil folds his injured arms, thorns tightening around the wounds. "I know someone in the underground who can arrange things after… after we're gone."
"Good." Silver glances up. "Will you send your coat and weapons to the Edinburgh Shrine? Let Steiner keep them, when we come back."
Lucil gives a weary nod. "Fine. And you're willing to hand our catalysts to Seria for Japan?"
"Yes," Silver says without hesitation.
Lucil's smile is thin and genuine. "Never thought we'd end up allies on German soil."
Silver chuckles, a tired glint in his moon-pupiled eyes. "We've been idiots before—but this isn't country versus country anymore. It's a battle royale, and with stakes this high it would be suicidally stupid for us to fight each other."
Lucil's expression hardens. "If we manage to survive Jake—"
"We won't," Silver cuts in, tone gentle yet final. "We'll fight him to the death."
Lucil clenches one fist, thorny vines tightening until a single drop of blood beads at his knuckle. "Only if we're still standing after Jake."
"Then we'll see who's strongest. Our final Deathmatch" Silver raises his own fist.
Lucil bumps it.
"What happens on that day," Lucil says quietly, "can never happen again."
Silver meets his gaze, a grim oath passing between them in the crimson glow. "Exactly."
Estate of the Red Dragons | Shrine
The shrine lies beneath the lowest terraces of the estate.
It is a crimson room with only one statue and a blood-red throne.
At its center, Ryujin sits on this throne like a monarch, the ruby red eyes of a towering dragon statue glowing behind him.
Ten cloaked clan members kneel in two silent rows.
The Elder stands at their head, spine bowed.
Ryujin's voice echoes through the incense-thick air.
"Report. How does Rei's transformation fare?"
The Elder lifts his gaze.
"It progresses, my lord. Her body is clinically dead; we sustain it with pure mana."
"I see."
A shadow crosses Ryujin's face—doubt, swiftly masked.
He falls silent, thoughts turning behind cold eyes.
At last, he calls:
"Reijo."
A warrior with long flowing black hair, brown eyes and a sword on his back, steps forward and kneels.
"Yes, Master?"
"Tell me: was it wrong?"
Reijo's answer is clear.
"No. We will eradicate the White Dragons."
"Perfect."
Ryujin stands.
Reijo backs away and stands to rigid attention as their Master strides from the shrine, footfalls fading beyond the great wooden doors.
The doors shut behind Ryujin.
For a heartbeat, the shrine is hushed but for the crackle of lantern wicks.
Reijo steps to the throne.
Two cloaked comrades move with him.
His voice drops to a whisper.
"They're all dead inside, Aki."
Aki looks grim, his cobalt-blue hair bound at the nape, scarlet eyes burning with revenge.
Aki nods once.
"Yes. We've lost everything."
Reijo tries to find his comerade but can't feel his presence anywhere
"And Yamashi? Where—"
Soft footsteps behind answer him.
Yamashi emerges from the shadows.
He is tall and muscular, copper hair falling loose to his collar. His eyes are brown, and he looks calm.
"I'll be honest, Reijo," he says, voice low but steady.
"Lucil is right."
Shock flashes across Reijo's face.
Aki's crimson eyes narrow.
"They killed our brethren," Aki growls.
"Why side with that man?" Reijo demands.
Yamashi doesn't flinch.
"Because our Master lives inside an illusion. Look."
He gestures to the kneeling line of acolytes.
The Elder stands motionless, eyes glassy; the others sway like marionettes, empty and soulless.
The air thickens with dread as the three warriors grasp how deep the rot runs in the Red Dragon Clan.
Estate of the Red Dragons | Ryujin & Rei's Bedroom
The room is still, velvet-warm with memories.
A crimson king-size bed dominates the space.
Shelves line the walls, crammed with framed photographs:
Mai grinning over fireworks,
tiny Lucil looking solemn in festival robes,
Rei's smile lights up every snapshot with her children.
Ryujin drifts inside like a man half-awake.
Exhaustion drags at his limbs, guilt burdens heavier.
He closes his eyes—
and the past surges in.
Memories of the past
A child Ryujin stands in a meadow of crimson asters, sunlight spilling gold on four small children: two boys, two girls, blue and red hair fluttering in the breeze.
Their faces are a blur of innocence.
A gentle hand settles on his shoulder.
"Mom?" he whispers.
His mother's voice answers like distant bells:
"Ryujin, you will lead them all."
The children spin, laughing—
"Brother Ryujin!"
—but the vision dissolves into shadow.
Now he kneels among bodies.
Corpses carpet the ground—kin, friends, even his mother's lifeless form beside him.
Red smoke coils from the ruins.
Agony tears from his throat:
"WHY? WHY? I'll kill you all—EVERY ONE OF YOU!"
He screams until his voice frays, until blood paints his lips.
Around him, the dead rise like puppets, swaying on unseen strings, drifting away on a wind of ashes.
"White Dragons… I'll wipe you from the earth."
The battlefield fades, leaving only the taste of copper and regret.
Present
Ryujin's knees are shaking; he catches the shelf for balance.
His fingers brush a wedding photograph: Rei in a snow-white kimono, he in matching crimson, their smiles tethered to a happier past.
Rei's voice—soft, lovely—echoes in his mind:
"Ryujin, we'll have a sweet family."
A small tear drops.
"I can't," he croaks. "My hatred—"
Rei's voice echoes deeper:
"Lazarea is so sweet—"
He flinches at the name.
"He calls himself Lucil now—he loathes Father's legacy."
"Can we stop the war? We're too few. Mai, Yamashi and Lucil don't want more pointless killing."
Ryujin's fists tremble.
"The dead can't be forgotten, Rei."
But the room is empty.
Rei's laughter, her questions—everything—exists only in his mind.
He feels the weight of his actions again.
A single, raw sob breaks free as Ryujin admits the truth: no war, no victory, can ever resurrect the life he himself has destroyed.
He slumps beside the lacquered shelf, clutching a wedding photograph. Silence presses close and a whisper drifts through the walls, faint and accusing.
"Why can't Mai train?"
Rei's voice sounds as if she stands right beside him.
"Because… she's a woman," he answers, just as he once did.
"That's all?" Outrage sharpens her tone. "Ryujin, I'm a woman!"
"Rei—please."
"Why cling to a tradition that's already cost us so much? Let's live like ordinary people. I love our family—you love us, too."
The memory pierces deeper than steel; Ryujin's legs fold, dropping him to the tatami. Another echo follows, gentler, almost teasing:
"Hey, Ryujin, talk about something else. Hatred is swallowing you."
"Understood," he whispers into the empty room. "I'm sorry, Rei… I only wanted to protect something."
For an instant, she seems to stand before him—arms open, warmth so real it burns.
"To protect our family," she reminds him softly. "Mai, Yamashi, Aki, Reijo… even our grumpy Elder. Ryujin, I love you."
Scarlet tears are coming out from Ryujin. He presses a palm to his chest, hoping the pressure will keep his heart from splitting.
He thinks about the confrontation with Lucil. He shouts, You could end the war by yourself! Lucil raises a wooden sword as though it bears divine judgment and roars, Got it?
Rei throws herself between them, clasping her son's wrist. "Lucil, please… he's your father. He loves both of us."
Lucil sighs "Set your lines, Ryujin. You can still choose another path. I see something good in you—don't make me regret believing that. Got it, Father"
The crimson shimmer in Lucil's veins fades. "Sorry, Mom—hot-blooded. Lost it for a second."
Moments later, Lucil vanishes, leaving drifting petals and Rei's desperate plea hanging in the air: "Ryujin, our children don't want this war. We're too few, and we already have everything. Show me your true side. The man I deeply love!"
Rei leans in and presses a trembling kiss to Ryujin's lips—a kiss that lingers now like a promise he no longer knows how to keep.
Reality returns, Ryujin stands up. Ryujin bows his head over the framed photograph. In the hush of the room, only his ragged breathing and the echo of all he has lost remain.
A brittle laugh slips from Ryujin hollow, uncomprehending—until truth breaks through the haze, every vision has lied to him. Lucil never mocked him; his son tried to wake him. Rei did the same. Mai tried to show compassion. His family has always stood at his side, yet none of it matters now because he keeps forcing the war forward.
Feelings of guilt take his breath away and endless tears are shed.
"What have I done?" he whispers.
A dark resolve spreads.
"The white dragons are to blame for everything, for everything Rei!"
He staggers to a wall, grief twisting into fury. Forehead first, he slams against the thick wall—once, twice, again—until he bleeds. A last bloody tear drops and turns into pure determination.
He must go on, continue the war to eliminate the white dragons once and for all.
Estate of the White Dragons | Silver's Room
The moonlight slips through the high window of Silver's bedroom. His phone buzzes under his pillow, the caller ID reads Lucil. Silver answers the call.
"Hey, Lucil."
"It's time," Lucil says
Silver exhales. "Then I need to say good-bye to someone first."
"Meet me on the rooftop in Shinjuku," Lucil replies.
"Sure—just know it'll be a bloodbath."
"We know the risk," Lucil says, a note of regret seeping through. "And, Silver… I'm sorry."
Silver's tone softens, tinged with nostalgia. "I know how this ends. Still, we had a pretty good teenage arc, right?"
Lucil's low laugh crackles over the line. "It felt peaceful."
"Yeah," Silver whispers tiredly. "See you tonight, bro"
He ends the call.
"Sayonara, teenage arc"