8:03 AM — Yama District, Lower Monastery Complex
The bus hissed to a stop at the edge of the dusty gravel platform.
Dalton stepped off first,Matilda followed, her coat fluttering in the morning breeze. They stood side by side as they scanned the location, it met their view. The monastery.
The monastery sat above them — perched atop the hill.
A rusted archway loomed at the entrance, bearing words etched in flaking gold:
Sanctuary of Atonement.
They passed beneath it in silence.
Matilda spoke, breaking the silence.
"You even sure they're here?" she asked. "What if they're not?, you came to your conclusion based on a fucking photo frame."
Dalton didn't answer. Not immediately.
His gaze narrowed, fixed on something up ahead.
Matilda followed his line of sight.
A glimpse of metal. The dull curve of a trunk.
A battered black sedan sat parked beside the gravel path leading uphill to the monastery. Dust clung to its surface.
Dalton cut a glance sideways at her.
"…Still think I'm wrong?"
They walked forward.
The full view of the car came into sight.
Stretched out lazily across the front bumper, one leg bent at the knee, lays a man in red and black monk robes — a folded newspaper covering his face.
Matilda raised a brow. Dalton didn't even glance.
They kept walking.
At the foot of the long staircase leading to the monastery proper, a small wooden booth sat to the side of the path.
Open-topped. No roof. Just a chair, a low desk, and a kettle set quietly to one side.
Inside it, an aged monk in charcoal-grey robes sat cross-legged, back straight, hands resting in his lap.
His eyes, calm and steady, followed them without judgment.
As they passed the booth, his voice came — quiet, but carrying.
"Excuse me."
They both stopped at the first step.
"You'll want to head straight that way to reach the main temple complex. This path leads uphill—to the monastery."
Dalton looked up the stairs.
"That's where we're headed."
He took one step up.
A pause. Then—
"Excuse me," the monk repeated.
Dalton halted again. Both he and Matilda turned slightly.
The monk didn't move from his seat. His voice was even, almost rehearsed.
"Any kind of mechanical arms must be deposited here. Sanctuary rules." he said.
The monk waited. They said nothing.
A moment of silence stretched taut between them — the smell of incense and distant bells lingering in the air.
Then a voice cut through, dry and amused:
"Following the rules wouldn't hurt, right?"
They turned. To look at the source of voice.
The man resting on the car was getting up slowly, taking the newspaper off his face. His hair was a sleepy mess, his shirt wrinkled — but the grin on his face was sharp, half-masked behind an air of laziness. Now sitting atop the car. He looked like he was somewhere in his late 20s or early 30s.
Matilda squinted at him.
Dalton let out a slow breath and turned back to the monk.
He unbuckled the sling from his shoulder and placed it in the wooden basket beside the booth.
Matilda, sighing, drew out a slim pistol from her coat, then another from the back of her belt.
All deposited.
The monk gave a small bow of thanks.
They began walking up the stairs.
Matilda leaned in as they climbed, voice low.
"Okay… What the hell was that?"
Dalton didn't look at her.
"What was what?"
"We just handed over all our weapons like tourists," she muttered. "You never do that."
Dalton exhaled.
"Didn't want to start a scene."
A beat.
"Saw some veterans down there. Looked retired, but if they jumped in the situation… it'd be a hell of a lot harder than it already is."
He glanced at her.
"We wouldn't be needing those guns anyway."
Matilda rolled her eyes, pouting faintly.
"Ugh. Fine."
Meanwhile—
Back down below, beside the black sedan—
The man still sat lazily on the bumper, newspaper spread open in his hands.He let out a low whistle.
"Whoa. Big news."
He tilted the page slightly, calling toward the booth.
"Check it out, old man."
Then he slid off the car with a lazy stretch, joints cracking.
He walked toward the booth, newspaper in hand.
Picked up his jute bag and a long black bag off the ground placed near the booth.
As he passed the small desk, he tossed the folded paper down with a flick of his wrist.
THUMP.
The monk inside glanced at it—then froze.
Bold black headlines stared back:
Mizukawa Gang Wiped Out in Apartment Massacre.
Over 30 Dead —unknown perpetrators.
The monk blinked.
His gaze lifted—toward the staircase leading up the hill.
His lips moved without sound.
At the Top of the Hill —
The wide monastery gates stood open — a silent invitation, or a warning.
Beyond them, the tiled veranda/frontyard stretched like a polished mirror.
And there —
Seated in perfect stillness near the threshold of the main monastery chamber —
Were the twin swordsmen. SOEN and KAGEN
Both knelt in seiza on the stone tiles, backs straight, hands resting lightly on their thighs.
Identical robes, pale red with black trim.
Identical swords, resting sheathed tied to their respective OBIs(belts) —
Soen had a tight topknot, his long, thick mustache combed with precision. His eyes were half-lidded, his expression calm.
Kagen sat beside him, his head bald on top, while the hair on the sides made it to neck-length. Heavy sideburns framed his jaw like a mane. His gaze was sharper, locked on the staircase, watching — waiting.
As Dalton and Matilda crested the top step, Soen opened his eyes.
A low voice, even and smooth:
"You've come far."
His brother, Kagen, spoke next — quieter, rougher.
"You won't go further."
They rose in unison — smooth, fluid.
Blades hissed free from their sheaths with a clean metallic draw.
Without another word, they rushed forward —
Dalton didn't hesitate.
He cracked his neck, crossed his fingers.
"Guu."
Then he surged forward —
Meeting them head-on.
His fists blurred landing with speed and precision on the swordsmen.
The swordsmen staggered.
Slashes split into their chests — but it wasn't a blade. It was his fists.
Kagen reeled back, clutching his shoulder. Soen's blade shook in his grip.
Dalton walked past them, already walking toward the monastery's main chamber.
Without looking back, he said:
"Matilda. They're yours."
Matilda's coat flared as she leapt—
Landing hard between the swordsmen and the monastery chamber.
Her boots slammed against the polished tiles, arms stretched wide at her sides like wings.
Kagen and Soen turned slowly, eyes narrowing.
She was blocking their path now — smiling.
She tilted her head.
Matilda swayed slightly, hips shifting, one boot sliding forward like she was stepping into rhythm. Her borrowed coat barely holding onto that one button.
"Let's Dance, boomers ."