POV: Kenji Katsuragi and Mikage Reiken
The warehouse air was thick with crystal dust and the stale odor of secrecy. Shafts of pale light knifed through gaps in the ceiling, catching the glitter of a hundred fractured shards. The sound beneath it all was faint—like breathing through teeth.
Kenji stepped over a broken crate, the tip of his bow tapping lightly against the floor. His partner moved beside him, heavy boots silent despite their weight. Mikage's shoulders rolled as if trying to contain the tremor in his chest. He'd been quiet since they entered, too quiet for someone whose anger never stayed buried for long.
"This was supposed to be storage," Mikage muttered. "Doesn't feel like it."
Kenji's eyes traced the irregular rows of boxes, the scattering of unpolished crystal fragments littering the ground. Each shard pulsed faintly, leaking the same energy that had torn through half of Bustleburg two years ago. He felt the familiar, metallic taste of hatred rise in his mouth.
Something was wrong. The shards weren't arranged for shipment—they were being used.
At the far end of the hall, a laugh echoed. Not the sound of madness—worse, the sound of someone enjoying their own cruelty.
"Still following orders from ghosts, are you?" The voice was deep, steady, and horribly familiar.
Mikage froze mid-step. His fists tightened until his gloves creaked. "That voice…"
The light shifted. From behind a pillar stepped Commander Varric Drayen—his armor half-removed, his hands stained with crystal dust. The man who'd led the purges in Bustleburg, who'd ordered the burning of Frostholm, and who, by all records, should have been dead.
Varric smirked, arms spread in mock welcome. "The loyal dogs. Always late to the hunt." He gestured at the crates behind him. "Beautiful, isn't it? Each fragment a piece of the Valerian core. Enough power to wipe another city if I wish."
Mikage's aura flared instantly, golden light bleeding from the cracks in his skin. His right fist ignited with the echo of his soul energy, the Fist of the Tiger.
Kenji's hand shot up, palm out, stopping him. His voice came low, flat. "He's mine."
Mikage turned, fury still burning in his eyes. Then he saw Kenji's face—the calm of a man past rage, the stillness of something sharper.
Kenji stepped forward. "You remember Frostholm?"
Varric tilted his head. "Vaguely. A mining town, wasn't it? Hardly worth—"
Kenji drew the bowstring back, the air humming as sigils flared along its limbs. The crystal light from the shards bent toward him, drawn like moths into his focus.
Skill: Overcharged Shot – Heaven's Judgment.
The arrow formed in pure light. When he loosed it, the sound was less a release and more an execution.
The radiant bolt tore through Varric's abdomen, punching out the other side with a thunderclap that blew dust and crystal fragments into a storm. The commander staggered, disbelief flashing across his face as he looked down at the gaping hole in his torso.
"You… can't…" he gasped, falling to one knee. "You don't understand—"
Before he could finish, Mikage appeared beside him in a burst of golden blur.
Skill: Fist of Soul – Tiger's Fury.
His strike slammed into the arrow's glowing shaft, driving it deeper through Varric's body until it exploded out his back in a flash of soulfire. The impact hurled him across the room, crashing through a crate of shards that shattered into screaming light.
When the glow faded, Varric lay still—armor charred, eyes wide, a hole clean through him.
Kenji lowered his bow. His voice, quiet but certain, cut through the silence. "That's for Frostholm."
---
C. Cleanup
The workers who'd been loading the crates screamed. Some fled for the doors, others froze mid-run as the energy from the broken shards flickered dangerously.
Kenji turned, his eyes pale with residual charge.
"Don't let them spread word."
He drew again, the bow thrumming with the echo of divinity.
Skill: Overcharged Shot – Arrow Shower.
A rain of light descended, each arrow splitting into dozens more, piercing through soldiers and workers alike. The warehouse filled with the rhythmic sound of impact—each thud a beat in a requiem of vengeance.
Mikage charged through the survivors, fists blazing.
Skill: Fist of Soul – Spirit Strike.
His punches struck like hammers of raw will, phasing through armor and flesh, leaving the air filled with afterimages of golden energy.
When it ended, silence returned.
Only the sound of the shards' faint hum remained.
Kenji stepped over bodies toward where Varric had fallen. The commander's last breath rattled weakly, blood bubbling at his lips. His eyes found Kenji's, not with anger—but confusion.
"Why… why still fight…? The empire… will…"
Kenji knelt beside him, voice cold as steel. "The empire already lost the moment you touched Frostholm."
Varric tried to speak again, but no words came. His eyes glazed over, fixed on nothing.
Mikage stood beside Kenji, breathing heavily. "You should've let me end him slower."
Kenji didn't answer. He reached into his quiver, drew one last arrow, and planted it upright in the ground beside Varric's corpse. The shaft still glowed faintly—marking the site, a silent gravestone.
He whispered, "Bustleburg. Giggleburg. Frostholm." His eyes hardened. "We settle every debt."
The wind shifted, carrying the faint crackle of the shards as they dimmed.
Two figures stepped into the night, their silhouettes swallowed by the ruin they'd made.
Behind them, the warehouse stood quiet—an altar to vengeance and the unending cost of silence.