The room was suffused with an unnatural silence, thick enough to make the skin crawl. Kaito's body lay between them, fragile yet thrumming with power that refused to be contained. Billish and Alia rushed forward, each step careful, their breaths sharp against the humming of the machinery around them. Crimson light flickered from emergency lamps, glinting off broken glass tubes and scattered metal panels.
Kaito's eyes opened. A deep, burning red glint shone beneath his lashes. He didn't speak. He didn't move. But the air around him vibrated, heavy with the pressure of something monstrous waking from a long, forced slumber.
"Almost… just one more step," 56 murmured, moving with calculated precision.
Billish tightened her hold on Kaito's arm. "Hurry… hurry, 56!" she urged.
Alia's voice was steadier, but no less tense. "We can do this, Kaito… just hold on a little longer."
56's mind raced, weighing probabilities with the cold efficiency that had earned him his skull mask moniker. If he awakens fully… he won't stop. I can't let that happen. One misstep, one surge, and it could wipe this entire room clean.
He reached out, fingers striking a nerve point in Kaito's neck with surgical precision. In an instant, Kaito slumped unconscious, the fire in his eyes dimming, replaced by fragile stillness. Relief barely touched 56's face before his instincts screamed — a presence, dense and suffocating, materializing from nowhere.
The hairs on his arms stood on end.
His blue sword materialized in an instant, humming faintly as he adjusted his grip. Every muscle was taut, every sense sharp.
He turned, eyes narrowing at the doorway. Leaning with effortless elegance against the wall was a figure clad in black — Alane. Hair black as midnight, one hand resting casually on the metal frame, the other relaxed at his side. Every movement was measured, professional, radiating deadly calm.
"You're done, Mr. Skull Mask," Alane said, voice smooth, a dangerous smile tracing his lips.
"Yes," 56 replied, his tone flat, measured, ready. Every muscle poised like a drawn bow.
"Go," he barked over his shoulder to Billish and Alia. "Take Kaito. Now. Go!"
Alia didn't hesitate. She lifted Kaito, his weight a reminder of his fragile body and the power contained within. Billish followed, both of them slipping through corridors illuminated by crimson light. Their footsteps were careful, almost reverent, as they navigated past shattered machinery and puddles reflecting the ominous glow. Behind them, alarms faintly echoed in the distance, drowned out by the pulse of raw energy emanating from the room they'd just left.
56's eyes narrowed. Alane is here. Everything else doesn't matter. This ends with him.
Alane straightened, stepping fully into the room. The faintest flick of his wrist, and he pulled a small metal shard from the broken floor, slicing his palm clean. A bead of crimson rolled down, hovering for a heartbeat before solidifying into a sword that radiated a dark, glistening red.
"Crimson Domain," he intoned, the air immediately thickening, metallic and heavy, smelling of blood and ozone.
56 lunged, blue blade gleaming, slicing the dim light in a flash. Alane sidestepped, the red sword humming, catching the reflection of broken glass, dancing like liquid fire.
"Not nice to attack before I'm ready," Alane said smoothly, dodging with precise steps, every movement a calculated blur. "One attacks, one flanks. Professional tactics, yes? But insufficient."
56's jaw tightened. He circled, footfalls silent but precise, his blue blade tracing arcs in the air, each strike deliberate. I can't underestimate him. One misstep…
The two clashed. Sparks flew as blue and red collided, the room echoing with the metallic resonance of blade against blade. Alane twisted, parrying an overhead strike with the flat of his crimson sword, his movement fluid as water, eyes locked on 56's every twitch.
Every thrust, every parry, every footstep was measured. 56's sword flashed, cutting angles meant to destabilize, while Alane's crimson domain bent the room around them, every surface glowing red with oppressive intensity.
A sudden movement — Alane slashed, and the room exploded into crimson light. The walls, the broken tubes, even the scattered metal reflected the glow, transforming the room into a macabre cathedral of blood-colored energy. The scent of iron thickened.
56's eyes burned with concentration. He twisted mid-air, deflecting a downward strike that could have shattered his shoulder. Each strike sent shockwaves through his arms, but he barely faltered, repositioning his blade with mechanical precision.
Alane's smile widened faintly, professional, calm, almost enjoying the duel. "Blue edge… precise, fast… worthy opponent. But my domain…" He swung, sweeping the crimson sword in a perfect arc. The light caught the edges of debris, scattering shards that glimmered like blood rain.
56 countered, pivoting on the balls of his feet, sending sparks flying as blue met red. He lunged, slicing a trajectory designed to catch Alane's torso, but the crimson blade intercepted, the force sending a reverberation up his arm.
Inside the room, the air thickened with energy. Every movement displaced it, waves of heat and sound pulsing outward. 56's breathing remained steady, calculating, each strike designed to probe, to find an opening. Alane moved like a shadow, a professional predator enjoying the hunt, weaving his crimson sword with surgical precision, every blow a lesson in lethal grace.
Outside, Alia and Billish pressed on through corridors lit by red emergency lights, Kaito's body swaying slightly in their arms. Even unconscious, the residual energy from his awakening radiated, forcing them to move carefully, their own senses tingling from the distant pulse of power behind them.
"Keep going… almost there," Billish whispered, eyes darting around corners.
Alia's hand tightened around Kaito's arm. "We'll make it. Just a little further."
Back in the crimson-lit chamber, 56 and Alane danced the deadly ballet of blade and aura. Every clash sent shards of energy ricocheting. 56's blade hummed with ethereal blue light, marking arcs in the red haze. Alane's crimson sword followed like molten steel, sharp, precise, unforgiving.
Alane's grin sharpened as he adjusted his footing. "Crimson Domain is complete. Welcome to my world."
The room seemed to pulse in red, shadows bleeding into every corner, reflections of their swords painting streaks of violent light. 56 braced, calculating, poised for the next strike. He knew this was only the beginning.
The air thrummed with anticipation. The next movement would decide everything — skill, will, and resolve weighed against one another in the deadly dance.
Both stood opposite each other, blue and red light casting stark silhouettes across shattered glass, blood-streaked walls, and metallic debris. Alane's faint smile reflected a predator's confidence; 56's unwavering gaze mirrored a warrior ready to meet it.
The room, the combatants, the very air held its breath. And the crimson domain pulsed, alive, dangerous, and beautiful.
---
56 stood in the center of the crimson-lit chamber, chest heaving, muscles tense. The air still vibrated with energy, shards of light from the broken glass casting reflections across the red haze. He wiped sweat from his brow and muttered, a hint of frustration in his voice, "You damn specialist… pain in the ass."
Alane's lips curved into a faint, professional smile, as if he had expected that exact remark.
Then, a strange sensation pricked at 56's legs. He glanced down, eyes narrowing. Blood was seeping from his calves, glistening darkly in the crimson light. But there were no cuts, no bruises, no wounds that could explain it. His hands darted to touch the skin — solid, unbroken, yet crimson ran freely.
Alane's smile widened slightly. "You are a worthy opponent," he said calmly. "My ability — Crimson Domain — allows me to dominate any space within its reach. About a thousand square meters are now under my domain. It drains the blood of enemies and reshapes it into any weapon I desire. Of course…" He lifted his hand, watching a small droplet of his own blood drip onto the floor, "to do so, I must sacrifice my own blood first. But once it begins, it feeds and fuels itself automatically."
56's mind raced. This is… a problem. I can't stay in here for too long… His blue blade shimmered as he adjusted his stance, aware that each passing second drained him subtly but surely.
Alane's crimson sword flickered in response. With the grace of a predator, he lunged forward, the domain intensifying. 56 moved instinctively, blocking the strike, but he felt a sudden weakness — a drain from his body that couldn't be countered, as though the room itself was siphoning his strength.
A single thought pierced his focus: I can't linger. Every second here costs me blood… every second counts against me.
The fight resumed, more intense, more lethal. The crimson mist of the domain swirled, surrounding them like a living entity, and 56 felt the steady, relentless pull of Alane's ability. Even as he parried, lunged, and countered, the unyielding drain of Crimson Domain forced him to move faster, think faster, and fight smarter.
He glanced at Alane — still composed, still lethal — and clenched his teeth. I can endure this… I must endure this…
---
The room had transformed into chaos. Broken mirrors scattered across the floor, reflecting fragments of red and blue light from the ongoing battles, while the faint metallic tang of blood clung to the air. Michael's staff felt heavier than ever in his hands, his arms trembling with exhaustion, sweat streaming down his forehead. Andreo gripped his sickle tightly, posture tense, muscles screaming from the relentless exchanges with Mark. Both of them had fought with precision, skill, and cunning — yet the unexpected presence of Joi now threatened to overwhelm their defenses.
Mark's eyes, black and cold, darted around the room. His scythe swung in wide arcs, cutting through empty air where white smoke coiled like living serpents. Several of his clones had emerged, but they were nothing — insubstantial, ephemeral, dissipating into nothing more than powder whenever touched. Still, their presence forced him to keep moving, to anticipate attacks that could materialize from any angle. He knew better than to underestimate him.
Andreo's voice, tight with frustration, cut through the haze. "What… who are they monsters?"
Michael, leaning against a shattered wall for support, shook his head slowly. "I… I don't know. But their presence… it's affecting us. Our heads… spinning, and I can't breathe properly. Something in the air… smoke, powder — whatever it is — it's toxic!"
Mark swung his scythe in a controlled sweep, aiming at one of the wisps of white smoke that had solidified into Joi's silhouette. The blade cut through the air, and Joi's form momentarily solidified, revealing a shadow of a body. Mark lunged — only to swing through it again, the body evaporating into smoke before contact.
Then, a sharp sensation stabbed his back. Mark froze mid-motion, spinning instinctively. Knives protruded from his shoulders and back, but the moment he slashed, they vanished — mere smoke once more. Panic flickered across his eyes. He had no point of reference. He had fought gods, monsters, and near-unkillable humans before — but nothing like this.
Joi moved with terrifying elegance, weaving through the smoke like a dancer. Each strike, each attack, was a ghost, fleeting yet deadly. He was everywhere and nowhere at once. "Fools," his voice hissed through the haze, "who do you think I am ? I am the one who made it this far. That's how I entered the main mafia group!"
Mark staggered, swinging his scythe wildly, trying to maintain distance. Every attack he thought successful dissolved into the smoke, leaving him disoriented and vulnerable. His clones scattered, attempting to act as buffers, but even their coordination felt insufficient against Joi's chaotic assault.
Andreo leaned back, sweat dripping from his brow, clutching his sickle. "This… this isn't normal. "
Michael staggered beside him, staff trembling in his hands. "If we can't survive this… it's over. I regret underestimating fern. This… this would be the end."
The swirling smoke revealed glimpses of Joi's past, each movement a twisted dance of rage and ambition. In fragmented vision, his story unfolded: a high school boy, small and unnoticed, endlessly bullied by classmates, tormented by words and jeers. His only solace, fleeting and fragile, had been a girlfriend whose affection slipped away, leaving him hollow. Every day was gray, every smile a lie. He searched desperately for meaning and control, for something that could make him feel alive in a world that had crushed him.
Then came the encounter that changed everything. A shadowy figure, introduced through a former classmate, handed him a small packet of white powder. Hesitation melted away as he inhaled — and for the first time, the world was bright, intoxicating, overwhelming. Bliss crashed over him like a tide, pain and fear washed from his mind. The powder granted him a sense of power he had never known. He could move with impossibility, strike without consequence, and vanish when threatened. That powder became his reality, a bridge from the powerless boy to the feared enigma now dancing in smoke.
Mark's scythe swung again, catching the edge of one of Joi's fleeting forms. The impact dispersed it, but Joi's laughter echoed, taunting. Each strike from the ghostlike figure forced Mark to anticipate movements he couldn't predict, a tactical nightmare compounded by the mental strain of the smoke's influence.
Michael's hands shook as he raised the staff defensively. "We adapt… we survive. We have to. Otherwise…" His words ended as a sudden gust of powder swirled around, disrupting their vision. They staggered, coughing, heads spinning uncontrollably. The white smoke clung to every surface, a lethal veil, an unpredictable opponent.
Mark, finally finding a solid form of Joi, lunged — scythe cutting through the figure — only to have it dissolve, leaving the scythe slicing air. And then, knives pierced him from every direction. His instincts screamed, dodging, slashing, pivoting — yet each attack seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. Every strike was precise, brutal, and untouchable.
Joi's form shifted, smoke coiling around him like a cloak. His laughter became a mantra of dominance, echoing against the walls. "You think you can contain me? I have transcended pain, transcended fear, transcended the life I was given!"
Mark stumbled backward, heart racing. Every clone he sent to intercept vanished instantly into mist. Every swing of the scythe was countered by the intangible presence of smoke and knife, a combination that left him exhausted and unsteady.
Michael's voice was strained. "I don't know how much longer we can last… the smoke… it's affecting our senses, our balance…"
Meanwhile, Joi danced across the crimson-streaked floor. Half in shadow, half in reflection from broken mirrors, his grin widened. Memories of the bullied boy flickered across his mind — every insult, every heartbreak — fueling his movements. Each inhalation of powder, each manipulation of smoke, made him stronger, faster, more untouchable.
This is who I am, he thought, spinning midair, smoke trailing like a comet behind him. I was powerless. I was nothing. Now… I am everything.
The room seemed to bend around him, reflections of his smoke clones multiplying endlessly in shattered glass, each a potential strike, each a threat. Even Mark's precise calculations faltered under the chaotic display of motion.
Mark's eyes darted to Andreo and Michael. Both were staggering, disoriented, feeling the effects of the smoke, the strain of combat. "Focus… adapt… survive…" he muttered internally, forcing himself to track Joi's movements, each shadow, each knife, each trick.
Joi, spinning in midair, revealed a flash of his origin story to anyone who could see: the bullied teenager who had learned that the world wouldn't give him mercy, the despairing youth who found freedom and strength only in the white powder. "I am not powerless," he whispered to himself, the mantra of his existence. "I am more than this world ever allowed me to be. I am supreme in the smoke. I am untouchable."
Andreo whispered to Michael, barely audible: "If we don't survive this… it'll be… the end."
Michael nodded, trembling. "We have to endure. Somehow… endure."
Mark's scythe swung, slicing a final clone in the smoke, and he took a deep breath, preparing for the unpredictable assault that was imminent. Joi's laughter echoed, the room a vortex of white powder and lethal motion. Every attack, every feint, every strike was designed to disorient, to confuse, to overpower — and the sheer unpredictability of it made Mark realize: this wasn't just a fight. This was survival against an evolved predator, a ghost born of cruelty, powder, and vengeance.
The chamber shuddered with tension, the crimson reflections from the broken mirrors now mixing with the white haze of Joi's smoke. The smell of powder hung thick, metallic and suffocating, as the three warriors — Mark, Andreo, and Michael — braced for the onslaught.
In that moment, even as fatigue gnawed at their limbs and the smoke threatened to overwhelm their senses, one thought held firm: We survive… or we die trying.
---
The room was a mess of motion and afterimage. Broken mirrors threw shards of light across the floor; white powder still hung in swirls that clung to the air like a second fog. Michael tasted metal and dust with every breath. Andreo's legs felt like lead, but his fingers never loosened their grip on the sickle.
"We have to fight," Andreo said, voice raw but steady. He slid a look at Michael — the kind that had carried them through worse. "Brother, we stand or we die here. Nothing else."
Michael's reply was a whisper and a commitment both. He pushed himself upright, planted his staff with both hands, and met Andreo's steady gaze. The spinning in his head still clawed at him, but he let the dizziness anchor him, let the training push through the fog. "Then we fight," Michael said. "Together."
Joi's laughter twined through the smoke, a brittle, eager thing. He danced like a man possessed — powdered fingers bright against the white mist — knife poised, teeth bared. The hall of mirrors multiplied his image a hundredfold, and that multiplication fed his arrogance.
He had done this for years. Each hit had built him up faster than any training could. Every blown line, every deal, every desperate night where he sold his humanity for another breath had taught him one thing: power comes at a price, and he was willing to pay that price again and again. He had climbed the ranks with bloodless elegance — not because he feared the violence, but because he'd learned to be the kind of predator that makes others think their fear was their own fault.
Tonight he wanted a new trophy. A Regan. Mark had looked like easy prey; a god, surely, but a god with adolescent bravado. Joi grinned behind his powder-smudged lips. Finally, he thought. Finally a name to carve on my ledger.
He moved like smoke — a body that had learned to cut corners where flesh would bind. He spun behind Mark, blades whispering, and slid a strike meant to stagger. He felt the thrill of proximity, the sweet certainty of victory — and then something cold bit at the back of his neck.
It was small at first: pressure, a tiny weight, like a nail catching on his shirt. He froze mid-dance, breath sharp. The mirrors around him warped into strange reflections.
A common nail — iron, blunt, ordinary as the construction work that built the city — had threaded itself through the skin at the base of his skull. It hummed there, an ugly, mundane anchor in the midst of supernatural smoke. Joi's hand flew to the nail, confusion breaking his grin. Pain flared — not a searing wound, but a deep, uncanny press that rooted him to the spot. The powder at his fingertips twitched and swung like a curtain.
He didn't have time to comprehend before another nail drove through the air and found his shoulder, then another, then more. One after another, like a slow macabre embroidery, nails threaded through him and anchored into the cracked floor beneath his feet. The smoke trembled and failed. The forms that had been everywhere and nowhere collapsed into nothing. The sensation wasn't instantaneous death — it was the sudden end of the drug dream, the snapping of a spell. Joi staggered, the knife falling silent in his fingers as the white fog evaporated.
He looked down at the nails with a dawning, animal terror. He had been untouchable inside the smoke; now he was pinned by the most ordinary, ridiculous weapons. The laughter died in his throat.
From above, a step — deliberate, heavy — and then she was there.
She dropped down through a gap in the catwalk like someone landing straight from another skyline. Black hair, brown eyes, a groundedness that made the whole room feel lopsided; she moved without flourish, without theatricality, as if business had merely called and she'd come to answer. In the sudden, clean air she looked taller than the ceiling would allow. Her clothes were plain, utilitarian. Her face when she took in the scene was bored in the way of someone who had seen worse and decided worse didn't deserve a reaction.
"Mark," she said, as if excusing herself for interrupting a small domestic argument. "Ah—sorry."
Mark collapsed to his knees the moment the fog went. His breath came ragged; his hands were wet with powder and fake blood from earlier clashes. He looked up through lashes, spine hunched, and there she was — the intruder who had turned the tide without a flourish or a shout.
Michael's eyes narrowed. "Who the hell is she?" he rasped. Andreo's jaw tightened, hand flexing on the sickle's haft.
The woman looked at Mark as if appraising an appliance. "Weak," she said flatly, voice even. "You're weaker than Kiyara. If Kiyara were a Gen-2, you'd be ninth-tier trash." A smile, quick and unamused, cut across her face. "If I hadn't come… you would've bled out and vanished. Not very divine, is it?"
Mark's jaw clamped shut. Pride and rage warred in his expression. "Shut up," he spat, but his voice wavered. He tried to stand, winded and hollow, aiming for belligerence but tasting fear.
The woman flicked a glance at Andreo and Michael, then to the nails pinning Joi. The room smelled like copper and damp powder. She cocked her head, assessing the two exhausted fighters. "You two," she said, voice cool. "Surrender yourself to Fern's custody, or die here and now."
Michael staggered slightly, gripping his staff tighter, eyes narrowing at the woman leading them through the corridor. "Who… who are you?" he asked, voice cautious but curious.
She turned, her brown eyes sharp and unreadable. "I am Maria," she said simply, voice calm. "Regan No. 4… the Nail User."
Silence held for a breath, like the pause before a bell tolls.
Andreo's eyes flashed with that reckless courage he wore like armor. "Surrender?" he barked, incredulous. "Are you mad? We don't—"
Michael's lips were pale. He looked from Andreo to the woman and then at the floor, where small nails glinted like punctuation marks. He heard the words before he decided them: surrender, in this moment, was survival. They'd both seen allies fall or be captured. They'd seen stronger men be undone by timing and twist. The clarity came like a cold draft; you could fight and die for pride, or you could buy the next morning to fight again.
"We'll surrender," Michael said before Andreo could fling another protest. It sounded like defeat, and in that room it tasted like salvation.
Andreo's incredulous glare hardened into something like resignation. He let out a breath that could have been a laugh or a sob. The sickle lowered, heavy as fate. "Fine," he said, voice tight, then turned to Michael with a look that meant—later. Not now. "Later."
The woman's expression softened—almost imperceptibly. She moved with a tilt of the head to the nails where Joi dangled like a puppet. With a single, precise motion she slid a gloved hand into the mass of metal and wrenched one nail free. Joi rolled, gasping. She didn't look at him as she spoke.
"Joi," she said, tone flat, "you climbed to a position you didn't deserve. Drugs give you flight. They don't teach you to land. You'll be out of the picture for a while." She tossed the nail aside. It clanged hollow on the metal floor.
Mark wrenched himself upright, wobbling but driven by a jagged, childish pride. "You interrupted me!" he barked at the woman. "I had him— I was going to—"
"You were going to die," she cut him off. "Do you want to be poetic about it while your chest opens and your insides decorate the floor? Thought not." Her eyes were hard. "Name yourself for the record?"
A shiver ran through Mark. He thought of godhood and titles and all the little ceremonies he'd used to mask the fear. Now the titles dissolved like dust in plain wind.
"I'm—" he began, but the word stuck. He looked at Andreo and Michael, whose faces were pale but steady. "I'll walk," he said finally, voice small. "I'll go with them."
The woman nodded once, like closing a file. "Good. Keep your head down and you might live to be worthless another day." She flicked a hand toward the control corridor where the distant hum of Fern's containment systems still pulsed like a heartbeat.
Joi's eyes met hers, raw and pleading. The woman's gaze slid over him without empathy. "You wanted to be powerful," she said softly, almost bored. "Power doesn't come from drugs. It comes from knowing what you're willing to lose and what you can't."
Joi's face collapsed then — not from pain, but from the slow, suffocating recognition that the thing that made him untouchable had been mundane as a nail, and that he'd been outplayed by someone with less drama and more skill.
She turned to Andreo and Michael and looked them up and down, cataloging their breath and their blood. "Surrender," she said once more, softer now. "Don't make me take things you'll never forgive yourselves for."
Andreo stared at his sickle a long moment, at the glint of red on the edge, then at Michael. The decision had been made between them in a glance. He nodded once — small, like a man tucking away a blade. Together they raised their hands slightly, a sign of compliance that tasted like ash on the tongue.
The woman let out a breath that might have been a sigh. She produced a thin band and snapped it — a signal. Somewhere deeper in Fern, mechanisms hummed to life. Footsteps grew nearer, disciplined and even.
"Good," she said. "This way."
As they began to move toward the corridor, Mark's eyes lingered on the scene like a child watching a parade he'd once led. Joi staggered, nails pulled free, smoke long gone, a man suddenly small and human. The woman walked ahead like she owned the doorway to consequence.
Michael glanced once at Andreo, voice barely a whisper. "We'll fight later. Not now."
Andreo's smile was not a smile. "Later," he vowed.
Above them, the ceiling lights threw a clean strip of white across the floor, and for the first time since the battle began the world felt ordered, if only because someone had decided it would be. The price of that order would be paid later, in cell bars and interrogations and plans hatched in the dark. For now, they surrendered — and that decision, small and cursed, bought them the right to fight another day.