The pavement stretched endlessly before them, cracked and jagged in places, littered with shards of glass, broken concrete, and the remnants of a city that had long since forgotten order. Reever ran beside Conner, their footsteps bouncing lightly against the rubble, sometimes heavier when a loose slab shifted beneath their weight. The ruined streets seemed to stretch on forever, fading into smoke and dust in the distance. For a while, no one spoke. The rhythm of their movement, the scuff of debris beneath their boots, and the occasional hiss of wind through the crumbled buildings filled the silence.
Finally, Reever broke it. His voice was low, cautious, as if even the city could hear. "Where are you from?"
Conner did not look at him. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, scanning the fractured pavement. "It's not important," he said, his tone flat and closed. "I don't feel like talking about it."
Reever let out a quiet sigh, the sound more for himself than for Conner. Disappointment lingered in the pit of his stomach. He had hoped for some insight, some thread that could tell him more about the boy he had chosen to team up with. Instead, there was a wall, a refusal to share. He fell back into step beside Conner, letting the silence settle again, heavier this time, as if both of them were weighing the distance between their thoughts.
A few moments passed. Then Conner spoke, quietly, almost as if he were confessing a secret to the wind. "I'm the son of Centrios," he said finally.
Reever blinked, caught off guard. "Centrios? The mythical-ranked player?" His voice carried a mix of surprise and cautious awe. He had read about Centrios, studied his battles, and knew of his reputation as a force that few dared challenge.
Conner only nodded, never taking his eyes off the cracked road. "Yes. But it doesn't mean much." There was a pause, a heaviness to his words. "My father… he had many wives. Over a hundred. And more than two hundred children. All girls, except me. I'm the lastborn."
Reever's chest tightened at the thought, imagining the pressure, the expectations that had been stacked on this boy from birth. And yet, beneath it, a faint amusement stirred, absurd but real. He never expected a world-class figure like Centrios to live in such a chaotic household.
"He forced me to train with guns since I was three," Conner continued, his voice carrying a bitter edge. "Every day, everything I did had to be perfect. Precise. Unrelenting. But I hated guns. I wanted swords. So I trained with swords behind his back—or at least I thought I was hiding it."
"And he found out?" Reever asked softly, curiosity tempered by caution.
Conner's shoulders tensed slightly. "When I was sixteen. He was furious. He almost disowned me. My mother had to intervene, calm him down. But it didn't change his view of me. I was still… a disappointment." He hesitated, voice dropping further, almost to a whisper. "Even worse… from all that training, I only ever gained one skill. And I awakened it late. One skill. Limitless Assault. That was it. My father… he was even more disappointed. He said it wasn't enough. That our family's strength comes from mastering many skills, not just one. After that, he withdrew his support."
Reever reached out and placed a hand on Conner's shoulder, firm but brief. "It'll be okay," he said, steadying himself more than the boy. "It doesn't matter what your father thinks. You're still here. You're still strong. You can do this."
Conner exhaled, a short breath that seemed to carry years of weight. A faint smile flickered on his lips. "Thanks," he said, his tone small, almost fragile. "I guess… I'll have to prove it myself."
Out of curiosity, Reever asked, "What does the skill do?"
Conner's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "You'll see when I use it. During the next assault."
Conner then tilted his head slightly, studying Reever. "By the way, bot 067, why do you wear that helmet all the time? Don't you get stuffy? Isn't it uncomfortable?"
Reever glanced down at the bluish helmet covering his face. A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth beneath it. "I am just too handsome to let everyone notice," he said lightly, the corner of his tone teasing. "Plus, it looks cool, and I like it."
Conner let out a small laugh, shaking his head, but didn't press further. They ran again, the city shifting around them, scarred and silent. Broken signs leaned awkwardly against walls, shattered glass glittered faintly in the light that filtered through smoke, and streetlights, long dead, jutted from the pavement like twisted skeletons. Then, in the distance, a mass of movement caught their attention.
A huge crowd of players had gathered, clustered tightly in the middle of a wide street. Their murmurs and shuffles rose like a wave of tension against the desolate silence. At the center of the crowd, a man stood alone. His body was mostly bare of armor, muscles defined, unprotected, and yet radiating danger. In his hands, he held a massive assault weapon that glowed red, pulsing faintly as if alive. The hum of energy vibrated the air around him.
Reever slowed instinctively. Conner did the same. The pair stopped at the edge of the street, their eyes locked on the man, their breaths even, steady but quickened by the sight. He was a wall, unyielding, a living challenge they would have to face eventually.
The crowd shifted and murmured around him, restless and tense. Players jostled one another, craning to see, whispering speculations and warnings, but none dared approach too closely. The red glow of the weapon painted their faces in flickering light, casting long, uneven shadows across the cracked asphalt.
Conner's hand brushed the hilt of his silver blades, fingers tightening around the grip. Reever's hand went to Spector Edge, the familiar weight settling in his palm, grounding him. Neither spoke. Words felt unnecessary. The presence of the man, the weapon, and the crowd was enough to hold them in place, a quiet tension that pressed in from every side.
"They might be dangerous," Reever murmured under his breath. "Be careful, but do not act unless provoked."
For a long stretch of time, they simply stood there, letting the moment, letting the street and the silent city around them bear witness. The hum of the weapon, the distant debris shifting, the faint cries from the crowd—all of it seemed to slow, to stretch time itself. Reever and Conner breathed slowly, matching each other's rhythm, their focus sharpening without words. The next move would come soon, but for now, the obstacle was enough.