[Location: ???]
The sun struggled through a sky choked with gray clouds, its emaciated rays filtering through the arms of long-dead trees. The light glared down across the lifeless ground, spilling over everything.
And within that dying light it found a face.
A delicate one.
Half-buried in cracked soil lay Mikoto. A faint groan escaped him—a sound born from profound annoyance—as his eyelashes fluttered open, revealing blood-red irises filled with annoyance. His brows knit together imdiately.
"Tch..."
He lay still for a mont, staring up at the dull, lifeless sky—a murky blend of gray and beige clouds, drifting lazily.
"...That shitty Goddess could’ve at least warned about that damn abrupt teleportation," Mikoto murmured. He slowly sat up, rising with stiff movents.
The ground beneath him let out a sharp crack as his weight shifted. Dry and dead. It cracked beneath his sabatons. He paused to observe his surroundings, his red eyes sweeping across the terrain. Every tree around him stood lifeless. Their trunks split and peeling, their branches bare and shivering in the wind.
"Not even the barest trace of mana clinging to the air..." Mikoto whispered, more to himself than anyone else. He narrowed his eyes and slowly stood to full height, his tail cloak fluttering ever so slightly behind him. "This isn’t that dead planet anymore. This place is..."
He exhaled.
("Another world, then...")
He stood perfectly still, red eyes narrowing as he tried to feel sothing—a pull to that world drenched in mana.
("If I don’t know exactly where I am, then even teleportation becos aningless. And I can’t just jump between worlds like it’s a damn carriage ride...")
His sabatons crunched softly as he began to walk. The world around him seed to sway and shift under his steps.
("But still can it really be that simple? Whoever dragged here—clearly they didn’t want just ’gone.’ They wanted out of the picture. Whatever sche they’re running, I was in the way.")
He clicked his tongue, as his eyes scanned the pathless expanse.
("But that world... the one I was on before the festival... its mana was so dense it practically tore through my body. I could find it again. If I travel long enough, but traveling through space would take too long.")
But the longer he walked, the more Octavia’s words echoed. That revelation—that twisted little truth she delivered with such unbothered clarity—it kept gnawing at him.
("So I was brought to that world for a reason. Not so coincidence. Not even because I was .")
His eyes dulled with each step.
("Because I’m so... thing. An amalgamation of an angel and her dead lover’s soul. That’s all.") The fact should have bothered him much more.
He walked, the landscape just a collection of lifeless wood and crumbling dirt. The cliffside appeared ahead, jutting out of the terrain.
("Still gonna kill her,") he thought idly, the image of Octavia’s smug smile fuelling his hatred. ("Once I’m strong enough. That’s a promise.")
But even that determination didn’t silence her final words.
("The ’phase’ wasn’t her doing. She didn’t trigger it. It was . Or rather... the thing I used to be. That Angel. That supposed monster. I’m guessing Octavia was just involved with prolonging it till one’s sixteen.")
Mikoto stopped at the edge of the cliff. The view before him was bleak and wide: an ocean of dead trees, gnarled rocks, and ridgelines. Below, strange creatures walked between the roots and caves—things that looked stitched together from myths that should’ve never t.
"That’s just excellent," he muttered aloud with dry sarcasm. ("I’ve got another problem...")
But before that thought could fully shape itself in his mind—
Footsteps.
Heavy and rapid. Not one or two...
Mikoto’s head turned ever so slightly.
("—Company.")
--------------------
[Location: ???]
"Tch, how persistently tedious they are," a voice hissed through clenched teeth.
A figure darted between the leafless trees, weaving in and out of their gray trunks, evading branches that reached out.
The light of the sky struggled to keep up with her, flickering against the white of her flowing cape-like mantle that trailed behind her. Her hair—a light, golden blonde—was tied in a high ponytail, though several errant strands had fallen loose from her flight.
Beneath her cloak, she wore a white tunic trimd with dark gray accents at the shoulders and cinched at the waist. Over that, a fitted vest, sturdy, complented by tightly bound dark trousers tucked into silver-colored thigh-high boots. tal accents decorated her shoulders, catching flashes of weak sunlight. A long, slender, straight-bladed rapier hung at her hip.
In her left hand, gripped tightly as though her life depended on it, was a strange, rectangular black box. No larger than a thick book. Embedded upon its surface—bold and glowing faintly red—was the engraving of a heart, encased in thorns, and cracked down the center.
A sharp voice bellowed behind her.
"In the na of Her Majesty the Queen, I command you—HALT!"
She didn’t stop. But she did glance over her shoulder—just enough to take in the scene behind her, her eyes narrowing.
Three figures.
The one leading the pack was tall—towering, in fact—with broad-shoulders. His bald head glead with sweat. He wore a full suit of black armor, the steel etched with deep red lines. Draped at his waist and fluttering in the wind behind him was a long, blood-red tailcoat—his chest proudly decorated with a polished emblem of a diamond.
Flanking him were two others in identical armor, though less adorned. One had long, jet-black hair tied into a thick braid, his face sharp and angular. The other had short-cropped blonde hair and eyes too cruel for his youthful face.
They were fast—but not faster than her.
("Only diamond-ranked soldiers,") the fleeing girl thought, leaping over a fallen log. She twisted her body mid-air to avoid a crude branch, then landed softly in a three-point crouch before surging forward again. ( "Not even worth it.")
"You’ve stolen property of Her Radiant Grace, the Queen herself!" the bald man roared. "We will have your head for this!"
"Oh?" she called back over her shoulder. "Then perhaps you should’ve guarded your treasures more carefully. Hm?"
"You damn bitch!" the black-haired soldier snarled, saliva flying from his lips as he pushed harder, anger overtaking reason. "When we catch you—oh, you’ll wish for Death. We’ll take everything from you. We’ll make you beg for the Queen’s rcy—after we’ve had our fun!"
For a heartbeat, she faltered—not in speed, but in restraint.
Her fingers twitched near the hilt of her rapier. Her eyes narrowed.
("...Maybe I should...") The thought was clear in her mind. ( "Would it really matter if I did? No one’s watching. No one’s mourning their loss.")
Before she could dwell on it, the trees abruptly thinned. The oppressive forest opened into a clearing. A cliff’s edge greeted her, sudden, the land below a blur of dead woods and ridged stone.
She skidded to a halt, boots scraping and sparking against the ground.
And she wasn’t alone.
Another figure stood at the precipice. His posture was still—arms at his sides, hair tousled by the faint wind.
He wore black armor, trimd in blood red, with a single black tailcoat draped behind him. Her eyes widened just slightly as she took him in as the figure turned to her.
Snow-white hair spilled down his back, his skin was pale—too pale—and his features delicate. Large crimson eyes, rimd by lashes so long they nearly cast shadows. A small, button-like nose. Soft, rosy lips with a small beauty mark beneath it. He was almost too beautiful to be real, too fragile to survive the world around him.
For a brief second, her breath hitched. Were it not for his attire—his colors—she might’ve stopped to admire him.
An angel in a demon’s armor.
("Another one...?") she blinked, her heart dropping. ("I didn’t even realize they’d maneuvered to cut off. Damn it.")
She shifted her grip on the black box. Clutching it tighter, she slowly slid her right hand toward her sword. With a single motion, she unsheathed the rapier from her hip. Its polished blade sang.
Her stance shifted.
Her voice, when it ca, was firm but not threatening. Her tone remained polite, if strained with urgency.
"I don’t want to fight you," she said calmly. "But I will, if you force to. So please move aside."
Mikoto regarded the girl standing before him, his eyes narrowing slightly.
("...What an odd presence...") Mikoto’s thought, his gaze fixed sharply on the girl. ("Her mana, it’s minuscule—barely enough to register—but there’s sothing else. A frequency. Not magical, but there.")
Before he could explore the sensation further, heavy boots slamd into the forest floor behind the girl—thick, clanking footfalls that crushed brittle twigs and kicked up clouds of dust. Three n burst forth from the withered trees.
"There you are, you fucking bitch!" the long-haired one roared, his voice snarling with barely restrained bloodlust. With a loud tallic shink, he unsheathed his blade.
The other two mirrored the movent, surrounding the girl—one to the left, one to the right. In monts, she was encircled.
But the girl, to her credit, did not flinch. She rely sighed—her eyes flicked over each of her would-be assailants, as if weighing how long they would last if she were to fight.
"Oh dear," she muttered dryly.
The bald-headed man among them turned slightly, eyes narrowing on Mikoto, who still stood with one gauntleted hand resting lightly on his hip.
"You," the bald one barked. "I don’t recognize you. You’re not one of ours. Which platoon are you assigned to? Why don’t you wear a crest?"
Mikoto quirked a single brow. He supposed it made sense—their armor bore a resemblance to his own, though his was custom-forged.
Before Mikoto could bother replying, the long-haired man suddenly shifted his gaze toward him. His expression twisted mid-sentence—from rage to sothing else. Eyes widened, lips curled.
A different kind of hunger now.
"I would’ve definitely rembered a face like yours," he muttered, the ferocity draining from his voice, replaced by an oily softness. His grin returned, this ti more grotesque.
He took a single step toward Mikoto. Then another.
The girl blinked once, then deadpanned. Even she, cornered as she was, could barely believe the man’s instantaneous shift in attention.
"Don’t worry, boys," the long-haired brute purred, eyes never leaving Mikoto. "I’ll keep this one company while you deal with that whore." His voice dropped, glee dancing across each word. "I’ll make sure this one doesn’t wander off."
His gaze swept slowly down Mikoto’s slight fra—drinking in the curves of armor, the doll-like face. "Wearing those colors without the Queen’s sanction, huh?" he sneered. "You know that’s a punishable offense. And lucky —I’m the punisher."
He reached out his hand, fingers outstretched, aiming to cup Mikoto’s cheek.
He never made it.
One mont, he had a hand.
The next it was simply gone.
A wet, muted sound like at hitting stone followed by a delay of realization.
"Eh?" he breathed dumbly, staring at the ragged stump where his arm had once extended. "AH... AHHHHHHHHHHHRRAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!"
A scream unlike anything human shredded the silence. He collapsed, crumpling, blood spurted in violent arcs from his shoulder, staining the earth red, dyeing his armor black-red.
Mikoto stood where he had been, his expression hadn’t changed, save for a small, perturbed frown on his lips.
"How repulsive," he muttered. "And for your information, I’m a guy."
The girl blinked again. Once. Twice.
("I... I didn’t even see him move.") Her thoughts were stunned. ( "He was just standing there, and then—")
"D-damn it!" the short-haired blonde soldier shouted, stepping back with panic in his eyes. "This one—this kid—he’s one of them!"
The bald man, now pale, didn’t even try to fight it. His fear had already eclipsed his pride.
They turned and they ran.
Fled into the forest with wild, uncoordinated steps, crashing through brush and branches.
"Well," Mikoto said quietly. "Looks like your buddies ran off."
The girl watched him—still clutching the strange black box with the red heart—and for the first ti since the chase began she seed uneasy.
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