The Concord Remembers

Vergil sat motionless in his chair, steam coiling from the untouched coffee on the table before him. The scent of roasted beans mingled faintly with the cold stone of the chamber.

He didn’t look up.

“Why,”

He said, voice low,

“Is a herald of the Concord visiting me?”

A presence stirred in the corner of the room. From the shadows stepped a figure cloaked in charcoal black, its face obscured by a smooth, expressionless porcelain mask. No insignia. No name. Just the silence of protocol.

The figure bowed.

“Herald B-Twenty-Three,”

It intoned,

“Pays respect to the Ninety-Ninth Blade—Vergil Duskrane.”

Vergil’s fingers wrapped around the handle of the cup. He raised it to his lips, the movement unhurried.

“I expected a Hand,”

He murmured, sipping slowly.

“So why does the Concord come knocking?”

The herald straightened, the folds of the cloak settling like falling ash.

“The Concord seeks knowledge of the Twentieth Choir’s whereabouts. They believe you’ve made contact.”

A sharp breath escaped Vergil’s nose. A scoff—dry, humourless.

“Funny,” he said.

“They ignored me for years. I was a relic. A discarded hound. Now I’m useful again?”

The herald’s mask inclined slightly.

“Across seventy generations of Concord record, the Twentieth Choir has only broken protocol for the Null Blade.”

Vergil set the cup down. The sound was soft, but final.

“Vincenzo.”

It wasn’t a question.

His brow arched faintly, almost amused.

“He’s an anomaly,” Vergil said.

“Rules don’t bind him. Nor do titles. The twentieth choir has been interested in him since long. If you think I summoned him, tell your elders this—he found me.”

A pause.

“He pursued me.”

The herald bowed once more, lower this time.

“Understood.”

The silence after was short-lived—

SWISH.

The door burst open downstairs.

Footsteps—uneven, frantic. A woman’s sobbing voice cracked the stillness like a whip.

“My Chloe—”

Mary Floris stood in the threshold, her eyes wild and red-rimmed. In the living room, Ragnar sat still, his gaze steady.

Torren lounged beside him with a hand on his knee. Between them, the little girl giggled, tracing patterns into the upholstery with her small fingers.

Mary’s breath caught.

“Violet!”

She rushed forward, pulling the girl into her arms.

“Who are you?!” she snapped.

“What are you doing in my home?! Please… please come tomorrow!”

Her voice trembled, caught between exhaustion and fear.

Ragnar rose slowly, hands visible, placating.

“Mrs. Floris,” he said quietly.

“We’re not here to take anything. We came to help.”

Torren stood too, casting a long shadow over the floorboards.

“We’re the opposite of trouble,” he muttered.

“Though I do get mistaken for it often.”

Violet tugged at her mother’s sleeve.

“Mom, they’re good uncles! They beat up the scary men who throw bottles!”

Mary looked between the two strangers, disbelief still hanging on her face like a wet veil.

Her voice broke.

“You shouldn’t be here. My daughter—my Chloe…”

She sank into the nearest chair.

“She died. Today. That thing—he tore her apart.”

Her breath hitched, and then, from deep within, came the sobs. Raw. Animal.

“My Chloe… my baby girl…”

Violet’s tiny hands pressed against her mother’s cheeks.

“Mom? No—no! What do you mean? Chloe's not home? She said she'd come home today!”

Mary pulled her into an embrace, sobbing into the girl’s hair.

“No, no… my sweet Violet. I didn’t want to say it in front of you.”

Violet froze in her mother’s arms.

Then—cracked, high-pitched—

“M-Mom… you’re lying. She’s just late. She always comes back late. S-She always forgets her keys…”

Tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Chloe…”

Ragnar turned his face away for a moment.

Torren leaned back against the wall, jaw clenched.

He spoke first.

“Mrs Floris, please tell us more. Our brother is with the metropolitan police, we can help.”

Mary glanced at them, then hesitant her lips parted,

“She… she was studying literature. Eltmoor University. I told her to be careful, but she kept saying she wanted to live a little…”

“Did she ever mention a professor? Or an off-campus group? Any recent outings?”

Mary blinked. Sniffled.

“She said there was a professor who organized nature walks. Hikes. She went three days ago. Said it would be quick.”

Ragnar’s eyes darkened.

“Torren,”

Torren nodded, heading outside.

“Please feel free to contact us at the Corvane Lodge.”

As Ragnar and Torren were about to exit—

“Who are you?”

Ragnar turned, a thin smile perched his lips,

“We are the sons of Althaea Beaumont. A lady you gave refuge during a blizzard years ago.”

Mrs. Floris hung her head,

“Thank you.”

Ragnar clenched his jaw,

“Should we find this criminal, what would you like us to do?”

Mary looked up, her grief now mingled with something darker.

Rage.

“Then find him. Kill him.”

Silence followed. Even the wind outside had quieted.

Torren turned to Ragnar.

“I think it’s time we paid that university a visit.”

Ragnar nodded.

He stood, casting one last glance at the broken mother and her trembling child.

Torren picked up his coat.

“Gangster Uncle on duty,”

He whispered, and gave Violet a little wink.

She smiled weakly through her tears.

Then, the door creaked open once more, and the two men stepped into the afternoon sun.

SOMBRAVIA UNIVERSITY-

KNOCK!

A soft knock echoed through the stone-panelled chamber.

“Mr. Vergil Duskrane?”

Vergil didn’t lift his head at once. His fingers paused mid-turn over the page of a leather-bound volume. Only a faint curl touched the corners of his mouth.

“Please,” he said, voice cool.

“Enter. Visitors.”

The door creaked open, letting in two men—one tall and broad-shouldered, the other with a shorter and leaner frame and a bag slung carelessly over one shoulder.

“Mr. Duskrane?”

The second man asked, tilting his head.

“Yes,”

Vergil replied, standing and adjusting his spectacles.

“And you are?”

The taller man stepped forward, offering a brief nod.

“Torren Etskald,” he said simply, then gestured to his companion.

“This is my brother, Ragnar Etskald.”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed slightly. There was a glint behind the glass.

“I was told there would be five.”

Torren rubbed the back of his neck, giving a lopsided smile.

“Oh, the others are trailing behind. Our sister’s sitting for the civil exam—here, in Westry.”

Vergil stilled at that.

“Your sister?” he murmured.

“If it isn’t too late… tell her to take the exam elsewhere.”

The silence sharpened.

Torren’s expression grew taut.

“Why would you say that?”

Before Vergil could answer, Ragnar leaned forward, brows furrowed.

“Is it because of the killings?”

Vergil turned his gaze from one to the other, studying their faces.

“Correct,”

He said at last, his tone clipped.

Then he rose from his chair.

“Tell me,”

He asked, moving toward a shelf of old files,

“How would you know about the killings? That detail hasn’t reached the press. Not fully.”

Torren sank onto the nearest couch with a tired huff.

“We visited someone,” he said.

“Mary Floris. An old friend of our mother’s. Her daughter was one of the victims.”

Vergil stilled. Slowly, he removed his spectacles and folded them into his coat.

“I see,” he said.

And that was all.

A beat passed. Then he turned sharply on his heel and faced them with fresh resolve.

“In that case,” he said, “we’ll skip the pleasantries.”

Ragnar straightened slightly.

“What do you mean?”

Vergil gestured to the open floor of the chamber.

“Your fitness test. I will be conducting it here and now.”

Torren blinked.

“Fitness… test?”

Vergil sighed, his voice calm but laced with finality.

“To train you into Mystarchs, I need a clear grasp of your current level.”

CLANG.

The sharp sound of metal striking wood echoed through the chamber as he laid out a series of weapons across the long oak table—weighted knives, wooden batons, and a pair of short iron cudgels. The blades were worn, their edges dulled from repeated use. Not ceremonial. Practical.

“Feel free to arm yourselves,” Vergil said, stepping back. “But no firearms. They’re useless against Mystarchs.”

Torren rolled his neck, cracking it audibly, then grinned.

“Well, lucky for you, I’ve always liked using these more.”

He raised both fists and knocked them together with a satisfying thud.

Ragnar stood silently at the edge, arms crossed, watching the exchange with guarded curiosity.

Vergil gave a single nod, then turned to him.

“Mr. Ragnar,”

He said, his tone sharpening,

“Observe carefully. You’ll learn more from watching your brother in pain than you will from sparring yourself.”

Ragnar’s brow ticked upward, but he gave no reply.

SWISH—!

Torren was already moving.

His right fist lunged forward in a sharp jab, aiming straight for Vergil’s sternum.

The strike was clean, well-timed—meant to test defences, not maim. He moved like a trained brawler, weight shifting behind the punch, boots grounding him on the stone floor.

But Vergil didn’t flinch.

THWIP.

In one fluid motion, he sidestepped and let Torren’s fist cut through air. Before the younger man could recover, Vergil's palm shot out and clipped Torren’s wrist—redirecting him with surgical precision.

Torren stumbled sideways, boots skidding.

“Tch—” he grunted, spinning into a pivot and throwing a backhanded strike with his left.

Vergil ducked beneath it effortlessly. His coat fluttered like a shadow passing over water. No wasted motion. No dramatic flair.

Just control.

Torren clicked his tongue and came in low this time, aiming a sweeping kick at the back of Vergil’s knee.

CRACK.

Vergil caught the leg mid-swing—his hand locking around Torren’s ankle with the grip of a vice.

He looked up calmly.

“Your posture is too wide.”

Then—

THUMP.

He drove Torren backward into the wall, not with violence, but with cold, mechanical precision. Torren’s back hit the panelling with a thud, air bursting from his lungs.

“Control your centre of gravity,” Vergil said, releasing him.

Torren coughed once, then shook his head and came back with a feral grin.

“Heh... you’re good.”

“I’m efficient,” Vergil corrected.

“Again.”

Torren stepped in, this time feinting right and bringing his elbow in high—aiming to crash it down onto Vergil’s collarbone.

Vergil caught the elbow mid-air. His hand gripped, twisted, and forced Torren down to one knee.

“Too obvious.”

With his free hand, he tapped the base of Torren’s spine.

“If I were an enemy, you’d be paralyzed now.”

Ragnar’s eyes narrowed, watching every micro-movement.

Vergil looked up at him, locking eyes.

“Take note. He’s strong—but predictable.”

He stepped back and let Torren rise.

“This isn’t about strength. Not yet. It’s about how you read.”

Torren stood, panting, sweat trickling down the side of his face.

“You fight like a damned ghost.”

Vergil adjusted his cuffs, unbothered.

“And you fight like a man who hasn’t lost yet. That will change.”

He turned to Ragnar.

“You’re next.”

Ragnar stepped forward.

He said nothing—no bravado, no flourish. Just loosened his coat, rolled up his sleeves with quiet intent, and gave Vergil a nod.

Torren, still rubbing his ribs, dropped to the side, eyes wide with anticipation.

“Take your stance,” Vergil said flatly.

Ragnar didn’t.

Instead, he moved into a slow circle—an old battlefield maneuver. Testing footing. Watching how Vergil shifted his weight. How his eyes flicked, if they flicked at all.

No tells. No wasted breath.

This one didn’t spar. He dissected.

“Military?” Vergil asked, eyes still locked.

“Former,” Ragnar replied.

A beat passed. And then—

CRACK.

The two men collided.

No warning. No shout.

Ragnar didn’t go for a punch—he went for the control point.

His left hand darted to Vergil’s shoulder, aiming to collapse the clavicle with a thumb press as his right swept low to trap the knee. A standard neutralization drill used in tight quarters.

But nothing landed.

Vergil dropped like liquid, letting the pressure slide past, and redirected Ragnar’s shoulder into a spin.

Not an evasion. A reset.

Ragnar spun with it, adjusted, and immediately reached into his coat—

Click.

A compact iron baton snapped open in his hand. Not to maim—just enough to force reaction.

He fainted a blow to the ribs but twisted at the last second, going for the nerve cluster near Vergil’s armpit.

THWACK.

The baton struck fabric.

But Vergil had already pivoted. He was behind him now.

SHHK.

Two fingers brushed Ragnar’s nape.

“You’re dead,”

Vergil said softly.

Ragnar didn’t flinch. He rotated, ducked low, and swept the legs with his heel—a dirty trench move.

Vergil leapt.

He landed catlike behind Ragnar.

Again.

Ragnar smirked, just slightly.

“You like dancing around.”

“I prefer not to get hit.”

“Coward’s way.”

“No, soldier,” Vergil said coldly.

“The clean way.”

Then he moved.

This time, Vergil attacked first.

A low strike toward the diaphragm—testing breathing. A soft pressure to the left wrist—testing dominance. Then a flash of his elbow toward the temple.

Ragnar blocked one, ate the second, staggered on the third.

His eye twitched. Not pain—calculation.

Then, abruptly, Ragnar closed the distance.

He slammed his shoulder into Vergil’s chest, knocking the air from his lungs—finally a blow landed. His knee followed—angled for the lower ribs, then elbowed upward into Vergil’s jawline.

Vergil stepped back.

A hand reached for his throat. Ragnar had slipped in behind him.

“Checkmate,”

Ragnar whispered.

But he felt it.

A blade, thin and curved, resting just under his ribs.

It hadn’t been there before.

He looked down. Vergil had drawn it from somewhere—silent, unseen.

Neither moved.

Then Vergil exhaled and stepped away.

“Well done,” he said.

“You didn’t win. But you didn’t lose, either.”

Ragnar tucked the baton away, brushing dust off his coat.

“Next time,” he said.

Vergil’s mouth curled faintly.

“Perhaps.”

Torren let out a long whistle.

“That was… weirdly hot.”

Ragnar shot him a look.

Vergil ignored them both and turned to the door.

“Get cleaned up. The others will arrive shortly. We begin at dawn.”

He paused.

“And bring better shoes. You’re going to bleed in them.”