Butler's Job

Toma hovered midair, wind tugging at his hair, every muscle coiled like a spring.

The butler stood opposite him, arms behind his back, composed as ever.

Below them, the floating alleyways of Mikana drifted in silence. Not a single spectator moved. No voice called out. The crowd behind the arena's barrier just… watched.

Waiting.

The man in black gloves finally moved. A small tilt of the head. “You believe yourself the hero?”

Toma didn’t respond.

“I’ve served families for generations,” the butler continued, adjusting one cufflink without looking away. “Each one more arrogant than the last. Each one certain they would change the world.”

He raised one hand.

“And yet, the world remains. Unchanged. Because people don’t change it.”

A pulse of invisible force struck Toma square in the chest.

He caught himself midair, twisting to face the man again.

“People don’t change the world,” the butler said again, slowly drifting forward. “Power does.”

Toma dove, sword ready.

The butler didn’t move.

He parried the strike with one hand—fingers and palm. Effortless. The wooden blade sparked faintly against his glove but didn’t leave a mark.

Toma swung again, faster. Diagonal, then reverse.

Blocked. Evaded. Countered.

The butler moved like a dancer, minimal steps, no wasted motion. Each deflection was quiet, almost dismissive.

Toma lunged.

This time the butler didn’t block. He let Toma close the distance—then struck with a sudden, brutal knee to the stomach.

Toma folded in the air, breath stolen.

The butler leaned in close. “She fought harder than you.”

Toma snarled and swung, but the butler was already gone.

He reappeared behind Toma in a blink, wrapped an arm around his throat, and whispered:

“She was strong. Beautiful. Spirited. But easily broken.”

Toma elbowed him, hard—but the butler let go on his own and drifted back, unbothered.

“I’ve seen hundreds like her. A little resistance, a little fire… and then they lose. They cry. They beg. They give up.”

Toma floated there, chest heaving. His wooden sword hung heavy in his grip.

“She’s not weak.”

“She is,” the butler said.

Toma’s eyes darkened.

He flew forward, slashing faster now—desperately. Every strike came with weight, with fury. But nothing landed.

Parried. Sidestepped. Turned aside with maddening ease.

“She meant nothing to them. And now? She means nothing to you.”

“That’s not true.”

“She’s a stepping stone. You’ll forget her name a week from now.”

“I said, that’s not—”

“She’s just another body you couldn’t save.”

Toma’s grip trembled.

“She’s just another stone in the pavement.”

Toma flew back a few feet, panting.

Then he looked toward her.

Shiverglass floated in the distance, limp in the fat man’s grasp, the chain dragging her like an afterthought.

She wasn’t fighting.

She wasn’t crying anymore, either.

She looked… empty.

And in that moment, something cracked.

Not rage. Not grief.

Resolve.

He looked back at the butler. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter.

“You know what I think?”

The butler didn’t answer.

Toma’s hand gripped the sword tighter. The air around him pulsed.

“You think this world runs on rules. On money. Power. Lineage. Titles.”

He lifted the sword.

“But this world is my dream.”

A ripple.

The butler’s expression flickered. The first sign of uncertainty.

“I decide what matters here,” Toma said.

And then he moved.

He stepped forward through the air like gravity had forgotten him. His sword swept out again, but this time it wasn’t a slash.

The butler raised his hands—but the strike broke through.

The wooden sword glanced his shoulder—and drew blood.

The butler flinched.

A second later, he was gone again, blinking a few feet back.

His breath caught.

He looked down at the torn seam in his suit. Red stained the white shirt beneath.

“That’s not possible,” he said softly.

The butler's hand trembled as he reached up to touch the blood. For the first time, his mask of indifference cracked—his jaw tightened, his pupils dilated.

Toma didn’t give him time to think.

The next swing shattered the sound barrier. The air cracked with the force of it, and the butler barely twisted aside in time. The tip of the wooden sword grazed his cheek—more blood.

The crowd still didn’t cheer. They were too stunned.

Toma wasn’t shouting. He didn’t monologue. He just moved—a blur, pure momentum, eyes locked, like every second mattered. And for the butler, they did.

Strike. Step. Twist. Feint.

The butler blocked, countered, then blocked again—but slower this time.

A step behind.

Another.

He tried to vanish—his signature blink. But Toma was already there.

The wooden sword cracked across his ribs. The force launched him downward like a cannonball, his black suit trailing behind like a tattered flag.

BOOM.

He hit the floating alley below, smashing through the tile path and into a pile of shattered stone.

Silence.

Toma hovered above, breath steady.

Shiverglass looked up.

Toma’s eyes locked with hers. Then, without a word, he launched himself after the fat man.

The noble wasn’t fast. Just confident. That was his mistake. He thought the butler had bought him enough time.

He didn’t even turn around until a shadow fell across him.

“You again?” he wheezed. “This has nothing to do with—”

Toma didn’t stop flying.

The fat man yelped, threw up a glowing sigil—but Toma smashed through it, wood against light, and it shattered like glass.

He tackled the man midair. They spun.

The man screamed and dropped Shiverglass.

Toma caught her by the wrist, pulled her toward him, then pushed the man down—straight into the pavement below.

A second crater bloomed.

Toma didn’t care.

He floated there with Shiverglass in his arms, her breath shallow, eyes dull, the cursed chain still around her neck.

His voice was soft. “You okay?”

She didn’t answer.

He placed her gently on a roof. Then turned, flew back down to the fat man.

“How much?” Toma growled.

The noble coughed blood, dazed. “What…?”

“How much did she cost?”

The man looked confused. “She’s… she’s my property…”

Toma pressed his foot against the man’s throat. “Not anymore.”

He grabbed the man’s purse and ripped it open—paper notes, soul tokens, coins. Toma stuffed it into his coat. Then took the slave collar’s tag off the chain, crushed it in his hand, and dropped the dust onto the man’s face.

“Transaction complete,” he said.

...

..

.

They landed at the inn just as night fell.

The floating lanterns had begun to rise, casting soft light over the streets of Mikana.

Shiverglass clung to his coat. She still hadn’t said anything.

Toma pushed the door open and froze.

At a table by the window sat two familiar faces.

Shizuka, sipping tea like she owned the place, gave him a half-smile. Kaien had his arms folded. And in union:

"Young Master!"