Memo 01: I Died! Close to the #$%×+!.

 A side door hissed open. An old man walked in. No name. No words. Just the smell of menthol and iron. He was dressed in bloody red, like the fog of a battlefield. His gloves were too clean. His smile too effortless. He circled her slowly, like a shark checking its prey for soft spots. “We’ve been watching you, Miss Raines.” “Clearly.” “You’re very good. Persistent. Reckless.” He stopped behind her and caressed her neck. “But that’s the curse of your kind. Reporters mistake exposure for safety." "Don't you know there are somethings that must remain hidden." Nagisa’s eyes flared: "If the shadow never meets the light, then truth dies in silence—and I don’t bury what I was born to expose." A beat of silence. And then, for the first time, the old man cracked an odd smile. She shrugged, as much as the cuffs allowed. “Nobody else had the guts to get here. Least of all my so-called partner. My own husband—traded the truth for comfort.” “If only you’d done what your husband did. Packed up your little convictions and gone home.” 

He plucked a pen from his coat and clicked it with deliberate, exaggerated flair. A scroll unfurled from his sleeve like a magician’s trick. With a smirk, he began checking invisible boxes in the air. “Let’s see—if you had stopped, you could’ve still caught the lizards among you." "That’s right, the ones with the tongues longer than truth.” CHECK. “You might’ve witnessed the men with the tiny hats—yes, the tiny little bastards who run the whole economy with nothing but whispers and bribes." CHECK. He leaned forward. His lips curled around the words, but they came out muffled and broken—“#%^/@×”—a warped, censored sound, like the universe itself refused to let it be spoken. Nagisa’s head throbbed. Even hearing it made her vision glitch. He grinned. “Shame. That one’s my personal favorite.” He snapped the pen closed. The old man turned from his checklist, sighing theatrically as he strolled toward the far wall—where a strange, polished firearm hung like a trophy. Scrolled on the side Gun-kun. He took it down with reverence, brushing a gloved hand along its smooth, scaly surface. "want to know the origins of this beauty?” he asked, voice almost affectionate. He flipped open a carved tin case and began pinching powder between his fingers, carefully packing it into the muzzle with the practiced touch of a man who had done this many times before. “It was a gift, actually,” he continued, almost wistfully. “From one of my first… clients. Back when we hunted down truth seekers like you way back when.” He chuckled as he snapped the chamber shut. “I used to chase little bucks through the red canyons. The young ones always ran so fast… fresh legs, big ideas. The spark in their eyes... Delicious. ”He turned back toward her, cradling the loaded gun like a violin. “You remind me of one of them. "He tilted his head, his voice dropping into something lower—almost tender. “I like the young ones, especially. All ambition and no sense. The kind who think a notebook and a camera can change the world." 

He tapped the end of the barrel against her forehead. "Young, soft, loud. Perfect little quarry.” Nagisa didn’t flinch. The old man grinned. Not a flicker of fear. No trembling lip. No pitiful cries. Not even the glisten of a tear. He let out a shaky, exhilarated breath. 

"Magnificent,"

 he whispered. Stepping closer, he leaned down to eye level, his face twisted in delighted disbelief. "Young ones always cried. Always begged. But you—”He laughed, full-throated and sincere. “You’re a glacier.” He reached out, gently brushing a stray hair from her face with the back of his finger. "You know,” he murmured, “I almost don’t want to pull the trigger.” “But then again…” He slowly raised the gun again, resting its cold muzzle against her brow. “Tradition is tradition.” He licked his lips, eyes gleaming like a child on Christmas morning.

“Any last words?”

 Nagisa smirked, the muzzle pressing into her skin. “You know you can’t win,” she said evenly. “Someone’s going to realize something’s wrong with how things are. Someone will come snooping… and that someone will take my place. "Her eyes locked on his, unwavering. “You can kill the reporter, but you can’t kill the story.” The old man’s grin widened, his finger resting on the trigger. “Well… sadly, you won’t be coming back and you and your story will remain dead,” he murmured, almost tenderly. “You’d better hope reincarnation is in your cards.” The red-lit room seemed to pulse with his words. Nagisa didn’t flinch. The click of the hammer echoed like a clock striking midnight. The world blinked out—like a television powering down—colors collapsing to a thin white line before vanishing into nothing. He reached to the table beside him and picked up her battered memo pad and camera—the very tools that had dragged her into this mess. He turned them over in his hands, examining them with a collector’s appreciation. Then, with a deliberate flick of his wrist, he let them fall. The thud of the camera was harsh, metallic. The memo pad landed on its side—its pages already blooming with a dark red stain. Blood, her blood, crawling through every word she had written. In the darkness, a voice bloomed. Warm. Feminine. Ageless. 

“Life is unfair,”

 it said, almost like a sigh. “There are those born into the world with no cards at all… and those with cards waste them. "The void pulsed faintly with light, like ripples in water. “But you… you chose to live your life doing what you believed, and you paid the price for it.” There was neither pity nor mockery in her tone—only a kind of solemn respect. “I’ll give you one more chance.” “You got so far on your own. But this time, you’ll have help.” The light tightened, coiling around her as if placing something unseen in her hands. “You’ll figure out how to use them when you awake." "Reveal the hearts of the wicked and awaken the minds of the lost." ”The glow surged—blinding, overwhelming—and then vanished as quickly as it came.

 Nagisa’s eyes fluttered open. The first thing she felt was softness. Not the cold pavement or the hard press of a gun barrel—softness. Sheets. A pillow. The distant scent of flowers riding a warm breeze. Curtains swayed lazily in the morning light, framing an unfamiliar sky. Somewhere to her left, a voice chuckled. “You’re awake,” he said, voice wrapped in mockery. “I was beginning to think we wasted a perfectly good pact.” She groaned, rubbing at her eyes, trying to shove away the heaviness in her head. “Where… am I?” No answer—just another little laugh. She turned her head to the right, blinking blearily. Her camera sat propped against the pillow beside her. Right next to it, her notepad. Both were staring at her. Staring—because each now had a pair of wide, blinking eyes. The camera’s lens whirred faintly as if it were narrowing its gaze. The notepad’s pages rustled in a faint shiver. “Morning, boss,” the camera said, voice clear and far too casual for the situation. “’Bout time you got up,” the notepad added, its tone quick and impatient. “We’ve got work to do.” Nagisa froze, staring. Her lips parted slowly. “…What.” Nagisa’s breath was uneven, her mind reeling. She pressed fingers against her forehead where the bullet had torn through her. Smooth skin. No pain. No scar. “How… am I even alive?” 

she whispered. Drawn by the sunlight spilling through the thin curtains, she stepped forward and pulled them open. Her eyes widened. Outside stretched a vibrant, a city of pure fantasy. Cobblestone streets curved between tall spires draped in banners. Overhead, great dragons with jeweled scales drifted lazily in the air. Small or children leapt from rooftop to rooftop. Towering giant pillars strode between market stalls, where centaurs pulled carts laden with glimmering wares. She spotted a group of robed elves walking alongside floating crystal spheres, their magic humming faintly. A pair of tusked orcs bickered over crates while a horned minotaur leaned casually against a lamppost. In the far sky, a translucent, ethereal sky-whale glided between clouds, glowing faintly from within. Nagisa’s hand fell from the curtain. Her voice was barely a whisper.“…This isn’t...... my world.. ”Nagisa kept staring out the window, her mind struggling to process the sight of dragons, griffins, and sky-whales drifting across a realm that felt pulled from a fever dream. A voice broke her trance. "That's right, boss,” said a chipper, She turned sharply—only to see her camera, its lens tilting like an eyeball. Next to it, her memo pad stretched its cover in what could only be described as a grin. Both had cartoonish eyes blinking up at her. “Our goddess revived you,” the camera continued, its shutter clicking like a nervous tic. "And now you’re in…” the memo pad paused for dramatic flair, “…Veylstra, the Land Between Fates! Nagisa blinked. “Veylstra…?” letting out a light chuckle heh... "What’s the point?" she muttered. "I didn’t do anything worth remembering back home… why bring me here?" Her camera and memo pad glanced at each other—yes, actually glanced—and opened their little cartoonish eyes wider, like they wanted to speak but hesitated. Before they could, the door slammed open. 

A tall imp with ash-brown hair and a hurried look stormed in, panting like he’d just sprinted across the entire floor of the inn. His eyes locked on her, and without missing a beat he blurted: "Thank the goddess—you’re finally awake!” She froze, not because of his sudden entrance, but because of what he said next. > “I’m your boyfriend. Don’t you remember? "Her jaw nearly hit the floor.“…My wha? The camera whispered, “Uh, boss, this is… new information for us too.” The memo pad’s eyes narrowed. “Suspicious. Boyfriend claims usually have a 63% chance of being scams in fantasy worlds.” The man stepped closer, kneeling in front of her, his voice softening. “I’ve been visiting you every day.… since that night. Please tell me you remember me. Nagisa blinked at the man—no, the imp, now that she looked closer. His ears tapered to points, and his smile had just a little too much tooth to be normal. She let out a soft, awkward laugh. “Ah—thank you… I guess. I’m… honored to have someone kind looking after me.” The imp’s grin widened, clearly pleased with himself. On the bedside table, her camera gave an exaggerated wink. She quickly scooped it up, holding it close to her chest. The little lens swiveled toward her face and whispered, “Boss… this is where I come in. Take a picture of him, and we’ll get the truth.” Nagisa tilted her head. “The truth?” she murmured under her breath. The camera’s shutter clicked just once in a conspiratorial tone. “Trust me.” Nagisa straightened up, putting on a polite smile. “Um… could you step outside for just a moment? I just… need to freshen up. I’ll call you back in right after.” The imp hesitated, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. Then, with a small bow, he said, “Of course. I’ll be right outside… don’t take too long.” The imp had just reached the doorway, his hand on the doorknob. Nagisa moved like a journalist chasing a scoop—quick, decisive. Click! The camera gave off a faint, crystalline chime instead of the usual shutter sound. A thin sheet of glowing light slid out from the slot at its side, like a photograph developing in midair.. The camera chuckled softly. “My power, boss, is Photo Veritas… the Snapshot of Truth. I capture not what they show you, but what they really are. Masks, magic, lies—it all burns away. "The photo popped out of the camera, glowing faintly. Nagisa flipped it over, expecting to see some horrifying demon truth.

Instead…It was a picture of her—unconscious, drooling slightly, crumpled in the middle of a pitch-black alley next to an overflowing dumpster. She blinked. “…Huh.” A long pause.“…Why was I revived in a black alley? What kind of ideal heroic starting location is that?!” The memo pad coughed politely. “Boss, the goddess already used most of her power creating us—you know, talking tools and all that. Location… was more of an afterthought.” Nagisa’s eyebrow twitched. “So she just dumped me behind a garbage bin like leftover sushi?” “Pretty much. "Nagisa looked straight up at the ceiling. “That trash goddess—!”Somewhere in the heavens, an airy, sing-song voice giggled: “Teehee~!” Nagisa tugged on the strange new clothes laid out for her, marveling at how perfectly they fit—like someone had been watching her measurements through a keyhole. First came the slim, high-waisted combat slacks, cut from fine plaid fabric that shifted subtly from gray to lavender in the light. The legs were tapered but reinforced at the knees with hidden padding, allowing for both style and sudden sprints. Down the right leg, bold black text spelled Re:Do. Instead of standard gloves, she wore fingerless tactical gloves, the knuckles plated in black polymer, and around her waist sat a wide, black-buckled utility belt—empty now, but with enough pouches to suggest it could carry everything from ammo to snacks. Finally, she stepped into crimson-soled combat boots, the kind that looked stylish until you realized they could probably crush someone’s toes. Nagisa tugged the scarf tighter and glanced at the window.

“Well… when in doubt…”She pushed it open, letting the wind whip her hair. Her camera muttered nervously, “Boss, you do remember gravity exists, right? "Nagisa grinned. “Yeah, but so does luck. "With that, she vaulted through the window—WHUMP! She crashed onto something large, warm, and… squishy? A loud bleat echoed beneath her. It was a passing wooly behemoth—a massive, sheep-like creature the size of a delivery truck—chewing lazily as if catching skydiving reporters was an everyday thing. The moment her feet hit the ground, she bolted, boots slapping the cobblestones. Upstairs, the door creaked open. The imp peeked in, scratching his head “...Honey?” He stepped in, looking left, right, then at the still-swaying window curtain. A vein popped on his forehead with an audible ping. “...She ran?” 

His smile twitched, blood vessels popping. “She ran?” Then, with the voice of a man whose dinner order had just been canceled, he roared: “I WON’T LET MY PREY GET AWAY!” His skin split with wet cracks, scales sliding over his body like coins stacking in fast-forward. Horns shot from his skull in jagged spirals, tail whipping out behind him. His suit tore open at the seams, and one shoe exploded clean off. The floorboards groaned under his new taloned feet. “Now… we do this the fun way.” Nagisa bolts into the busy streets, weaving between startled townsfolk. Heads turn as she barrels past, clutching her camera like it’s the last piece of bread in a famine. Camera: “Do you… actually know where you’re going?” Nagisa: “Nope! If I keep running, eventually the problem’s behind me!” From the houses above, the imp’s snarling voice cuts through the noise. "Wife!!!!" Bounding after her, scaling walls like some unholy cross between a lizard and a track star. His horns scrape brick, sparks flying as his claws gouge the rooftop edges. The camera’s lens shutters in disbelief. “Oh good, he’s fast. Maybe try… a zigzag?” People gape, pointing at the panting, disheveled girl clutching a memo pad like it’s holy scripture. "Memo!" huffing between breaths. "What do you even do?!" The little book in her hand vibrated indignantly. "I am the Memo Maestro!" it announced in perfect baritone. "Anything you write in me becomes reality—" "Anything?!" she gasped. "Yes, but it has to make logical sense within the current conditions and—" Before it could finish, a wicked grin crossed Nagisa’s face. “Oh… oh, I’ve got an idea.” Somewhere behind her, the impatient imp roared, MY PREYYY! She yanked out a pen, flipped open the memo pad, and began scribbling furiously. “Let’s see how much sense this makes…” Before she can test it, the imp crashes down in front of her, claws scraping the cobblestones, jagged horns glinting. His snarl curls into something far too gleeful. “No more running, little mouse,” he hisses. Nagisa grips her pad, channeling every ounce of dramatic anime hero energy she can muster. “DOPPO POET!” she bellowed, slamming her pen to the paper. Ink scratched furiously. The air shivered. Wisps of light coiled around her arm, kanji symbols spiraling upward like a divine incantation. The crowd stared. The imp even hesitated, eyes narrowing.. The imp braces himself. “What spell is this? "Nagisa tore the page free with a flourish —— and stared at the blank space where her creation should be.

“…Wait—” She crumpled the page in one fist and chucked it straight at his forehead. Pap! “OW—what the—?” the imp blinked in sheer disbelief. “BYE!” Nagisa spun on her heel and bolted the other way, the magical aura dissipating like a popped soap bubble. The imp’s growl followed her down the street. “You little—!”Nagisa sprinted in the opposite direction, nearly colliding with a vegetable cart. Turnips bounced across the cobblestones, vendors yelling after her. “Memo!” she hissed under her breath, clutching the pad. “Why didn’t it work?!” From the pocket came the exasperated reply, “Whatever you wrote didn’t make any sense! You're a reporter aren't you?" ”She grimaced. “...It made sense to me!. “It’s not about poetry or dramatic monologues! The universe needs clarity! Write something grounded in reality, not a tabloid headline!. Behind her, the imp’s claws scraped the street as he gave chase. She ducked into an alley, flipping open the pad again — this time determined to keep it simple. Nagisa ducked under a hanging sign and shot back, “In my line of reporting, sense and logic are the first things to leave the building! "The shouts of the market faded under the pounding in her ears. She could feel it—memories, faint and half-faded, seeping through the cracks of this strange new life. Faces she couldn’t fully picture. Cold nights with no one there to listen. I’ve always handled things alone, she thought bitterly. When it got too tough… I was always by myself. The imp’s snarl echoed closer, bouncing off the brick walls. Her grip tightened around the pen. Right now… I only want one thing. She flipped open the pad, hands shaking, and scrawled in messy, urgent strokes: > 

Someone help me. (ᴹᵉᵐᵒ ᴹᵃᵉˢᵗʳᵒ)

The words glowed. A wave of energy surged from the page—like the air itself had heard her plea. Kanji bloomed into the alleyway, spinning around her like falling leaves. The paper disintegrated in a burst of light. Somewhere above, a shadow landed on the rooftop with a heavy thud. The figure landed with the grace of a predator and the arrogance of royalty, shadows curling at his feet like they were his personal entourage. The “dark prince,” as Nagisa’s brain instantly labeled him, she instantly scribbled onto her memopad. He was clad in a jagged black coat that hung open to reveal pale skin traced with glowing, thorn-like markings, each one pulsing faintly like living ink. His chest was marked with wilting petals. A wide belt of gilded rings and chains hung low at his hips, catching stray beams of light in mocking splendor. From the belt spilled torn, layered sashes of ghostly white and ashen lavender fabric, trailing behind him in tattered ribbons that writhed as though alive. His pants were midnight black, tight and flexible, made for both elegance and sudden violence. Two crown-like horns jutted from his head—blood-red, crystalline, and cruelly sharp—catching the light like jewels dipped in fresh fire. His smile was a slash of mockery, his fangs glinting as if even his grin was a weapon. The imp’s twisted little body began to warp and elongate, bones cracking like splintering wood. The hunched silhouette straightened, claws retracting into long, pale fingers as its face reshaped into something vaguely human—though the eyes stayed the same molten gold, glinting with worship.

Oi...

It dropped to one knee, bowing low enough for its forehead to brush the cold stone. “Nateas,” it rasped, voice trembling with reverence, “you’ve graced me with your presence.” He didn’t return the bow. He didn’t need to. Instead, Nateas tilted his head, peering down at the creature as though from a throne in the sky. Nateas leapt down from a nearby ledge, landing without a sound in front of the imp. “I was nearby,” he said, voice low and edged with something dangerous. “And I wondered… what was taking so long for our delivery.” His gaze lingered like a blade’s edge. “And here I am… watching you struggle. "I—I’m sorry, my lord,” the imp stammered, stumbling over its own words. “I’ll take care of it—” Nateas’s hand shot out, fingers tangling in the imp’s hair, forcing its head back. His voice didn’t rise, but the weight behind it made the air feel heavier. “I only value time… and efficiency.” In one clean motion, a flash of metal—or maybe it was claw—sliced across the imp’s neck. “You,” Nateas said, letting the lifeless body slump to the ground, “were less than efficient.” The imp’s body slumped to the side, lifeless, a thin wisp of black smoke curling from the gash in its neck. The demonlike didn’t even glance at the corpse—his crimson eyes were fixed on Nagisa. 

The sound was soft, but final. Nagisa stood frozen. Her lungs felt tight, her fingers numb. Even if the creature hadn’t been human, the sight of life being snuffed out so suddenly gnawed at her insides. Her thoughts were quiet, but the words formed anyway. Cold. That was the only way to describe it. A cold that seeped into her bones, as if the alley itself had stolen the warmth from her body. Even if it wasn’t human, death had a way of touching you. He took a slow, almost theatrical step toward her, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleek black coat. His grin was half-mirth, half-malice. “Well… well… now this is interesting,” he said, his voice rolling like velvet over knives. 

“Demonlike, orcs, elves with bows,

Trolls with warts on their crooked toes,

Griffons that screech, and fae that bite,

Ghosts who wail all through the night…

Centaurs who race, and wyrms that chew…

But none,” his eyes glittered as he stopped just an arm’s length from her, “none like you. "The usual suspects. All bound by certain rules, certain origins.” He tilted his head, studying her as though she were some peculiar insect. “But you? You’re not anything from Veylstra.” Nagisa’s heart pounded, but she forced herself to stand straight. “Does it matter what I am?” she asked, clutching her memo pad tighter. “Oh, it matters.” He grabbed her face pushing her cheeks together as to analyze her further. “Every creature I’ve met fits neatly into a page of the great ledger of existence. But you—” he gestured at her with a sharp, clawed hand—“you’re like someone smuggled in a paragraph from an entirely different book. A misplaced sentence. A… typo.” "You'll fetch a high price I bet." Nagisa felt the pull of her old instincts—the part of her that once sought out the heart of a story, no matter how strange or dangerous. But this was different. This wasn’t just a mystery to unravel. The way he looked at her… it was as if she were both puzzle and prey.  The demonlike leaned in, “Tell me, misplaced one—what happens to a sentence when it doesn’t belong in the story?” Nagisa’s grip on her pen tightened until her knuckles ached. She had a feeling she was about to find out. From the far end of the alley, a flash of polished steel caught the faint light. The sound of armored boots striking stone in perfect unison echoed sharply, cutting through the oppressive tension. Nagisa’s gaze darted toward the source—and there they were announcing themselves 

We are the Veylstra Vanguard.

Nagisa logged into her memo pad. A tight formation of holy knights emerged from the shadows, each clad in silver-and-obsidian armor engraved with faint runes. Over their faces, they wore smooth, featureless V-shaped masks—gleaming, faceless sentinels of the realm. Each mask’s pointed chin sloped downward like an arrowhead, their glowing eye-slits trained directly on Nateas. Their swords were unlike any Nagisa had seen: double-edged and narrow, the cross guards flaring outward like wings. Each blade shimmered faintly with a white-blue aura that almost hummed against the still air, as if the steel itself hungered for corruption to cut. At their head stood one knight taller than the rest, his armor bearing golden trim along the edges and a longer, trailing cloak. He stepped forward, raising his weapon with an almost ceremonial flourish. “By decree of the High Seat of Veylstra,” his voice rang, cold and disciplined through the mask’s grill, “the dark prince will lay down his arms—or be struck down.” Nateas chuckled low in his throat, clearly entertained. The soldiers parted in perfect formation, their synchronized step halting in unison. From their ranks, a young man strode forward with a poise that seemed pulled straight from the pages of some lavish fairy tale. Stopping several paces from Nateas, he rested his hand atop the hilt of his sword, the other clasped neatly behind his back. 

“I am Yano Guardwin,” he declared, voice sharp and carrying over the alley as if it were a stage, “First Commander of the Veylstra Vanguard, thirtieth of my line.” The soldiers behind him raised their swords in unison, the glowing steel humming in anticipation. His gaze—hidden though it was—never left Nateas as he continued, “Nateas the Demon ill… scourge of these streets, corrupter of the innocent… your reign of blight ends here.” He drew his sword in a single, clean motion, the runes on the blade igniting with a holy blue fire. “By the will of the High Seat and the blood of the Guardwin line, you will be beheaded this day. Nateas’s lips curled into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re a Vanguard, huh?” he said, voice dripping with mockery. “Perfect. I’ve been wondering if any of you were worth the stories they tell.” He stepped forward, rolling his shoulders, his gaze locked like a predator sizing up prey. “ Adelante! You better not bore me.”

Nateas threw his head back, laughter spilling out in jagged, unhinged bursts that echoed off the alley walls. “Entertain me.” His boots scraped against the cobblestone as he kicked aside a broken crate, eyes darting between the shadows, the walls, the loose bricks—already mapping the battlefield. Yano Guardwin, unflinching, drew his blade with a clean, deliberate motion. “Your theatrics will end here, demon ill. I fight with honor, and for Veylstra’s peace.” “Honor?” Nateas’s grin widened. “Let’s see if that keeps you alive.” The alley erupted into motion—Yano’s precise strikes cutting through the air like silver lightning, each swing measured and true, while Nateas darted between barrels and walls, ripping down signs, hurling debris, and kicking splinters toward his opponent’s eyes. Where Yano’s movements were elegant, disciplined, and bound to the blade’s arc, Nateas fought like the world was his weapon—every surface a trap, every object a bludgeon. Yano’s blade cut through the air with a sharp whistle. Nateas’s spine arched backward far past human limits, his chest to the sky, hair brushing the ground. The edge missed by inches, slicing only a few stray hairs. Before Yano could recover the momentum, Nateas planted a palm on the floor, legs snapping up like a whip toward Yano’s jaw. Yano tilted his head just enough for the heel to graze his cheek, the sting still ringing as he caught Nateas’s ankle with his free hand. Nateas twisted, his body corkscrewing, forcing Yano to let go or risk being dragged off balance. Yano released, stepped back, and swung again—this time a low, arcing slash for the knees. Nateas vaulted over it, landing in a crouch beside Yano’s flank. His fingers flicked, sending a hidden blade darting toward Yano’s ribs. Yano’s sword spun in his grip, deflecting the projectile with a metallic ting before stepping in and ramming his shoulder into Nateas’s chest. The impact drove Nateas back, but his hands caught the floor. He used the recoil to kick upward, both feet smashing toward Yano’s chin in a gymnastic snap. Yano blocked with the flat of his blade, the force jarring through his arms, and shoved Nateas aside to reset the distance. Both men circled now—Yano with his sword raised, Nateas rolling his shoulders loose, a smirk curling on his lips.

Nateas pressed in, his movements turning sharper, meaner. A thumb jab to the eye—not enough to blind, but enough to blur Yano’s focus. A stomp to the instep. A flick of dirt from his boot into Yano’s face mid-swing. Yano staggered, coughing and blinking through the grit. Nateas’s grin widened as he stepped in close, using the flat of his forearm to ram Yano’s throat before hooking his foot behind Yano’s ankle and sending him crashing to the ground. Yano staggered, trying to regain footing, but Nateas was already there, circling like a wolf. His fingers clawed for gaps in the knight’s armor, jagged nails hooking into the vulnerable chainmail at Yano’s side. With a vicious yank, Nateas pulled Yano forward and raked his claws against the exposed flesh beneath. The knight grunted, his sword arm shuddering from the sudden flare of pain. “Oh, that’s more like it…” Nateas purred, his grin widening. “You do bleed under all that steel.” He pressed closer, almost chest-to-chest, using his free hand to shove Yano’s blade aside while his other hand dug deeper into the gap, claws scraping bone. Yano roared and tried to wrench away, but Nateas only laughed—low, drawn-out, almost joyful. “You vanguard types,” he whispered mockingly into Yano’s ear, “always so proud… let’s see how proud you sound when I peel you apart.” Nagisa’s hands gripped the edges of the camera in front of her, voice tight with desperation. Nagisa: “How can I help him? Just tell me—what can I do?” The camera’s lens adjusted with a mechanical hum, its red light unwavering. Camera: “I only reveal the truth. That’s all I can do.” Nagisa’s breath caught. Yano’s grunt of pain snapped her back to reality. Nateas gouged into Yano’s flesh further, Nateas’s laughter deepened, that ugly, throaty sound that made it clear this wasn’t just about winning — it was about breaking. He yanked Yano upright by the gap in his armor, claws still hooked in flesh, forcing the knight to lock eyes with him. “Look at you,” Nateas sneered, his voice dripping with mock pity. “The mighty vanguard, defender of the weak… bent over like a wounded mutt.” Yano tried to lunge forward with what little strength remained, but Nateas easily shifted aside, letting the momentum drive the claws deeper. “Pathetic. All that training, all those shining oaths… and here you are, squirming for breath while I play with you.”

He leaned closer, his lips curling into a predatory smirk. "You know what I love about knights like you? You think your armor makes you untouchable. But I see all the little cracks… and I’m going to use every one of them.” The claws twisted again, drawing a wet gasp from Yano. Nateas’s eyes gleamed. “That sound right there—” he tilted his head, savoring it “—that’s better than any cheer from your people. It’s the sound of you losing, Yano. Remember it. His grin widened, feral and mocking. “Don’t worry, knight. I’m not done. I want you to feel every second of this before I end you.”

”Nagisa’s eyes darted between the struggling Yano and the unblinking red light of the camera. Nagisa (thinking): The truth? Wait… the first time I used you, I wanted to know the truth about that stranger earlier. I didn’t just take a random shot—my mind was set on it. My intentions were clear. Her fingers tightened around the grip. So… if I aim at Nateas now… and my question is clear—She raised the camera, lens locking on the demon’s twisted, gloating face as he bore down on Yano. Nagisa (aloud): “Right now… what is this demon’s weakness?” The camera whirred, the focus clicking into place. A flash erupted—white-hot and searing against the dusk—freezing Nateas mid-motion. When the picture developed on the tiny instant-print strip, Nagisa’s eyes widened. A photo slid out, but the image didn’t show armor cracks or magic symbols——it showed Nateas, not in battle, but frozen in a strange moment. His monstrous features softened. Someone—human, blurry—had their arms around him. He wasn’t snarling. He was… smiling? Nagisa blinked. “A-affection?” The photo shimmered faintly, almost whispering its meaning into her thoughts: This demon cannot bear the warmth of true care. Yano’s blade scraped against the stone floor as Nateas forced him down, the demon’s clawed hand pressing on his chest like an iron weight. The air was thick with heat from Nateas’ breath, his jagged teeth inches from Yano’s face. Nagisa’s pulse roared in her ears. Watching as the young knight struggles. She gripped the camera tight, her hands trembling. The picture’s truth still burned in her mind—affection. It sounded absurd in the middle of a fight like this, but she could feel it… this was the only way. Nagisa (thinking): I’m the only one who can do this. I’m not from here… maybe that’s why it’ll hit him harder. She sprinted forward, weaving past the shattered floor. The demon didn’t notice her at first—his focus was on ending Yano. But when she skidded to a stop right beside him, her sudden closeness made his head whip toward her in shock. Nateas: “What—?!” Before fear could stop her, Nagisa lunged and wrapped her arms around him. Not a strike, not a shove—just a firm, warm embrace. The reaction was instant. Nateas’ body stiffened, his claws trembling against Yano’s armor. His expression shifted—not anger, but something far more vulnerable, and far more confused. His breath hitched. Nagisa remarks: “You’re not as untouchable as you think.” Nateas: “S-stop…! What is this?!” His voice cracked. “Get away from me!” The demon staggered back, shoving her off, but his strength wavered. The oppressive heat around him faltered, and Yano seized the chance to roll free, gasping for air. Yano: “What the hell did you just do to him?!” Nagisa’s heart was pounding so hard it hurt. “I told you… affection. He can’t stand it.” Nateas’ glare was still fierce, but there was a flicker of fear in his eyes now—not of their weapons, but of her. Nateas’s smirk faltered. For the first time in the entire clash, his swagger cracked.

“What—?” he muttered, actually taking a step back as Nagisa’s eyes locked on him, unblinking. She kept walking toward him with quiet determination. “Stay back!” he barked, claws twitching. “Don’t—don’t come any closer, girl!” From behind, Yano’s voice thundered, his mask glinting in the moonlight. “Stop! He’s evil, miss! He’s—” The knight’s words caught in his throat, writhing from the pain from the battle. Still, Nagisa didn’t stop. Her steps were steady, her gaze unwavering, and Nateas—Lord Nateas, the so-called Dark Prince of Veylstra—looked like a predator suddenly unsure if it was the one being hunted. Nateas froze mid-step. Something… strange flickered at the edge of his mind. A faint static. Not pain—no. More like a whisper pressed directly against the back of his skull. His slit-pupiled eyes narrowed. It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t fear. It was… a girl. Not just the sight of her—no, deeper than that. The feeling of her. A presence warm, fragile, alive in a way no beast or demon could imitate. His mouth opened, almost against his will, and the word slipped out in a low, unsteady breath. 

“Hu… man?”

 At that moment, black lines seared themselves into the skin of Nateas’s hand—an insignia, jagged and shifting like it was carved from living shadow. 

Yozxq ᴎzHH (ᴮˡᵃᶜᵏ ᵐᵃˢˢ)

The air split with a silent snap. Darkness poured from him in all directions, swelling like a living tide until the entire alleyway drowned in it. Not night—worse. No light. No depth. Just a suffocating void that erased everything it touched. Nagisa, caught close to the surge, staggered as her breath hitched. Her voice trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer alien sensation crawling over her skin. “It’s… nothing,” she whispered. “Not darkness. Not silence. Nothing. My eyes… can’t see. My ears… can’t hear. Even my skin—” she touched her arm, almost startled—“I can’t feel it. Like I don’t even exist here…” The oppressive stillness devoured the clatter of the world. No wind. No echo. No heartbeat but your own—if it even belonged to you anymore. Nagisa felt a sudden tug at her collar—sharp enough to jolt her forward. Before she could turn, the world around her was gone. Even with her eyes wide open, even knowing the sun was still setting beyond the alley, light had vanished from her sight. No shapes. No color. No outlines. Just a swallowing black that pressed against her like the inside of a sealed box. It wasn’t blindness—blindness still left you aware of your body. This… erased that, too. Her legs were moving—she thought they were—but she couldn’t hear her own footsteps. Couldn’t feel the air brushing her skin. The shroud wrapped around her so tightly it was as if her body had been unpinned from the world, suspended in something that wasn’t space at all. And in that unnatural silence, she realized she didn’t even know if she was breathing.