The man settled into the seat opposite Decker. Unlike the commanding figure he had presented during the meeting, he now appeared almost serene. His expression revealed little, yet there was a peculiar calmness about him as he raised a hand and beckoned a passing waitress.
The young woman approached their table, her black apron brushing lightly against its edge as she came to a stop beside them.
"I'll have a black coffee," the man said. His voice was gentle, almost warm—a stark contrast to the imposing presence he had displayed earlier.
The waitress turned toward Decker, waiting patiently.
"And for you, sir?"
Decker was pulled from his thoughts and looked up at her.
"My apologies. I'll have the same."
She nodded politely before departing to place their orders.
The man turned his gaze toward the café window. Beyond the glass stretched a cobblestone street bustling with life. Carriages rolled past at a leisurely pace while merchants and pedestrians filled the roads with movement and conversation. For a moment, he simply watched them.
Then he sighed.
"It's sad, you know."
Decker wanted to understand the mind of the man sitting across from him. So, despite his reservations, he humored him. Leaning back in his chair, he began tapping a finger against the wooden tabletop.
"What's sad?"
The man's eyes remained fixed on the street outside.
"You people," he said quietly. "Your people walk these streets as though they own them. They build monuments, erect cities, and write history in their favor. Yet you know the truth. They know the truth. Even your so-called gods know the truth."
His gaze shifted to Decker.
"This land was built upon the blood of its natives."
Decker remained silent for several moments.
He had read the journals of his forefathers—the accounts detailing their arrival upon these shores. Those books spoke of prosperity, progress, and civilization. They described cooperation and mutual benefit.
But anyone with even the slightest intelligence could see through the lies.
"It is tragic," Decker admitted. "But what can be done now? The past cannot be undone."
His voice was calm, though the composure he projected was entirely fabricated.
"We could burn it all down."
The response came immediately.
"We could reduce every monument, every city, and every legacy your forefathers built into ash."
Decker stared at him.
'This man has lost his mind.'
"I thought everything you and your group did was supposedly for the betterment of the people."
The man nodded slowly, rubbing his gloved hands together.
"Everything we do is for the betterment of the people."
His eyes drifted upward toward the ceiling.
"But before something better can be built, the old world must die. Every symbol of oppression. Every reminder of the past. Every rotten foundation. Burn it all away."
He lowered his gaze.
"And then we rebuild."
The waitress returned carrying two cups of steaming coffee.
Sweat trickled down her forehead. Her hands trembled visibly as she placed the cups upon the table.
Decker noticed immediately. His muscles tightened.
'This is the last thing I need right now. If this man feels threatened, he could level this entire building.'
"Thank you," Decker said. "You may go."
The waitress nodded and turned to leave.
"Please come back, miss."
The man's voice cut through the air like a knife.
The waitress froze.
Slowly, she turned around and returned to the table. Her grip tightened around the silver tray she carried.
The man extended his left hand.
"Please. Give me your hand."
The woman hesitated. Fear was written plainly across her face. Cold sweat rolled down her skin.
"Give me your hand," he repeated.
This time, his voice was firmer.
Reluctantly, she placed her trembling hand atop his gloved palm.
The black leather concealed every inch of his skin.
"Tell me," he said softly, "where are you from?"
The waitress looked toward Decker. Her eyes silently begged for help. Decker remained still. Not because he was afraid. Because he knew that a single wrong move could endanger everyone inside the café.
"I-I'm from the First Sector's Middle District," she stammered.
"I see."
The man released her hand.
"You may go."
The waitress wasted no time retreating.
Only after she disappeared from sight did Decker allow himself to relax slightly. The possibility of immediate conflict had passed.
Then the man spoke again.
"You know, your son has been fulfilling his role as the Noura Zori rather well."
Decker's fists clenched. A vein bulged across his forehead. His expression darkened instantly.
"Where is Tristan?"
The man calmly lifted his coffee and took a sip.
The liquid was still steaming, yet he showed no discomfort whatsoever.
After setting the cup down, he replied.
"Tristan is fine."
Another sip.
"He is doing exactly what he was meant to do."
His eyes narrowed.
"If only his mother had done the same."
Disdain flashed across Decker's face.
"You knew Mary?"
"I knew Mary." The man took another sip.
"And I knew you as well."
Decker chuckled coldly.
Leaning forward, he rested an arm upon the table.
"Many people know who I am. That hardly makes you special."
The man's gaze sharpened.
"Many people know Decker Vermillion, Blood of House Vermillion," he paused. "But do they know Decker, the man who loved Mary Merigold?"
Silence.
"Do they know the truths you've hidden?"
Another pause.
"Do they know you have spent years falsifying your true strength?"
The man intertwined his fingers and stared directly into Decker's eyes.
"Tell me."
His voice was almost conversational.
"How many Stars did you claim to possess?"
The table exploded. Wood splintered in every direction as Decker's hand slammed into it.
The café fell silent. Every patron turned to look. His breathing grew heavier. Dangerous. Unstable.
"I didn't tell you anything."
The words came out like a growl.
Decker glanced around and saw the frightened faces staring back at him. With an irritated motion, he shoved his chair backward and rose to his feet.
He intended to leave.
But before he could take a single step, the man spoke once more.
"Tell me something, Decker."
The question halted him.
"If the day comes..."
The man lifted his cup one final time.
"...will you kill your own son?"
For the first time during their conversation, genuine fury surged through Decker.
Not irritation.
Not annoyance.
Fury.
Green particles erupted around his hand as Star Energy gathered. An emerald blade emerged from his Celestial Forge.
The atmosphere within the café immediately became suffocating.
The man merely raised a hand.
"There's no need for that."
His voice remained calm.
"I have no desire to start the war early."
He stood from his seat. Four silver coins landed softly upon the shattered remains of the table.
Then his shadow stretched unnaturally beneath him.
And he sank into it.
Gone.
As though he had never been there at all.
'Damn it.'
Decker stood frozen.
'Whoever that man is, he knows far too much.'
Far too much.
Questions filled his mind, yet answers remained frustratingly absent.
After several moments, he exhaled heavily.
The emerald blade dissolved into particles of green light and returned to his Celestial Forge.
Without another word, Decker left the café.
The eyes of every patron followed him as he stepped through the doorway and disappeared into the street beyond.