Arriving at the cafeteria, Lleuad and Jean join the queue. The place is already filling with the morning crowd, and many who recognize Lleuad offer congratulations as he passes. He collects his food — several trays again, balanced with the same easy precision as before — and the two set about finding somewhere to sit.
Every table is taken. They move through the room, checking corners and alcoves, finding nothing.
Then Lleuad spots it.
One table sits occupied by only two men, and around it — a bubble of emptiness and absolute stillness. In a room packed this tightly, the gap around them is conspicuous enough to draw the eye.
"I think I found us somewhere," Lleuad tells Jean, and starts toward it.
Jean sees where he is heading. Something tightens in his expression. He opens his mouth — and Lleuad is already too far ahead.
The two men at the table are Faunus, and both are enormous — Lleuad estimates at least two heads taller than himself, possibly more. Both are dressed in the Warden uniform, their epaulettes bearing gold crossed swords beneath a gold Grimm head.
The older of the two has a face that records its history openly — fair-skinned with olive undertones, covered in scars, one of them running the full length of the right side of his face from chin to temple. His eyes have faded, the color in them reduced to a dim suggestion of what it once was — a rainbow luster, red and orange tones still faintly present beneath the grey of long use. His long black hair, threaded through with grey, is dressed in an eastern style that speaks of the Anima continent. Two unusually shaped horns protrude from the sides of his head, leaning back and pointing rearward. He is reading, quietly, waiting.
The younger man is taller still, and built on a larger scale than the elder in every dimension. The same skin complexion, the same eastern arrangement of long black hair — though his carries hints of deep blue that catch the light, and falls long enough to almost entirely conceal the deer-like ears beneath it. Around him stands a tower of empty plates and bowls, more than double what Lleuad is carrying. His face carries the serious, stripped-down quality of someone whose training left no room for anything unnecessary. His rainbow eyes are vivid — cold blues dominant, far brighter than the older man's — and in them, despite his youth and the absence of scars, sits the same weight of accumulated experience. A long white tail with dark stripes, reminiscent of a white tiger's markings, rests behind him with an elegance that matches the air the man projects — composed, assured, and carrying the unspoken weight of high nobility
As Lleuad approaches, the younger man glances up at him. Something crosses his face — recognition, and then a sharp, unconcealed disgust — before he looks away.
Lleuad, mildly puzzled, smiles anyway. "Excuse me for the intrusion. Would you mind if we shared the table?"
"Sure," the older man says, without looking up from his book.
Lleuad sets his trays down on the older man's side, where the space is. He glances back at Jean — whose expression has become a silent, urgent appeal — and looks at him quizzically. Jean holds out for a few seconds, then gives in and takes the seat across from Lleuad.
A tense silence settles over the table. Jean sits very still. The two Faunus men pay them no attention whatsoever.
"My name is Lleuad Sulienson." Lleuad says, breaking the quiet with a warm, inviting tone. "Would you mind telling me your names?"
"Yaquan Xiezhi." The older man answers without ceremony, turning a page. "My student is Baojun."
"Are you related?"
"He's my nephew."
"A pleasure to meet you both."
No response comes.
A moment passes, and then another. Jean, who has been quietly monitoring the atmosphere with the vigilance of someone waiting for something to go wrong, notices that Lleuad's attention has not moved from Baojun — a steady, unhurried gaze that he seems unable or unwilling to redirect. The stillness of it is unusual enough that Jean finds himself watching too. Then Yaquan looks up from his book. Baojun, without looking, seems to sense it.
"Do you need something?" The question arrives without warmth or inflection, Baojun's eyes still directed at his food.
"Ah." Lleuad comes back to himself. "No. I just couldn't help but admire your noble bearing."
A sharp look from Baojun — there and gone before Jean has registered it.
"I see." He returns to his food.
Yaquan goes back to reading his book.
Understanding that neither man has any interest in conversation, Lleuad turns to his food. As before, he pauses — hands together, eyes closed, a brief stillness before eating.
When he opens his eyes, everyone at the table is looking at him.
Jean glances away immediately. Baojun follows a beat later, his cold expression unchanged, and returns to the remnants of his meal. Yaquan, however, holds the look a moment longer, something shifting behind the muted colors of his eyes.
"So there's still someone out there carrying the Storyteller's legacy," he says quietly, more to himself than anyone.
Lleuad smiles at the remark and begins to eat. After a moment, Jean picks up his fork and does the same.
— — —
Some minutes later, Baojun sets down his chopsticks. He stacks his empty dishes into the tower beside him, lifts the whole thing without apparent effort, and stands. Yaquan closes his book and follows.
Throughout the meal, Lleuad had been aware of the surrounding tables watching — a steady, low-level tension that the two Slayers seemed either not to notice or not to care about.
Before he leaves, Baojun throws one final glance in Lleuad's direction. Lleuad looks up and meets it with an easy smile. Baojun's expression does not shift — the same note of disgust, brief and unelaborated — and then he turns and walks out without a word.
Lleuad watches him go, genuinely uncertain what he has done to earn it.
— — —
The moment Baojun and Yaquan clear the cafeteria doors, the bubble around the table collapses. People converge from the surrounding area, drawn in by what they have apparently been watching with considerable interest.
"I can't believe you just sat down with them," one cadet says. "Just like that.""I can't believe you just sat down with them," one cadet says. "Just like that."
"That was incredible," someone else adds.
"Everyone gives those two a wide berth," a third confirms. "Always have."
Lleuad looks around at the gathering faces, then at Jean — who has exhaled for what appears to be the first time in several minutes. "Why is everyone making such a fuss?"
Jean collects himself. "Because those two are known as the most unapproachable Slayers in the Everwatch. Neither of them seems to register that other people exist — Baojun especially." He pauses, as though the name itself carries a memory he'd rather not revisit. "He's the only Warden in history to reach Slayer rank without a Semblance — got there through sheer strength and skill alone. Every person here has sparred with him at least once. He is cold, he never holds back, and he has broken more than a few people's Aura shields during practice sessions — sent them to the medical ward with broken bones."
"That's right," someone from the crowd adds. "And in the field it's worse. Those two are completely ruthless. They will do whatever it takes to finish the job."
"I heard they came from the Dark Continent originally," another says. "Some powerful clan out there."
"They only just arrived this morning, I think. They've been in the field constantly."
"I saw them watching your examination," someone else offers. "Both of them."
The voices layer over one another, making it difficult to follow any single thread. Then, gradually, the chatter runs its course and the crowd drifts away, until the table is finally just Lleuad and Jean again, left to finish their meal in peace.
— — —
Once the two finish breakfast, Jean turns to Lleuad. "You have no planned activities for the rest of the day, aside from submitting the after-action report. What would you like to do?"
"Could you show me where the nursery is?" Lleuad asks.
"Of course," Jean replies without hesitation, though his tone carries a trace of confusion. "Are you looking for something specific?"
"Their play room. I'm curious to see how the children are looked after here."
— — —
Several minutes later, Lleuad and Jean arrive at a garden at the crater's edge, on the side of the complex furthest from the train station. Children fill the space — running, climbing, gathered in small groups across the grass. A handful of Stewards in white uniforms are stationed throughout, keeping watch, with several cadets assisting them. Most of the children have gravitated toward a large playground at the garden's center.
Jean watches Lleuad take it in and finds him already smiling. He smiles too. "Nice sight, isn't it?"
"Yeah." Lleuad moves toward one of the caregivers nearby. "Would you mind if I entertain the children for a while?"
The caregiver looks him over briefly. "That should be fine."
With permission granted, Lleuad makes his way into the playground and finds a slightly elevated section of ground near the edge of it — enough to serve as a makeshift stage. He takes a minute or so to settle himself, and then his voice goes out across the garden with an inviting warmth that reaches every corner of it.
"Everyone! Gather round! For the Storyteller has arrived to tell you fantastical tales of old!"
He turns as he speaks, the motion easy and unhurried, catching every eye. "I will speak of great heroes and their acts of valor! Of kings and their magnificent lands. Of times of glory, of times of darkness, and of times of heroism that inspires us all!" He moves across the elevated ground as he speaks, every word accompanied by gesture, the children pulling toward him the way a current pulls toward open water.
By the time he finishes, he has a sizable audience. Adults too have drifted over from the edges of the garden. Satisfied, he continues.
"To begin, I will tell you one of my most beloved tales."
He takes a breath.
— — —
"A long time ago, when gods dwelled with mankind, there lived a Storyteller. He traveled the world, gathering and telling many tales, bringing much joy to all who listened, be they young or old.
On one of his journeys, the Storyteller met a Stranger of low stature and unassuming looks, who spoke as though he held authority and power. Despite lacking wealth, he helped all those in need — healing the sick and feeding the hungry. His words encouraged and comforted the humble, and pricked many a prideful soul.
Intrigued, the Storyteller approached the Stranger and asked him many questions, receiving answers that always gave him pause. Never had he encountered such depth of wisdom in all of Remnant.
Finally, the Storyteller asked his last question: "How should I live my life?"
The Stranger smiled, recognising that with this question the Storyteller had laid bare all of his deepest worries, and answered him graciously:
"In all things that you do, do them with your heart filled with true love.
Remember — true love is kind and longsuffering. A person bearing true love within themselves does not envy others, does not boast of themselves, is not easily provoked, nor displays any hint of pride.
No matter the circumstance, they do not behave unseemly, neither think of evil. When injustice and falsehood prevail, they do not rejoice — but rejoice when truth illuminates the world.
The one with true love never seeks its own, but instead bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things.
For remember this one thing: whether it be people, knowledge, this world, or even hope itself — all of these can and will fail. But true love never will."
Astonished by the Stranger's words, the Storyteller decided to follow him wherever he would go, writing down many of his sayings. He witnessed many miraculous things happen in the Stranger's presence. Even the brother gods communed with him and gave him reverence.
After a long journey, the Stranger left the world of Remnant, bidding his farewell. The Storyteller continued on — preserving all that he had heard, and sharing it with the rest of Remnant.
And from him came forth many Storytellers, passing his tales from generation to generation, declaring them to all who were willing to hear, and recording new tales from history, making sure their memory never vanishes. And I am here before you today, continuing their work."
— — —
By the time Lleuad finishes the first story, the playground has emptied itself toward him — the great majority of the children gathered in close, sitting or standing, their attention held completely by the way he brings the characters from the tale into the open air around them, giving them shape and voice and presence.
Lleuad continues weaving tales until noon, weaving tale after tale. Children and adults come and go as the hours pass — many leaving only because they must, with the visible reluctance of people pulled away from something they would rather stay for.
As Lleuad draws near the end of his last tale, Jean catches his eye and gestures — dinner time. Lleuad acknowledges it without breaking his thread, finishes the story at his own pace, and then turns to the children with a warm wave of farewell. Many of them call after him as he steps down from the makeshift stage, their voices carrying the particular protest of an audience that is not ready for the performance to be over.
— — —
Walking back toward the cafeteria, Jean shakes his head slowly. "I've never seen anything like that. You brought tales I heard as a child back to life — I'd forgotten what they felt like the first time." He pauses. "Where did you find the time to become that articulate? You said yourself the Dark Continent doesn't leave much room to breathe."
"My parents taught me these tales," Lleuad replies. "It was part of our hometown's tradition."
Jean is quiet for a moment. "Sir Yaquan said something this morning — about you carrying the Storyteller's legacy." He glances at Lleuad. "Does that mean the first tale you told is true? That the Storyteller really passed his work down through generations, all the way to now?"
"That is what my parents told me."
Jean absorbs this. "Then — does that also mean the Stranger from the tale was real?"
Lleuad smiles. "What do you think?"
Jean considers it properly, the question sitting with him for several paces. "I think he was," he says at last. "After all — we live in a world where most people don't believe in things that we know to be real."
"Then you have your answer." Lleuad's eyes brim with a quiet, joyful light.