The gates of IrasVal did not merely open.
They unfurled, as though the city itself acknowledged the arrival, stone slabs parting in symmetrical reverence. Guard towers stood flanking the thoroughfare like marble sentinels, gilded banners of the Crown fluttering with ostentatious pride. Color, sound, pomp — the capital existed to overwhelm.
Which made what followed all the more jarring.
For when Logos's procession stepped through, it brought not trumpets but stillness.
Two hundred jet-black armors.
Two black carriages trimmed in iron.
Crows stitched upon banners that did not flap, but hung, heavy with silent threat.
No cheers.
No salutes.
Only eyes — wide, uncertain — drawn to the contrast of his presence.
"Since when did city gates get this dramatic?" Kleber muttered, jaw slack as he peered out.
He immediately received a boot to the shin.
"Contain yourself," Logos said flatly.
"You talk like you didn't bring a battalion of walking nightmares." Kleber paused, then hissed under his breath, "Your aura's buzzing. Anyone with mana sensitivity is going to feel like you're dissecting them."
Logos blinked, genuinely curious. "Is this why mother worries so persistently?"
"Lucy? Saints, no." Kleber shook his head. "To her you're just… a child. A terrifying, socially defective child. But still a child. To the rest of us—"
He stopped.
Logos turned, eyes still and quiet. "Continue. I won't remove your tongue."
Kleber shot upright. "WAIT—!"
A beat.
"…I was joking," Logos added.
"Then adjust your tone to sound less like a tomb whisper." Kleber rubbed his face. "And—stop flaring your mana!"
That earned a faint sigh from Logos. "Delivery needs refinement. Noted."
The convoy rolled to a halt before the front checkpoint. Brass-plated officers stood waiting, stiff under the weight of expectation.
"Helm," Logos murmured.
Kleber donned his helmet with a snap. The moment he stepped out beside Logos, the entire formation shifted in absolute unison — two hundred black exos turning with identical precision.
The air changed.
Mana pressure pulsed — not an attack, not a threat, but an existence heavy enough to bend the environment around it. Guards flinched. Horses reared. One even attempted to climb over its own handler.
Black armor.
Black banners.
Black eyes.
If Sous Angelus was sunlight, Logos was eclipse.
Then, with a conscious effort — like dimming a star — Logos withdrew most of his presence. The world exhaled. The horses settled. Human lungs learned to breathe again.
A senior officer approached, posture perfect, voice cracking only slightly.
"Baron Logos Laos! By royal decree, all noble entourages must undergo verification."
"I understand," Logos replied, crisp and quiet.
The officer swallowed and accepted the parchment Logos extended — the royal feast invitation, retinue register, diplomatic passage token.
His finger halted midway down the list.
"Two hundred… Ferrous Exo-harnesses?"
"Yes," Logos said.
The officer stared. "…I have never encountered that classification. They do not appear in any armory registry. Are they… foreign?"
"No," Logos said. "They are mine."
"…Yours?"
"I designed them. Manufactured them. Field-tested them. Logistical support is internal. Proprietary." He paused. "Do you require details of alloy composition?"
The officer made a tiny dying swallow noise.
"N-no, that won't be necessary."
"Then are we finished?"
"…Yes."
The word tumbled out like a stone dropped off a cliff.
The token was pressed into the trembling hands of a very young escort guard — face pale, eyes glassy at the edge of disbelief.
"Y–you may proceed to the noble guest ward," he squeaked.
Logos nodded. Helmets snapped. Steps aligned. The convoy moved — silent, glossy, predatory elegance rolling into the heart of civilization.
Only when the last crow-marked banner vanished into the city did the senior officer allow reality to return.
He sagged forward, hands on knees, whispering like a man who had survived a battlefield, not a checkpoint.
"…Saints… protect us."
One of his subordinates edged closer. "Sir? Are you—"
"AM I ALRIGHT?!" The officer whirled on him, eyes bloodshot. "No I am NOT alright! The last three days have aged me a decade!"
The young guard blinked.
"…Three?"
"FIRST the flame-child arrives — all glory and divine blaze — slaying titans like it's a schoolyard sport! THEN the crow-spawn marches in — quiet as death, claiming to invent new exos like he was baking bread!"
He gestured violently at the now-empty gate.
"They are sixteen! SIXTEEN! When I was sixteen I was learning how to sharpen a pike without injuring myself!"
The guard nodded sympathetically.
"And now I am expected to process them. As if any of this is NORMAL."
A strangled pause.
"Robert," the officer said to the younger guard, voice hoarse, "if a third prodigy arrives this week, I will lay down my badge and join the monastery."
The young guard swallowed. "Sir, perhaps—water?"
The officer straightened.
"No. Prayer. LOTS of prayer."
Meanwhile, in the carriage…
Kleber slumped back into his seat, removing his helmet with exaggerated relief.
"You terrify people without trying," he muttered. "Sous blinds them with holy radiance, you suffocate them with existential dread. Between the two of you, the capital might combust."
Logos didn't respond immediately. He looked out the window as the city unfolded — shops gilded in sun-glass, spires crowned in gold, banners of the Lion of Gab fluttering bright and arrogant.
"So this," he murmured at last, "is where gods of men are crowned and devoured."
"…Normal people call it the capital," Kleber mumbled.
Logos continued as though Kleber had not spoken.
"Let us proceed. The feast will be instructive."
When the carriage passed beneath the inner arch, bells began to ring — not for him, not yet.
But soon.
Between the flame-crowned hero
and the crow-marked prodigy
the capital of Gab was about to blink.
And history, as always, would follow whichever boy looked back without fear.