Velrise had just finished scrubbing blood off the floorboards, her hair tied up in a messy bun, sleeves rolled up. The sound of a door creaking open made her flinch—but when she turned, it was him again.
Same tired eyes. Same dried blood on his boots. Except this time, his weapon had folded itself back into a compact core on his chest, still humming faintly with residual flight energy.
He walked in with that stiff, half-dragging gait—too stubborn to admit he was exhausted, but too wrecked to fake otherwise. She noticed the slight wince in his neck, the way his shoulder rolled like something had been twisted too long.
He looked around her home like he didn't belong in it… then turned to her with an expression not quite blank—but definitely cracked.
"Do you know how to fight?"
Velrise raised an eyebrow and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.
"What kind of question is that?"
"The kind that comes after walking through a fake dojo trap-door death maze while my ribs are still sore," he replied flatly, lowering himself to sit on the floor near the window. "I was looking for someone to spar. Something real. Something I don't have to kill."
She eyed him carefully, voice soft but firm.
"You're bleeding again."
"It's not important."
"You're asking me if I know how to fight?" she said, walking over. "You think I kept you alive just to sit here and make tea like a caretaker?"
"No. I think you kept me alive because you're one of the few people in this city who hasn't lied to me yet." He tilted his head. "And maybe that's dangerous too."
Velrise smirked at that—just a flicker—and reached under the rug with her foot, tapping a small switch. With a mechanical click, part of the living room wall shifted, revealing a narrow corridor lit with dull white bulbs. At the end? A reinforced training room.
She turned her head, eyes half-glinting.
"I trained under The Slate before they vanished. I don't fight like a noble. I don't duel. I break rhythms and exploit breath. You sure you want a piece of that right now?"
The fallen one exhaled a tired laugh.
"I don't want a piece of it." He stood up slowly, walking toward the corridor. "I want to remember what it feels like to lose without dying."
Velrise's smirk disappeared, replaced by something quieter.
She followed him down the hall.
As both the Fallen One and Velrise lie on the ground catching their breath, the atmosphere hums with a kind of raw, unfiltered respect — not because either won, but because both held back just enough to see where the other truly stood. Velrise coughs once, her body still tense from instinctual overexertion, and turns her head toward him.
Velrise: "You really fight like your body's been stitched together with war and caffeine…"
She wipes some sweat from her brow, trying to process what just happened. Her instincts screamed during the fight, but she didn't expect him to push her to the edge while still being so… lazy. Her muscles ache from strikes she blocked, dodged, and even absorbed. But what stuck out most? His style. Unrefined and violent in theory — but smooth, even relaxed in execution.
Velrise (panting): "You don't fight like you're trying to win. You fight like you're trying to teach."
The Fallen One smirks without looking at her. He's lying back, arms out, still processing the pain in his gut from that punch.
The Fallen One: "Good. That means you learned something."
Velrise: "Yeah. Never go easy just 'cause someone looks tired…"
They both lie there for a few more seconds, letting silence do the talking. Velrise eventually speaks again, now more curious.
Velrise: "You said full strength… but that wasn't it, was it?"
He doesn't answer at first. Instead, he shifts, sits up slowly, and stares out the open window at the darkening skyline of Orub City.
The Fallen One (softly): "No. That was just enough to see if you were really the girl I almost killed."
And just like that — tension returns. But not fear. Something else. Velrise doesn't ask what he means. She's too smart for that. She knows there's a storm behind those eyes, just like the one building in the sky.
Then, he stands.
The Fallen One: "Next time, hit harder. Especially if you're going for the balls."
With that, he turns, walking out again. This time — not flying, not running. Just… walking. As if a part of him is afraid of rushing to the next destination.
And behind him, Velrise smiles faintly, whispering to herself:
Velrise: "Next time… I won't miss."
Scene: The Island of the Forgotten One — Blacksteel Prison
The island isn't on any modern map. It doesn't need to be. The sea doesn't speak of it, and the sky never points toward it. A place swallowed by mist and myth, where only the truly unwanted are sent — not to rot, but to be forgotten. And within it, bound by ancient tech and spellsteel, lies Jest Cain, the man even assassins pretend not to know.
Then the wind shifts.
A cold, deliberate ripple cuts through the salt-drenched air as Splint steps off a glider-ship made from scavenged jet parts and glider bones. His coat flaps, his presence breaking through the island's dead stillness like a scalpel to skin.
He doesn't sneak.
He announces.
Splint walks through rusted gates and abandoned mine fields with the confidence of a man who could dismantle history if he wanted. He enters the central ward, bypassing scanners and enchantments with his own tech-runes humming on his gloves.
At the heart of the prison — in a cell layered with quantum seals and mythwoven chains — Jest Cain is sitting cross-legged, unmoved. His smirk never fades. Not for visitors. Not even for death.
Splint:
"Sorry to intrude."
Jest lifts an eyebrow, doesn't move otherwise.
Splint (hands behind back):
"But I need to borrow this island. New base of operations. Just for a while."
Silence. Then laughter. A low chuckle, as Cain rises like a shadow stretching too far.
Jest Cain:
"You walked into the pit of the discarded, stood in front of a man they swore couldn't be contained—just to say, 'can I borrow your prison'?"
He steps forward. Chains groan but do not snap. He could break them. He just hasn't needed to until maybe now.
Jest Cain (tilting his head):
"Tell me, Splint. Are you brave, stupid, or just too curious for your own lungs?"
Splint (smirking):
"All three. Plus, I have good taste in hideouts. You're not using it. I will. Temporarily. Unless you want to negotiate ownership."
Cain walks to the barrier — energy between them crackling like caged lightning — and leans. Eyes burning with the kind of madness that made kings rip off their crowns.
Jest Cain:
"You know what they call me, right?"
Splint (nodding):
"Forgotten. Discarded. Dangerous. Take your pick."
Cain smiles widely.
Jest Cain:
"No. They call me the one who laughs at inevitability. You sure you want to camp on my inevitability?"
Splint presses a device to the outer wall of Cain's containment — and the ground hums. Suddenly, defensive turrets lower, lights flicker, and long-dead systems restart like they're saluting a commander.
Splint (calm):
"I didn't come to ask. I came to install."
Then he steps back, arms crossed.
Splint:
"But I could use a voice like yours on the island. Ever feel like becoming relevant again?"
There's a pause.
Jest Cain's smile fades just slightly — only to shift into something sharper. More curious.
Jest Cain (grinning):
"…What kind of war are you trying to start, Splint?"
Splint (without blinking):
"Nothin' just bored."
Jest Cain leaned forward in his prison seat, chains clinking lazily from his wrists. He smirked, eyes dimmed but sharp as ever.
"Noph-shack? Sounds like a scrapyard for retired vending machines. Try harder."
He tilted his head. "Why not call it Deadlight Pier? Or Iron Vein? Something that doesn't make people think you're selling rusted junk and broken hopes."
Splint rolled his eyes, arms crossed.
"Deadlight Pier? What is this, a poetry club? I'm building a war hub, not a moody punk bar by the coast."
Jest Cain chuckled, dragging a finger through the dirt on the table before him.
"Fine. Call it whatever gets your dumb goons motivated. But just remember..." he leaned in, voice colder, deadpan:
"Any base built on the bones of silence and secrecy eventually screams. So when your 'Noph-shack' starts howling, don't come blaming the guy in the cage."
Splint grinned.
"That's exactly why I'm building it here, Cain. I want it to be weird in a good way."
Then he turned, already pulling out a detonator to level the east part of the island, leaving Jest Cain to his cold thoughts, and the eerie echo of waves smashing against the cursed rocks of the forgotten one's isle.
Scene opens in the dimly glowing chamber known only as the Overseer's Layer. Silence blankets the void, save for the distant sound of wind that shouldn't exist underground. The golden glow in the center of the cavern pulses faintly, like the breath of a god asleep in thought.
A gate made of blackened bone opens, and The Fallen One steps through, cloak dragging behind him like a shadow trying to cling.
He kneels, bowing low with purpose and weariness.
His voice echoes, low and sharp, respectful but firm.
The Fallen One:
"It's been a month, sire. I've come to give you my monthly report."
The golden mark on the Overseer's forehead flares once, then dims back to a calm radiance. The Overseer, an impossibly tall stick figure, sits eternally in lotus position—limbs lined in ancient cracks, arms resting motionless, his head ever-tilted slightly downward, as if watching all things through time. His entire body is unmoving, yet the air warps around him.
He speaks, and his voice is not a sound—but a presence behind the ears.
The Overseer:
"You arrive… changed. Not in power. Not in scars. In intent."
The Fallen One doesn't look up.
The Fallen One:
"I was tested. By many. Not just by enemy hands… but by the question of who I am when no contract defines me. Velrise, and that crew... they all forced me to fight, but it wasn't to win. It was to remember something."
The Overseer remains still for a long moment.
The Overseer:
"And what did you remember, 'Fallen One'?"
The silence tightens. The Fallen One slowly raises his head.
The Fallen One:
"That I'm not lost. I chose to fall. Because power… is clearest when you're looking up from the ground."
The golden spot pulses again. The Overseer's voice this time carries something like amusement—but it cuts through like steel through fog.
The Overseer:
"So you've grown philosophical. Do not mistake clarity for control."
The Fallen One:
"I never have. I've come to ask something else... not for a mission. But for permission."
The Overseer's head tilts almost imperceptibly.
A chill floods the chamber.
The Overseer:
"Permission… to do what?"
The Fallen One stands fully now, unafraid. His voice is no longer just a report—it's a statement of departure dressed in respect.
The Fallen One:
"To leave. To step beyond this. Beyond titles. Beyond your reach. Not out of disloyalty—*."
*—but because I need to know who I am when I'm no longer your shadow."
The golden mark flares—then dims to a faint candlelight.
For a long time, there has been no sound.
Then:
The Overseer:
"So this ends not with a battle... but a parting."
"Very well. Go. You are no longer bound… but you are still watched."
"And remember… no one ever truly leaves the eye of the Overseer."
The golden light fades. The Fallen One walks away—back straight, heart loud, but uncertain.
As the gates close behind him.
He sits.
No war. No blood. Just the buzz of a cheap phone screen lighting up a scarred face in a dim room.
The sword—his past life—locked in a closet that still creaks like it remembers every battle too.
And him? Slouched. Bones aching. His body doesn't know how to relax anymore—like it forgot what stillness is.
But he stays.
Swipe. Tap. Scroll.
Nothing.
No calls. No contracts. No vengeance.
Just the reflection of his own tired eyes staring back at him from the black screen, "peace, but at what cost?"
CUT TO THE OTHER SIDE OF ORUB CITY.
Velrise squints, tongs in hand, watching the group of familiar silhouettes cross the intersection like some slow-motion scene from a soap opera with too much ego and not enough chill.
Dari, Branx, and Milo.
The whole damn Menaheim squad.
Her grip tightens on the mustard bottle. The last time they met was on a rooftop—
Shouting, swearing, blades out, Camila bleeding, Roselit laughing like a maniac, and Purana trying not to fall off the edge.
And now?
They're just… walking.
Ordering hotdogs.
Velrise glares. They haven't noticed her yet.
They look… calm. Friendly, even.
She slaps a dog on the grill.
Sssssssss...
Christine's words echoed in her head: "They're not villains. Just idiots with good timing."
Still. Rivals. Eternal ones.
Dari finally locks eyes with her.
A pause.
No words. Just that cocky, sideways smirk.
Velrise smirks back. Mustard bottle aimed like a pistol.
Velrise blinked.
Once.
Twice.
"…What the hell is wrong with you people?"
Dari leaned on the counter with both elbows, a smug aura practically melting the napkin dispenser.
"We evolved, Velrise. Surgery. Mental and physical. We're no longer rooftop punks. We're rooftop legends."
Milo nodded solemnly, spinning a straw in his fingers like it was a kunai.
"And real legends drink ketchup milkshakes."
Branx raised one finger. "And eat sugar-nuggets. It's called flavor fusion. Learn it."
Velrise deadpanned. "This is a hotdog stand, not a fever dream."
Still, she scribbled it down.
"Fries. Extra salt. Milkshake—god help me—with ketchup. Nuggets. With sugar."
She grabbed a dog off the grill, flipped it onto a bun like a weapon being drawn.
Dari leaned in. "You miss us, don't you?"
Velrise raised the tongs, pointed them like a blade at his forehead.
"Only thing I miss is your group therapy sessions—because clearly, they didn't work."
Suddenly, behind her, Roselit from inside the stand said, "Who ordered the emotional baggage with a side of trauma?"
Milo grinned. "We'll take four."
Branx: "To-go."
Velrise: "You'll get it shoved down your throats if you don't back up from my condiment shelf."
Milo slapped a single crumpled dollar on the counter like it was sacred currency.
"Oh come on, Velrise," he said, dead serious. "Barbecue-tea dogs are the future."
Velrise stared at the dollar, then at Milo, then at the dollar again, as if it had insulted her lineage.
"Do I look like I serve crimes against cuisine?"
Milo shrugged. "You look like someone who's resisting culinary innovation."
Roselit poked her head out again, whispering with mock horror,
"Vel… I think Milo thinks he's a chef now."
Branx grinned. "He watched one cooking video and thinks he's Gordon Damn Ramsay."
Dari, holding his over-salted fries, chimed in,
"We're not just rivals now, Velrise. We're entrepreneurs. The Menaheim brand is expanding."
Velrise held up her tongs like a divine sword.
"You try to 'expand' in my hotdog stand again, and I swear I'll file a restraining order flavored with mustard and street justice."
Milo, unbothered, adjusted his hoodie.
"I'll be back next week. With blue cheese nacho soup and hotdog croutons."
Velrise turned and yelled into the back,
"Christine, get the bat!"
The bat whistled through the air like karma with a handle.
Milo barely ducked as it cracked into the side of the condiment shelf, ketchup exploding like a crime scene.
He raised his arms dramatically.
"Is this supposed to be a joke!? It's Saturday for Stick God's sake!"
Christine, walking out with a second bat, didn't even blink.
"Exactly. Stick God rested on Saturday. I don't."
Velrise leaned over the counter.
"You brought sacrilege to my stand. You think I care what day it is?"
Branx whispered to Dari,
"Should we remind them we were actually gonna pay this time?"
Dari munched another salty fry,
"Let 'em have this. We got surgery, not survival instincts."
Milo took a cautious step back, holding up his phone.
"I was gonna vlog this for the 'Menaheim Culinary Chaos Challenge,' but now it's just a public service announcement."
Christine tapped the bat in her palm.
"Title it: 'How Not to Order a Hotdog.'"
Milo nodded solemnly.
"…That's actually kinda catchy."
Velrise smirked, arms crossed.
"Now get outta here before I invent a new condiment just to slap you with it."
The street was chaos. Hotdog wrappers danced like tumbleweeds. A mustard bottle hissed in Velrise's grip like it knew it was a weapon now.
Milo spun the bat in his hand and pointed it forward like he was challenging an ancient goddess.
"Come at me, woman!"
Velrise didn't blink. Instead, she shook both her ketchup and mustard bottles violently, pressurizing them like twin tanks of doom. Then—squeeze!
A torrent of red and yellow splat-splattered across the pavement as Milo juked left, flipped backwards, and parkour'd off the napkin stand. Bottles hissed in her hands as she advanced, spraying like dual flamethrowers of flavor.
Milo yelled, "Too slow!"
Then Velrise stopped firing.
In a flash, she lunged forward—but differently.
He was in midair, expecting a frontal blast, maybe even a joke. But her feet never left the ground.
She slid low, twisted her body with street-smart physics and—
BOOM!
Suplexed him into the pavement so hard it rippled the condiment stand sign.
Ketchup and mustard erupted around them like a crime scene at a food fight. Velrise stood over his suplexed form, bottles pointed like pistols.
She squeezed one more time, spraying in tight, circular formations around his sprawled body—a condiment cage. If he tried to move, he'd slip. If he stood wrong, he'd fall.
Milo lay there, blinking.
Then… slowly… he stood.
Not a word. Just one foot planted firmly where he fell, one foot propped against the only dry spot in a sea of slippery sauce.
Velrise aimed one bottle like a sniper rifle now—steady, one eye narrowed, elbows locked. The mustard nozzle glinted in the sunlight.
The entire street went quiet.
Christine whispered from the background, "...This is the dumbest and most amazing fight I've ever seen."
Dari handed Branx a dollar.
"I told you he'd stand."
Velrise whispered under her breath,
"...One shot. One squirt. That's all I need."
To be continued…