Arata awakens to a scream; it was as though the noise could part the darkness, forcing open Arata’s eyes, rudely jerking him awake. Arata’s eyes darted around the tent. It wasn’t there. Arata awoke in the Ripping. The room he saw was disorganized, the floor littered with sawdust, nails and fabric.

  Arata’s eyes glanced upwards, the room looked akin to a workshop if kids with a hyperactive imagination were allowed to play inside one. Along a long stretch of table were toy soldiers, arranged in various manners and time periods, a crucifixion, trench warfare, cannons and two knights in a joust. Interwoven between the scenes was red string, serving as the bloody entrails of the various toys and dolls, interwoven as a placeholder for gore.

  Arata moves around the room, when out of the corner of his eyes, he spots Rachamah, she’s stroking the hair of a doll she picked up. Her curiosity… unusual, that doll, is it something special to her? Her room was pretty barren back in Basin City, so I assumed she didn’t have any other prized possessions that weren’t practical items.

  “Hey Rachamah. I didn’t expect you to be here?” Arata watches as Rachamah jumps slightly, dropping the doll and turning to Arata. It’s even stranger that she got caught off guard by me.

  Rachamah comments, “Arata… this isn’t my dream, I came here to hunt Beelzebub. Have you seen it?”

  Arata pauses for a second. He was far too confused, “No? Why would Beelzebub be here even? How do you know he would be here either? In fact, what have you even been doing for this past month?”

  Arata is met by silence, Rachamah’s face slowly rotates towards Arata’s eyes. Rachamah pauses in thought of how to respond, “I’ve been chasing Beelzebub… the bastard keeps running. For someone with such a grand title I assumed the Lord of Flying Fiends would turn around to face me.”

  Chasing? You’ve been hyperfixated on eating a giant bug for a whole month?! I guess that’s one less demon lord to deal with, only 2 now. Arata stutters a little, “w- wow, you’re holding up… well? I assume.” Arata had many questions to ask her but right now, he was too shocked to even start asking.

  Rachamah nods, “Arata… we should get moving, there’s better stuff I have to do right now since this conversation serves no purpose.” Rachamah throws the doll she was holding to the floor.

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  Arata decides to trail behind her, but not before picking up the doll she was holding. It was remarkably unremarkable, as in how it confused Arata over the thought that she stopped to acknowledge it. She just said it herself, it was better to keep moving so why’s that one on me?

  Regardless of any complaints, Arata chooses to keep to himself; he follows Rachamah further into the workshop. Stepping through the doorframe, Arata feels like the scale of the building shifted; they now stand in what looks like a throne room mixed into a workshop. Arata, inspecting the facility, notices that the walls were made of stained glass and there were no windows. The images depicted by said windows were of a madman; Arata’s eyes darted to each panel like pages of a comic. The man would always watch his daughter return to him the toys she found no use in, everything made by the man’s hand had no value.

  The spoiled daughter’s whole life seemed to be turned into this room’s archive. The room was adorned with every toy she ever threw out.

  Upon the throne sits the spoiled daughter as the centerpiece of the throne, yet it seems as though she is frozen in time. The little girl is adorned with jewelry and a frilly dress. She has the same hair as Morgan yet her eyes have no color inside them. In her hands rests a doll and on an armrest sits a switch. Kneeling before her, Arata spots Morgan. Her helmet is down and a streak of blood stains her face.

  Arata dashes forward, shouting, “Morgan! You’re here. Are you okay? You’re bleeding!”

  As anxiety gets the better of him, he’s suddenly pushed back as Rachamah obstructs his movement with the Magurokiri’s massive sheath. She looks to Arata, “Hey the floor in front of us has hinges. There’s a trapdoor.”

  With that, Rachamah’s sheathed blade slams into the ground in front of them, the trapdoor giving way as below sits a chute leading into a furnace, molten metal bubbling upwards. Is that the switch to the trapdoor? Damn kids these days and their affinity for murder. Arata quickly glances at Rachamah.

  Stepping around, Arata glances at Morgan. Getting closer, he notices her shivering as Arata reaches out with his hand. Yet Morgan swats it away. Suddenly, the little girl acknowledges Arata’s presence.

  “Hey, you! What brings you to my castle?” The little girl questions Arata.

  I don’t know either… I just got to say something. Arata opens his mouth, “I-”

  “Execution!” The girl pouts before setting out a toy in front of her throne. The figure appears to be some sort of automata, a wind-up key spins around in its back, causing its shape to shift, it takes on an insectoid form, its body contorts, it speaks a tone similar to eelzebub, yet it repeats only a few lines. Arata recalls the bug saying, the doll was given life through this ventriloquy.