Midas stood at his workbench, his fingers resting lightly against the sketch Pheo made. “...I see,” Midas said quietly. His voice carried the weight of decision. “Thank you. Really.”

  It might’ve been something menial for Pheo, but for Midas, it was something that led him to change. “There is something I need you to do for me,” Midas said. “A favor, while I prepare your weapon.”

  Pheo remained silent as Midas stepped away from the bench, walking towards a shelf buried behind layers of tools and forgotten projects. He reached behind them without hesitation, as though guided by memory rather than sight, and pulled free a thick, leather-bound book.

  Dust slid from its surface, disturbed after years of stillness. He opened it and skimmed through, seeing that every page was blank. He held it out to Pheo. “I want you to write in this,” Midas said.

  “Everything you remember from that book,” Midas continued. “Every illustration. Every principle. Every fragment. Even the ones you believe have no value.” Pheo accepted it slowly. The leather was dry beneath the fingers, but sturdy.

  “I needed something to do in my past time anyway,” Pheo said. Midas’ expression softened, just slightly. “If you fill it,” Midas said, “I’ll add something special to your weapon.”

  Pheo looked up.

  “What kind of something?”

  Midas smiled faintly.

  “You’ll just have to find out.”

  Silence followed for a moment until Pheo closed the book. “It’s a deal.” Midas nodded once, as though confirming something he already knew. “I’ll need a week,” he said. “Maybe two.”

  He turned toward his workbench, ready to work before glancing back at Pheo. “By the way, where did you find the book?”

  Pheo answered without hesitation. “I read it when I was younger. It was on the shelves in the house I lived in. I was looking for something else at the time, still am trying to find it.”

  Midas stared at him for a moment before laughing. It wasn’t loud or mocking, but the laugh of someone who had heard that kind of answer before. “I understand,” Midas said, shaking his head slightly as he returned his attention to the workbench. “People who find things that valuable tend to keep their secrets. Even the small ones.”

  Pheo frowned. “I’m not lying.”

  Midas waved a hand dismissively, still smiling faintly. “Of course,” he said. “Of course.” He picked up one of his tools and began examining a piece of metal, already moving on. “Come back in a week,” he added. “It’ll be done by then.”

  It was clear that he had already decided the conversation was over. Not because he didn’t care, but because he believed he already understood. Pheo stood there for a moment longer, holding the blank book.

  Midas didn’t look at him again. He was focused entirely on his workbench now, as though nothing unusual had happened. As though giving someone an empty book and asking them to recreate something they had read years ago was an ordinary request.

  Pheo turned and left, the weight of the book resting firmly in his hands. Behind him, Midas allowed his smile to fade slightly. Not into concern, but into curiosity.

  “Where the hell did you pick this kid up from, Anora?”

  Pheo then walked all the way back to the village, the first thing he noticed as he approached was the sound. Not the usual sounds of conversation or movement, but the low, mechanical rumble of engines winding down.

  It was unfamiliar here, out of place against the stillness the village normally carried. Beyond the outer path, a caravan of vehicles had gathered, their frames still warm from travel.

  They were arranged in deliberate spacing, not carelessly abandoned. This was not a visit born from coincidence. People had already begun stepping out, with most of them wearing practical clothing. Dust-covered and functional, meant for travel.

  But among them were five individuals who stood apart. Their uniforms were distinct. Cleaner. Structured. Marked with insignias that carried authority even without explanation.

  They did not look around in wonder, but observed. Pheo slowed his steps, watching from a distance at first. Conversations were quieter than usual. Villagers passed by the newcomers with careful restraint, pretending not to stare while clearly aware of their presence.

  Even the air felt tighter, as though something unseen had arrived alongside them. Curiosity pulled him closer. He moved without drawing attention, his eyes scanning each face until one of them stopped him.

  Zike.

  He stood among the five, his posture relaxed despite the uniform he now wore. It suited him differently than the others. Not because it belonged to him, but because he did not let it define him.

  As if sensing the attention, Zike turned. As their eyes met, Zexe smiled. It was the smile Pheo remembered, easy and familiar.

  Zike raised his hand and gave a small wave. No words. No signal beyond acknowledgement. Then he turned away, already walking deeper into the camp, the others moving with him.

  Pheo watched him go, his eyes shifting to another familiar figure among the five. She walked slightly behind the others, her posture straight, her steps steady and unhesitating.

  Anora.

  Wearing the same uniform as the other four. It fit her naturally. Not like something new, or something she had just recently earned. It looked as if it was something she had always been walking toward.

  Her expression was calm, focused ahead. She did not bother to glance around or hesitate, passing others without slowing or breaking formation, following the others into the camp.

  He watched until the five of them disappeared among the structures deeper within the camp. Whatever had brought them together there was larger than him. Larger than anything he needed to involve himself in.

  And he knew better than to step into something uninvited.

  He turned away. His thoughts shifted elsewhere as he walked towards the quieter edge of the village, where the noise of engines and voices could no longer reach him. He knew what he needed to do.

  Practice.

  This time not blindly, but with intent. He had an idea now. He didn’t have to awkwardly adjust to every weapon, but to focus on practicing those that would matter for the weapon that Midas was making.

  The Director walked through the village without drawing attention. His attire was odd for the area, the average black and white suit meant for business, clean but plain. His hands rested calmly behind his back as he moved, his pace steady, neither hurried nor slow.

  To anyone watching, he looked like an observer.

  Which he was.

  His eyes moved constantly, taking note of everything as he passed by. The repaired structures, the alignment of supplies, the condition of the villagers, the pace of recovery. Every detail mattered. Every detail was remembered.

  Progress was acceptable. Not ideal, but acceptable.

  Then something unusual caught his attention. At the far edge of the village, separated from the others, a boy trained alone. He was young, but his movements were not those of someone his age.

  He carried a heavy wooden beam across his shoulders, his legs trembling as he held himself in a lowered stance. His breathing was controlled but strained, sweat running freely down his face and neck.

  His muscles shook, pushed beyond comfort, beyond reason. He was not exercising for improvement, he was exercising to surpass himself.

  The Director stopped walking.

  He watched. The boy lowered himself further, holding the position longer than his body wanted. Every instinct would have told him to stop. To rest.

  He didn’t.

  Only after several long seconds did he finally rise, slowly returning the beam to the ground. His chest rose and fell as he regained his breath.

  The Director stepped closer.

  He made no effort to hide his presence, but the boy did not notice him. Instead, he continued. Adjusting his footing, raising his arms, practicing controlled strikes into empty air.

  Each motion was deliberate. Efficient. Not wasted. Most people would assume that he was taught well. But The Director saw something else, he saw someone self-taught through suffering.

  Eventually, the boy stopped.

  He turned, his eyes landing on The Director. There was no fear in his expression, no surprise either. He walked toward him calmly. “Do you need something?” the boy asked. His tone was respectful, but not submissive.

  The Director studied him briefly before extending his hand. “What is your name?”

  The boy looked at his hand, then back at his face. He smiled. It was an open, genuine smile. The kind only someone without regret could give. He took The Director’s hand and shook it firmly.

  “Hanagome,” he said. “I’m Hanagome.”

  The Director nodded slightly. His grip had been strong, stronger than he expected. He released his hand. “I was wondering,” he said calmly, “if you would allow me to join you.”

  Hanagome blinked.

  The Director continued. “A spar.”

  Then Hanagome smiled wider. “Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck lightly, “it’s not every day someone from outside the village asks me for a spar.” There was no hesitation in him, no doubt. He stepped back, creating space between them.

  “But sure,” Hanagome said. “Just don’t regret it.” He raised his stance naturally, his body settling into readiness without stiffness. His movements weren’t forced, but familiar as if practiced hundreds of times.

  The Director slipped off his coat first, folding it nearly and placing it atop a nearby crate. Then he loosened his cuffs, unbuttoning the sleeves of his dress shirt and rolling them up with careful precision. Even the way he prepared felt measured.

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  “You look younger than I would expect from what I saw,” The Director remarked calmly as he set aside his tie. “Teenage years?”

  “Fifteen,” Hanagome confirmed, watching him with curiosity.

  The Director nodded once, as if verifying a detail in his mind. “And you train like that already.” He stepped into the open space between them, adjusting his stance slightly. “Have you awakened yet?”

  Hanagome shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “But I will sometime this year.”

  The Director studied him more carefully now. There was no flicker of disappointment in his eyes, only interest.

  “I see.”

  Hanagome tilted his head slightly. “Are you with the group that came to rescue us?”

  The Director met his gaze and gave a small nod. “Yes.” Hanagome’s expression shifted immediately. The lightness in him deepened into something more sincere.

  “Then… thank you,” he said. “If you hadn’t come, the village would’ve been ransacked right after the monster was brought down. We were exhausted.” There was no exaggeration in his tone., only honestly.

  The Director regarded him quietly for a moment before responding. “It was only right,” he said. “A close friend of mine lives here.”

  Hanagome accepted the answer as it was given. The Director stepped back slightly, giving them proper distance. His posture relaxed. Not careless, but fluid. Balanced.

  “Strike first,” he said calmly.

  Hanagome blinked.

  “You’re sure?”

  The Director’s expression did not change. “If you hesitate,” he replied, “you will waste the opportunity.” Hanagome’s smile returned. Not playful, but focused. He lowered his center of gravity, feet adjusting instinctively against the earth.

  Hanagome moved first.

  His fist cut through the air with speed and certainty, driving straight toward The Director’s torso. There was no hesitation in it, no probing motion, no testing strike. It was a committed blow.

  The Director raised his hand and caught it with his palm. The sound was sharp. Not the dull sound of flesh meeting flesh, but a clean, defined impact that echoed slightly in the open space between them.

  Hanagome didn’t stop.

  His other fist followed immediately, then another, each strike flowing into the next. His arms moved with practiced rhythm, his weight shifting properly beneath him. Every hit carried force far beyond what someone his age should comfortably produce.

  Each one landed.

  Each one was caught.

  The Director received them with open palms, redirecting their force with minimal movement. His technique was precise. Standard. Efficient. He did not waste motion, nor did he overpower Hanagome directly.

  He allowed Hanagome’s strength to reveal itself. “Your pressure is strong,” The Director said calmly between impacts. “It’s direct. Most opponents would be caught off guard.” Hanagome pressed forward harder, his strikes gaining intensity.

  The Director continued. “But I’ve fought many who rely on that same approach.”

  Another strike.

  Caught.

  “They all shared the same weakness.”

  Hanagome’s eyes sharpened. He shifted his weight and pivoted, his leg rising and cutting toward The Director’s head in a fast, committed kick. This time, The Director did not catch it.

  He stepped aside.

  The kick passed beside his face–

  –and then his palm met Hanagome’s leg.

  He didn’t stop it, he pushed it. Not against its motion, but with it. The sudden acceleration disrupted Hanagome’s balance. His body had already committed to the kick’s original momentum. The additional force sent it further than he had prepared for.

  His footing slipped, just for a moment.

  But a moment was enough.

  Before Hanagome could recover, The Director stepped forward and placed his palm against Hanagome’s chest.

  There was no wind-up, no visible force, just contact.

  The impact traveled through Hanagome’s body instantly. Not sharp, but overwhelming. His breath left him as his feet lost contact with the ground, his body thrown backward several meters before he struck the earth and slid to a stop.

  Hanagome lay there, staring upward, his chest rising sharply as he struggled to draw breath. His body trembled. Not from injury, but from the shock of force he had not been able to resist.

  The Director lowered his hand. He turned his wrist slightly and checked his watch.

  “...I’m needed elsewhere,” he said quietly.

  He walked toward Hanagome, who had begun pushing himself up, still regaining control of his breathing.

  “Hanagome.”

  Hanagome looked up to see The Director flick something toward him. He caught it clumsily to see that it was a namecard.

  “Come find me,” The Director said, already turning away. “When you can withstand another strike like that.” He walked back toward where he had left his attire, picking up his coat and slipping it back on as if nothing unusual had occurred.

  Hanagome stared at the card in his hand.

  He understood now.

  This hadn’t been a spar.

  It had been a lesson.

  “...Thank you,” Hanagome said sincerely.

  The Director didn’t respond. He adjusted his sleeve and continued walking, disappearing back into the village without looking back.

  Hanagome lowered his eyes to the namecard. At first, he only saw the clean design. The precise letting.

  Then he read the title.

  His eyes widened.

  He hadn’t just sparred with a rescuer.

  He had sparred with The Director.

  The Director walked away from the training grounds without looking back, slipping his arms back into his coat as he moved. His motions were smooth, uninterrupted, as if the spar had never happened at all.

  He adjusted his cuffs, straightened his collar, and resumed the same unremarkable appearance he had worn before. His pace quickened as the outpost came into view. It stood at the far end of the village, its structure temporary but orderly.

  Reinforced frames, anchored posts, and stationed personnel marked its presence clearly. It was not meant to stay forever, but it was meant to function perfectly while it did. As he stepped inside the perimeter, soldiers passed him.

  Each of them acknowledged him immediately.

  “Director.”

  “Sir.”

  They did not stop him. They did not slow him. He raised his hand briefly in response. Not to greet, but to dismiss. A silent instruction to continue their duties.

  He moved through the outpost and stopped at the entrance of the largest tent. Its exterior was plain, but its purpose was not. He pulled the flap aside and stepped in.

  Inside was a large meeting table where five others were already waiting . Anora sat to the left, her posture upright but relaxed. Her left hand rested on the table as her fingers tapped in quiet silence. Pinky, ring, middle, index, repeating the pattern without pause.

  Her eyes were forward, focused, but distant, as though organizing throughs faster than her body could remain still.

  Beside her sat Zexe.

  His attention never left the small notebook in his hands. His pen moved steadily across the page, writing without hesitation. He did not look up when The Director entered. He did not need to. He already knew.

  Across from them sat a man whose presence alone spoke of experience. His back was straight. Not stiff, but trained. His shoulders rested naturally in alignment, his breathing steady, controlled. His hands rested calmly on the table, unmoving. He had the stillness of someone who had endured enough battles to no longer be shaped by them.

  Next to him sat another man, leaned slightly back in his chair.

  A pen spun between his fingers.

  Effortlessly.

  It moved across his knuckles, around his thumb, between his fingers again in seamless motion. He never looked at it. He didn’t need to. Years of repetition had removed the need for attention.

  He spun it not to practice, but because stillness bored him.

  At the opposite end of the table sat the last of the five.

  A woman.

  She did not fidget. She did not write. She did not look away. Her eyes were fixed directly on The Director from the moment he entered.

  “Director,” she said calmly. “Take a seat.”

  The Director exhaled as he pulled his chair back. He loosened his posture slightly as he sat down, resting one arm against the table. “If anyone else was walking in right now,” he said calmly, glancing at the woman across from him, “they’d assume Paige was the one in charge.”

  A faint hint of dry amusement touched his voice.

  Paige didn’t react.

  She didn’t smile. She didn’t deny it. She simply continued looking at him.

  Waiting.

  The Director rested both hands on the table. “I called you here,” he began, “because I want your opinions on forming a new squadron.”

  The pen stopped spinning.

  The man closed his fingers around it slowly as he leaned forward, the light finally catching his face clearly.

  Gale looked young.

  Mid-twenties at most.

  His features were sharp but not hardened, his jawline clean and defined without the wear of age. His hair was dark and slightly tousled, not messy but styled in a way that suggested he preferred movement over rigidity.

  A thin scar traced faintly along the edge of his brow, subtle enough to go unnoticed unless one was looking for it.

  His posture contrasted the veteran’s discipline entirely. Where the older man sat still and composed, Gale sat angled, relaxed, one arm resting over the back of his chair. His confidence wasn’t quiet.

  “A new squadron?” Gale asked, tilting his head slightly. His voice carried a light sharpness to it. Not disrespectful, but edged will challenge.

  “For what purpose?”

  His eyes locked onto The Director’s. Not confrontational, but unwilling to accept an answer without reason.

  The Director met his gaze evenly.

  “Our current workforce is sufficient,” he said. “Not only for standard operations in The Badlands, but for unprecedented situations.”

  He paused.

  “Situations such as encountering Black Aces.”

  Gale’s expression didn’t change, but the pen in his hand stopped moving entirely. “With respect,” Gale replied, leaning back now, resting the pen against his shoulder, “that only reinforced my question.”

  He gave a faint smirk. No mocking, but confident. “We’ve handled everything The Badlands has thrown at us so far.” He tapped the pen once against the table. “And if something does present itself as a threat…”

  “I can handle it with my team as the captain of the operations team.”

  There was no hesitation in him.

  “We’ve handled everything The Badlands has thrown at us so far.”

  Anora spoke next, her fingers not tapping anymore. “With the current intel my squadron has gathered,” she said calmly, “there’s nothing in The Badlands capable of posing a serious threat to us for now.”

  Her voice wasn’t arrogant, it was factual. Gale nodded immediately, latching onto her statement. “Exactly,” he said. “And even if something did manage to present itself as a threat–”

  “Enough.”

  Zexe didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His pen stopped moving across his notebook, though he didn’t look up from the page. “Let him finish,” he said flatly. “Before you start barking at each other like rabid dogs.”

  Gale frowned.

  Anora didn’t respond.

  Zexe finally lifted his eyes, looking at both of them briefly before staring at The Director.

  “Continue,” he said.