He’s being followed, and he knows it. Atsadi keeps moving through the tunnels of the City of Scholars. He’s going deeper and deeper underground. How far is he from the surface? It's impossible to tell precisely, but he’s been walking for hours—climbing stairs, leaping across carved stones, squeezing through endless crawlspaces. It's a true shifting labyrinth, where every turn reveals a new challenge: a maze, a chasm, winding spiral staircases that rise, twist, and plummet... And that’s far from the hardest part. There are also the countless dangers lurking in the depths—specters, abyssal creatures driven by feelings of fear, darkness, and isolation. Atsadi almost misses the colorful Chimeras he fought under the open sky.

He glances back. That damned Kojo is still trailing him like a puppy. He’s been shadowing him for hours, always keeping a respectful distance. Atsadi tried to lose him, but the kid’s clever and fast. No matter how many detours he’s taken, Kojo keeps finding his trail.

You want me to put him in his place?

Surge’s suggestion is tempting. But Atsadi shakes his head. Turning a corner to get completely out of sight, he sets his jian down and sits cross-legged, rummaging through his bag for materials to make a small fire. He lays the fuel—straw and twigs—on the black stone of the deep.

Kojo rounds the corner and comes to a sudden stop. Caught red-handed, he looks away, a little sheepish. Atsadi doesn’t bother to glare at him for long. With a flick of energy, Surge ignites the kindling, and Atsadi sets a metal canteen on the campfire, sprinkled with tea leaves to infuse. Then the swordsman gestures toward a black rock, silently inviting the boy to sit.

Kojo doesn’t argue. He plops down heavily, holding his hands out to the flames for warmth. But he doesn’t seem inclined to speak. In the kettle, the tea leaves slowly unfurl as the steaming water turns a deep brown. The young runner chews on his lip, while his Chimera curls up at his feet. Surge has gone a little further up the path to stand guard, making sure they’re not disturbed or taken by surprise.

‘What do you want from me, Alterer?’, the swordsman asks, handing him a cup of herbal tea.

Kojo takes the cup and scratches his head.

‘Haha, you noticed me, heh?’

Atsadi says nothing, just sips from his own drink. Kojo hesitates, staring into his cup as if searching for the courage to speak in the swirls of steam.

‘Back in the Storhvit…’

‘With the wolf?’

Kojo nods.

‘I know I’m not a warrior. I clearly don’t have what it takes…’

‘Yet you took down the Kraken.’

Kojo touches his forehead, almost embarrassed.

‘I know I’m not on the same level as the rest of you. I’m just a runner. All I know how to do is run. I’ve come to accept that.’

‘And what’s that got to do with me?’

‘You’re a master of arms. You do insane things! You fight with style. You’re cool! I want to be like you, have your skill. Compared to you, I feel like I’m just coasting, not doing anything useful. The Kraken… that was a fluke. But I want to help. I want to contribute. I…’

‘And what does any of that have to do with me?’, Atsadi cuts in sharply.

Kojo winces.

‘I never got the chance to be a Squire. Boo and I became Exalts directly. Which means we’ve got some serious gaps… But I can help. I’ll do whatever you ask.’

‘No.’

Kojo’s eyes widen.

‘But—’

‘Let me be perfectly clear. You want to be a hero. I have no interest in becoming one. You think I serve the Rediscovery Endeavor, but that’s not the case. I have a quest—my quest—and it belongs to me alone. It’s my only priority. I must stay focused. I don’t have time to spare for you. My quest demands everything I have—my focus, my energy. Do you understand?’

The young runner clenches his jaw.

‘I won’t get in your way. Just by watching you, I could pick up a few things—’

‘Like in the Storhvit, when you conjured the tracer?’, Atsadi snaps, glaring at him.

Kojo’s words wither. His mouth goes dry, his throat rough. Booda lifts her head and growls softly in disapproval.

‘I’m a duelist, first and foremost’, Atsadi says more calmly. ‘And a duelist fights alone. Alone, you hear me? So find another master.’

Leaning back against the cold, bare stone, Atsadi closes his eyes—ending the conversation and conserving his strength. Aurora’s face dances behind his eyelids.

You were harsh with the kid.

‘He needed to understand.’

Still, you could’ve been gentler. Remember? You were his age when you set out on your path. You were lucky to have good mentors…

‘What’s the point? I have a mission. That’s all that matters.’

As you wish, Surge replies, with a hint of reproach in his voice.

Atsadi stays silent, letting his gaze drift off as his hand tightens around the hilt of his blade until his knuckles turn white.

That’s enough.

Surge vanishes in a burst of sparks, crackling along the curved walls of the vast chamber. Atsadi surveys the shaft, then digs into his pack to retrieve a worn, weathered book. The map was clear: according to the translators, the Scholars referred to this place as a library. But it doesn’t smell like old paper—it smells like a tomb.

The swordsman puts on his glasses. According to old writings found higher up, a foreign traveler once came here long ago. The Scholars called him the Drifter. He was accompanied by seven warriors—seven protectors—all fierce fighters. If any records of them exist, they would be here.

Atsadi enters the vast cylindrical chamber, rubbing his eyes after removing his round spectacles. The path widens on both sides, following the dizzying wall marked with complex patterns. He can’t help but feel a flicker of dread—like stepping into a coliseum.

A towering ceiling drowned in darkness; the ground covered in a swirling mist, rippling like water; steles engraved with intricate runes emerging from the shimmering fog or floating in midair… He studies every corner of the pit. This so-called library feels more like a crypt.

It’s a library, but there are no books.

Surge slips between the obsidian blocks, a crackling spark following the stone’s etched lines like an electric circuit.

‘So what kind of library is it?’

One of memories.

Atsadi places a hand on the black stone, tracing the grooves with his fingers, gauging its resistance. Suddenly, fleeting images flood his mind, and he pulls back.

‘This place holds the memory of the entire City…’

He knows what he has to do. He re-establishes contact, this time with a clear intent. A whole world rushes through his mind. Millions of images assault him from across the ages: scenes of life, death, joy, fear, hope, and despair…

A child with golden skin, radiant and dazzling, walks through the City. Everyone greets her with smiles and pride. She is like a sun lighting the depths. Wherever she goes—through crowded markets, sacred halls, or near the water reserves—she is met with warmth, love, and tenderness.

She is like the dawn. Like his dawn.

He must focus. He can’t let himself be swept away by this maelstrom—a wild dance of light and emotion. Scenes of everyday life unfold: a woman burns incense; a man digs a tunnel by the glow of golden veins in the rock; children play hopscotch or juggle floating pebbles; nearby, people sit sharing meals or chatting…

The lines in the walls… they were filled with gold…

Surge is right. The entire city glows—overflowing with life and light. In the lines that crisscross the walls, a yellow liquid flows like sunlight turned to blood. The inhabitants draw from it, pour it into shimmering pools. It forms veins, arteries. It nourishes the whole City, which isn’t dark like the one he’s seen—it’s vibrant, warm. Instinctively, he knows the child and the City are one. She’s there, still adored by all. But now she’s a woman, worshiped like a goddess—their goddess. She is the soul of the City.

Aurora’s face appears again, encased in her eternal shell. He shakes his head, fighting against the tide. He must not lose himself in these ancient memories. After what feels like an eternity, he regathers his sense of self, reshaping his identity, nearly dissolved in the current.

Dei Liberi, d’Aubigny, Bologne…

He blinks as new visions flicker across his mind. The City has darkened in the echoes of the past. The golden fluid has dried up. The young woman wanders, a shadow of her former self. She has lost her light, and now everyone avoids her. She clings to every last drop of the nectar. When her hunger gnaws at her, the entire City groans and quakes. People fear her. They flee. They hide. They bring her the golden nectar in supplication, begging her not to unleash her wrath. Love is gone. Those who approach do so only in terror.

Dei Liberi, d’Aubigny, Bologne…

Dei Liberi…

He must cling to these names like a North Star, navigating this ocean of memory. He lets go and follows the compass of his desire. The waves slow, scenes stretch…

Wellmen collect the solar fluid. They hoist it in buckets and bladders. Below, the City is changing. It’s no longer welcoming. It fills with bitterness and darkness. The collectors store what they can, hide it, and smuggle glowing Aerolith cores to the upper levels. They cannot remain. They must flee. They must escape—into the sky.

Dei Liberi…

It’s almost a groan, as he struggles not to dissolve in the flood of memories. He must not be swept away. In the crucible of his mind, two figures begin to form, emerging from a distant past.

‘You will stay here, Fiore. The fate I’ve reserved for you is far from enviable, but it’s the sacrifice I ask of you. This stone will be your prison—for centuries. Until he comes to set you free.’

‘You promised I would cross blades with the worthiest of opponents. For that, you know I can wait an eternity, if I must.’

‘Thank you, my friend.’

Fiore dei Liberi…

A wave crashes through his mind and sweeps him away. He was so close—and now it's gone again. Who was he? Why had he been searching for him? Atsadi feels himself unraveling in the labyrinth of the City, losing his identity. Why was he fighting? What was he looking for? Slowly, his consciousness begins to dissolve, merging with the other memories of the City.

A hand lands on his shoulder, pulling him from the tempestuous current.

‘Hey! Come back!’, he hears beyond the chattering tide as it begins to recede.

Atsadi blinks, sways, seized by a sudden dizziness, before turning to face the one who just yanked him out of the maelstrom of memories. Kojo grimaces and lets go of his shoulder, stepping back.

‘Relax, you just looked totally out of it…’

‘What are you doing here?’, the swordsman snaps.

Kojo averts his gaze, slightly ashamed.

‘Uh… it’s just that…’

‘I already told you no. I thought I was clear.’

Everything spins in his head, but slowly, his mind regains its footing. He knows that without Kojo’s intervention, he might’ve been completely overwhelmed by the deluge of memories.

‘I know, I know. It’s just… climbing back up alone freaked me out a bit’, the tracer admits reluctantly. ‘I just figured it’d be safer to stick around…’

Atsadi sighs.

‘Which one of you woke me from my slumber?’, comes a warm, affected voice.

Startled, the two Alterers turn in unison and peer into the surrounding shadows. A figure emerges with nonchalance. It’s a towering man, long brown hair cascading beneath a wide-brimmed hat. He sports a sly smile, highlighted by a magnificent mustache that curls at both ends. His eyes sparkle with mischief, beneath theatrically expressive eyebrows that seem to convey the entire spectrum of his flamboyant personality. He certainly knows how to make an entrance, Atsadi thinks, noting the white ruffled shirt and embroidered blue vest accentuated by an enormous red rose in his buttonhole.

‘But forgive my manners, and allow me to introduce myself. Fiore dei Liberi, son of Benedetto dei Liberi. Diplomat, free noble, mercenary, and master of the dueling arts. Knight of the seven blades.’

He reaches for his blade to draw it, then hesitates.

‘Well now, who saw fit to saddle me with this ridiculous sword and this eccentric outfit? What fanciful imagination do I owe thanks to?’

Kojo casually points at Atsadi.

‘I see’, the Eidolon continues. ‘So, it’s you. Are you the one I was promised? The one who will grant me an exceptional duel?’

Atsadi narrows his eyes.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, swordsman. But yes, I offer you a duel.’

‘Ha! Then so be it—let us fight!’

Atsadi draws his jian and levels it at him.

‘Though you might’ve given me something other than a rapier. Maupin’s the one who usually fights with this kind of blade. Would you mind if I test its balance for a moment?’

Atsadi nods, slightly taken off guard.

‘If you wish, Eidolon.’

Fiore allows himself a smile, then launches into a series of flourishes. After a few slashes and thrusts, he salutes his opponent with the blade.

‘Are you ready?’, Atsadi growls.

Kojo steps back to give them space.

‘Not quite yet. All this torpor… my muscles are stiff. May I do some quick stretches and warm-ups?’

‘My patience has limits, swordsman.’

‘Says you to the one who has waited through eons…’

The master-at-arms cracks his knees, stretches his arms and legs, then begins a thorough warm-up routine.

‘But might I ask why you seek this skirmish? Have I wronged you in some way?’

‘I’m here to become the greatest swordsman alive. To do that, I must defeat you.’

‘Ah, and the six others as well, I presume? I’m flattered to be first on your list.’

‘Who are the others? What are their names?’

‘Let’s say… I’ll give you two names if you manage to best me. Fair enough?’

Atsadi nods, as Fiore rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck.

‘You heard that? I hope I’m not too rusty and do you justice. But is it truly just to be the best that drives you? Something so trivial?’

‘I fight for love.’

Dei Liberi raises his eyebrows, then offers a knowing smile.

‘What nobler cause? Then this matter suffers no delay. En garde!’

He raises his rapier slowly, expression changing—yet glances toward the center of the pit.

‘Perhaps we should go down below? There would be more room to fully express our respective talents. Assuming you have any, of course.’

‘Whatever.’

The swordsman steps backward and begins descending the staircase, never taking his eyes off the one-armed duelist. Atsadi follows at a measured distance. A few steps from the bottom, dei Liberi leaps into the center of the chamber, waiting for his opponent to join him. In the mist, the two men watch each other, circling the central stone block in a synchronized dance. They study, evaluate, neither breaking the solemn rhythm. Kojo, meanwhile, stays on the walkway above, eyes wide, soaking in every second of the duel.

‘Well, what are we waiting for, young master? You seemed so eager just moments ago…’

Atsadi continues to study him. His guard is flawless, his stance impeccable.

‘But I understand. Every duel is a flower, one must pick it with…’

Atsadi doesn’t let him finish. He surges forward, his jian slicing in a perfect arc. The blade cuts the air where Fiore stood a fraction of a second earlier.

‘Magnificent balestra! Please, continue your assault!’

Feint. Beat. Their footwork stirs the mist as they clash. Fiore dodges, again and again, testing Atsadi’s patience. At last—a counter. He tries to envelop the blade, but dei Liberi disengages. A whip cut, followed by a lunge. Circular parry, redoublement. Back to guard. He in sixte, Atsadi in tierce. Cave, counter-riposte.

‘Be honest. Do you think you truly have what it takes to defeat me?’

Another exchange of strikes.

‘You should use your surroundings more. Like so.’

Fiore circles behind a stone stele to cover his back, leaps out with a shift in footwork to attack Atsadi’s flank with a vicious molinello. But the Cicada of Dusk dodges at the last second.

‘As for me’, says dei Liberi, ‘I won’t hesitate to capitalize on your weaknesses.’

‘I’m not here for a lesson’, Atsadi growls in return.

‘But everything’s a lesson—for a fencer!’

Their blades ring out as they exchange words, neither giving ground.

‘But if love is the prize, we haven’t defined the duel’s terms. I assumed a great deal—but perhaps we go full Boessière and settle for first blood?’

Instead of answering, Atsadi lunges with a deep thrust.

‘When I fight, I stake my whole life!’

‘Ha! A stoccata lunga! So you know your Giganti. But in that case…’

Dei Liberi shifts slightly to execute a coupé.

‘Allow me to answer with De Liancour!’

The rapier's edge slices through Atsadi’s clothing, but doesn’t break skin. Atsadi disengages, sweeps Fiore’s blade aside one last time, and returns to guard. His breath comes hard; sweat pours from his brow. Opposite him, Fiore stands tall, not a hint of fatigue.

‘You’re clearly at a disadvantage.’

‘Are you holding back?’, Atsadi growls.

The swordsman smirks with arrogant charm.

‘Not at all. In any fight, one must take full advantage of every asset available—if they wish to win.’

‘And your tactical advantage is…’

‘To exploit your handicap, without shame. And your mortality, which I, as an Eidolon, cannot share. Is that deceitful?’

Atsadi suddenly sighs—and smiles at his opponent.

‘Then I’m allowed to use every trick at my disposal?’

‘Of course, how could it be otherwise? Any other way, victory would be bittersweet.’

‘Very well. Know this—you are a formidable duelist, Fiore dei Liberi. Without question. Your technique is incredible, your defense unbreakable. You have the advantage of two arms, where I have only one. And in other circumstances, your superiority would be undeniable. But you’ve misunderstood one crucial thing.’

‘Oh? And what’s that?’, asks the swordsman, intrigued.

‘You’re not just facing a swordsman. You’re facing an Alterer.’

Suddenly, Fiore’s eyes widen as Atsadi’s figure erupts in terrible flame.

Dust settles over the improvised arena. Kojo peers into the central pit: cracked floor, shattered stone steles, fissured walls, and smoke rising and making him cough. The fight had felt like a glimpse of the end of the world. Dazed, he watches Atsadi and Fiore converse calmly—almost courteously—as the latter inspects the gaping tear in his coat. Had he not been made of imagination, the blow would’ve been fatal.

The Eidolon of Fiore dei Liberi finally fades, but not before removing his hat and giving a pedantic bow. Atsadi slowly climbs the staircase back to the walkway. Wide-eyed, still reeling from the devastation and power on display, Kojo steps aside, his awe renewed.

‘That was insane…’

Atsadi stops beside him.

‘It’s still no.’

Kojo lowers his eyes, clearly deflated.

‘But… did you get what you came for?’

The one-armed swordsman nods—albeit reluctantly.

‘Julie d’Aubigny and Joseph Bologne. They’re my next targets.’

Kojo watches him walk away, heart pounding. Would he ever be cut from the same cloth as a hero like that? His thoughts, still stunned by the battle, waver between disappointment and admiration. Disappointed to have been shut down again. But inspired by a new example to follow—though still light-years away from matching it.

Before the victorious swordsman can make his exit, Kojo falls in step behind him. But before leaving too, he glances once more at the sepulcher. And yes… it truly was the tomb of his lost hopes.