The Head Priest's office was silent as a tomb. Yuusha sat behind his vast, empty desk. His calm was more intimidating than any anger.
Arata stood at stiff attention. Noir waited behind him, a tense but silent shadow.
Yuusha finally spoke, his voice quiet and sharp. "Your biomonitor shows you lost a huge amount of spiritual energy, Arata. It was taken."
Arata flinched. "The ripper was feeding on me. Noir broke its hold. Sometimes… contact during a feed can cause energy to shift. It's in the manual. It was necessary."
He was lying poorly, to protect Noir.
Yuusha wasn't fooled. "A 'shift' that strong?" He looked past Arata, straight at Noir.
"And the power you used to finish it… that wasn't spiritual energy at all. What did you classify it as?"
"I… I couldn't, Head Priest. It was..."
"Non standard," Noir cut in, "Aberrant. As logged."
" 'Aberrant.' A useful word for the unknown." Yuusha's gaze was a physical weight.
"And did it feel like a tool?" Yuusha asked softly. "Or did it feel like hunger?"
Noir looked away, the truth like a stone in his throat.
Arata took a small step forward, his voice earnest. "Head Priest, the mission was a success. All protocols were followed."
Yuusha studied Arata for a long moment, then gave a slow, acknowledging nod. "Your diligence in the paperwork is noted, Kenji."
He turned his attention back to Noir.
"This unknown manifestation. And the energy transfer that preceded it. They are two sides of the same void, are they not? One takes, the other… unmakes."
Noir said nothing. There was nothing to say. Yuusha saw too much.
"That piece of cloth you lost, the one that centers you. Its absence is no accident. You must ask yourself, Noir: was it stolen to hurt you… or was it taken to protect the world from what you are becoming?"
The words landed like a physical blow. Noir felt the air leave his lungs. It was the fear he'd refused to name, given voice by the most powerful man he knew.
Arata was staring at the floor, his face pale. The office felt impossibly small.
Noir understood then. This wasn't a debrief. It was a delineation.
Yuusha was drawing a line, showing him exactly where he stood: a useful weapon of last resort, tethered by a thread of borrowed loyalty, his very nature a potential crisis.
He had to get out. Before the void in him echoed the accusation in the room.
With a effort that cost him what little dignity he had left, Noir dipped his head in a shallow, formal bow—the first he'd ever voluntarily given the Head Priest.
It was an acknowledgement of rank, of authority, and of the unbridgeable distance between them.
"With your permission, may I be excused, Head Priest? I need to rest."
Yuusha held his gaze for a heartbeat longer, then gave a single, gracious nod. "Granted. Your discipline is appreciated, Noir. We will continue this discussion at a more opportune time."
It was both a dismissal and a promise. One that Noir didn't intend on keeping.
Noir turned and left, closing the heavy oak door softly behind him. The last sound he heard was the faint, anxious mumble of Arata beginning his defense over the spiritual residue report.
He'll handle it, Noir thought, the guilt a cold stone in his gut. He's better with rules than I am.
He walked away, consumed.
The fight replayed behind his eyes—not the victory, but the violation. The feeling of Arata's energy flooding the void inside him. The ripper's recognition.
Devourer.
I'm still not sure Arata can stop me, Noir thought, the dread cold and precise. But the fabric… God, I need it back.
It was the only anchor he had.
Who could have taken it from the Order's vault?
His feet carried him on autopilot. He didn't realize he'd reached the guest chambers—Yuusha's spare room—until the door clicked shut behind him.
The room was dark, quiet, and still. The comforting gloom pressed against his exhaustion. His body gave out, dropping onto the grey mattress like a stone into a pond.
Sleep took him not as a gentle wave, but as a sudden, silent drop into a deep well.
In his spiritual awareness, the mirror surfaced once more. It reflected his sleeping human form, illuminated by that strong, singular pillar of light descending from above. The ancient, critical voice that usually haunted that space was silent. No commentary. No warning. Just profound, unnerving stillness.
A slight, impossible breeze brushed his cheek from the surrounding nothingness.
In the mirror's reflection, an ominous silhouette detached itself from the deeper shadows. It began advancing, soundless, toward his vulnerable, sleeping body.
The breeze intensified, carrying the faint, metallic scent of ozone and cold stone. The mirror trembled. The reflected silhouette lifted a hand, fingers elongating into sharp points, reaching for his reflected throat—
CRACK.
The sound was both inside his skull and outside the window. A violent splintering of reality.
Noir's eyes flew open. He was on the bed, heart slamming against his ribs, the last echo of the dream-mirror shattering in his mind.
Just in time to see his actual bedroom window explode inward.
Shards of glass hung in the air for a surreal moment, a thousand glittering fragments catching the weak ambient light, each one reflecting a distorted piece of his startled face.
Then time snapped back to normal speed.
A figure dropped through the jagged opening, tucking into a tight, professional roll across the floor. It came up in a low crouch.
The intruder wore a form-fitting bronze combat suit that gave off a faint, metallic glow in the dark. A mane of dark, wavy hair—long enough to brush the shoulders—flowed back from a sharp, elegant face like a faithful shadow.
The figure straightened into a relaxed, almost casual stance. Grey eyes, pale and sharp as winter frost, gleamed with undisguised murderous intent.
Noir was already off the bed, his body moving on combat-honed instinct before his mind had fully processed the threat. His feet found the floor, his weight balanced, his gaze locked on the intruder.
"Yuusha send you? Or are you freelance?" he snarled, his voice still rough with sleep but edged with razor-sharp warning.
A low, gruff, and decidedly male voice cut through the dark. "Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep."
The intruder's frost-grey eyes held his. A cold, knowing smile touched his lips.
"Crimson Seer."