The world was still dark.
The city had not yet awakened—not that it truly could anymore.
A thin layer of mist lingered across the fractured streets, catching only the faintest traces of light from Kal'tsit's hovering drone as it glided silently above the group. The faint hum of its engine was the only sound filling the hollow ruins of Chernobog at this hour, save for the rhythmic shuffle of boots over cracked stone.
They walked in formation—not rigid, not military, but clustered. Five new shadows moved alongside the familiar four, still finding their pace after the night's events.
Earlier that morning, before they departed…
The Doctor had insisted on establishing codenames.
"From now on, you'll use the following callsigns: Zima, Rosa, Istina, Gummy, and Leto. Keep comms simple, efficient. In combat, confusion costs lives."
The students had nodded, understanding the practicality.
But later, as they started their march…
"Sonya," Fang said without turning his head, voice calm and natural.
Zima—Sonya—blinked.
"Ah… yes, Sensei?"
"Your gait is strong. Good posture. But your left knee is favoring old strain."
"What—how did you—"
"Don't hide it. Wounds are teachers too."
She paused, surprised that he used her real name so casually.
From the back, the Doctor pinched the bridge of his nose.
"…That defeats the point of codenames."
Fang didn't reply. He just smiled faintly, continuing forward.
None of the students complained. In fact… they seemed to like it.
Now, Zima kept pace just behind Fang, occasionally glancing his way with an expression halfway between admiration and curiosity.
"Sensei…"
"Hm?"
"I didn't get to thank you properly last night."
He tilted his head slightly. "And what would you thank me for?"
She hesitated for just a second before answering.
"For giving us a reason to fight again. Not just survive."
Behind her, Rosa muttered, "To live, you mean," but she didn't disagree.
Fang's lips curved in a quiet smile.
"Then fight. But not because I gave you reason. Fight because your heart accepts it."
At the back, the Doctor sighed.
"Codenames."
Istina adjusted her notebook in her arms as she finally spoke up.
"Sensei Fang, a question—"
"Yes, Anna?"
The Doctor's head twitched slightly.
"… Istina."
Her lips twitched upward slightly at Fang's use of her name.
"Were those… things we saw really collapsals? They're described in all existing records as mindless, faceless—"
Fang's voice was even, walking at the same calm rhythm.
"The faces you saw were not theirs."
"Then whose—"
"Simply a manifestation of Father Ruin's will."
Nothing more.
He didn't explain further. And somehow… they understood it was enough.
The conversation broke when Gummy suddenly raised her hand like she was in class.
"Sensei! I'll cook for you next time we camp!"
Fang chuckled softly, but from behind them, Burngear stiffened. His arms flexed with an audible whir of gears.
"Tch. Like hell you will."
"What? Why not?!"
"Because I'm cooking for him."
"You can cook?!" Gummy gasped.
"Better than you, apron girl."
"Apron girl?! I'll show you apron girl!"
Their bickering carried on for several paces, so animated that even Kharon's usual stoic expression flickered into the smallest of smirks.
As they continued their march, Zima glanced toward Kharon walking just ahead of her.
"Hey… any tips?" she asked, voice casual but tinged with genuine respect.
Kharon slowed his steps slightly, glancing over his shoulder.
"Tips?"
"For fighting," she clarified. "I thought I was good, but when I was watching you last night… your control is unreal."
Beside her, Leto's eyes lit up, nodding quickly, clearly hanging on every word.
Kharon adjusted the grip on his polearms, his face unreadable.
"Maintain balance. Keep your stance low. Aim to control space, not just hit."
He hesitated, his jaw tightening.
"And… if you can, don't hesitate."
Leto tilted her head. "Don't hesitate?"
"It's easy to tell yourself you're ready," Kharon said quietly, "but the first time you… finish someone, your body might lock. That pause—"
He cut himself off, suddenly aware of who he was talking to.
His fingers flexed against the shafts of his spears.
"…Forget it."
He wasn't used to teaching kids how to kill.
Before anyone could speak, Fang's hand rose slowly in front of them.
A silent gesture.
Stop.
He took a step forward, his motion effortless, almost like slipping through water. His robes whispered faintly as he approached a collapsed building nearby.
The structure was barely standing—walls cracked, steel supports exposed—but Fang placed a hand against it and scaled upward, flowing between beams with such silence it was as if gravity itself had paused to let him pass.
Not a single stone shifted. Not a single sound betrayed him.
At the top, Fang crouched low and gazed past the jagged edge of the roof.
Below, at the next intersection, a Black Roots patrol moved with eerie precision.
Five armed soldiers surrounded a group of ten civilians, some of whom were marked with glowing crimson seals across their necks and forearms.
The patrol carried their signature weapons: segment-linked glaives mounted on articulated harnesses, each blade connected by mechanical cords running into their armor. With a flick of their wrists, the blades could extend or retract, forming sweeping arcs meant to cleanly "prune" multiple targets at once.
Their armor was smooth, bone-white with streaks of obsidian lines tracing from shoulder to chest, giving them the unsettling silhouette of caretakers rather than soldiers.
Each step was perfectly measured, each turn synchronized.
Like gardeners tending their plants.
Fang narrowed his eyes, waiting.
The patrol stopped suddenly—one soldier had spotted movement down the street, where the group was crossing.
The leader raised a hand, preparing to call out.
Fang dropped.
He landed soundlessly behind the patrol, his hand snapping forward in a blur as his incense rod struck the nearest soldier's wrist. The man's weapon spun away, harmless, before Fang hooked his arm and twisted him down to the pavement.
It was the signal.
Kharon moved first.
His twin spears blurred into a whirlwind, catching the extending glaive of one soldier mid-swing, snapping it aside before driving both tips into the man's chest with a force that cracked the armor.
Burngear surged forward next.
His gauntlets sparked with volatile energy, intercepting another soldier's spinning blade mid-flight and crushing it between his mechanical claws. He yanked the soldier forward by the weapon cord and slammed his fist into his visor, shattering it in a burst of red sparks.
Another soldier lunged for them, only for Fang to catch his arm mid-strike and redirect him into Kharon's waiting spear.
The fourth tried to retreat and call backup—Burngear tackled him full force, sending both crashing into the wall, where Burngear's arm pulsed and delivered a shockwave that left nothing but smoke.
The students hesitated—a beat too long—but Zima barked,
"Go!"
They rallied together, Rosa's rifle firing a precise round that cracked through the fifth soldier's wrist joint while Istina directed Leto and Gummy forward. The three closed in and, with focused strikes—clumsy but fueled by urgency—managed to bring the final soldier down.
The fight was over in seconds.
Fang exhaled softly, glancing over at the civilians, then at the faintly glowing seals.
"We need to move," he said calmly.
"And fast," Kharon added, retrieving his spears from the stone.