I can't take a single step yet.
Unlike a certain someone who slowly shifts his weight forward, steady on his leading leg, while gripping the wooden replica of a sword between calm fingers.
With eyes closed and deep, measured breaths, Letta stands there, in the middle of a tall hall, bathed in bright light from overhead lamps, surrounded by pale wooden panels lining the walls. There's a warmth in the air — faint but present — even as a sharp click echoes through the windowless space.
In that very instant, Letta lunges.
He thrusts his sword through the air, simultaneously with the wooden dummy shooting up in front of him. Directly into the path of his strike. And before the second passes, a hole pierces clean through the dummy's head.
Suddenly, another click runs through the hall and another side strike follows. Another dummy pops up and another head drops to the floor.
The next click, and Letta spins fluidly, like a dancer.
A dance the next puppet doesn't survive either — its torso splitting open with a single motion.
It feels like a flawless routine — precise and rhythmic, stolen straight from the textbook. A little too perfect even.
Until he lets the wooden sword fall and reaches for the leather grip at his hip.
Odd, since wooden blades are more than enough for training. And there's no click this time.
Still, his grey sleeves sweep through the air as he draws his weapon and completes one final spin.
The dark blue blade gleams like a sapphire in sunlight, its jagged zigzag edge catching the light just before a metallic clang shatters the hall's stillness.
Then, a knife splits in two — its halves skittering across the soft floor — and Letta raises the blade toward the sudden intruder.
"So you don't even put down your weapon during training,"
the man rumbles, his deep bass voice echoing between the walls as his heavy steps draw nearer.
"And this, even though we're inside an APH stronghold — one of our nation's hearts. The last bastion, and the most heavily guarded building in the Third Main District."
The broad-shouldered figure strokes his silver beard, then runs a hand through equally silver hair.
"Seems he didn't exaggerate about you," he adds with a smirk.
But before he can take another step, another click rings out and Letta strikes for one last time, cleaving the rising wooden dummy between them clean in half — and stopping just short of the man's pale throat.
"Hey, hey — I'm really not dangerous," the supposed enemy says, raising both hands, his eyes darting to the unusually shaped blade.
Indeed, aside from that brief surprise attack, there's nothing truly threatening about him. Maybe the scar over his right eye draws attention — but that's where suspicion ends.
Letta, however, would probably rather slit his throat and file it under "training accident."
But that could backfire — badly.
And he knows that.
Better than anyone.
Maybe a little too well.
"So?" the man asks softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
A small twitch runs through Letta's fingers — and the uncertainty in his stance says more than any words could.
Of course, the stranger is right, they are in the middle of the APH itself — there is hardly a better-guarded place. The chance of running into an enemy here is practically zero. Yet for some reason, Letta can't shake this feeling. The feeling that something is off. As if someone is trying to make a fool of him. As if this man isn't telling the whole truth.
It's this very feeling that makes him hesitate. But only for a moment, before he slides the blade back into its sheath, ending the inspection with a final hiss.
"Well, finally," the man sighs in relief and lowers his hands.
"For a second, I really thought you were going to cut me open."
"Maybe I still will," Letta replies darkly, then turns toward the wooden sword lying on the floor.
"Wow, guess someone needs to teach you what trust means. Look, I'm not asking for the keys to your apartment. But if you keep shutting out your own people, who's going to stand by you in the end? What's going to save you when the whole world turns against you?"
Letta ignores the lecture, picks up the sword, and walks toward the thick metal door that marks the exit.
"Apparently, that's not the first time you've heard that," the man sighs, giving up, and follows his unresponsive companion.
They pass through the heavy slab of metal and enter a white room overflowing with machinery. Screens show different parts of the massive training hall — here and there a few soldiers are desperately striking at dummies. The control panel is covered with large red buttons, yellow blinking lights, and long levers that won't move any further. It almost feels like stepping into the cockpit of an airplane, so overwhelming are the countless screens and buttons along the console.
Still, Letta doesn't care in the slightest. He drops the wooden practice sword into a simple metal bin, along with many other worn-out ones.
"So? What is it this time?" he finally breaks the silence, sinking into the soft white backrest of a rolling chair.
"Hm? What do you mean?" the man asks, closing the door behind him.
"There must be a reason they're sending another messenger instead of a written one," Letta says, pushing himself toward the console with a swing.
"Another one, huh? Sounds like you're pretty popular," the man concludes, sitting backward on a chair and resting his arms on the backrest.
"Though that's none of your business," Letta snaps and presses what seems like a random button, causing three of the four remaining wooden dummies on the screens to collapse.
"Tch, I knew it," he mutters angrily and grabs a microphone mounted on the wall.
"Mechanics, Hall 4, Section 2. One of the dummies is jammed."
"Happens a lot?" the man prods, only to be met with a sharp, piercing glare.
"You ask me a few too many questions for a messenger."
While Letta voices his suspicion, he pushes the lever back to its starting point and studies the face of his interlocutor.
"Alright, alright, I get it! And you're right, I do have a concern. Although it's one you definitely won't like," the stranger answers, rolling back a little.
"Then start with an introduction. Otherwise trust will be our last concern," Letta replies.
"Do all messengers have to introduce themselves to you?" the man asks, frowning.
"No, but I also rarely want to cut any of them open," Letta says, his hand already on the weapon's hilt.
"Let alone have them ambush me from behind," he adds, pulling the blade out a little.
"Hah, I can tell this will be a delightful time with you," the stranger sighs, then adopts a more serious expression.
"Fine, my name is Mazawa, former head of the second division of the Third Main District, and a thoroughly trustworthy person."
"And that's why you were dismissed from your office?" Letta replies skeptically.
"Oh come on, that was hardly the reason. Although, if I look back..." Mazawa answers and strokes his beard thoughtfully.
"Very trustworthy," Letta notes, but he slides the blade back into its sheath—perhaps because he takes the whole thing a bit more lightly now, or because he no longer needs to apply pressure.
"Well..." Mazawa begins, letting his shoulders drop a little.
"The fact is, I may have been a bit TOO curious and someone noticed, and so I was accused of abusing my power and reassigned. But aside from that, you can trust me."
Mazawa doesn't even blink as he states this. Yet a reassignment is usually the first step of a disposal program.
"Sure ...," Letta replies, starting to put the situation in order.
"Who else would know better? Nobody else can read my mind," Mazawa defends his claim stubbornly.
"I think you don't understand trust," Letta objects.
"Hmm, if that doesn't convince you... how about money?" Mazawa asks, beginning to spin on his stool.
"Bribe money? Now I really think you're kidding me," Letta answers with a slight smirk.
"But you know what? That's a game for two. Only I don't want money—I want to know what information put you on the kill list."
"Are you sure you want to make it that easy for me?" Mazawa counters, stopping abruptly and returning the scrutinizing look.
"Easy? We only have a verbal promise, and that gives no guarantee for your purchase," Letta says.
Mazawa grins—wide, natural, confident, almost arrogant.
"Well, I found something really... let's say, interesting. A sort of rumor circulating through the APH ranks. It concerned a new APH elite said to be capable of destroying several hundred Wunder at once."
"Sounds like wishful thinking. That would be the very definition of Spirit's dream," Letta interrupts.
"I know. But when I dug a little deeper, I actually came across documents that were far too close to that wishful thinking—blueprints for new equipment, papers and research on Wunder biology, the bond between human and Wunders. It felt... otherworldly. And far too structured," Mazawa explains.
"Structured?" Letta asks, showing sudden interest.
"Well, how do I put it... Have you ever talked to someone who knows way too much about something completely stupid?" Mazawa begins.
"Maybe. What are you getting at?"
"You already know, don't you? I saw things I'd never even heard of before—classified and hidden documents full of theories, research results from a time frame way too short. So short, in fact, it almost felt like whoever was running it… knew exactly what they were doing. As if they had already done or seen it all—as if they knew the outcome before the research even began."
Mazawa pauses, running his hand through his beard again—a habit of his, it seems.
"But that's not all. I found plenty of other research projects—projects about fusing two Wunder, studies on cell mutation, even something about transferring limbs between two living beings. And among all of that, one project stood out... the creation of an artificial Wunder-power. Test subject: 001, Ryuu, the Black Mystery. And that's when they caught me—and suspended me."
Mazawa's explanation ends there—barely a moment before Letta bursts into laughter.
"Hahaha, and you're just telling me all this? Just because I asked? Knowing full well that I swore loyalty to the APH, that I'm one of the last people who'd believe any of this crap? That I could have you executed for treason right here, right now?!"
His mocking words hit Mazawa, yet the man doesn't lose his composure. On the contrary—he seems almost amused by the reaction he's drawn from Letta.
"Ha... you really are a hopeless case. What's going on in that head of yours?" Letta adds, slowly calming down again.
"Well, I just thought someone like you might understand. We're not so different, you and I, right?"
Mazawa's reply brings a grin to Letta's face.
"Who knows."
Then Mazawa rises from the rolling stool and stretches his back with a few cracks.
"So? Have I... ahh... managed to convince you?" he asks.
"Someone as stupid as you couldn't fool anyone, let alone the APH," Letta replies.
"So that's a yes?" Mazawa counters with a smirk.
"Explain first why Spirit sent you to me," Letta says.
"Well, that's the part you might not... exactly like."
"Just say it."
"Uh... let's just say I was sent here to form a team with you."
Silence fills the room as Mazawa stops, almost scrutinizing Letta with his eyes. But Letta doesn't move—he just loses his grin, gives no protest. So Mazawa takes a breath and continues.
"Do you remember the meeting two days ago?"
Letta stays silent.
"Uh... well, anyway, Spirit mentioned a raid in the Third Main District on the Big Demon's sub-base. They call it the 'Small Demon'—ridiculous name, if you ask me. I mean, Small Demon? Seriously? What's with people and making up weird names? Imagine if everyone did that. No one could understand anyone anymore because everyone would just make up their own words. And then what? We'd have to train people just to interpret everyone else's made-up language! Instead of just having one that—"
"Get to the point," Letta cuts him off, his voice sharp.
"Right, right... Anyway, the raid on the Small Demon. Everyone involved has already been briefed, but there's been a small change of plans. So they sent me—as a messenger, but also as your partner for the mission. We're supposed to report to Ivelisse together and then... spend time as a team until the raid begins."
Again, silence falls. Only for a second—but for Mazawa, it feels like an eternity. Letta is unpredictable, and no one can tell how he'll react. That's why it's all the stranger once he simply stands up and heads for the exit.
"What are you... doing?" Mazawa asks carefully.
"Huh? What do you think?" Letta replies, grabbing the silver handle.
"What? No resistance? You're just going along with it?" Mazawa adds, so shocked he almost sounds horrified.
"What else am I supposed to do? I don't have a choice anyway," Letta says, pushing the handle down and leaving the room in the same breath.
"But still... Isn't that a bit blind? Don't you ever question your orders?" Mazawa calls after him, but no answer comes.
Just as no understanding comes to the bearded man, who strokes his silver beard once more.
"And yet you were so suspicious of me ... Ah, what the hell have I gotten myself into?"
His final words are aimed at no one, and no one answers—neither another person nor himself. So he just follows, stepping out, closing the door behind him. Leaving only a silent darkness that will outlast even the setting sun.