The pale morning light filtered through the stained-glass windows of Korvath's war hall, splashing color across a table littered with maps, markers, and half-drunk mugs of tea gone cold. The smell of ink and iron filled the air.
Guildmaster Kouki Nozomi had yet to arrive, but the room was already alive with argument. Tamaki, the mayor of Korvath, stood at the head of the table—stern, tired, but refusing to yield the air of command.
Yaguro, the guild branch manager, adjusted his spectacles and sighed. "We've lost two scouting teams north of Bustleburg, and the last report from Giggleburg mentioned heavy fortification. We can't hit both fronts, not with the current manpower."
Rick Kaiser, arms crossed, leaned against the wall like a statue of dissent. "Then we choose. Giggleburg first, cripple their supply chain, then move south. It's simple logistics."
"Simple?" Varric Drayen's voice was gravel wrapped in command. "You think the enemy will wait while we 'cripple' their chain? Bustleburg's forces are retreating—they're vulnerable. We strike them now and take the northern corridor before reinforcements arrive."
Yaguro tapped the map, tone sharp. "That's a gamble. If we fail, they'll close us in from both sides. We'd be boxed between two cities with no escape route."
The debate flared like flint. Adventurers muttered from the benches along the walls—some in support, some in doubt.
Yoshiya and Omina sat together near the back, listening. Omina's fingers drummed against her thigh, sharp eyes darting across every speaker, weighing their worth. Yoshiya, meanwhile, seemed more subdued, his gaze locked on the shifting arguments, the tug of strategy and pride that threatened to split the alliance again.
Tamaki finally raised a hand. "Enough." Her voice carried the weight of command. "Both cities are crucial. But we can't risk dividing the army without assurance of success. Unless someone has a plan that guarantees victory—"
The hall's doors creaked open.
Bootsteps echoed, measured and deliberate. Kouki Nozomi entered, cloak trailing the faint scent of rain and blood—a remnant of the frontlines he'd recently inspected. His expression was calm, almost disarmingly so, but his eyes held that dangerous glint that came only from long, sleepless nights of calculation.
"Then allow me to propose one," he said.
All eyes turned toward him. Even Tamaki straightened.
Kouki walked to the table, laid a sealed scroll across the map, and unfurled it with a flick of his wrist. Inside were fresh reconnaissance sketches—Bustleburg's troop formations, defensive lines, and the new construction of their siege towers.
"They're weaker than you think," Kouki said evenly. "Bustleburg's army suffered heavier losses than our scouts initially reported. Half their command line is still recovering from the northern skirmish. If we strike within the next five days, we take the city before they can reorganize."
Rick's brows furrowed. "You're suggesting we abandon Giggleburg entirely?"
Kouki shook his head. "Not abandon. Outsource."
Yaguro blinked. "Outsource…? To who?"
The guildmaster smirked faintly, as if the answer amused him more than it should. "To these criminals."
From behind him, two figures stepped forward, cloaked in black and gray. The first was tall and lean, his left cheek marked by a long scar that traced to the corner of his mouth. A samurai's armor clung to him like a shell—worn but well-maintained.
The second figure moved silently, head lowered, mask covering half his face, eyes sharp and unreadable. The subtle rattle of kunai against his hip gave him away before he spoke.
"Allow me to introduce Nogare Mirai," Kouki said, gesturing toward the samurai, "and Zentake Hoshigari, a shadow operative. Both members of the Suicidal Division."
The room stiffened.
Even seasoned adventurers muttered uneasily. The Suicidal Division wasn't a unit so much as a rumor—an unspoken experiment born from desperation. Those who survived its missions rarely returned sane.
Nogare grinned—a wolfish, careless expression. "We've been called worse."
Nogare didn't smile. He bowed with quiet precision. "Orders are already seen. Objective is obvious."
Tamaki frowned. "Kouki… you're sending criminals to handle an entire fortress?"
"They're not ordinary criminals," Kouki replied, tone sharp enough to slice through the murmurs. "Nogare is a former samurai of Natsugami—banished for killing his own kin. Zentake is a master infiltrator. Both operate beyond morality but within efficiency."
Rick scoffed. "That's a poetic way of saying we're trusting murderers."
"Efficiency doesn't need poetry," Kouki countered. "It needs results. While we march on Bustleburg, they'll infiltrate Giggleburg, sabotage communications, and burn their armories. Once chaos breaks loose, they'll disappear before anyone realizes who did it."
Varric's fists tightened. "You'd risk another scandal? If the guild is caught employing outlaws—"
"They won't be caught," Kouki interrupted, calm and sure. "That's why they exist. They are ghosts with nothing to lose."
Silence hung heavy for a moment.
Yoshiya leaned forward slightly, whispering toward Omina. "He's serious about using them."
Omina nodded, gaze fixed on the samurai and the ninja. "He knows this isn't about honor anymore. It's survival."
Tamaki exhaled slowly. "If this fails, it won't be just their lives on the line. It'll be Korvath's credibility."
Kouki met her eyes. "Then it won't fail."
The tension in his voice wasn't arrogance—it was conviction, cold and mathematical. He'd already weighed the odds, measured the costs, and found them acceptable.
Zentake rested his sword against his shoulder. "Guess we're going to Giggleburg, then. Been a while since I burned a city."
Nogare spoke softly, almost like an afterthought. "We'll make sure no one will see how the fire started there."
Varric slammed a hand on the table. "You're insane! These men don't fight for us—they fight for the thrill!"
"Then let them thrill in our favor," Kouki said, his voice steady but iron beneath. "Every blade, no matter how dark, still cuts the enemy."
The room erupted again—arguments, disbelief, the clash of moral walls against pragmatic survival.
Tamaki tried to restore order, but her voice was swallowed by the storm of dissent.
And amid that chaos, Yoshiya caught sight of Kouki's eyes—those calm, calculating eyes. There was no madness in them, no delight. Just the quiet acceptance of a man who understood the arithmetic of war: some hands must stain so others can remain clean.
As the hall filled with shouting, the decision hung heavy in the air.
The assault on Bustleburg would proceed.
The shadows would move toward Giggleburg.
And in the corner of the room, the men of Dargath—iron-hearted, pride-bound warriors—rose to their feet, slamming their gauntlets against the table.
"You dare entrust the frontlines to criminals while we're sidelined?!" their captain roared.
The war hall fell silent again—breath held, blades ready.
Kouki turned toward them, unflinching. "Then prove you can do better."
The challenge hung in the air like a drawn sword, gleaming between the lines of loyalty and rebellion—
—and the council of blades was divided once more.