The punch came so fast it barely existed—just a distortion in the air, a whisper of death rushing toward Veron's jaw. It should've shattered bone. Ended the fight before it began.
Instead, veron blocked the punch with his elbow and caught it.
His fingers tightened around Abrin's fist with calm, surgical precision. A faint tremor rippled outward from the impact, stirring dust on the execution square tiles. For a heartbeat, the world froze.
Then Veron smiled.
It wasn't friendly.
It wasn't sane.
It was the smile of a man who had just discovered something he thought no longer existed.
"I've been looking for someone like you for years," he said quietly, excitement flickering like wildfire in his eyes. "Fight me."
Before Abrin could answer, his body moved—reflex, instinct, hunger. He twisted his hips and launched a devastating roundhouse kick, the kind that could split a wooden post clean in half. The air cracked as his leg swept across it.
Veron slid under the kick with ghostlike grace.
And before Abrin even landed—
Veron was already above him.
Upside down.
Body suspended in the air like a dancer made of muscle and intent.
A heel descending toward Abrin's head like a falling star.
Abrin barely crossed his arms in time—
CRASH—
the blow shook the square, rattling chains, lifting dust in a violent ring around them.
Soldiers panicked.
One fired.
The bullet sliced directly between Veron and Abrin, passing so close it burned the skin on their cheeks. Both fighters froze for half a beat, annoyance flashing in their eyes at the same time.
Then Veron tilted his head, voice dripping with amusement.
"Abrin… join me."
Abrin blinked. "Join you in what?"
Veron's hand dipped to his belt with terrifying calm.
He raised a pistol and pressed it lightly to Abrin's forehead.
"Become the first member of my legion."
He pulled the trigger.
Abrin dodged, snatching the barrel mid-motion with a small, annoyed smirk. "So let me get this straight… you want me to become a Climber, kill a bunch of people, and follow you?"
"Wrong." Veron pulled his wrist free and stepped closer. "I don't kill innocents. And you—you have a goal. You need to climb. Don't you?"
Abrin's lips tightened.
"…yes."
"But why i will follow you?" he asked.
Veron paused. Something in him softened—barely. A breath of humanity sliding through the cracks.
Then he turned his back to Abrin.
"You should follow me," he said, "because if we keep fighting here… you won't survive from the hundred soldiers surrounding this square."
The sound of dozens of rifles loading filled the air.
Abrin didn't hesitate. "Who said I can't ?"
He sprinted.
Soldiers screamed. "He's running—shoot!"
Gunfire erupted like a storm.
Bullets tore through the air, slicing the world into shrapnel and smoke.
Abrin ran straight toward death.
One soldier aimed perfectly—
a clean shot at Abrin's skull.
BANG—
The moment froze.
A knife spun through the air.
Sparks erupted as it deflected the bullet off its path.
Veron landed beside Abrin with a predator's grace, instantly kicking the shooter's jaw sideways with a bone-breaking crack.
In the brief flicker before the soldier collapsed, Veron snatched the man's sword, flipped it in his hand, and sliced clean through the chains on Abrin's hands
Metal fell away like dead weight.
Abrin stared in disbelief. "What the hell are you doing!?"
Veron's grin was wild, bright, irrational.
"Saving my friend."
He hurled the sword at a rope holding up a wooden platform. The rope snapped, the structure collapsing on a squad of guards and opening a path.
Veron grabbed Abrin's wrist.
"To the alleys. Now!"
They shot into Sevala's twisting network of backstreets.
Steam rose from half-closed kitchens. Vendors screamed, hauling down shutters as bullets shattered tables and tore through wooden walls. The salty breeze mixed with the scent of fried noodles and gunpowder. Everywhere around them, people dove for cover.
For a moment, as they ducked behind the collapsing stall, Abrin finally tasted his own breath—sharp, metallic, loud enough to drown the alarms. Veron, meanwhile, didn't even seem winded.
The city alarms erupted.
WEEEOOO— WEEEOOO—
Every siren in the district screamed their names.
A radio crackled from a shop window as they sprinted past:
"Attention all units! The condemned fighter Abrin has escaped with the aid of hunter Veron. Both individuals are now fugitives. A reward is issued for any information."
Abrin snorted breathlessly. "Congrats. You're officially wanted with me."
"No problem," Veron replied. "I was planning to leave the city anyway."
"Because of me?"
"No. Because I'm bored."
Abrin opened his mouth, then shut it.
There was no arguing with insanity.
Gunfire resumed behind them.
Bullets punched holes through walls, sending showers of wooden splinters spraying like tiny meteors.
Veron vaulted over crates.
Abrin ran across them.
For a brief stretch of chaotic, explosive movement—they were perfectly in sync.
Two shadows dancing above the panicked city.
They reached a staircase and burst onto the rooftops. Wind slapped their faces as they sprinted across uneven tiles and makeshift bridges connecting buildings together like spiderweb threads.
"Where are we going!?" Abrin shouted.
"Not sure," Veron yelled back. "But once we lose them, we're leaving the city."
Abrin's breath caught.
"…Why do you want to become a Climber?"
Veron answered without hesitation.
"To become a Wallstride."
Abrin stumbled in shock.
"That's insane."
Veron smirked. "Good thing I'm not normal."
"And what about your legion?" Abrin demanded.
"You need a team. How will you climb alone?"
Veron slowed, glancing at him with calm conviction.
"You are my legion."
Abrin nearly tripped again.
But there was no time to respond—they reached a dead end.
A towering metal wall blocked the roof.
Behind them, soldiers climbed up, rifles raised.
"We're trapped," Abrin muttered.
"Only for normal people," Veron said.
He jumped onto a signpost, used its flex to launch himself onto a lower adjacent roof, and rolled smoothly into the shadows.
Abrin inhaled sharply. Then jumped.
They landed in another world.
Shadow District.
Steam rising from rusty pipes.
Red lanterns flickering.
The smell of old spices and burning incense thick in the air.
Women in flowing silks leaned on balcony rails, their laughter soft, teasing, the lantern light catching on smooth skin and curved silhouettes.
Neon wires hummed softly above them, casting shifting colors across the wet stone, as if this district followed rules the rest of the city had forgotten.
One brushed past Abrin as they moved through the alley, perfume drifting behind her, kimono slipping just enough to reveal a delicate collarbone and a playful smirk.
Abrin's face heated.
Veron didn't even blink.
"Focus," he murmured.
They turned a corner—
—and froze.
Three men in dark coats stood waiting.
Blocking the alley.
No weapons drawn.
No fear in their eyes.
Their coats didn't match any known uniform—no badge, no emblem—but the weight in the air tightened around the alley like an invisible fist.
Their leader stepped forward, the lantern glow catching his sharp jaw and the thin smile stretching across his lips.
"Veron… finally."
He spread his arms slightly, as if welcoming an old friend.
"You really made this easy for us."
Eybern's whisper was wary, almost instinctive: "Friends of yours?"
Veron's smirk was flat, detached. "No. Just a nuisance."
Abrin looked at him.
And for the first time since the fight began…
Abrin saw something new in Veron's eyes.
Not excitement.
Not confidence.
Not curiosity.
But discomfort.