"So," the merchant said, raising an eyebrow, "have you made up your minds yet?"
"Eh, we'll circle back to that later," Boros replied, shooting a look at Akeno and Kinuko.
"Of course, of course," the merchant said easily. "Let's head back to the front."
As they walked, he glanced toward Akeno.
"So, what kind of weapons do you use?"
"Me?" Akeno blinked, pointing at herself.
"Yes, you," he said with a friendly grin.
"Uh… throwing weapons, mostly," she replied, rubbing the back of her neck.
"Interesting," the merchant nodded. "Anything specific?"
"Shuriken sometimes, but mainly kunai."
"Kunai, huh?" He sounded genuinely surprised. "That's not something you see every day around here." He chuckled. "Got one on you?"
"Yeah, actually." Akeno reached into her pouch and handed one over.
The merchant turned it over in his palm, examining the balance, the edge.
"You see, we don't usually make these here. Most folks in the West wouldn't even know how to use one." He smiled. "But this? This is solid. If you leave it with me, I can pass it to the blacksmith. For the right price, he could probably forge a whole batch for you."
He then turned to Kinuko.
"And you?"
She shifted slightly. "I use throwing weapons too… but I prefer short swords. Ones without a hand guard."
"Ah," the merchant said with a knowing nod. "Refined taste. No worries—we should have some." He gestured toward a corner of the shop. "Why don't you take a look over there?"
"Alright," Kinuko said, already heading that way.
"I'll help," Akeno added, following after her.
They didn't go far—close enough that they could still hear Boros and the merchant conversing.
"And you, young man?" the merchant asked. "Got a favorite weapon?"
Boros scratched the back of his neck.
"Huh? Not really. I'm not much of a weapons guy. My fighting style's more… hands-on. Literally. I need my fingers to use my ability."
The merchant raised a brow.
"I can use swords and stuff," Boros continued, "but most of the time they just get in the way. Besides, if I really need one, I can just make it."
"Well now," the merchant said, clearly intrigued. "That's not something you hear every day."
"You said you need your fingers to use your ability?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"So if someone were to—say—cut them off mid-fight," the merchant said casually, "you'd be out of luck?"
Boros smirked.
"Not exactly. I could still use it—it'd just be… complicated. The fingers aren't the power. They're part of how I fight. Style, not function."
"Ahh," the merchant said, stroking his beard. "Sounds like one hell of a Longinus." He chuckled.
"Wouldn't want to be on the wrong end of that."
Unnoticed, a man lingering near the back of the shop paused his fake browsing.
'An ability that creates weapons…'
His lips curled into a twisted grin.
"That's the Metal Longinus," he muttered.
Slowly, he dragged his tongue along the edge of his blade, eyes gleaming with hunger.
"If that's true…"
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
"Doesn't that mean he's strong?"
His grin widened.
"And doesn't that mean… I get to kill someone fun?"
Without warning, the man lunged from the shadows—too fast for the eye to follow—his blade slicing straight for Boros's throat.
The strike never landed.
In a single, effortless motion, Boros moved.
He caught the attacker's wrist mid-air, twisted behind him in a blink, and slammed a hand against the man's throat, locking him in place like a vise.
"Well, well…" Boros murmured, voice low and dangerous. "What do we have here?"
The man's eyes bulged.
"He—he caught me?" he choked out, panic bleeding into his thoughts. Impossible. I was faster.
'I came from behind—he shouldn't have seen me. Just who the hell is this guy…?'
He struggled, but Boros's grip tightened just enough to steal the breath from his lungs.
"Easy," Boros said calmly, his fingers dragging slightly along the man's throat—a deliberate reminder.
"Wouldn't want to do something stupid."
Behind the counter, the merchant stood frozen, mouth hanging open.
"W-what just happened…?" he whispered. "Where did this guy even come from?!"
To him, Boros had been talking one second—and the next, he was holding someone by the throat like it was nothing.
Akeno and Kinuko rushed over.
"Shiro!" Akeno shouted. "What happened? Who is that?!"
Boros didn't look away from his captive.
"Old man," he called out.
"Y-yes?" the merchant stammered.
"If I fought this guy here," Boros asked casually, "what would happen to your shop?"
The merchant swallowed hard.
"…It'd be leveled."
Boros smirked.
"Thought so." He tilted his head toward the struggling man. "Hear that? We're not doing this here. Bad for business."
He glanced at the girls.
"Akeno. Kinuko. Stay with the old man. Keep him safe. I'll be back."
Then—
whoosh.
Boros vanished in a blur, taking the would-be assassin with him.
"Shiro!" Akeno yelled, her voice echoing uselessly through the shop.
"It's okay," Kinuko said softly, a faint blush touching her cheeks. "If he says he'll be back… he will."
The merchant remained pale, hands trembling.
"T-that man…" he muttered. "He was wearing black…"
"Black?" Kinuko asked, raising an eyebrow. "So?"
The merchant nodded slowly.
"Remember what I said earlier—about clothing having function?"
"Yeah?" both girls said.
"Color matters too," he said grimly. "Black is the color of assassins."
He glanced around his shop like the danger had only just sunk in.
"An assassin… in my store…"
Then he looked at them, worry etched deep into his face.
"Is your friend… a wanted man?"
"No," Kinuko answered quickly. "At least, he shouldn't be. We only arrived in the West a few days ago. That's why we came here to gear up and join a guild."
The merchant exhaled, tension still clinging to his shoulders.
"I see… that's good."
Then his expression darkened.
"But if an assassin came after him," he said quietly, "there's usually a bounty involved."
...
Boros hit the forest's edge like a meteor.
Branches shattered. Bark exploded. Leaves scattered as both bodies slammed through the trees with a thunderous crack—then silence.
They were thrown apart, landing only a few feet from each other, eyes locked.
Boros rose first.
He brushed dirt and leaves from his jacket with calm, practiced motions, as if nothing had happened. When he looked up, his eyes were sharp, voice low and controlled.
"Alright," he said.
"So who the hell are you?"