"Hey!" Sango's voice thundered across the rooftops, carrying over the petrified silence of Godfall. "Rossewalt! Don't kill them—offer a hand, Rosewalt! You hear me?!"
Rossewalt, already a disappearing streak in the blue-tinged darkness, allowed himself a faint, wry smile as the words reached him.
So this is Sango's ideology, he thought. A hard one to live by. That kind of mercy only gets its believers killed. But if anyone in this world can pull it off… it has to be him.
In a quick sprint , he arrived at the grand steps of the Godfall Judicial Plaza. The wide courtyard, normally bustling with clerks and petitioners, now stood frozen in eerie stillness—statues of citizens caught mid-stride, mouths open in silent screams.
At the center, four figures in tattered robes had appeared. The fabric was coated in hardened wax, scorched and blackened as though they had only just crawled out of a fire. Burn marks crawled up their sleeves like living veins.
"Cover me," the first figure commanded, voice low but steady. "I'm beginning the incantation."
He stepped toward a cracked wooden chest that rested on the plaza's stone tiles. As he reached out with his left hand, the night itself seemed to sharpen. In the space of a heartbeat, his arm—from the elbow down—detached.
Blood sprayed across the ground like water from a punctured pipe . The severed limb hit the stone with a wet thud. The cut was so impossibly clean that the figure did not even register the loss until he watched his own hand twitch on the ground.
From the shadows beside the chest, Captain Rosewalt stepped into the moonlight.
"So you're here after all," the first figure said, his dark tone laced with a strange, almost genuine reverence. "The famous Captain Rosewalt. It's an honor to finally behold you in person. Truly, it means a great deal to me."
"The pleasure is mine," Rosewalt replied evenly, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sheathed sword.
"If this is a party," the figure continued, voice sliding into something sinister, "then where's the guest of honor? I can't very well dance without seeing the main man."
"Trust me," Rosewalt said, chest swelling with quiet pride, "I'm more than enough for the four of you."
"Hm. You hold yourself in high regard. I like that." The figure bent down, picked up his severed arm , and extended the stump toward the fourth robed companion. Without a word, the fourth produced needle and thread and began stitching the limb back in place, the needle flashing silver in the moonlight.
"What's your objective?" Rosewalt asked, voice calm but edged with steel. "You knew Sango was in town. Yet you still made this reckless move."
"What if we're ready to die?" the first figure answered, his voice rising into a yell. "What if we're willing to die?"
He reached into the chest with his newly reattached—but still blood-slick—hand and withdrew a small, intricately carved figurine.
And it's people like this, Rosewalt thought grimly, that make Sango question his ideology.
"So this was your plan all along," Rosewalt said, his own tone turning sinister. "Sacrifice the entire town to awaken a masquerade."
"Bingo." The figure pointed directly at him, a crooked smile hidden somewhere beneath the hood. "You were spot on."
"With the masquerade's power," he continued, clutching the figurine tighter, "we'll finally stand on equal footing in the world's affairs."
Rossewalt let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Who told you that binding a masquerade would let you stand toe-to-toe with the true almighties of this world? I almost want to laugh."
The figure's posture stiffened.
"Hey," Rosewalt said suddenly, his mood shifting like a storm front rolling in. "I have one question for you."
"What?!" the figure shouted, frustration cracking his composure.
"How strong," Rosewalt asked quietly, fingers closing around the hilt as he slowly drew his sword, "is your fighting spirit?"
Moonlight glinted along the emerging blade.
It's been a long time, Rosewalt thought, since Rita last had a proper meal.
"Screw you, Rosewalt!" the figure bellowed, voice raw and ragged, like a bull in the throes of labor.
The plaza trembled with the promise of violence as steel met the cold night air.