[Outer World]

  Intent: What you believe your Anima will do shapes what it actually does. Vague Intent produces weak Anima. Doubt weakens Anima, while conviction strengthens it. Named techniques power Intent through verbal declaration.

  Anima Depletion: A condition where Anima reserves are exhausted. An exhausted user has the inability to flare or coat. However, natural rest and practiced bits of Flaring will bring it out again.

  Flaring: The basic act of engulfing one's body in Anima, used for empowering and replenishing.

  Coating: Derived by Flaring, it precisely applies Anima to one’s body part or object.

  Masking: Simply hiding one's Anima from untrained senses or those without Eye-Coating. However, it prohibits the usage of Anima.

  Concealing: Derived by Masking it camouflages one’s Anima to other users, despite the usage of Coating. Allows users to use Anima.

  ***

  Lodio stared down at the barrel—at the deep, dark hole. It was like a void, swallowing all light. The cold metal gleamed dully. His eyes were wide—wider than the sun. A hitch escaped his throat, a small sound that condensed in the cold air. Then, his shaking gaze panned from the barrel to the man’s grinning face: all smug.

  He couldn’t move. Even if he wanted to. His joints were locked as if they mirrored Charlyne’s binding strings—as if invisible threads had somehow knitted his muscles to the bone. The cold bit at his exposed skin—shirt long gone from the explosion.

  “Prepare—“

  The man’s head popped off.

  It happened so fast. One moment he was monologuing, and the next? His head simply popped. It bounced across the snow, once, twice, then settled with its face angled upward. Dead eyes stared through Lodio’s soul, through the wall behind him, and through everything. His lips were still curled into that smirk. Blood erupted from the neck, splattering across the white snow. The body stood like an unwavering statue before it crumbled.

  Warm blood seeped into the greedy snow beneath.

  Slush.

  Lodio snooed his head toward the gaping hole in the second floor.

  Charlyne.

  She stood at the edge. Bloodied: her cheeks bruised. Blood trickled from her nose, welled on her chin, and then dripped onto the snow. But her hand? Her hand aimed at the bald man’s direction—translucent—unraveling into those familiar strings. From her mouth, ragged breaths escaped, condensed into a white mist.

  Shortly after, Juless emerged from the hole and jumped down. She landed, stumbled, and caught herself with a grin. Sophina Pieck—now unbound—hopped down beside her, landing with more grace. All of them looked terrible: bloodied faces, bruises swelling, and clothes torn.

  They panted like dogs.

  Then—a grating laugh erupted deep within the hole.

  “Phut! Phut! Phut!”

  Big Man.

  Of course he’s still alive. Of course he’s laughing. Of course Lodio Azhario will take revenge on him.

  “Heya!” Juless grinned before coughing blood. “I’m glad ya fine!”

  The other men stared—uncertain. Probably. They pinned their gazes in every direction: Juless, Charlyne, Sophina, and Lodio. And certainly, Lodio could feel their insect-pinning gaze.

  How it burned.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Lodio said nothing. No. Instead, he made his way toward the dropped revolver. Underneath his scuffed boots, the snow crunched—loud in the sudden quiet. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of blood. When he crouched and picked it up, he felt the cool metal against his skin. It was heavier than it looked. The black surface was smooth, drinking the light rather than reflecting it.

  Revolver?

  He stared at it.

  ”One shot.”

  Those words repeated in his mind like a cursed mantra. And those words made his legs move. He dragged himself toward the opened metal door. His Healing Vines came apart like wet parchment, unraveling from his wounds and dropping to the snow where they withered. His petals dispersed into the air, a glimmer of pink that the wind caught and scattered.

  “Lodi!”

  That nickname fell apart before it reached his ears. Muffled by the distance and the ringing.

  Creak!

  The wooden floor groaned under his weight. But also, his footsteps clicked on the fresh wet blood that spilled across, filling each lined gap between the floorboards. The stench intruded his nostrils: blood and warm ash from the fireplace. A sea of men littered the ground, diced, sliced, and incised. Their limbs at wrong angles. Their eyes open. Their mouths frozen.

  He stepped over them.

  When his footsteps reached the stairwell steps, he made sure to let Big Man know he was coming. Slowly, he climbed, each step creaking under his weight. As if it were a countdown, it echoed in the stairwell. A smirk tugged his lips, but that smirk curled into something else: a wide, feral grin that showed his blood-stained teeth.

  His heart pounded.

  Finally, he arrived behind the wooden door.

  He barged in.

  Bring Your Own Bombs.

  Behind that door sat Big Man, dabbing his sweaty face with the handkerchief. Sweat bled into the cloth. He filled in that small chair. As he turned his head, his triple chins quivered. His tiny eyes widened as they focused on Lodio.

  “Phut! Phut—“

  Lodio’s finger mirrored the bald man’s motion from earlier: his thumb found the lever—already pulled back—and then his finger found the trigger. The cool metal seeped into his skin, triggering goosebumps.

  Dead sil—

  BANG!

  The sound. Oh, the sound echoed in the room. It made Lodio’s ears ring again. Big Man’s body jerked backward, falling off his chair. And as Lodio stepped forward, he stared at the massive hands on Big Man’s neck. Blood squeezed between his fat fingers, coating his glinting iron rings. He gurgled. But impressively, he could still move and speak.

  “Phut—grrk—g-get that?!” His eyes bulged.

  Like spilled paint, blood splattered across the floor, slowly spreading across the lined floorboards.

  Lodio aimed the gun downward, the barrel pointed at Big Man’s forehead. His hand trembled slightly, but his eyes? They were colder than ice—than the snow—than the day.

  “What is your association with Diosi.” Not as a question, but a demand.

  Big Man spat on the floor. “Phut, phut, phut! Y-you think I’ll t-tell you?” A wet rasp, air whistling through the hole in his throat. “G-go t-to hell!”

  Lodio pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Nothing.

  Dumbfounded, he stared down at the revolver.

  He pulled again.

  Click.

  His mind flashed back to the bald man—how he’d pulled back the lever to take a shot.

  That’s it.

  Click.

  The cylinder rotated.

  Lodio took a deep breath.

  “Phut, phut, grrk,” Big Man rasped, blood bubbling on his lips. “Y-you know w-what will happen to K-Kei City if I die?" He let the warning sink in. “It’ll cause—“

  BANG!

  Loud.

  Or maybe Lodio’s ears had adjusted? He stared—really stared—as Big Man’s head snapped back, jaw slackening, and eyes going wide. The bullet had pierced the center of his forehead. Welled blood spilled down his nose, cheeks, and chin.

  Silence.

  The coldness intruded through the gaping hole in the wall, carrying snowflakes that danced. Some landed on the pooling blood underneath Big Man’s chair. The blood crept across the floor until it touched Lodio’s boots.

  This…

  He stared at the revolver in his hand—blacker than a moonless night. His nose twitched from the acrid and metallic scent. Slowly, his gaze panned from the gun toward the curling smoke rising from the barrel.

  Dangerous.

  Groans erupted from outside: running feet, screams, and wet sounds.

  But that didn’t matter. To Lodio, at least. All that mattered was the revolver he wielded and that bastard Diosi.

  Clank.

  The revolver scattered across the floor.

  Lodio crashed across the room. Looking, looking, and looking. Nothing. His boot slipped in the blood, and he caught himself on a desk.

  Debris. Splintered wood. Shattered glass.

  But no sword.

  His breath caught.

  He threw aside a broken chair.

  Nothing.

  Near the hole, there was a pile of debris.

  Lodio dropped to his knees. His hands yanked away the pile of debris—glass shards cut his palms, splinters sunk in his fingers, but he didn’t feel it.

  "Train with it. Sleep with it. Cherish it."

  He kept digging. His hands moved faster, more desperate, and more violent. Rubble flew behind him.

  Where is IT?!

  Nothing. Nothing. NOTH—

  A sharp reflection.

  Lodio‘s head snapped toward it. There, underneath a collapsed bookshelf, metal glinted. He bolted toward it, throwing the shelf aside with surprising strength.

  There.

  The gentleman sword.

  In front of it, Lodio dropped to his knees. A tear escaped the corner of his eye. Something heavy weighed on his heart. Something heavy weighed his shoulders. Something heavy weighed those tears.

  The blade.

  It had once glinted—had once reflected his face a million times—had brought down his enemies through every floor. Soft. Its edges warped. And the beautiful engraving—Lodio Azhario—was barely visible.

  Lodio’s hands closed around the hilt. He pulled it from the rubble and hugged it, cherished it, but didn’t sleep with it.

  The blade bent under his weight.

  He wept.

  And the snow continued to fall: lazy and fat.