Leonhardt didn't wait for Dia to recover.
The chain was still warm in his hand, her blood-specked footsteps echoing behind him—but he didn't look back. She'd follow. Broken things always did.
He stepped into The Last Call.
No ceremony. No hesitation.
His blade moved once.
The massive slab of steel carved through the bar's front doors with a single swing, splintering polished oak, iron bolts, and faded mories in the sa breath. The old carvings shattered underfoot. In an instant, he'd erased the warmth once etched into every line of the wood.
He walked inside.
Silence answered him.
Tables upturned. Chairs broken. A few low-burning lanterns still clung to the walls, their glow dim through the smoke.
It slled like old liquor and newer blood.
No signs of the other mbers.
Not Queen. Not the Last Call mbers. Not the poison-seller.
They'd fled. Or died. Or both.
A sha. Leonhardt had been looking forward to the look on their faces.
He stepped across the centre of the bar, boots crunching on glass. Behind him, Dia stood at the threshold, still in his cloak, her body swaying as if her soul hadn't caught up to her yet. She didn't speak.
[What do you plan to do now?]
Ifrit's voice coiled through the back of his mind. She didn't sound annoyed or smug—just quiet. Uncertain.
Leonhardt traced one gloved hand over the edge of the shattered counter. His fingers brushed blood.
"They'll retaliate," he said calmly. "The humans. Fast. Brutally."
[And Munat village? What if your Arachne fail?]
"They won't," he said, but his voice was thoughtful now. Calculating. "But if they do…"
He turned toward the broken wall and watched the slums burn.
"…I'll do it myself."
Leonhardt stepped over the ruined threshold, boots dragging soot and ash deeper into the bones of the once-proud bar.
The scent of old alcohol lingered beneath smoke and splintered wood.
Most of the furniture had been broken, kicked aside, smashed during the chaos, or looted after. The lights had gone out, but the fire-glow from the streets cast everything in a flickering orange hue.
He didn't waste ti and entered the back hallway, which was quiet. A few doors had been kicked in already, not by him. Scavengers, maybe—more likely the cowards who ran.
One door remained intact.
He pressed his hand against it, checking for traps or spells, but there was nothing—not even a lock. Just an old habit, keeping it shut.
He pushed it open and stepped inside.
The room was clean, far too clean. No dust. No blood. The chair hadn't been disturbed. The table was untouched. There was a cup on the windowsill, dry and still warm.
He could sll incense.
Not the cheap kind used to cover death or rot. This was sothing deliberate, personal. She'd been here.
One of the annoying people who followed Enzo.
The fox mask. Red hair. Blue eyes with that little mark beneath the right one. She wasn't a fighter, not like Endo. But she didn't need to be.
She was the type to disappear just before you rembered to look for her.
He stepped over to the table, fingers brushing the edge of the sash she'd left behind. No ssage. No threat. Not even a na.
Tidy.
She hadn't run in fear. She'd retreated. Slipped away when the first scream went up, before the flas took root.
He dropped the fabric back where he found it.
There was no reason to shout or a need to call her out because she left a short while ago, from the remaining heat and traces of mana.
He wasn't interested in gas.
She'd already seen what happened to Endo.
That was enough.
But if she hadn't left the city—if she was still watching—then she'd made a mistake.
Leonhardt didn't leave enemies behind.
Only bodies.
Endo's private room was at the end of the hall.
Leonhardt stepped inside without hesitation, not expecting traps or resistance—just loose ends.
The room slled like steel and sweat, faint traces of old oil and leather.
A weapons rack stood bare against the wall, and the drawers in the side desk were open, most of them empty, but he checked anyway. No maps. No gold. No records.
The n had either fled with what mattered, or Endo never trusted this place to begin with.
On the far end, a locked chest sat behind the bed, iron-banded and bolted to the floor. Leonhardt didn't bother with finesse. He slamd his foot down on the latch until the hinges gave out.
Inside: a few neatly stacked coins, so old scrolls, and a mask.
Bear-shaped. Thick. Dull grey lenses in the eye sockets, one slightly cracked.
"Ace."
He lifted it once, turned it over, then dropped it back into the box.
Nothing personal. No ssage left behind. Just a mask without a face.
The others weren't here. No sign of Heart. Nothing from Queen.
Maybe this was sothing that the grey-haired old man wanted Leonhardt to find; that man would never forgive him.
"Well, I did kill his little protege... and force him to kill Jack."
He stepped back from the ss, adjusting his gloves.
The bar was his now. Not that he cared for the na. The foundation would be useful. The underground routes even more so. But the walls, the mories, the loyalties—all of it was already dead.
[Do you plan to rebuild it?] Ifrit asked.
"No," he muttered. "It's not worth rebuilding."
He turned back toward the entrance and found a group of goblin warriors, likely sent by Gobomir, who was up above securing the city for him.
"Burn it. Strip what's useful. We move by nightfall."
The only thing he stole was a small yellowed piece of paper... on it was a recipe... a simple drink. But it was the drink that Zafira loved.
The Blue Blooded Kiss.
——
Gobomir POV
——
anwhile, on the second ring.
The humans had ford a wall—three shields deep, polished steel over chain mail, all crests and shining helms. They looked like they belonged in parades, not war.
Gobomir's eyes narrowed as he raised his curved blade, the tal blackened and dented from hours of use. His shadow wolf padded beside him in silence, growling low, black fur bristling with every step.
"Formation," he grunted.
Behind him, his squires fumbled into line—shorter, scrappier, armour strapped together with wire and scavenged scraps, but they moved as ordered. Mostly.
The knights lowered their spears, neat and professional.
Gobomir pointed his blade forward.
"Kill the soft ones first."
Then he ran.
"Aim for their necks, gobbo!"
The shadow wolf broke first, a blur of black leaping ahead with fangs bared. Gobomir sat atop the wolf, his squires following. The humans braced for the charge, but they weren't ready for the way the wolf tore straight into their flank, pulling one screaming man down by the throat.
Gobomir slamd into the shield wall an instant later. His blade hooked over a guard's shield and dragged it aside, exposing the knight's armpit. A clean slice, fast and brutal. Blood sprayed across Gobomir's face, hot and bright.
One knight down.
He didn't pause.
His shadow followed him, darting through openings, snapping at heels, drawing attention away from the goblin squires who flooded in behind. They weren't clean. They weren't elegant. But they were fast, low, and ruthless.
Then ca the pushback.
The humans roared and surged as a unit, heavier and taller, their discipline kicking in with practised force.
One goblin squire was kicked backwards into a wall and crushed beneath a descending halberd. Another scread as a blade drove clean through his chest. Their blood sprayed across the stone.
"Hold your lines!" Gobomir barked.
He stepped into the gap just as a third knight lunged toward one of the smaller squires. Gobomir blocked the strike, drove his knee into the man's stomach, then dragged his blade up the gap under the jaw.
Blood and spit splattered the squires, who watched with wide eyes but didn't retreat.
"You don't fall," he snapped at them. "You dig in. Like rats with steel."
A spear caught him in the thigh, glancing off the plated curve of his greave. He turned sharply, backhanded the knight across the face, then ran his sword straight through the man's gut.
"Pathetic," Gobomir spat.
From the rooftops, a whistle shrieked through the air.
Gobbolas.
The next mont, arrows rained down in a wide arc—sharp, fast, and perfectly aid.
The first volley struck hard. One knight dropped, clutching at his eye where a grey-fletched shaft had pierced through the visor. Another staggered as a poisoned arrow buried itself in the gap between his knee and greave.
Gobbolas's voice carried from above—loud, smug, and confident.
"You're aiming too low! Aim for the neck!"
A second volley was loosed.
This ti, they listened.
The knights began to break formation. The shield wall faltered. Gaps ford, and Gobomir moved like smoke through them, his blade dragging red lines in the seams of their armour, his wolf biting down on another man's calf and tearing tendon from bone.
Another goblin fell with a shriek, cut down by a heavy blade that left him twitching in a puddle of mud and blood.
Gobomir grabbed the nearest squire by the back of the collar, yanked him out of range of a spear, then slamd his shield into the knight behind it hard enough to knock him off balance.
"Don't waste my training by dying early."
He stepped over the body and kept going.
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