Niko's body hit the earth like a sack of bricks, the stone beneath him cracking as his shoulder took the brunt of the impact. He gasped sharply, every breath like glass scraping against the inside of his lungs. Blood pooled beneath his torso, his left arm only barely hanging on—secured by a trembling tendril and stubborn will.
The sky above blurred. His ears were ringing. All around, chaos.
Screams. Shouts. The clang of steel. Explosions of light and power rattled the Sanctuary's once-quiet streets.
Chalice… Niko realized, gritting his teeth. He must've given the signal…
The cultists had surfaced.
Through the blurry haze of his vision, he could make out red-cloaked zealots—some carrying makeshift weapons, others wielding real ones—all surging through alleyways and roads, clashing violently with the dark-armored guards of the sanctuary. Civilians screamed and fled, ducking into homes or scrambling over fallen stalls. Flames licked the edge of the marketplace. Blood had already been spilled.
They weren't supposed to fight here… Not in the city…
But that was distant now. Lancer was not.
Niko turned his gaze skyward—just in time to see that infuriating silhouette descending like a god.
"Gun of the Gale!" Lancer barked.
The air exploded toward Niko again.
He knew he couldn't take it. His eyes went wide—limbs too slow, body too ruined. He clenched his teeth.
This is it—
But suddenly, in front of him—
A boy appeared.
Small, unassuming… at first glance.
Black hair, unbothered posture, and in his hand—a wicked, shimmering katana. He stood between Niko and death itself.
The blast slammed into him.
But it stopped.
The ground beneath his feet cracked from the redirected pressure, but he didn't budge. Not an inch.
Niko blinked through the blood on his face. That kid… that kid from before—
"Juno…?"
And Juno was laughing. Like he'd just been given the world's greatest toy.
"AHAHAA!" he cried. "Finally! I get to use this baby!"
He glanced over his shoulder with gleaming eyes. "Thanks for getting your ass kicked, loser. I needed a test run."
Behind them, soft footsteps approached. Mena.
She knelt beside Niko, hands glowing faintly as she assessed his wounds. Her presence, quiet and calm, felt like a balm against the chaos. Her violet hair drifted like a curtain in the breeze, and she never once looked at Lancer.
But Niko only had eyes for the one now standing between them and the storm.
Lancer floated down slowly, brow furrowed in confusion.
His landing was silent, his posture still regal. "You're not with the cult… Who are you?"
Juno tilted his head. "I could ask the same, Mr. Fancy-Wind-Hands."
His tone shifted instantly—from manic to bored. He glanced at the katana in his hand, then pouted.
"…Huh. You're kinda weak."
He frowned, shaking the sword a little. "It's not reacting the way it should…"
Then he turned to Niko, eyes narrowing with childish annoyance. "Hey. If I go up the tower, are there stronger opponents?"
Niko tried to speak, but only coughed, the pain too sharp. He barely shook his head.
Before Juno could get properly offended, Lancer spoke again—arrogant, cutting.
"You dare turn your back on me? Do you even know who stands before you?"
Juno blinked, tilting his head.
"Nope."
Lancer sneered. "I am Lancer—the first son of Dem Oche. Prince of Sanctuary! He who will soon be crowned king by my father's divine hand!"
He raised a fist slightly as if expecting awe.
Juno stared blankly, chewing the inside of his cheek. "…Cool."
Silence.
Then Juno blinked again, confused. "…Why not just kill him then? Take the crown."
Lancer's jaw twitched. "W-What?"
"Your dad. You said he hasn't crowned you yet. That means he doesn't think you're ready, right? Which means…"
Juno tapped his head mockingly. "You're a failure."
Lancer took a step forward, face contorting.
"And failure means you're weak."
Another step.
"And being weak means you're—"
"Shut your mouth—!"
"—a waste of time."
Then, Juno grinned, eyes glowing with mock cheer. "Soooooo… byeeee."
In an instant, he vanished in a blur of speed, kicking off the ground with a burst of energy that rattled the air itself.
Straight into the tower.
Upward.
Lancer blinked, momentarily stunned. "H-Hey!!"
But it was too late.
The prince turned toward Niko and Mena slowly, shoulders trembling with rage.
Mena moved slightly, shielding Niko behind her tiny frame.
And Niko, though bleeding and broken, met Lancer's eyes with a grim little smile.
"…You gonna chase him?" he rasped.
Lancer's hands clenched into fists, the air beginning to swirl once again.
The prince of Sanctuary was done playing games.
..
…
Lancer stood at the edge of the broken plaza, cloaked in gusts of wind, his eyes sharp as blades. Dust and smoke drifted around him, the chaos of battle echoing in the distance like a drumbeat. He scoffed, brushing strands of green hair from his brow.
"I will quickly deal with you," he said coldly, voice cutting through the air, "and then chase that buffoon up the tower. To think you—you—would make me waste this much time. And for that…"
He gave a slow, mocking bow.
"…I congratulate you."
Niko, still slouched on one knee, lifted his head. He exhaled, his breath jagged. Mena's hands were faintly glowing over his wounds now, her face calm, almost too calm. He could feel warmth knitting into his skin, but he didn't dare give it away. Instead, he played along.
"Niko," he said, voice low but steady. "That's the name."
Lancer tilted his head. "Niko, hm? Strange. I expected something grander."
Niko winced, then grinned through the pain. "Sorry to disappoint."
There was a brief silence. Niko's muscles itched. Mena's healing was working fast, faster than it should. Her hand never left his back, but her other hand was now clenched around something tucked in her sleeve.
Trying to buy time, Niko asked, "So… why aren't you king yet? You seem strong enough. At least strong enough to scare off a few old men with scrolls."
That got a reaction.
Lancer's expression soured. "Father refuses to approve of me."
He spat the words like they tasted foul.
"But worry not! After this… after I kill the boy with tendrils, and after I crush that fool with the katana—he will see. He will have to look at me! I will be king."
Niko looked up slowly. And in that moment, Lancer didn't look like a prince, or a tyrant.
He looked like a kid. A boy trying to crawl into his father's shadow, trying to make himself big enough to be noticed.
A boy Niko almost understood.
Before he could reply, a faint breath of warmth tickled his ear. Mena had leaned in close, her lips barely moving.
"I know how to beat him. For I know his contract."
That made Niko freeze.
He turned his head slightly, his brow raised—but before he could ask, she slipped something into his coat pocket: a folded handkerchief, pale violet with a silver thread.
What the hell…?
And then—he heard her voice again. Not in his ears. In his head.
Now you can hear me. And I can hear you.
His eyes widened. But his face didn't move. He didn't say anything aloud. Just stood slowly, wiping dust from his mouth, flexing his newly healed fingers. The pain was still there, dull and throbbing—but it no longer dictated his body.
How do we beat him? Niko asked, thinking the words carefully. He was still wary. Mena was blind… she hadn't even moved much this entire fight. What could she possibly—
I know of his contract, she replied simply, as if that explained everything. And I know of his abilities. His strengths. And his punishment.
A gust of wind stirred around them. Lancer stepped forward, arms stretched slightly to either side as if welcoming a final act.
Niko's hand hovered over the hilt of his blade. His energy buzzed at the edge of his skin. For all the bruises, all the damage done, he was still standing.
Tell me how, he thought toward Mena, sharpening his focus like a spear.
She smiled softly, unseen by Lancer.
I will. But first… we survive one more dance.
And Niko nodded, his tendrils starting to writhe faintly behind him like the flicks of a fire—waiting to burn.