May 4th, 2012, Grigori Headquarters, Training Arena, Afternoon.
The training room was a vast, sterile chamber designed to withstand the apocalypses that Azazel's guests often unleashed within it.
Reinforced qnd polished walls, self-repairing floors, and a series of automated dummy systems calibrated to survive everything short of a divine judgment.
Yet the current occupant was testing those limits with grim determination.
Vali Lucifer's fists moved in a blur that transcended human vision. Each strike landed with a resounding crack against the training dummy's reinforced torso, the sound a percussive rhythm of barely contained fury.
He fought bare-handed—no Scale Mail, no magic, no technique beyond raw, primal aggression. Nothing other than his body.
His knocks split against the composite material, the sting grounding him in the present moment. His legs swept low, kicking the base, then drove upward in a knee strike that sent vibrations shuddering up through his spine.
Crack. Crack. CRACK.
The dummy's chest caved inward. Vali didn't stop. His frustration poured into every subsequent blow—years of being born bearing a cursed name, of being a weapon honed for vengeance, of watching the few allies die and enemies multiply. Of waiting. Always waiting.
With a final, thunderous jab, the dummy's head exploded from its shoulders, spinning through the air with an almost comical, exaggerated trajectory—a signature Azazel modification the Governor General found endlessly amusing.
The head bounced twice before rolling to a stop. The body wobbled on its damaged base, then collapsed in a heap of splinters, wiring, and synthetic sawdust.
'How are you feeling now, Vali?' Albion's voice echoed in the sudden silence, calm but probing.
The White Dragon Emperor had witnessed countless hosts across millennia and had learned to read the subtle currents of their souls.
'Better,' Vali replied silently, exhaling a sharp, controlled breath.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, feeling the phantom ache in his knuckles, the satisfying burn in his muscles. He turned toward the entrance just as the door hissed open.
Makoto stepped inside, Azazel a half-step behind. The Messiah's expression was, as always, a still pond—no ripples, no reflections of the storm gathering around them.
"Vali," Makoto said with a simple nod. His voice carried no judgment, no expectation. Just acknowledgment.
Vali opened his mouth, then closed it. His jaw worked silently. The words he had rehearsed during his solitary flight here, the carefully constructed sentences of professional gratitude, evaporated from his memory. He was suddenly, acutely aware of the sweat on his skin, the splinters in his knuckles, the wreckage of the training dummy at his feet.
"Makoto, I…" He hesitated, stumbling over syllables that usually came so easily when issuing commands or analyzing battlefield data. "I'm glad you agreed to join the team. So… thanks."
'So this is the Star?' Loki's voice murmured within Makoto's soul, low and intensely curious. The Trickster God's words dissolved into a jumble of cryptic muttering, half-formed observations and calculations too rapid to parse.
'Loki?' Apollo ventured, but received no answer.
Instead, the God of Mischief materialized in front of Vali—a flickering mirage visible only to Makoto's perception. He circled the White Dragon Emperor slowly, his mismatched eyes narrowing to analytical slits. His head tilted, first left, then right, as though dissecting a particularly complex puzzle.
"L—" Makoto began aloud, but Loki raised a finger to his own lips, his grin stretching impossibly wide.
'Shh. Patience, Universe,' Loki whispered, his chuckle echoing only in the chambers of Makoto's mind. 'They won't see me. They never see me until I wish it.'
"Yuki? Is something amiss?" Azazel asked, his golden eyes darting between Makoto and Vali, sensing an undercurrent he couldn't quite name.
"Nothing," Makoto replied, his tone flat, his expression unchanged.
'What is he even doing?' Apollo demanded, irritation threading through his psychic voice.
'That's Lokiiii,' Fafnir screeched softly, his tone a complex tapestry of mockery and grudging admiration. 'He does what Lokiiii does.'
As quickly as he had manifested, Loki vanished, dissolving back into the depths of Makoto's psyche like smoke retreating from sunlight.
'Loki. What were you observing?' Kohryu's question was measured, genuinely curious beneath his calm exterior.
'Oh, nothing of immediate importance, Huanglong,' Loki replied airily, his voice fading like the final wisps of incense. 'Simply cataloguing. The Star shines with such... familiar light.'
Azazel clapped his hands together, the sharp sound breaking whatever tension had accumulated in the room.
"Well! I'll leave you two to figure out the logistics. Vali, fill Yuki in on your team's operational protocols. And..." He paused, searching for words. "Good luck, I suppose. You'll need it more than you think."
With a final, weighted glance that encompassed both of them, he exited, the door sealing shut behind him.
"We can leave now," Vali said, regaining his composure. He extended his hand, palm downward, and a complex magic circle bloomed beneath their feet—intricate geometric patterns in silver and blue, humming with contained power.
"Where are we headed?" Makoto asked, stepping into the circle without hesitation.
Vali's lips curved into something almost, but not quite, a smile. "The Land of Oz."
Makoto hummed thoughtfully, the sound noncommittal.
'The Star and the Universe, journeying together... what an intriguing pairing, hee hoo!' Jack Frost chimed, his voice light and playful, filling the anticipatory silence.
'For this brief moment, they are mirror images,' Yoshitsune observed, his tone tinged with wry amusement. 'Too similar for comfort, perhaps.'
'I suspect I may expire from sheer tedium,' Loki announced dramatically. 'But fear not! I possess abundant means of entertaining myself. This vessel's mind is a veritable playground.'
'I would cherish some silence were it not perpetually shattered by your existence,' Leviathan growled, his voice a low, oceanic rumble.
'What is the Land of Oz?' Izanagi interjected, steering the internal dialogue toward practical inquiry. 'The name evokes human fiction, yet Vali speaks of it as a tangible destination.'
"By the way," Makoto said aloud, mirroring Izanagi's curiosity as the magic circle intensified its glow. "What is the Land of Oz?"
"A pocket dimension," Vali explained, his tone taking on the measured cadence of operational briefing. "Created and maintained by a conclave of human magicians. They call themselves the Wizards of Oz."
'Remarkable,' Kohryu murmured, genuine admiration coloring his ancient voice. 'For mere humans to craft stable dimensional architecture... this is no small accomplishment.'
'I would very much enjoy extracting their methodologies,' Loki added, his mental voice dripping with acquisitive mischief.
"I should caution you about the other team members," Vali continued, a small, wry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His tone acquired a dry, almost self-deprecating edge. "Expect... challenges. Particularly from Bikou. He possesses an excessive enthusiasm for combat evaluation. He's like me in that regard, but significantly louder and more irritating."
"How many others compose your team?" Makoto asked, redirecting the conversation firmly.
"Five total, including myself," Vali replied. "Bikou, whom I mentioned. Arthur Pendragon. Le Fay Pendragon, his younger sister. And Kuroka."
'Kuroka?' The name detonated in Makoto's consciousness like a depth charge.
His mind flashed to the cat-woman at Fuji-Q Highland—her startled recognition, the name 'Shirone' falling from her lips, her false bravado as she tried to drive him away.
'This explains her awareness of our location,' Apollo deduced.
"And one additional detail," Vali added, his tone shifting to something more deliberate. "Our team maintains a unique position within the Khaos Brigade hierarchy. We do not answer to the faction's internal command structures. Our directives originate directly from Ophis herself."
'Ophis?' Jack Frost's voice trembled with anxiety. 'Does that mean Nyarlathotep now puppets her strings in secret? Could the Star be walking into a trap, hee hoo?'
'Unlikely,' Izanagi countered, sensing the Demon Doll's distress. 'If the Crawling Chaos had suborned the Ouroboros Dragon's authority over the Star, this alliance would not be occurring. Vali would be our adversary, not our ally.'
"How does this arrangement function?" Makoto continued, his external voice betraying none of the internal tumult. "Does Ophis personally assign your objectives?"
Vali shrugged, a surprisingly human gesture from the perpetually rigid White Dragon Emperor. "In a manner of speaking. In practice, we operate with considerable autonomy. For instance, Ophis recently directed Kuroka to negotiate an alliance with an ambassador from Nidavellir—a dark elf kingdom. Their meeting occurred near Mount Fuji."
'That clarifies her presence at the amusement park,' Izanagi mused.
'Which implies a more troubling possibility,' Lucifer observed, his voice cold. 'A traitor moved among your group that day, Universe.'
'Dark elves...' Odin's growl resonated with ancient, visceral antipathy.
'Oh, do not feign displeasure, Dindin,' Loki crooned. 'You cannot suppress your nostalgia. Recall the glorious campaigns we waged as brothers against the pointed-eared legions! Our father's hall echoed with our victories!'
'I recall,' Odin replied, his voice dropping to a subzero whisper, 'that you slaughtered an entire delegation under peace banner because you found their ceremonial attire aesthetically boring.'
'The helms were hideous, Dindin. Someone had to make a statement.'
"We've arrived," Vali announced abruptly, severing the internal discourse.
The magic circle dissolved beneath them, its geometric light bleeding away to reveal an entirely different world. Makoto's senses recalibrated as his boots met springy grass.
The horizon was a watercolor blend of amethyst and rose. Rising from the verdant expanse were structures of pale marble, columns and temples carved with intricate Grecian motifs, their surfaces glowing with a soft, internal luminescence.
The air was sweet with the scent of Mediterranean flora—olive, cypress, lavender.
"This is the Land of Oz?" Makoto asked, his gaze sweeping the serene, impossible landscape.
"Yes," Vali confirmed. "The organization was founded by a Greek magician, despite the nomenclature suggesting otherwise. I am... not conversant with their full history." A pause. "I have not prioritized that information." Another pause, briefer. "However, if you desire contextual knowledge, Le Fay Pendragon serves as our resident scholar on such matters. She would likely welcome the opportunity to discuss it."
'Observing you attempt polite social discourse is... novel, Vali,' Albion remarked, amusement distinctly coloring his ancient voice.
Vali's gaze fixed on a point approximately forty-five degrees from Makoto's face, his jaw tight with barely concealed embarrassment. Makoto studied the landscape with deliberate neutrality, granting the White Dragon Emperor this small dignity.
'I find this environment agreeable, hee hoo!' Jack Frost declared, his cheerful voice echoing in the mental space. 'The flowers are very pretty, hee hoo!'
"Oh! Is that the legendary Makoto Yuki I behold in the flesh!?"
The exclamation descended from the violet sky like a falling star. A streak of pure gold carved through the pastel heavens, resolving into a blur of motion that coalesced with theatrical precision before Vali and Makoto.
Bikou landed with a flourish, his staff planting into the earth with resonant authority. His golden Kinto Cloud dissipated around him in wisps of fading light, leaving the monkey yokai standing tall, every inch the descendant of divine mischief.
Bikou's athletic frame radiated restless energy. His brown hair, wild and untamed, framed a face of sharp, simian features—high cheekbones, a perpetual mischievous grin, and eyes that gleamed with feral intelligence.
His golden and red armor caught the ambient light of Oz, its intricate patterns shimmering with latent power. The staff in his grip hummed with contained force, a weapon and an extension of its wielder's irrepressible spirit.
'Seiiiiten Taiseeiii?' Fafnir's voice creaked with sudden, acquisitive interest.
'No,' Kohryu replied with certainty. 'But a descendant, certainly.'
"An honor to make your acquaintance, Makoto Yuki!" Bikou declared, his grin threatening to split his face. "I am Bikou! You must comprehend my profound anticipation—Vali here has extolled your virtues with such fervor one might reasonably conclude you were the Second Coming of Christ or some comparable apocalyptic figure!"
He punctuated this assessment by jabbing his thumb toward Vali, whose expression had undergone a subtle but distinct shift toward the sanguine.
"B-Bikou!" A faint but unmistakable crimson crept up Vali's neck to suffuse his cheeks. The White Dragon Emperor, slayer of gods and bane of Fallen Angels, was visibly, undeniably blushing.
Bikou's laughter rolled across the meadow like thunder. "Ah, relax, Vali! I'm joking. But what outcome did you anticipate, speaking of someone with such uncharacteristic enthusiasm?" He pivoted back to Makoto, his eyes bright with appraisal. "You should understand something about our illustrious leader, Makoto. Typically, Vali keels this perpetual demeanor of glacial reserve. But then he intensified his training regimen with unprecedented dedication. One might almost describe him as motivated."
Bikou's grin acquired a knowing, almost predatory quality. "One might even say inspired."
"That is enough, Bikou," Vali interjected, his hand clamping over the monkey yokai's mouth with decisive finality.
Despite his indignant protests—muffled, unintelligible, but unmistakably profane—Bikou found himself unable to liberate his jaw from Vali's iron grip. His staff waved in ineffectual protest. His feet kicked at empty air.
"We will proceed to meet the remaining team members," Vali announced, his voice carefully modulated to its usual monotone, as though he were not currently restraining a thrashing monkey demigod. "Follow me."
He began walking, towing Bikou behind him like an unusually colorful, exceptionally vocal piece of luggage. Makoto fell into step behind them, his expression unchanged, his internal world considerably more animated.
'The Star seems... more at ease,' Kohryu observed quietly. 'In his own environment. Among his chosen companions.'