Five days before the Trial of Gods, the room existed in deliberate darkness.
Not the kind born of neglect or absence of light, but a chosen dark—measured, controlled. Shadows clung to the walls like old stains that refused to be scrubbed away. The air smelled faintly of iron and dried tea leaves, with something sharper beneath it, like burnt incense that had overstayed its welcome.
Three figures stood in silence.
They were aligned loosely near the far wall, not rigid, not relaxed—balanced. Each of them carried a katana-like blade strapped across their back, the hilts angled just enough for a smooth draw. Their clothing was a contradiction that somehow worked: black leather coats layered over fitted battle suits, reinforced gloves, baggy trousers tucked into hardened boots. Old-world weapons married to modern cuts, stitched together with habits older than either era.
Straw hats sat low over their faces, blackened with age and use. On the side of each hat was the same symbol: a simple circle, bisected by an X. Nothing ornate. Nothing decorative. A mark meant to be recognized, not admired.
In front of them were two chairs and a narrow table.
The table was small, almost polite, set with a porcelain tea set that looked wildly out of place in a room like this. Steam curled gently from the cups, rising and vanishing into the dark as if swallowed whole.
In one of the chairs sat a woman.
She was beautiful in a way that felt intentional rather than natural, as if every line of her had been sharpened by choice. Crimson hair fell down her back in controlled waves, catching what little light there was. Her pupils were red—not glowing, not blazing, just red enough to be noticed if you looked too long.
A saber rested behind her chair, its presence felt even when unseen.
She wore a black gown reminiscent of the Renaissance era—long sleeves, structured fabric, elegant and severe. It should not have worked in this room, surrounded by leather and steel and modern cuts. Yet it did. Like the rest of the place, it existed between times.
She lifted her teacup and drank slowly.
The door creaked open.
Rain spilled in first.
Then a man stepped through it.
He wore a cloak darkened by water, the fabric heavy against his shoulders. Droplets slid down the length of a staff held loosely in his hand, tapping softly against the floor as he walked. He looked like the storm had tried to break him apart and failed out of boredom.
He stopped when he saw the woman.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then he crossed the room and sat in the other chair, letting his cloak fall away. Blue hair clung to his forehead, damp and unkempt. His green eyes were sharp—too sharp. Beautiful, yes, but in a way that unsettled rather than invited.
He picked up a teacup.
Drank it all in one swallow.
Set it down with a dull clack between the chairs.
Smiling, he reached into his cloak and produced two glowing beast cores. They pulsed faintly with contained power, light bleeding through the cracks in their surfaces. He dropped them onto the table like coins.
The woman didn't look impressed.
She continued sipping her tea.
Silence stretched.
Finally, the man spoke.
"I have a job for you."
The temperature in the room shifted.
The woman lowered her cup with deliberate care. Her face was calm, but tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. Heat bled from her body, subtle at first, then growing—air warping around her like it was too close to a forge.
"The last job you sent us on," she said, voice steady, "we lost someone important."
The heat spiked.
"You want to issue another one?"
Before the man could answer, the teacup flew.
It slammed into his chest with explosive force, launching him backward. He crashed through the doorway, wood splintering as the door ripped from its hinges. His body struck the ground outside with a heavy thud.
In the same instant, the three figures moved.
Steel sang as katanas slid free, stopping inches from the man's throat before he could even finish skidding to a halt.
The woman stood.
Her chair toppled behind her, forgotten.
"Give me one good reason," she said, eyes burning now, "I shouldn't kill you, Henry."
Her gaze sharpened further.
"And I swear to the gods—if it's not good—you're dead."
Henry smiled.
Then he snapped his fingers.
Three translucent cubes formed around the assassins.
Another snapped into place around the woman.
The world seemed to hiccup.
The woman slammed a hand against the cube's surface. Magma-hot energy surged from her palm, heat roaring outward as if trying to melt reality itself. The cube didn't even discolor.
Henry pushed himself to his feet, brushing dust from his cloak like this was mildly inconvenient rather than lethal.
"You can't get out," he said casually. "My element is space."
He snapped again.
The cubes held.
He walked back into the room, stepped around the fallen chair, and sat in the woman's seat. He reached into his coat, pulled out a bottle, and took a long drink.
The assassins strained inside their confinement, muscles tense, breath sharp.
The woman lowered her hand, eyes never leaving him.
"This isn't a prison," Henry said, setting the bottle aside. "It's a separation."
He stood and approached the nearest cube. The edges were razor-clean, like lines carved into existence itself.
"Space isn't distance," he continued. "It's connection. What I do is remove that connection."
One of the assassins punched the cube. His fist stopped short, unable to make contact.
"You're not frozen," Henry said. "Time is moving. Your bodies are moving. Your momentum still exists."
He snapped his fingers softly.
The cube rotated.
Inside, the figures were thrown off balance. One assassin slammed into the inner boundary, spinning awkwardly.
"I isolated the volume of space you occupy," Henry explained. "That volume no longer shares borders with the world outside. Air doesn't escape. Force doesn't transfer. Energy doesn't leak."
The red-haired woman narrowed her eyes. "So this is another world."
"No," Henry replied immediately. "That would take more than I have."
He raised his hand again. The cube slid several meters across the room, smooth and effortless.
"It's the same world," he said. "Just not touching it."
A dagger flew from one assassin's hand, stopping midair inside the cube, vibrating violently.
"If I release the space," Henry went on, "that blade keeps all its speed. Nothing is erased. Nothing weakened."
He turned back to the woman.
"That's why struggling is pointless. You're not fighting me. You're waiting for me to decide where this piece of space belongs."
The cube lifted slightly.
"And since I'm a Shaper," he added, almost lazily, "I don't need my hands anymore."
Silence returned, heavy and absolute.
Henry's smile faded just a fraction as he looked at the woman again.
"I need your help," he said. "To retrieve the lineage of a being known as the Endless Being of Fear."
The cubes held.
They didn't.
The room waited.