Hatori went on his own, giving a faint wave to the troublesome duo as he trudged down the cobblestone paths. His hands were now shoved deep within his pockets, and his head lowered. The gentle buzz of the city was drowned out in his thoughtful head.
A familiar voice broke through the clutter of Hatori's mind.
"Hatori!"
His head rose instantly, swinging to the left—where the voice had come from. He knew it all too well.
"Tona!" Hatori said, giving a sizable grin.
Tona wore his white coat topped with the scarf. It fluttered in the breeze, taking his hair along with it. He strolled with casual grace, arms wide and a huge smile toward his best friend.
"Heyo," he waved. "How'd Riche go?"
"Well, they're still neutral. Just, actually neutral this time."
"Oh?" Tona asked, brows raised.
"Yeah," finished Hatori, giving the faintest smirk.
Tona clapped Hatori on the back. "Alrighty then. I'm grabbing some food. I think Correna's supposed to be there too. You're in, yeah?"
Hatori's face flushed a bright red.
"Didn't need to ask," Hatori said, trying to hide the touch of happiness he felt. Tona knew better.
The two set off—still laughing—toward a food stand serving grilled meat and veggies.
Meanwhile, in a denser stretch of the city, Tsuki and Geo—who had now caught up—strolled side by side. The crowd pressed in around them, but not uncomfortably. Voices overlapped in cheerful bursts, merchants calling out prices and praises with practiced enthusiasm. Color spilled from every direction.
They passed stall after stall, each more vibrant than the last. Cloth banners fluttered overhead in streaks of crimson and gold. Baskets overflowed with dried fruits and sugared nuts. Racks of hand-stitched clothing swayed gently as people brushed past. Tsuki's eyes darted between them all, wide with quiet awe.
She slowed at one stand, then another.
Then stopped completely.
"Ooh!" Tsuki gleamed, stepping closer. "Pinefruit skewers with caramel glaze!"
The vendor lifted one proudly, the glaze catching the sunlight like molten gold. Tsuki leaned in just a little, the scent alone enough to make her stomach protest.
Geo laughed softly. "Didn't take you as a sweets fan."
She didn't even look at him. "I wasn't," she said, already reaching for the skewer. "Until now."
Their food adventure didn't stop there.
One stall led to another, curiosity guiding their steps more than hunger. Flame-seared river fish came next, still steaming as it was wrapped in thin parchment. Then fermented wild rice—sharp and earthy, with a kick that made Tsuki blink twice before nodding approvingly. The sparkleaf dumplings fizzed faintly on the tongue, popping with tiny bursts of warmth that made her laugh in surprise.
They eventually found a bench overlooking the main road, tucked just far enough away from the crowd to breathe. Carriages rattled past in the distance. A street musician played something soft and lilting nearby, the melody weaving easily through the air.
Tsuki sat with her mouth full, legs swinging slightly as she balanced her collection of food in her lap. She grinned, utterly unguarded.
"This is amazing," she said, stuffing another bite of fish into her mouth.
Geo chuckled, leaning back against the bench as he gnawed on his skewer. "You look like you've discovered a whole new world."
She swallowed and nodded enthusiastically. "If fighting the APC ever stops working out, I'm becoming a food critic."
"I can see it now," Geo said. "Terrifying reputation. Fearsome reviews."
She laughed, the sound light and easy. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They simply watched the people pass—families, traders, travelers passing through on their own quiet journeys.
The threat of war felt distant here. Not gone—never gone—but muted. Pushed back by laughter and food and the simple act of sitting still.
Tsuki rested her elbows on her knees, gaze drifting across the street. "It's strange," she said softly. "Places like this… they don't feel like they're part of the war."
Geo followed her gaze. "They are," he replied. "They just don't know it yet."
She nodded slowly, then took another bite anyway.
"Still," she said after a moment, "I'm glad we get this."
Geo glanced at her, then smiled. "Me too."
They sat there a little longer, sharing food and quiet, letting the city move around them—unaware that moments like this were rare, and would only grow rarer still.
Memento's headquarters bathed in the afternoon sun, its stone walls catching the light like a promise the war had not yet broken. Inside, behind closed doors and layered maps, a quiet meeting between two of Memento's finest was underway.
Maro stood leaned against the far wall—an uncommon posture for him. He usually sat, composed and deliberate, but today the weight refused to settle. His eyes were heavy, shadowed by fatigue and something deeper.
"I grow more worried by the day, Danzo," Maro said at last. "Chaze continues his rampage… and Galion's defenses are thin again."
Danzo nodded, lifting his cup of tea before setting it back down untouched. "So," he said calmly, "what are your thoughts?"
Maro didn't answer right away. He stared at the war map sprawled across the table—district borders marked in ink, scout routes etched in careful lines. Then he spoke.
"We're sending Tona. Backed by Phantom. Into Galion."
Danzo raised a brow. "Why send Phantom too?"
Maro's gaze shifted to him, sharp despite the exhaustion. "Because it's a trap."
Danzo paused mid-sip. "And how do you know that?"
Maro pushed off the wall and paced once, slow and deliberate. "Every time the APC butchers our forces in a district, they follow it up with spectacle. A maniac. Someone 'unleashed.' Always a master of Solena, Najutsu, or both."
He stopped at the table, palms resting against the wood.
"And now," Maro continued, "they send their top commander on a rampage in the same region where Tona just killed three of their champions?" He shook his head. "I don't buy it. Not for a second."
Danzo listened, expression unreadable.
"They want him there," Maro said quietly. "For a reason. They've got a plan—and they're counting on him coming alone. Phantom is the variable they aren't expecting."
Danzo exhaled slowly. "That leaves other districts exposed. Phantom's our best." He met Maro's eyes. "But if you're sure… then I'm sure."
"I don't see any other choice," Maro muttered. He rubbed at his temples, then stilled, as if catching himself.
After a moment, he looked up. "How did Judgment perform in Riche?"
Danzo's grim expression softened into a small, genuine smile. "Couldn't have done better. They got the information. Did the job. Outcome wasn't controllable—but they adapted. They were upset, sure. But they kept their heads up and moved on."
Maro smiled faintly. "That so?"
"I wouldn't lie to you, old friend."
A quiet laugh passed between them, brief but sincere. Lanterns along the walls glowed softly, casting long shadows that stretched across the war room like fingers reaching for the future.
Maro drew in a breath before speaking again. "Their importance grows by the day. I trust them all." He paused, a hint of amusement breaking through. "Even Knoxx is closing the gap on me."
Danzo smirked. "That's terrifying."
"Isn't it?"
The smiles faded as quickly as they had come.
"This war is entering its bloodiest stage," Maro said, nearly a whisper. "Riche's neutrality is more of a win than not—but the APC will retaliate. Maybe not near home… but somewhere vital."
"You're thinking Jon," Danzo said, staring into his tea like it held a prophecy.
"I am," Maro replied. "That—or Zimala again. Either one would strike at our economy and isolate our Igumi forces. It'd give them a foothold near Riche once more."
Danzo let out a sharp breath. "Then we need to be prepared."
Maro returned to his chair and sat, folding his arms atop the table. One finger tapped against the wood—slow, rhythmic.
"We will," he said at last. "We will. Prep starts tomorrow." He looked up. "Judgment gets the day off. They've earned it."
Danzo rose from his chair, the back end of his cloak fluttering behind him. "Then I'll start preparing the contingencies."
He gave a quick thumbs-up before heading for the door, offering a casual wave over his shoulder.
Left alone, Maro turned his attention back to the war map—eyes tracing lines that would soon be stained red.