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~{Eura-unichario City Station}~
The train doors hissed open, releasing a tide of bodies into the rain-dimmed terminal. Voices overlapped, footsteps splashed, coats brushed past one another as people entered and exited in practiced indifference. Nickle stepped out with them, shoes touching wet concrete, and paused. He drew in a slow breath—cold, metallic, tinged with oil and ozone—and exhaled just as quietly.
He walked toward the guardrails and rested his hands against the damp metal, lifting his gaze to the city beyond.
"Damn…" he muttered. "It's already… sunset. I think?"
Above the skyline, the sky was nothing but an endless ceiling of roiling black and slate-gray clouds. No orange glow. No fading light. Just rain—unceasing, heavy, oppressive.
"Really can't friggin' tell," he sighed, irritation slipping into his voice. "Not with these damn clouds in the way."
Turning away, Nickle headed for the stairway leading down to the ground floor. As he walked, he reached into his briefcase, fingers searching for the familiar handle of his umbrella—
—and suddenly, the weight vanished.
A blur brushed past him. A hooded figure yanked the briefcase free and bolted down the stairs, boots slapping against wet steps. The thief hit the ground floor running, turned left, and disappeared into the crowd in a heartbeat.
Nickle froze for half a second.
Then he clicked his tongue.
"Crime right off the damn bat, huh?"
Annoyance flickered across his face—not surprise. Not fear. Just tired acceptance. He vaulted the guardrails without hesitation, coat flaring as he dropped to the slick ground floor below. His shoes hit hard, knees bending to absorb the impact, and his eyes locked onto the fleeing figure.
Nickle broke into a sprint.
What he didn't notice was the other presence nearby—a lone figure standing beneath the station's overhang, watching the entire exchange unfold. From beneath a hood, a grin tugged upward, sharp and intrigued.
Rain chased Nickle as he ran. He rolled up his sleeves mid-stride, fabric darkening instantly as water soaked in. The thief darted into a quieter street, slipping between shuttered shops and dim signage. Nickle followed relentlessly, footsteps steady and controlled.
Ahead, the thief stumbled, crashing straight into a fruit display stand. Crates toppled, fruit scattering across the pavement in a mess of color and pulp. Without stopping, the thief scrambled up and veered hard right into an alleyway.
Nickle didn't slow.
He vaulted clean over the debris, landing lightly—and in the same motion, reached into his pocket and tossed several coins onto the fallen stand.
"Sorry," he muttered, already moving.
He turned into the alley, rainwater streaming down the narrow walls, footsteps echoing sharply. The thief burst out the other end into a crowded street packed with umbrellas, vendors, and rushing pedestrians. Bodies swallowed him whole.
Nickle stopped at the alley's mouth, eyes narrowing.
"At ground level… I'll lose him."
His gaze lifted.
Above him, ladders clung to walls, fire escapes zigzagged upward, and rooftops stretched like uneven stepping stones through the rain. Decision came instantly.
Nickle jumped.
Hands caught metal rungs slick with water as he climbed, shoes finding purchase by instinct alone. He pulled himself onto the rooftops and broke into a run, rain hammering against tin and concrete beneath his feet.
From above, the city unfolded differently.
There—he spotted the thief again, weaving through the crowd below, hood bobbing like a dark beacon. Nickle matched his pace from overhead, shadowing him with quiet precision as the chase carried them farther from the station.
Farther from safety.
The thief veered sharply off the main street, scrambling through a broken fence and disappearing into a scrapyard.
Nickle didn't hesitate.
He slid down a rusted pipe, shoes skidding as he dropped to the ground, then stepped through the twisted entrance. Towers of junk rose around him—mountains of crushed metal, dangling chains, stacked shipping containers looming like dead monoliths. Rain clanged against steel, echoing endlessly through the maze.
Nickle straightened, eyes sharp, posture relaxed but ready.
The city had welcomed him.
Not with words... but with teeth...
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~{Amanthus Scrapyard}~
The rain became heavy as it battered down upon the scrapyard.
Nickle moved deeper in, shoes splashing softly through shallow puddles as he threaded his way between leaning towers of scrap. Twisted beams jutted out at odd angles, chains rattled in the wind, and stacked shipping containers loomed overhead like rusted cliffs. Every step echoed—metal on metal, rain on iron—until the sounds blended into a constant, oppressive clamor.
As he reached the center of the scrapyard, Nickle slowed.
Someone was already there.
A small group of men lingered around a crude open space between scrap piles—laughing, loitering, weapons casually resting against their shoulders. Pipes, rods, broken tools sharpened into something more dangerous. And right in the middle of them, breathless and triumphant, stood the thief.
The hooded runner shoved through his companions and skidded to a stop in front of a broader man with a heavier presence—their second-in-command. He thrust Nickle's briefcase forward, panting as he spoke in hurried whispers.
That was when Nickle stepped fully into view.
Rain slid down his hair and glasses as he walked straight into the open, unhurried, posture relaxed but unmistakably deliberate. Every conversation died mid-sentence. Every head turned toward him.
A gang member snickered with a smug grin and pointed a thick metal pipe straight at Nickle.
"YO, OLD MAN!" he shouted. "WHAT'CHA DOIN' ERE' FOR, HUH?!"
Nickle stopped a few steps short of the group, hands loose at his sides, expression calm and cold.
"Listen," he said evenly, eyes flicking toward the thief, "your buddy over there stole somethin' from me. I'm gonna need it back."
The man with the pipe scoffed loudly.
"HAH! AND WHY SHOULD WE, HUH?!" he jeered. "OUR BOI GOT THAT THANG FAIR AND SQUARE! IT'S YO FAULT FOR NOT HAVIN' A GOOD GRIP ON IT."
He puffed out his chest, jabbing the pipe toward Nickle again.
"AND JUST SO YA KNOW—we the big dogs 'ere! THE ENKA GANG!"
Nickle tilted his head just slightly.
"And why," he asked calmly, voice low and edged with contempt, "do you think a buncha low-tier scum like you are the big shits of this area?"
The gang member's face twisted with rage.
"THE HELL YOU SAY 'BOUT US, OLD MAN?!"
He charged.
The pipe came down in a wide, heavy overhead swing meant to crush bone.
Nickle moved.
Metal rang sharply as he parried the strike with precise timing with his right hand, knocking the pipe off its path. In the same fluid motion, his body coiled and released.
Technique: Fulcro Spike.
His knee rocketed upward like a piston, slamming straight into the man's face. The impact snapped the gang member's head back with a sickening crack, and the pipe slipped from his fingers.
Before it could hit the ground, Nickle caught it.
He didn't hesitate.
Gripping the weapon, Nickle twisted and brought it down in a brutal, decisive arc. The pipe slammed into the man's body and drove him straight into the mud with a heavy, metallic thud. The gang member went limp, rain splashing over his unmoving form.
Nickle looked down at him briefly with a head tilt.
"Your fault for not havin' a good grip on that," he muttered, returning the scoff.
Then he lifted his gaze.
The scrapyard went tense.
The remaining gang members stared at the fallen man, then back at Nickle. Rain streaked down their faces as adrenaline surged. One of them snarled and raised his weapon.
"GET HIM!"
They rushed him all at once, boots pounding against steel, concrete and mud as the rain swallowed the scrapyard in noise.
And Nickle stood his ground.
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The first one lunged.
A knife flashed through the rain, its tip driving straight for Nickle's ribs. Nickle stepped aside at the last possible moment, shoes skidding lightly across wet metal. The blade sliced through empty air.
His knee came up hard.
The impact crushed into the attacker's gut, driving the breath out of him in a sharp, broken gasp. Before the man could fold forward, Nickle's left fist snapped down into his back—short, brutal, precise—jerking his spine upright from the shock.
Nickle didn't waste the opening.
He swung the metal pipe straight forward.
The blow connected with the man's face in a deafening clang, and the gang member was blasted off his feet, slamming into the ground in a spray of rain and mud, motionless.
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Another shadow rushed in.
Boots scraped against steel as a second gang member leapt high, raising his leg for a brutal axe kick meant to split Nickle's skull. Nickle dipped low, ducking beneath the descending heel, then slid sideways just enough to line himself up.
His fist snapped out.
It wasn't heavy—just a sharp, stinging jab that cracked against the side of the man's face. The impact rattled his skull, dazing him instantly, his balance faltering as his vision swam.
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Then came the whistle of air.
A third gang member charged in, swinging a thick metal bat with raw, meaty force. Nickle saw it coming and reacted without hesitation—he jumped.
The bat tore through the space where his head had been an instant earlier.
Instead, it smashed straight into the dazed gang member. Bone and metal met with a sickening crunch as the unfortunate man was sent sprawling.
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While still airborne, Nickle twisted.
His leg lashed out in a tight arc.
The tornado kick struck the bat-wielder square in the face, snapping his head sideways as the force of the blow sent him crashing down. Nickle landed lightly on his feet, shoes splashing as rain rippled outward from the impact.
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He barely had time to reset.
From his side, a machete came crashing down in a vicious overhead slash. Nickle raised his pipe just in time, metal screeching as he blocked the blade and shoved it aside with a sharp twist of his wrists.
He stepped in.
Technique: Quad Quazar.
His left hand moved in a blur.
One punch cracked near the attacker's left ear—disorienting.Another snapped against the right—worse.A third drove into the bridge of the nose, drawing blood.The fourth raked across the eyes, forcing a scream as the man recoiled blindly—
—and it ended with a brutal haymaker to the abdomen, driving all the air from his lungs and folding him in half.
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Before the body could even fall, another threat came from Nickle's right.
A wooden pole thrust toward his ribs.
Nickle leaned back with fluid flexibility, the pole grazing past him by inches. His hand shot out, fingers clamping down on the shaft. He yanked the attacker forward and drove a straight kick into his gut.
The man flew backward, skidding across wet scrap and collapsing in a heap.
Nickle turned back without hesitation.
The machete-wielder was still reeling.
One clean motion.
Nickle lifted the pipe and brought it straight down.
The impact echoed across the scrapyard as metal met skull with a simple thunk. The gang member crumpled instantly, unconscious before he hit the ground.
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Bootsteps scraped behind him.
A bare-knuckled fist came tearing toward Nickle's back, driven with raw intent. Nickle sensed it just before impact. He pivoted and raised the metal pipe in a clean, practiced motion.
Clang.!
The punch met steel instead of flesh.
Nickle turned fully as the attacker snarled and launched into a furious barrage—hooks, straights, reckless swings meant to overwhelm. Each strike slammed into the pipe, knuckles cracking painfully against cold iron. Rain slicked down their arms as the rhythm slowed, the man's hands reddening, then trembling from the sting.
Nickle tilted his head, expression calm.
"That all you got?"
The taunt snapped something inside the gang member. With a shout, he hurled a wild, desperate straight kick. Nickle stepped aside effortlessly, shoes sliding across wet scrap—
—and brought the pipe down.
The overhead strike smashed into the man's right kneecap with bone-splintering force. The scream was sharp and short. The leg gave out instantly, and the gang member collapsed into the mud, clutching the ruin of his knee.
Nickle barely spared him a glance.
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Click—clack.
A metallic sound made him turn.
Another gang member stood a short distance away, bracing an old, rust-flecked rifle. The muzzle rose.
Nickle's eyes flicked to a loose car door resting atop a heap of junk. He moved in one fluid motion, yanking it free and raising it just as gunfire erupted.
Shots slammed into the door in a chaotic spray. The metal held—but the glass didn't. The shattered window exploded outward, fragments spraying across Nickle's arms and face, making him flinch despite himself.
Still, he advanced.
The rifleman panicked as Nickle closed the distance. Before he could reload or adjust his aim, Nickle drove the car door forward in a brutal shield bash, crushing the man against the ground. Nickle released the door and stomped down—once, twice, three times—each heavy impact denting the metal deeper and pinning the gang member beneath it until he stopped moving, knocked out.
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Then—
Bang!
A bullet tore past Nickle's side.
He dropped instantly, another shot ripping through the space where his head had been. He rolled across the ground and looked up.
The thief.
The briefcase was strapped tight against the man's body as he fired wildly with a pistol, eyes wide, movements sloppy with panic.
Nickle didn't rush him.
Instead, his hand dipped to the ground.
A pebble—small, solid.
He hurled it.
The stone cut through the rain like a bullet of its own, striking the thief's fingers with surgical precision. The pistol flew from his grip, skidding across wet metal.
The thief froze—then turned to run.
Nickle didn't hesitate.
With a sharp exhale, he spun and threw the metal pipe.
It whirled through the air, end over end, and struck the thief square in the head with a hollow bonk. The man collapsed instantly, the briefcase thudding against the ground beside him.
Silence reclaimed the scrapyard, broken only by rain.
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Nickle exhaled slowly and straightened, walking—no longer rushing—toward the unconscious thief. He retrieved his briefcase, brushing rainwater and grime from its surface.
Without another look back, he turned to leave.
But then
Applause cut through the scrapyard's lingering echoes.
Slow. Deliberate. Mocking.
Nickle looked up.
Perched atop a rusted scaffolding platform was a broad-shouldered man lounging like the chaos below bored him. Rain slid off his boots and down the metal beams as he clapped again, a grin carved wide across his face.
"Nice moves," the man called out. "Battle me next, yeah?"
Nickle exhaled, tilting his head with dry sarcasm. "Hmm… nah. Got what I needed." He turned, briefcase secure at his side. "Mind disciplining your damn kids for me? Appreciate it."
He took three steps.
Boom!
Two long iron rods slammed into the ground ahead of him like thunderbolts, embedding themselves deep into the scrap-littered earth. Dark-blue sparks crawled along their surfaces before fading into the rain.
Nickle stopped.
"That wasn't a question anymore," the man said, his voice dropping. He stood, muscles tightening as he grabbed another rod from the platform. "It's a damn order!"
The rod left his hand like lightning.
Nickle reacted on instinct—twisting, rolling across the wet ground just as the projectile screamed past his shoulder and detonated against a heap of scrap behind him. He snapped his head back toward it, eyes sharp.
Residual charge… lingering electricity.
His gaze flicked back up to the man.
No visible cybernetics. No implants in the arms.
"That narrows it down," Nickle muttered.
The man kicked a bundle of iron rods off the scaffolding. They crashed down in a metallic storm, and he followed—dropping cleanly, boots splashing into mud as he landed across from Nickle.
Nickle straightened, brushing grit from his knees. "An Asten-Drive user."
The man's grin widened as he spun the rod in his hand with casual ease.
From atop a stacked shipping container, unseen by either combatant, a familiar figure watched—eyes gleaming with interest.
"Name's Austedd," the man announced. "Second-in-command of the Enka Gang." His gaze burned with pride. "And my Asten-Drive—Fulmenbrucia."
He hurled four rods in rapid succession.
"All—about—lightning amplification!"
Nickle's awareness spiked. He sidestepped the first two by inches, rain spraying under his shoes. The third and fourth he deflected with sharp, precise strikes of a scavenged iron rod he'd grabbed from the ground. The impacts numbed his hands instantly, a painful vibration crawling up his arms.
Damn… those hits sting like hell.
Austedd laughed, clearly pleased. He tore two shorter rods from the ground and gripped them like dual shortswords. Electricity surged along their lengths, crackling violently.
Rain poured harder, steam rising where droplets met charged metal.
Nickle lowered his stance, hands tightening around his longer rod, wielding it like a hybrid between staff and spear.
Power's obvious, he thought. Now what's the price?
Austedd moved first.
He lunged forward, blades crossing in a violent X-shaped slash. Nickle planted his rod and blocked—but the explosive force skidded him backward through mud. He retaliated with an upward rising strike. Austedd slipped aside and clipped Nickle's rod mid-motion, disrupting its flow and nearly tearing it from his grip.
Nickle recovered and thrust forward, aiming straight for Austedd's centerline. Austedd crossed his charged rods, blocking in a shower of sparks. Nickle followed with a sweeping left-to-right strike that blasted Austedd back several steps.
Austedd barely touched down before rushing again.
A side slash screamed toward Nickle's ribs—blocked at the last second. Then an overhead strike came crashing down, grazing Nickle's shoulder. The impact burned and tore fabric, pain flaring hot and sharp.
Nickle forced himself inside Austedd's reach, seized his wrist, and drove his knee upward.
Technique: Fulcro Spike.
The knee struck cleanly. Austedd staggered back, buying Nickle precious space.
Nickle hissed, glancing at the scorched graze. "Gotta end this quick."
He inhaled deeply, raised his rod high, and charged. The overhead swing came down with everything he had. Austedd barely blocked—then surged power into his right-hand rod and twisted.
The explosion shattered Nickle's guard.
His rod spun from his grasp and impaled itself into a wall with a metallic shriek.
Nickle now suddenly had no weapon.
Austedd didn't hesitate.
He unleashed a flurry of slashes. Nickle crossed his forearms and braced. Each strike detonated on impact, scorching skin, bruising bone. His arms buckled under the punishment.
There— Nickle noticed it through the pain.
Austedd's head twitched. Smoke and faint sparks leaked from near his temples.
That's it.
The longer he stayed charged, the more electricity crawled inward—toward his brain.
Austedd overextended.
Nickle surged forward.
Technique: Quad Quazar.
Four lightning-fast left-handed jabs snapped into Austedd's face—ears, nose, eyes—each blow numbing and disorienting. Then Nickle planted his foot and drove a full-force right-handed haymaker into Austedd's abdomen.
Austedd skidded back through the mud.
He clutched his head, teeth grinding, smoke curling from his scalp.
Nickle didn't let up.
He activated his main trump card.
Main Technique: Pinpoint Hit
To Nickle, the world slowed.
Not time itself—but perception sharpened beyond normal limits. Energy flowed visibly through Austedd's body, revealing zones of vulnerability.
Green—ordinary impact points.
Yellow—structural weak spots.
Red—catastrophic pain zones. The place where everything would collapse.
Nickle found it in seconds.
Left abdomen.
Austedd roared and charged for the kill.
Nickle stepped inside the attack.
He drove his right fist deep into the red.
The impact thundered. Nickle anchored his foot into the ground and unleashed everything he had.
Austedd was launched backward—crashing through scaffolding, then through the wall of an unfinished building in a spray of debris and rain.
Silence followed.
As the storm reclaimed the scrapyard.
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