The training hall was alive with chaos. Steel rang against steel, boots scraped reinforced floors, and the scent of ozone mixed with sweat. Black Force residue lingered, faint but unmistakable, like static clinging to the air after lightning.
Isaac wiped blood from his hands—training cuts from earlier sparring—and stepped back. The hall hadn't slowed for anyone, and he wasn't about to either.
"Next pair," the instructor barked, barely noticing him.
Isaac moved to leave, nearly colliding with someone.
"Oof—watch it, hero."
Sergio Odio grinned, twin daggers, Marma and Karma, already gleaming. He was tall, wide-shouldered, the kind of presence that filled a room before anyone else noticed him. "Relax. You move like you're expecting to get stabbed every second."
"…You're not?" Isaac asked.
"Depends who's swinging," Sergio replied with a smirk.
Before Isaac could answer, another voice cut in—calm, precise, observing every movement.
"You're Isaac Demonio."
Roman Light stood there, straight sword Signara at his side, posture perfect, eyes calculating. "And you're the one who broke formation in the transit tunnel. Saved two trainees."
Isaac shrugged. "They froze."
Roman nodded once. "And you didn't. Good."
From behind the weapons rack, Rebekah leaned casually, gauntlets Iko strapped tight, arms crossed. She watched him, assessing, measuring. "So you're the kid everyone's whispering about. You don't look special."
Isaac blinked. "Uh… thanks?"
Sergio barked a laugh. "Oh, I like him already."
The four of them ended up on the same bench after training—no plan, no discussion—just four Reapers sharing exhaustion and tension.
"So," Sergio said, stretching, "how long until you snap and turn into a killing machine?"
Isaac frowned. "I don't want that."
Rebekah tilted her head. "You hesitate."
"I hesitate," Isaac said, "just not when it matters."
Roman's gaze didn't waver. "You don't enjoy it."
Isaac looked away. "No."
Rebekah's smirk softened. "Good. Monsters who enjoy it don't last."
The next mission didn't officially assign them as a team. But fate rarely asked permission.
A mid-level Rift had opened inside a residential block—partially collapsed, black veins crawling up walls, the scent of rot thick in the air. Two squads had gone in. Two squads hadn't come out.
Isaac moved first, katana Isen ready, slicing precise paths through small Sols that lunged blindly.
Sergio followed, dual daggers flashing, magma burning along their edges. He twisted and spun, deflecting attacks and countering with lethal strikes, teasing Isaac when he could.
Roman measured and coordinated from the rear, his straight sword cutting arcs of light, blinding sensors, and carving openings in the Sols' armor.
Rebekah smashed through reinforced walls with Iko, her gauntlets crushing and splitting rift-mutated bones, every movement calculated, every strike efficient.
Isaac focused. Step. Cut. Step. Cut again. He moved as if the weight of the mission pressed against him but didn't crush him. Every motion stopped threats before they could reach civilians.
A Sol lunged at the little boy—a familiar fear creeping through him. Isaac met it, blade slicing through bone and sinew, stopping the creature inches from harm.
Sergio ripped another arm off a Sol, tossing it like a weapon. Roman's light seared its sensory nodes. Rebekah finished the armored creature with crushing precision.
In the chaos, their synergy became organic. Not commands. Not orders. Just instinct and trust.
When the last Sol fell, the hallway was a tableau of scorched concrete and blackened blood. The four stood together, chest heaving, weapons dripping, and no one spoke immediately.
"…That worked," Sergio said finally, slowly.
"Yeah," Rebekah agreed, flexing her gauntlets.
Roman's straight sword lowered, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "You didn't freeze."
Isaac wiped Isen clean. "Neither did you."
For the first time, the four of them realized something. Not strategy. Not power. Connection. A bond forged in blood, precision, and trust.
Mission logs would later record them separately, but tonight, in the hall, four names were quietly written together. No prophecy. No titles. Just four Reapers who survived better together than apart.
And Isaac felt it—the first real weight of having allies who weren't just shadows or threats, but partners.