Present:
The air in the throne room hadn't changed in five years. Heavy, silent, scented of ancient stone and the faint ozone from the Beacon.
Empress Rose reclined, chin resting on her palm, eyes sharper than the day Shura fell from the sky.
She studied the young man before her, no longer the scrawny, trembling boy. His shoulders were broad, stance confident, every movement humming with controlled energy.
"So," Rose said, voice low, bell-like, "you still haven't changed your mind, huh?"
"I'm not living in this suffocation," Shura replied. His voice had deepened, edged with gravel and resolve.
Rose tilted her head, a ghost of a smile ghosting her lips.
"Suffocating? Look around. Order. Prosperity. Safety from the surface's madness. This isn't chaos—it's a masterpiece of management."
Shura's gaze swept the throne room, taking in the carved pillars, the subtle hum of the Beacon, the disciplined guards, the flawless order of Ossuarium.
It was perfect. But it wasn't the sky.
"Don't chatter," he said, hand brushing the hilt at his waist. "Just fight."
Five Years Ago – The Maw of the Deep
Shura remembered.
"Fight." The word cut flat, final.
Zenkyou stood at the edge of a jagged limestone pit, expression bored, unreadable.
"But—" Shura started, eyes wide at the creature below. A Skitter-Wretch. Twice his size, plated in chitin, serrated limbs scraping the stone, eyes glowing pale and hungry. The stink of rot made his stomach twist.
Zenkyou leaned over, a cruel smile playing across her face.
"Can't defeat it? I'll sell you to the Black Market. They always need fresh meat. Consider it… career preparation."
The Wretch lunged. Shura screamed, dodging a claw that splintered the stone where his head had been a second before. Every step was agony, every breath fire. His Viora flickered weakly, but he forced it into his arms, his legs, into the rusted shortsword clutched in his hands.
Hours—or minutes, he couldn't tell—passed. Blood slicked the stone, pain screamed in every nerve. Finally, he roared, channeling a raw burst of Viora into the blade. It drove through the Wretch's neck, and the creature crumpled.
Shura climbed out, chest heaving, ribs screaming.
"I defeated it," he wheezed.
"Seriously? That was the easiest one?" Zenkyou blinked, then stared at the corpse. Silence stretched, oppressive and complete.
"The easiest one," she said flatly.
Shura froze. Her laughter broke then, unrestrained, sharp. Memories flickered—her own brutal training, her Master's gnarled shouts, cheeky retorts, the sting of discipline.
She wiped a tear from her eye, grinning predatorily at Shura.
"Alright, Sky-Boy," she said. "You've got grit. Want real sword skills? If you're challenging the Ceiling, you'll need more than luck."
She turned toward the darker corridors, motioning him to follow.
"Come on. Time to meet my Master."