The morning sun filtered through the frosted windows of Café LeBlanc, catching the motes of dust in the air. Sōma was humming a cheerful, tuneless melody as he plated a mountain of crispy, golden-brown fried chicken. The smell of ginger, garlic, and soy sauce filled the kitchen—a comforting, savory start to the day.
"Chinese-style fried chicken," Sōma announced to the empty room, sprinkling a pinch of spiced salt over the steaming poultry. "Simple. Effective. Delicious."
Suddenly, his world fractured.
His vision split down the middle like a cracked mirror. On the left side, he saw his own hands holding the plate. On the right, he saw... the loft.
But he wasn't in the loft. He was looking at Gellert, who was standing in the middle of the room, looking bewildered.
"Zero!!" Sōma shouted, panicking as he tried to balance the plate while seeing two different rooms at once. "What is happening?!"
Snap.
The vision stabilized, returning to normal. Sōma blinked, shaking his head to clear the vertigo.
"I DID IT!!"
Zero's triumphant shout echoed from upstairs.
Sōma slammed the plate down on the counter and stomped up the stairs. "What did you do?!"
He stopped at the top of the stairs. Zero was practically hugging the life out of a very stiff, very unamused Gellert.
"Sōma!" Zero beamed, letting go of the mage and doing a little circling victory dance. "I did it!"
Sōma forgot his anger for a second, watching Zero's uncharacteristic display of joy. "What is happening?"
"I finally did it," Zero explained, his eyes shining. "A Shared Vision. I managed to link my optical input directly to yours through the Hub!"
Sōma realized what had just happened. "Is that what it was? That split-vision thing?"
"Yes," Zero nodded enthusiastically. "It's not perfect yet, but I got a full, clear vision of what you were seeing. I saw the chicken!"
"Yeah, well," Sōma grumbled, rubbing his temples. "I also got half of your vision. It was disorienting."
Gellert, smoothing his suit jacket, chimed in. "Hmm. Weird. It was perfectly fine when he shared my vision earlier. No bleed-over."
Zero stopped dancing, his expression turning thoughtful. "Hmm. Is it because of the distance? You were right next to me, Gellert. Sōma was downstairs."
"Unlikely," Gellert countered, walking over to the window. "All of your demonic abilities—the Hub, the Weave—have had no problem with distance before. The connection is metaphysical, not spatial."
"Yeah," Zero agreed, tapping his chin. "But we still can't rule it out. Maybe the bandwidth fluctuates?"
Sōma sighed loudly, clapping his hands to break the nerd-huddle. "Alright! No more magic talking! Time for breakfast. My brain can't handle theory on an empty stomach."
Zero perked up instantly. "Oh! Breakfast! What's for breakfast?"
"Chinese-style fried chicken," Sōma said, jerking a thumb toward the stairs. "Super filling. Because I suspect today will be a packed day. The Aurora hype hasn't died down yet."
"Let's eat," Gellert agreed, following them down to the café floor.
…
Meanwhile, in the Talbott Duchy Borderlands...
The sun was high over the dense, ancient forest that separated the Talbott lands from the lawless fringe of the Bannon territory.
Sebas Tian, no longer the jovial Iroh but back in his immaculate butler form, moved through the undergrowth with silent, terrifying grace. He simply existed in the spaces between perception.
He had spent his time mapping the smuggling routes of Bannon's Crime Syndicate, a loose collection of thugs and ex-mercenaries who tried to push illicit goods past the Talbott patrols.
He entered a small, concealed tunnel mouth, hidden behind a thick curtain of ivy. After a hundred yards, the tunnel opened up into a large, natural cavern.
Supplies were stacked high—crates of untaxed wine, weapons, and illicit magical herbs. It was a major stash house.
Sebas stood in the open, inspecting a crate of Bannon steel swords.
Step. Step.
Sound came from the tunnel entrance. Soft, rhythmic footsteps.
Sebas didn't turn around. He continued to examine the blade. "You got pretty efficient with that," he noted calmly.
Two figures emerged from the shadows. It was Liane and Ren, the senior disciples of the Hao Sect. Their movements were fluid, their steps silent, infused with a faint trace of Qi—the result of Sebas's rigorous training.
They both knelt immediately.
"The footwork technique you gave us has boosted our network, Master," Ren said, his head bowed. "We covered the distance from the city in half the usual time."
Liane stepped forward, offering a sealed scroll. "This is this month's report, sir. Our operations are in full swing. A couple of new gangs have started to pop up in the lower districts, trying to fill the void left by the old gang."
Sebas took the scroll. "And?"
"We kept them in check from behind the scenes," Liane explained. "Maintaining the status quo. We didn't want to alert the Watchers by creating a sudden vacuum."
Sebas smiled thinly. "Good. But status quo is stagnation."
He handed the scroll back to Liane. "Make them move. Incite them. Make a ruckus here and there. Let them think they are powerful."
"Sir?" Ren asked, confused.
"Create chaos," Sebas commanded, his voice cold. "So the Watchers can clean up their mess. We need the city to see the Watchers as necessary heroes. We provide the villains; they provide the justice. That is the play."
"Understood, Master," both disciples said in unison.
"Now," Sebas said, looking at the crates of weapons. "Let's reallocate these resources to the Sect. These low-lifes won't be needing them anymore."
…
Back in Evercrest, the high noon shone the crowd at Café LeBlanc. With lunch time coming, it was growing. Word of Sōma's victory had spread like wildfire, and now half the city wanted to taste the "Champion's Fried Rice."
Inside, the café was a battlefield of orders and plates.
"Boss! We need more water at table four!"
"Boss! Table seven wants the spicy challenge!"
The kids; Cindy, Timmy, and the rest rushed up to the counter, their faces flushed with excitement.
"Boss! What happened?" Cindy asked, breathless. "There are people waiting outside!"
Zero wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. "The café is packed today, kids. I'll serve you your cheesecakes later in the afternoon when it slows down."
Cindy tugged on his apron. "Can we help?"
Zero halted, a tray of coffee in his hand. "What help? You guys are too small to carry the hot plates."
Timmy puffed out his chest. "We will expand your café!"
"Huh?" Zero blinked.
But the kids just giggled, whispered conspiratorially to each other, and rushed out the door before he could stop them.
"Hey!" Sōma popped his head out of the kitchen window, sliding a steaming plate onto the pass. "Serve this one to table one! Don't stand there daydreaming!"
"Got it," Zero said, grabbing the plate.
…
Several minutes later, a customer poked his head in from the street. He looked exhausted. "Excuse me? How many people left ahead of me?"
Zero checked his list. "Five more parties, sir. It might be a twenty-minute wait."
The customer groaned.
"Wanna sit while waiting?"
Timmy appeared behind the man, dragging a small wooden stool he had scavenged from somewhere. He placed it on the sidewalk with a flourish.
The customer looked at the stool, then at the grinning boy. "Oh. Thank you, kid. You're a lifesaver. My feet are killing me."
He sat down with a sigh of relief.
Timmy didn't leave. He pulled out a small notepad. "So, what are you eating for today, mister?"
The customer blinked, amused. "The Champion Fried Rice. We all want those from yesterday's duel."
Timmy scribbled furiously on his pad (mostly squiggles). He then marched inside, weaving through the crowded tables like a pro.
"Boss!" Timmy shouted over the din. "One Champion Fried Rice for the handsome man outside! Stool 1!"
Zero stopped dead in his tracks. "Stool 1? What Stool 1?"
"We expanded your café!" Timmy declared proudly, pointing out the window. Outside, Marc and the other kids were setting up a row of mismatched crates and stools along the sidewalk, turning the waiting line into an al fresco dining area. "Now tell Brother Sōma to make one! The customer is hungry!"
Zero looked at the makeshift patio, then at the determined little boy. He chuckled, shaking his head.
"Alright," Zero smiled. "I'll give you guys a bonus Lava Cake for this."
Timmy's eyes gleamed with greed. "Lava Cake? What is that? Is it dangerous?"
"Do a good job and you'll see," Zero laughed.
Timmy saluted. "You got it, boss!" He sprinted off.
Zero walked to the kitchen window. "More fried rice, Sōma. And prep the chocolate fondant batter."
Sōma tossed a wok full of golden rice into the air, catching it perfectly. "Are we really employing children now?"
"There are no labor laws in another world," Zero laughed, grabbing a pitcher of water. "And besides, they're working for cake. That's a fair trade in any economy."
The café buzzed with life. It was a community hub. People shared tables with strangers, laughed at the kids' antics, and bonded over the warmth of the food. For a few hours, the cold reality of the world outside—the political schemes, the looming threats, the ancient prophecies—ceased to exist. There was only the smell of garlic, the sound of laughter, and the taste of victory.
…
The frozen wasteland stretched endlessly before the Hollow platoon, a canvas of white broken only by the jagged black rocks of the mountains.
The Paladins rode in a tight formation, their warhorses encased in heavy, runic plate armor that glowed with a faint, warm light. The barriers projected from their chests acted like the prow of a ship, plowing through the deep snow drifts as if they were nothing more than sea foam.
In the center of the formation, the newbie rode close to the veterans, his eyes wide and confused.
"Why is Captain Silas not wearing any armor?" the newbie whispered, staring at the man riding ahead in a simple tunic, his bare arms exposed to the biting wind.
A Paladin riding beside him, a grizzled veteran with one eye covered by a rune-patch, glanced over. "You've learned in the Blessed Hall, haven't you? What do they say about our Captain?"
The newbie swallowed. "They say... he is a Saint who undergoes extreme penance. They say he never wears armor to show his absolute faith in the Silent Light. That he trusts God so much he needs no steel."
A female Paladin on the other side snorted—a harsh, unladylike sound. "Are you as fanatic as the Scribers, kid?"
"No," the newbie admitted, adjusting his helmet. "Maybe that's why my Blessing didn't yield that much Holy Light."
"Good," she muttered. "Keep it that way. Faith gets you killed here. Hate keeps you warm."
RUMBLE.
A vibration shook the ground, deep and resonant.
"CONTACT LEFT!" the Lieutenant shouted. "ICEBORN CRAWLERS!!"
From a snowbank to their flank, three colossal shapes erupted. They were Iceborn Crawlers—massive, scorpion-like beasts made of translucent, prism-like chitin. Each one was ten meters tall, their stingers dripping with acidic venom that could melt enchanted steel. They chittered, a sound like glass breaking, and rushed the unit.
Silas Ducas didn't even slow his horse. He raised his hand, signaling with two fingers, then one.
"Two then one?" the newbie panicked. "Is he going to take one of them alone?"
"No," the one-eyed veteran said grimly, drawing his war-hammer. "He is going to take two. We focus on the straggler. HYAH!!"
The Hollow platoon wheeled their horses, charging toward the third Crawler with a synchronized roar.
Silas jumped from his saddle while his horse was still at a full gallop. He landed in the snow with a heavy thud, his boots crushing the ice. He reached over his shoulder and unsheathed his Greatsword—a slab of dull, grey iron as tall as a man.
He looked at the two towering monstrosities rushing him, their pincers snapping.
"Let me die here," Silas whispered. It wasn't a prayer for salvation. It was a dare.
WHOOSH.
Without a single word of prayer, without a single gesture of faith, his sword ignited. Cold, white fire erupted along the blade.
He charged. A lone, unarmored man running straight at twenty tons of magical beast.
The first Crawler struck, its pincer slamming down like a falling building. Silas didn't dodge. He swung his sword upward.
CRACK-BOOM.
The impact was deafening. The white fire met the prism-chitin, and the chitin shattered. Silas's blade cleaved through the massive claw, severing it completely.
The Crawler shrieked. Silas didn't stop. He vaulted off the severed limb, launching himself into the air. He spun, driving his sword deep into the creature's cluster of eyes.
The second Crawler lunged, its stinger flashing forward to impale him mid-air.
It hit him. The stinger pierced his shoulder, going clean through.
Any other man would have died. Silas just gritted his teeth, his eyes burning with hatred.
Flash.
A golden light erupted from the wound. The Silent Light interfered. It knit his flesh back together instantly, pushing the stinger out.
He grabbed the stinger with his bare hand, ignoring the acid that sizzled against his skin—skin that was instantly healed by the unwanted blessing. He used the leverage to swing himself onto the second Crawler's back.
He ran up the spine of the beast, a wreath of white fire. He plunged his sword into the creature's brainstem.
"BURN!"
The white fire exploded, consuming the beast from the inside out.
Below him, his unit was fighting the third Crawler. The newbie watched in horror as a pincer crushed a senior Paladin's leg.
"NO!" the newbie screamed.
But the senior didn't scream. A golden aura wrapped around the crushed limb. The Paladin stood up, his bones snapping back into place with a sickening crunch, and swung his mace with renewed, unnatural vigor.
"Oy newbie! We cannot feel pain!" the one-eyed veteran shouted, laughing maniacally as he tanked a blow that should have pulped his organs. "We cannot feel fear! We cannot feel the cold!"
They were relentless juggernauts, fueled by a blessing that denied them the release of suffering. In that second, the newbie realized why there was such a high turnover rate in this order. It was because these paladins are lunatics.
Silas stood atop the burning corpse of the second Crawler. He looked down at the carnage, his body bathed in the blood of the beast and the white fire of his own blessing.
The fire lit the surrounding vacuum of the white waste like a star—beautiful, brilliant, but utterly devoid of warmth.
Silas looked up at the grey sky, blood dripping from his chin.
**A/N**
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**A/N**