The night slowly passed by and faded away as, then, gradually, morning came.
It wasn't loud. No sudden shift. Just a slow creeping of pale light through the cracks of the world. The sky softened from black to gray, then to a faint, washed-out blue. The city began stirring quietly on a beautiful bright morning.
Inside a small room on the upper floor of The Jade Boar, that light slipped in through a narrow window. It stretched across the wooden floor. Climbed up the wall.
And eventually, it reached Hemlock. He groaned faintly. Consciousness didn't come back clean. First the dull ache in his head. Then the heaviness in his body. Then the faint memory of impact.
His eyes opened slowly. Blurred and unfocused at first. The ceiling above him came into view, unfamiliar. Wooden beams. Slight cracks running along the grain. Definitely not where he'd expected to wake up. His brow furrowed.
Then the rest of it hit. Hemlock jerked slightly, instinct kicking in. His arms pulled, his body shifting, only to feel resistance immediately. Rope. Tight. Wrapped around his torso, his wrists bound behind him, and legs secured enough to keep him from standing.
His eyes sharpened instantly.
"What the hell—"
He stopped mid-sentence. Something felt wrong. He focused inward. Nothing. No response. No flow. No connection. His iron style didn't answer him. Not even a flicker. His expression darkened.
He pulled harder against the ropes this time, muscles tensing, testing the bindings. They held. Not just physically, but something deeper was off. His strength felt dulled.
"Don't bother."
The voice came casually from across the room. Hemlock's head snapped to the side. There he was.
Kenta leaned against the wall like he'd been there the whole time. One shoulder pressed back, posture relaxed, and completely at ease. A half-empty wine bottle hung loosely from his hand. His expression carried a lazy grin he just so enjoys sporting.
He pushed himself off the wall and took a few slow steps forward. Hemlock's eyes narrowed.
"Where the hell am I?" he said, voice rough, "and what the hell did you do to me?"
Kenta shrugged lightly.
"Relax," he said. "You're not dying or anything dramatic like that."
He lifted the bottle slightly, taking a casual sip before continuing.
"I just blocked a few of your magic points. Acupuncture."
Hemlock blinked once.
"You what?"
Kenta waved a hand vaguely.
"Temporary thing. Your body'll sort itself out in a day or two."
He paused, tilting his head slightly.
"Maybe three if you're slow."
Hemlock stared at him.
"You're telling me you poked me with needles and shut off my magic."
"Yeah."
"That's not a normal thing. At least not that I've heard of."
Kenta considered that for a second.
"Depends who you know, I suppose."
Hemlock exhaled sharply through his nose, irritation clear as he shifted again against the ropes. Still nothing. No iron. No reinforcement. Just his base strength, and even that felt off-balance.
Kenta walked over to a nearby chair, dragging it across the floor with a soft scrape. He turned it around and sat down backwards on it, resting his arms across the backrest. The wine bottle dangled loosely from his fingers.
"You want some?" he asked, tilting it slightly.
Hemlock gave him a flat look.
"No."
He then pauses for a brief moment.
"What time is it?"
Kenta glanced toward the window, squinting slightly at the light.
"Eh. Around eight, I think."
Hemlock's brow furrowed.
"Eight in the morning?"
"Give or take."
"Who the hell drinks wine at eight in the morning?"
Kenta chuckled under his breath.
"A truly enlightened man doesn't let time dictate what he does and doesn't do," he said, his voice taking on a mock-serious tone. "It's a wise old saying."
Hemlock just stared at him.
"Who said that?"
Kenta didn't miss a beat.
"I did," he replied immediately. "Just now."
He lifted the bottle slightly.
"The man who came up with that saying is clearly very wise."
Then he took another sip. Hemlock closed his eyes for a second, letting out a slow, tired groan.
"You're insufferable."
Kenta smiled.
"I've been called far worse by people whose words I valued far more."
A moment of silence settled between them. Hemlock shifted slightly, testing the ropes again out of habit. Still nothing. Still stuck. He exhaled.
"Fine," he muttered after a second. "Give me some."
Kenta raised an eyebrow.
"Thought you didn't want any."
"I've reconsidered."
Kenta leaned forward, tipping the bottle carefully. Hemlock tilted his head slightly, and Kenta poured a small amount into his mouth. Hemlock swallowed, grimacing faintly at the taste before settling back. Another quiet stretch passed. Then Hemlock spoke again.
"You probably didn't drag me in here, tie me up, and cripple my magic just to share a drink."
Kenta nodded once.
"Good observation."
Hemlock's eyes narrowed slightly.
"So what is it?" he asked. "What are you looking to do?"
Kenta leaned back a little on the chair, the casual air around him not fading, but something quieter settling underneath it.
"For the past few years," he said, "I've kept to myself."
He rolled the bottle slowly between his fingers.
"Didn't get involved in much. Fights here and there, sure, but nothing big. Nothing overly messy."
Hemlock watched him carefully.
"What kind of life is that?"
Kenta huffed softly.
"The kind that keeps things simple or at least that's what I told myself."
Hemlock tilted his head slightly.
"And what exactly are you doing?"
Kenta's eyes drifted toward the window for a moment.
"Traveling," he said. "Wandering."
Another small pause.
"Trying to figure out why I'm even still here."
Hemlock's expression shifted slightly.
"That sounds—"
"I'm on a journey of self-loathing," Kenta cut in casually. "And maybe finding a reason to exist in a world I despise so much, a world where strength dictates all."
He then shrugged.
"But that's not really the point."
Silence lingered for a second. Then Kenta's gaze shifted back to him.
"My indifference changed recently. Just ever so slightly."
Hemlock didn't interrupt this time as Kenta continued.
"I passed through a village a few days ago," he said. "Small place. Quiet. Tucked out on the outskirts of the city."
His tone stayed even.
"Tendo Village."
Hemlock's eyes flickered slightly at the name, but he said nothing.
"They were good people," Kenta went on. "Simple. Honest. The kind that doesn't survive long in places like this unless they stay out of everyone's way."
His grip on the bottle tightened just slightly.
"Dozens dead," he said. "Homes burned. Families torn apart."
His voice didn't rise. Didn't break. But something underneath it shifted.
"The young," he added quietly. "And the old. Didn't matter. I soon butchered the savages who did such heinous acts, and you won't believe what group they belonged to."
Hemlock's expression hardened slightly.
"The Haven Syndicate."
Silence followed that. Longer this time. Kenta took another sip from the bottle, then lowered it slowly.
"So," Kenta said, his tone returning to something lighter on the surface, "what I'm looking to do is actually pretty simple."
Hemlock held his gaze. Kenta smiled faintly.
"I'm going to take down the Haven Syndicate."