Alright, time for a little demonstration. I lowered my center of gravity, picturing Kiryu as I’d heard him described: a goddamn force of nature, all brutal efficiency and raw power. Rumor had it the Dragon of Dojima used a style called ‘The Beast Stance.’ Supposedly, it was all about overwhelming force, wide, sweeping attacks that could take down multiple opponents at once.

I took a swing, aiming a haymaker at Skinny’s jaw. I missed by a mile, stumbling forward with the force of my own momentum. Shit, that was sloppy. Maybe I’d gotten the rumors mixed up. Or maybe I was just rusty.

My hand came back in a back swing and knocked skinny to the ground.

No time to overthink it. The big guy lumbered towards me, his fist cocked back. I ducked under the clumsy blow and slammed my fist into his gut. He doubled over, gasping for air.

“Not bad,” I muttered, surprised by my own strength. It was like all the stress and frustration of the past year had morphed into raw power.

The midget was next, darting towards me with surprising speed. I sidestepped his wild punch and caught him with a roundhouse kick to the chest, sending him flying into a pile of garbage cans.

That Kiryu, he was onto something with that whole ‘wide-sweeping attack’ thing. Not exactly elegant, but effective.

My mind raced as I surveyed the scene, the three punks groaning on the ground. If just trying to copy Kiryu was this effective, imagine what I could do with a little more practice. What if I tried that “striker stance” everyone was talking about? Or, hell, maybe I should stick to what I knew best – brawling, pure and simple.

Lost in thought, I missed the flash of movement on the rooftop across the alley. A figure, cloaked in shadow, darted across the rooftops and disappeared into the rooftops in the distance.

“Where’d the thief go! Where?!”

A girl’s voice, high-pitched and frantic, jolted me back to reality. I turned to see a girl, maybe a teenager, with silver hair and pointed ears – weird – standing in the middle of the alley. A small, fluffy kitten with impossibly large eyes floated beside her, its tail twitching nervously.

"Eh, these guys tried to mug me," I said, gesturing towards the groaning figures on the ground. "What kind of theft was it? Pickpocketing, bump and run?"

The girl narrowed her eyes, her expression a mix of suspicion and annoyance. "I think a bump and run is when they bump into you and grab something, right?"

"Yeah, low-ball thieves do it all the time," I said, nodding.

"That was it, yes," the half-elf – had to be a half-elf, right? – said, her voice tight with tension.

I shrugged and started to walk away. “Probably wasn’t these idiots, but they might know someone who does that kinda stuff. You can ask them about it. You seem like you can handle yourself, so I’m out.” I called over my shoulder.

Emilia, the girl with the silver hair frowned, reaching out a hand towards his retreating back. Her brow furrowed as if she were trying to grasp something just out of reach. A flicker of confusion crossed her delicate features before being replaced by a steely determination. She needed to find her insignia, that much was clear. And she had a pretty good idea who had taken it - that cloaked figure with the shock of white or blond hair who had bumped into her, she couldn't tell if it was white or blonde due to the sun, but she was sure it was one of those colors.

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“Hey, that guy seemed nice,” a cheerful voice chirped beside her. Puck, her ever-present companion, a small, cat-like creature with fur as white as snow and eyes like molten sapphires. He floated at her shoulder, his tail swishing lazily. “He even seemed like he wanted to help you but decided not to for some reason. Maybe we can recruit him for something later, right Lia?”

Emilia offered a small smile, pushing aside the lingering sense of unease that clung to her like a shroud. "He seemed strange," she agreed, "but he didn't seem like a bad person."

Hours passed and the feeling of wrongness, of impending doom, refused to be ignored.

even further hours later, her search led her to the slums, a labyrinth of crumbling buildings and shadowy alleyways. The setting sun cast an eerie glow over the grimy streets. She stood before a rundown tavern, its sign a crudely painted image of a treasure chest overflowing with gold coins.

"Fine, Lia,” Puck huffed, his tiny form shifting in the air, “But even if I can only come out tomorrow, you should summon me if there’s too much danger. Even if you have to use your Od. Just do it.” He then faded into her amulet.

"The Loot House," Emilia muttered, her voice barely a whisper.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.

The stench hit her first: a sickening blend of stale ale, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood. A lot of blood. Her eyes widened in alarm as she realized something was wrong.

But it was too late.

Before she could react, a searing pain ripped through her abdomen. She gasped, her hand flying to the wound, but it was no use. Her vision blurred, the edges turning black, as she crumpled to the floor.

The last thing she saw, before darkness claimed her entirely, was the glint of a wickedly sharp blade and a pair of purple high-heeled boots. Insane, high-pitched giggling echoed in her ears as her lifeblood seeped onto the grimy floorboards.

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The world shuddered.

From within the depths of the Loot House, a wave of bone-chilling cold erupted, instantly engulfing the city. It spread outward with terrifying speed, a shockwave of pure, primal power that froze the very air in its wake.

Within the tavern, a monstrous form began to take shape. Where Emilia had fallen, a creature of immense size and terrible beauty emerged, its fur as white as snow, its eyes blazing with a bright yellow glacial fury.

Puck, the Great Spirit of Fire, was no more. In his place stood the Beast of the End, its roar a shockwave of destruction that shattered what remained of the night's stillness.

Memories, long suppressed, flooded the creature's ancient mind. Memories of a contract, forged in desperation, that bound him to this world, to his beloved Emilia. A contract broken. A promise betrayed.

The only one who could hope to stand against this primal fury, the Sword Saint Reinhardt van Astrea, was miles away, enjoying a rare day of respite from his duties. He would not arrive in time.

No one would.

Even if they did, they would never be able to stop this with their paltry strength.

“Everyone. This world. You will all sleep. Along with my Daughter.”

The shockwave of cold, emanated from the origin of the Loot House as a massive and towering leonine form took shape.

An absolute and world ending frozen cold swept across the land with unstoppable force, leaving nothing but silence and death in its wake.

By the time the sun rose, painting the sky in hues of blood orange and ash gray, only three souls remained. One, a being of unimaginable power, consumed by grief and vengeance, would soon meet its end at the hands of another, a knight bound by duty and driven by a despair that mirrored the ravaged world around him. He would stand victorious over the Beast of the End, only to realize the horrifying truth: he was alone.

The Witch of Envy, sealed within her prison of darkness, would remain, a silent witness to the desolation her unwilling pawn had wrought.

It was too late for Emilia.

Too late for the lives of everyone.

Too late for the world.

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Multiverses away, in a sterile white hallway, a young man with a soul stained by the violence of his own death and a heart full of confusion stirred from a death that wouldn't happen even if it already did.

His eyes were wide with panic.

"Okay, no. FUCK that door!"