It was another cold and clouded afternoon at the Academy.

While students traversed through their average days, there was an intangible weight bearing down upon all of them.

Weather was always a factor in one's mood.

Which was odd, since the weather was so far out of humanity's control.

But for students, their current worries seemed endless.

Studying and completing seemingly inconsequential assignments was obvious.

A more looming threat hung in the frigid, stagnant air.

The Divine Crusaders.

They breathed down the neck of every Strata citizen. The possibility of war was no longer a loose speculation, but a surefire reality.

The disappearance of two noble students certainly amplified such fears. However, that was only for the few who were perceptive enough to notice.

Two students were quite intimate with mysterious disappearances.

During the day, one of said students whispered into the ear of the other.

Though his smiling face didn't waver, the platinum-haired boy was filled with intrigue.

Both slowly went about their days, eagerly awaiting the night.

***

In the deepest depths of the night, the main cobblestone path was lightly illuminated by rows of streetlamps.

There were no guards. And the night was silent.

Raphael gently strolled through, his hair glistening under the lamps.

Under one lamp was a weird object; a chest.

He took his time reaching the chest, his pace drowning in leisure.

Every bone in Raphael's body was carefree, his hands gently clasped behind his back.

Hovering over the wooden chest, he gently looked both ways with a sly smile.

With his stance held high, he brought one hand down, flicking the chest open.

It was odd. The chest was far too light.

Inside the chest…

Newspapers. Images. All involved the Upper City murder spree.

'WORD OF MOUTH'

Raphael chuckled.

There was a light whistle in the air.

…

CLANG

…

The sharp screech of steel on steel infected the silent night.

In an instant, Raphael had turned around.

His long spear appeared out of thin air, deflecting a dagger that erupted from the surrounding abyss.

"Isn't this… a bit premature?" Raphael asked, his mouth curling into a disgusting grin.

Donning his dark leather, cloaked outfit, Jett emerged from the other side of the road.

He held a steel dagger in his hand.

"Got a little impatient after I killed your friends?" the platinum-haired boy taunted.

"To be honest," Jett conceded. "It's more selfish than that. I've thought about killing you since the very beginning. I'm glad you're the one."

"Your notions of killing me are quite cute. But even if you were to do so, you lack the proof to justify my death, Storm Warden," Raphael snickered.

"I don't need to justify your death."

"How come? Carmine going to bail you out?"

"Your sister going to bail you out?"

"Touche," Raphael grinned.

The two locked eyes, both completely frozen.

"How'd you figure me out?" Jett asked.

The platinum-haired devil reached at his collar, pulling out an elaborate ivory necklace.

"A talisman that amplifies positive feelings regarding the bearer. I didn't even have to talk to you. You're a hateful one, aren't you?"

"Does that talisman work on your sister, or does she hate you as much as I do?"

Raphael's gleeful expression died.

What remained was the face of an emotionless devil.

"A pity. I hoped we could keep this going a bit longer."

"Hey, the facade's gone. Would you look at that?" Jett jested.

"Silence."

Raphael rushed forward, his spear disintegrating into a mist.

'What?'

His empty hands thrust forward, as Jett sidestepped.

A heavy wind surrounded Raphael's spear, which had popped back into existence and disappeared once more.

'Another talisman…'

Jett gained space as he readied his daggers in front of him.

"Running now?" Raphael taunted back. "All that talk for nothing."

A near-invisible spear would be difficult to fight against, especially for a dagger user like Jett.

But if he closed the distance, the spear's range would be its downfall.

Jett's legs burned with Soul as he burst forward.

The spear reappeared.

'Shit…'

Jett was heading straight towards it.

He barely sidestepped it, his momentum carrying his body to Raphael's side.

A swift dagger slashed towards Raphael's stomach.

With a sturdy stance, Raphael used the butt end of his spear to divert Jett's dagger hand, then immediately swiped forward.

The spear's blade sliced across Jett's head.

Warm blood ran down his cold face.

But Jett didn't back down.

He could've dodged the slash with ease, yet he chose not to.

Because Jett had Raphael in his grasp.

A burst of speed reached the recovering Raphael, caught off guard by his opponent's lack of self-preservation.

Fury welled in Jett's eyes, his bloodied face scrunching as he gripped his dagger.

STAB

Steel pierced flesh as Jett drove his dagger deep into his opponent's side.

Raphael recoiled with an odd whimper, his spear turning into mist.

Then with a jolt of strength, Raphael gripped Jett's dagger hand.

And with his right, the spear reappeared.

STAB

Raphael's spear punched through Jett's gut.

Jett released sharp, agonized gasps and chortles.

He similarly grasped Raphael's spear hand.

…

They were stalemated, each grabbing hold of the other to prevent the opposition's steel from weaseling deeper into their bodies.

'I… refuse… to die.'

Both were hyperventilating, occasionally broken up with strained exhales of pain.

Their reaches were too far to shuffle, kick, or move.

At least, without inflicting further damage.

They resorted to breaking the other's grip.

Soul welled up in Jett's left hand, strengthening his grip in an attempt to break Raphael's wrist.

Yet Raphael responded by reinforcing his wrist with Soul, nullifying the accumulating damage.

The same exchange happened to Jett's wrist.

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It was another stalemate.

Jett was now losing.

A battle of Soul attrition was not one that he could win.

A wide but pained smile flooded Raphael's face.

Jett lurched forward, spitting viscous blood and saliva at his opponent.

With his face covered in blood, the monster's smile only grew.

While sharp pain covered Jett's body, one slowly built up.

Jett's wrist began to heat up before turning into a blazing inferno.

Hyperventilating breaths became even more rapid and panicked.

'The Soul Flame technique!'

Skin and flesh began to bubble and burn as white flames erupted from Jett's wrist.

Yet, he couldn't respond with one of his own.

Out of fear, he refused to practice it during class.

Fear.

It was always with him before, and it was with him now.

A vile grin filled Raphael's face while Jett's contorted in anguish.

"Weak! So very weak!" Raphael cackled with bloody teeth.

So much fear.

Jett thought he could escape it, but it never left.

It clung to every inch of his body.

But the fear he felt was washed away with another.

Fury.

This battle of carnage wouldn't be won with the white flames of the Soul.

No.

Jett would win with the rage of his existence.

…

Raphael had reminded him of the boy he had killed.

A lone Shacktown boy.

The boy had him badly beaten yet walked off smugly.

Raphael's smug face was entirely convinced of victory.

He couldn't be further from the truth.

"Fuck… you!" Jett yelled as he jerked forward.

Pain erupted from his gut as the spear dug deeper.

Jett's head leaned backward.

Then…

thud… Thud… THUD

It was a meaty and vicious collision of flesh.

The third headbutt was not only filled with Jett's Soul.

Everything was put into it.

His rage, fury, fear, doubt, everything.

The bloodied Raphael fell backward and onto the cobblestone, stunned by the painful gamble.

His spear disintegrated, but his body took the dagger with him onto the ground.

Dark blood poured out of Jett's side as he hopelessly covered it with his hand.

His body wanted to relax, to take a step back and recover.

But the path to victory was arduous.

Like Maros had taught him:

Jett had to give everything he had.

He dove onto the dazed boy's flaccid body.

Jett's hands seized Raphael's neck.

Raphael's stunned eyes frantically shot open in alert terror.

Soul filled Jett's grasp as the platinum-haired devil's head turned red.

Blood swelled in Raphael's neck and skull.

'This piece of shit!'

Raphael looked down on him.

He thought Jett was a fool, a weakling.

Jett gripped tighter as Raphael's hands grabbed his own wrists, trying to ease the pressure.

Raphael thought Jett was a toy, a minor obstacle.

He was everything Jett hated in this world.

One part of Raphael was the murderous, sickening Shacktown maniac.

The other was an oppressive nobleman—one who knew nothing of true struggle and strife.

Jett abhorred such a being.

He gripped even tighter.

"How does it feel…" Jett spat with rage. "To be killed by a boy from Shacktown!?"

Raphael's face twitched with fright and horror.

"Bull… shit…" the dying boy barely spat out, the last of his air leaving his mouth.

Jett gripped tighter his face flooding with ecstasy.

Yet he couldn't; his grip faltered.

He had ignored the inferno pelting his wrists.

The melting of flesh.

Muscles in his wrist, now exposed, had begun to scorch off his bones.

'NO!'

Everything. Jett had to give everything.

All of Jett's Soul rushed to his hands and arms at unprecedented speeds.

He gripped tighter on Raphael's neck.

Raphael's eyes slowly drifted to the back of his head, his entire body squirming.

But Jett held strong.

Yes, the flames of Raphael's Soul were swelteringly hot.

But Jett's hatred ran hotter.

…

CRACK

…

Raphael's neck snapped and twisted.

His entire body jolted, then sat limp.

And the boy had died.

Blood poured from his lifeless eyes like crimson tears. It welled up in his mouth and drifted out of his ears.

Along with Raphael's flames, his grasp died out as his arms fell to the sides.

"Hah… hah… hah…"

Jett fell to the side of the pooling corpse, clutching at his bleeding wound as he grimaced.

His breaths were weak, and all of his emotions drained as he began to break down.

Weak breaths gradually became heavier and more strained as pain erupted all over Jett's body.

Then Raphael's Soul entered the equation.

Under the lamplight, a blood-curdling scream rang throughout the soundless night.

It could only be described as an eternity of agony.

Jett viciously squirmed in pain.

It was an extremely excruciating endeavor.

The Soul which entered his body began to rapidly repair his flesh.

Muscle fibers stretched and stitched themselves back into place.

…

The wounds in his abdomen, face, and wrists had fully healed.

Cold air gently embraced Jett's heat as his breathing gradually decreased.

His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

Lightheaded, Jett lost consciousness.

***

…

…

"HUAHH…"

Jett jolted awake with a wheezing inhale.

He frantically searched his surroundings.

Lukewarm blood touched his hands.

It was Raphael's.

'Must have only been a few minutes…'

Jett sat up, slowly hobbling to his feet.

Touching his wounds revealed his usual ivory skin, scarless and unblemished.

'Fully healed? How? Wait…'

He concentrated.

Fear filled his head once again.

His Soul was nearly depleted once more, even after killing a high Acolyte.

To stay alive, his Fractured Soul had repaired his body subconsciously.

'Survival…'

Repairing flesh was an ability typically for high Stalwarts…

But this posed a larger issue.

Jett felt hollow.

…

His thoughts were sluggish and jumbled.

His body wanted to rest. His core wanted Soul.

But then…

Jett's head snapped down the road.

It was a figure.

They walked straight towards Jett…

Sword in hand.