Volume 4 Chapter 91 Operation: The Naked Passerby Kian ②
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
The blinding glare of the sun brought with it the stench of parched earth and woodsmoke.
As the cacophony of the passing crowds pressed against his eardrums, Kian realized he had returned once more to the heart of Azrael.
He shielded his eyes, squinting upward. Above him stretched a cloudless, porcelain-blue sky and a white-hot sun; in the periphery, the jagged, black silhouettes of palm trees flickered. He felt the ground beneath his feet sloping toward the right-a result of the muddy river carved into the landscape just a few paces away. Red-brown dust billowed around him, kicked up by the endless stream of people trudging past. The world here was bone-dry.
There were no calls from street vendors here.
Instead, the air was filled with the rhythmic thudding of washerwomen by the riverbank, their bare feet pounding sheets against wooden boards with a violence that seemed unnaturally loud in the stagnant heat.
(So… this is the quarter where the dregs of Azrael’s society rot,) Kian thought.
Kian cast a restless gaze about him before stepping off the narrow path bordering the stream. To his left, a row of dilapidated hovels made of sun-dried brick lined the way. Women-prostitutes, by the look of them-stood in the shade, their eyes narrowed against the harsh light as they hung tattered linens and undergarments to dry.
The scent of dust mingled with the reek of stagnant water, the tang of urine, and the faint, unmistakable sickly-sweet rot of venereal disease.
The gaps between the houses were surprisingly wide. In these alleyways, swarms of children darted back and forth, shrieking in a frenzy. They lived in a world where tomorrow was never a guarantee, yet they played with an innocent ferocity, swinging sticks and splashing through runoff. Kian wove through them, a giant avoiding the path of boys chasing one another through the filth, searching the shadows of this slum for the master of the dream.
As usual, Kian was entirely naked. However, between the half-clothed children and the emaciated adults sitting in the dirt-most of whom were barely covered by rags-he didn’t particularly stand out.
In contrast, the prostitutes and their potential marks were properly dressed. The customers appeared to be a rough mix of soldiers and sailors.
The wealthy wouldn’t dare risk the pestilence of this place. But for men with little silver and the knowledge that they’d likely die a violent death soon anyway, this slum was a sanctuary where a woman could be bought for a pittance.
It was a dark irony, Kian noted, that the prostitutes went to greater lengths to conceal their private parts than the men lounging nearby. Perhaps because, for them, their bodies were their only capital-merchandise to be handled with a certain desperate reverence, even in these conditions.
Turning into a random, narrow alleyway to his right, Kian seemed to strike gold. A woman with white hair and fox-like features was hunched over a wash-tub, scrubbing it with grim determination.
She looked to be in her early thirties.
In a place like this, that was the age when a woman’s bloom began to wither, her skin and features hardening under the weight of her environment. She wasn’t Rita. Not yet.
Kian attempted to slip past her, maintaining his charade as nothing more than an “ordinary naked passerby.”
”Oh… Sadiq. You actually came,” the fox-woman said.
”–!?”
(What?! She saw through my Hidden Form?!) Kian thought, panicked.
He froze, startled by the woman’s sudden address, but her eyes weren’t on him. She reached up to adjust the frayed strap of her dress, which had slipped down her shoulder, and then peeked past Kian’s massive frame.
Kian followed her gaze. Standing behind him was a man in his late twenties, clad in a charcoal-grey turban and clothes that were far too fine for this district. A jagged scar ran across his cheek, and his skin was baked a deep bronze. The way he carried himself, the sheer density of his muscle-it screamed military.
(No… a warrior monk,¹) Kian realized.
Kian offered a polite, gentlemanly nod of apology to the fox-woman and brushed past the man-Sadiq. He caught the scent of fresh water. The man had clearly bathed in a clean spring before venturing into this filth.
”Iman!” the man called out. “Forgive me for the delay.”
”……”
Before their voices faded, Kian contorted his body with a fluid, serpentine grace. Moving through the blind spots of Sadiq and Iman, he scaled the roof of what he presumed was Iman’s shack. He was careful not to crush the equipment strapped to his groin under his own weight, scuttling across the roof in a bridge-crawl. The sun beat down mercilessly on his bare chest and junk.
Hanging his upper body over the edge of the roof like a bat, Kian peered inside. Sadiq and Iman hadn’t even closed the door properly before they were in each other’s arms, locked in a feverish embrace.
(Now that I think about it, there are no native Azraelian women in this brothel district. From Rita’s mother to the others… they’re all Westerners,) Kian observed.
Despite her local name, she was a foreigner. Kian watched them, his gaze lingering like a voyeur on the two figures intertwined like a pair of drowning octopuses.
”Iman. Do you truly believe in Azrael as the One True God?” Sadiq asked.
”I do! I do!” Iman replied.
”Oh, Iman…!” Sadiq groaned.
(This guy is a straight-arrow,) Kian thought. (Here I am, calling myself the incarnation of Azrael while engaging in constant premarital debauchery, and he’s asking for a confession of faith mid-makeout.)
Watching them was almost too erotic; Kian felt a familiar stir in his groin.
”Eirene,” a voice called out.
”…Rita. Are you still here?” Eirene asked.
”Iman, who is the girl?” Sadiq asked.
The shack was little more than a pile of scrap. Kian hadn’t noticed her at first, but huddled between a tattered rug and a pile of dry straw was a small, snow-white girl. Rita. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. Tiny. Fragile.
”Sh-she’s just some brat I found on the street… She’s not mine. Not mine…” Eirene said quickly.
”Is that so?” Sadiq asked.
”Eirene. Breakfast. Let’s eat together,” the young Rita said.
The young Rita held out a small, crusty loaf of bread. To an adult, it was a mere scrap, but in her tiny hands, it looked like a feast.
”Eat it yourself. I’ve… I’ve already eaten,” Eirene said.
”……”
”What are you staring at? Get out! Now! I have work to do! Go on, move!” Eirene snapped.
”…Okay,” Rita whispered.
Rita clutched the bread to her chest and shuffled out of the shack. With nowhere else to go, she tucked herself into the narrow shadow on the side of the house. There, she began to gnaw on the stone-hard bread, her small jaw working as she tried to soften it with saliva.
”Iman. That girl…” Sadiq began.
”She isn’t mine,” Eirene interrupted.
”But-“
”I said she isn’t mine!” Eirene shrieked.
Iman’s voice-or rather, Eirene’s-broke in a sharp, trembling cry. Sadiq flinched, but he quickly pulled her into a steadying embrace, his expression softening with pity.
”I’ll pay you first. Here. Let’s sit,” Sadiq said.
Kian lost interest in the adults. He scuttled across the roof, positioning himself directly above Rita. The girl seemed to possess a preternatural sharpness; she had sensed his presence despite his concealment. Since his goal was the “Subliminal Kian²” technique, he allowed her just enough of a glimpse-flickering on the edge of her vision-to keep her focused.
Rita seemed confused by the strange, flickering image of a middle-aged man appearing and disappearing in the shadows, but hunger soon won out. She returned to the arduous task of eating.
”Ugh… hng… Eirene… Eirene… Mama…” Rita sobbed.
She began to cry, the dry bread catching in her throat. From inside the hut, the heavy, rhythmic gasps of her mother’s work began to filter through the thin walls.
(The dream-shift is starting,) Kian noted.
Kian looked up as a thick, unnatural fog began to roll in. Despite the proximity of the river, a mist this dense was an impossibility in this heat. This was Hanami’s barrier, a theater of nightmares. Once one trauma reached its peak, the stage would reset for the next.
The sound of Rita’s sobbing grew distant, then vanished. Kian’s body was also wrapped in fog, and before he knew it, he had been lowered onto the muddy ground.
The scene was the same-the side of Eirene’s shack.
But Rita had grown. She wasn’t quite old enough to be sold yet, but she was nearing ten. The soft features of childhood had sharpened, revealing a burgeoning beauty inherited from her mother. She was scrubbing a bucket with a fierce, silent intensity.
It was mid-day in Azrael. Sweat beaded on Rita’s forehead, turning to streaks of brown as it mixed with the dust. She finished the bucket and began replacing a frayed rope with a new one, her eyes constantly darting toward the front of the shack.
(A guest? Wait… is that-?) Kian peered around the corner.
There stood Eirene, her white hair now dry and brittle, looking years older. And facing her was an elderly Azraelian man who radiated a terrifying, predatory grace.
Thick, iron-grey brows. Simple, immaculate robes. Despite his age, the muscles of his neck and shoulders were corded and powerful. He had the lean, lethal physique of a jungle cat, not a man.
He reminded Kian of Umar, but where Umar was a hawk, this man was a tiger. His eyes were a pale, piercing amber that never seemed to blink. And then there was the mustache-the unmistakable, groomed “Tiger-Whiskers.³“
There was no doubt. It was the former strongest warrior of Azrael. Nizaam.
His eyes were the eyes of a true killer, devoid of any recognizable human warmth. He offered a thin, chillingly polite smile to Rita’s mother, their voices low and urgent.
”…! …, …”
”…. –, …. –“
Kian couldn’t hear them. Even though he was well within earshot, the dream seemed to suppress the sound, as if Rita’s own memory refused to let the words back in. Their mouths moved in a frantic, silent pantomime.
Then, Eirene turned and gestured toward Rita. Nizaam gave a single, curt nod and began to walk toward the girl.
Kian leaped twenty meters back in a single bound. He assumed the role of an ordinary citizen, walking a wide, inverted-L circuit around the shack to catch the dialogue.
”You are Rita, then?” Nizaam asked.
”…Who are you?” Rita replied in broken, halting Azraelian.
Nizaam immediately switched to the common tongue of the West. “I am buying you.”
”……. I’m only nine,” Rita said.
”Smaller is better. I have already settled the price with your mother,” Nizaam replied.
Behind Nizaam, a group of beautiful young boys-his attendants-handed a small leather pouch to Eirene. Kian noted the weight; it was a handful of silver coins.⁴ Not even worth a single gold piece.
Eirene’s mouth quirked into a greedy smile. She plucked a coin from the bag and bit it, her sharp canines clicking against the metal. Satisfied with the purity, she turned on her heel and vanished into the shack, her steps lighter than they had been in years.
”Ah…” Rita gasped.
Rita reached out, her face contorting in a mask of pure, unadulterated betrayal as she watched her mother’s retreating back. But the massive frame of the Tiger-Whiskered old man blocked her view. He loomed over her.
Those pale eyes. The eyes of a slaughterer.
Nizaam bared his teeth in a smile and placed a heavy hand on Rita’s head. Behind him, the beautiful boys watched the girl with a sharp, venomous jealousy.
”Ah–! S-s-s-sorry! Just passing through! Awoooooooo!” Kian yelped.
Kian, caught in the middle of this legendary encounter, accidentally triggered the device on his groin, letting out a pained howl. Nizaam’s eyes flicked toward the naked madman for a split second, sharp as a blade, but he dismissed Kian as a non-entity and returned his focus to the girl.
”Your mother has sold you,” Nizaam said flatly.
”I… I was sold?” Rita whispered.
”Indeed. For four silver coins,” Nizaam said.
”Four… silver… only four…?” Rita stammered.
”To Eirene, that was the extent of your worth. You were a burden. A ghost haunting her doorstep. She is glad to be rid of you,” Nizaam said.
”—-“
”Yes… that expression. That is what I saw in you,” Nizaam said, his voice dropping to a low, reverent rumble. “I feel the rage. A furnace of fury. That hatred, child… it will make you the greatest blade this world has ever seen.”
He stood tall, looking down at her like a cold, indifferent deity.
”From this day forth, you are my disciple. I shall pour every drop of my art into you. You will become the strongest sword of Azrael,” Nizaam declared.
”No! I want to stay with Eirene! I want to go home!” Rita screamed.
”I do not permit refusal, and you have nowhere else to crawl to. As of this breath, that hovel is a tomb to you,” Nizaam said.
”Eirene!” Rita screamed, throwing herself against the wall of the shack. “Eirene! Did you really do it?! Did you sell me for four pieces of silver?!”
Silence.
No answer came from within. The mother would never open that door again.
”Eirene! Eirene!! MAMA!! MOTHER!!” Rita wailed.
Rita collapsed into the dirt, her body arching as if wings were trying to burst from her spine. She let out a shriek that wasn’t human.
It was the howl of the discarded.
But beneath the grief was a tidal wave of pure, concentrated loathing.
The tachyonian cells⁵ dormant in Rita’s blood ignited. A monstrous surge of magical pressure erupted from her small frame, cracking the brick walls of the shack. Buckets and laundry were blasted into the street as if by a hurricane.
As the attendant boys scrambled back in terror, only Nizaam stood his ground. He was laughing, a silent, terrible sound of triumph.
(The scene is shifting again. The landscape is blurring,) Kian observed.
Kian, still playing the part of the ordinary passerby, looked up. The world was dissolving. He considered doing a series of backflips to make the transition look like a high-budget action movie edit, but the atmosphere was too heavy for his usual antics.
Instead, he simply blended in with the panicked crowd. “Oh boy, that’s quite a mess, quite a mess indeed!” he muttered as the world turned to white.
* * *
The following visions were a blur of blood and steel.
Rita, older now, killing. Killing again. And again. Doing exactly as Nizaam commanded.
Before her heart could even finish forming, she had been hollowed out and refilled with the cold steel of a living weapon.
Kian had hoped to see the training montage, but it seemed those memories weren’t part of her nightmares. It made sense; for someone as naturally gifted as Rita, the grueling physical labor of Nizaam’s tutelage probably wasn’t a trauma-it was a sanctuary.
She had been a void, and the sword had filled it. She realized she was better at it than anyone else, and the pain of training had transformed into the ecstasy of mastery.
What would drive a normal person to madness was, for her, a labor of love. She prioritized the blade over food, over sleep, over everything. And the result was a monster capable of killing a master like Almeisa in a heartbeat.
In terms of pure, raw ability, she likely dwarfed even Oswald. Rita was the pinnacle of what happens when a physical elite is forged in a fire of pure hatred.
Nizaam’s prophecy had been correct.
”Rita. You have mastered the final form of my Drawing Art,⁶” Nizaam said.
”Yes, Master,” Rita replied.
A moonlit palace.
This was Nizaam’s sanctuary in his twilight years-a visionary estate of palms, reflecting pools, and the soft glow of Mana Lamps. Kian, still gloriously nude, stood among the ranks of the devotees protecting the retired master. He stood in the center of the Palace courtyard, watching the master and disciple. Even though he was the only naked man in a sea of black-clad assassins, his solemn, professional facial expression seemed to be carrying him through.
”You are now one of the Twelve Divine Generals of the Shadow,⁷” Nizaam said, his voice raspy with age. “If Flora proves herself incompetent… you shall strike her down and take her place.”
”—-“
”You do not even blink. Good. My lessons have taken root,” Nizaam said.
”……”
”Undergo the procedure to prevent the ‘smallpox’,” Nizaam ordered.
”Yes, Master,” Rita replied.
”I will embed it here,” Nizaam said, tapping his own neck. “It will leave a small protrusion. You will cough blood for a time, but it will pass soon.”
”Yes, Master,” Rita said.
”Once the fever breaks, your final trial begins,” Nizaam said.
”What should I hunt?” Rita asked.
”A defector,” Nizaam said, a cruel sneer pulling at his tiger-whiskers. “Dispose of the traitor of the order. Do not let them escape.”
”Yes, Master,” Rita said.
”If they have companions, kill them too. Be sure to kill them,” Nizaam added.
”Yes, Master!” Rita replied.
”Then, and only then, will you be my true successor. As a General of the Shadow, you will regulate Azrael,” Nizaam declared.
Nizaam clasped his hands behind his back. “Now the Death-Sword Users of Azrael have become a mere formality. They cannot speak up to the Council. Also, the newcomers like Vahid use forbidden poisons and bombs. Nakash too. Those are things that can easily kill many humans even if one is not a warrior monk who has undergone rigorous training. The Twelve Divine Generals do not understand. Even if you make Azrael strong, it rots the heart. Never forget the ‘soul’ of a warrior monk…”
”I will inherit your ambition, Master. I will surely fix Azrael for you,” Rita said.
Rita’s eyes were clear. There was no hesitation. No doubt.
The curse of her mother had been overwritten. Her world was Nizaam, and Nizaam was everything.
She was fourteen years old, a slip of a girl, yet everyone in that courtyard knew the courtyard knew the truth. She was the master now.
It was the Azraelian way: Magic Power was the only law that mattered.
”Follow him. Work together and kill the target,” Nizaam ordered.
”Understood!” the three monks replied in unison.
Three warrior monks stepped forward before Nizaam and Rita. Kian, wearing a look that said he absolutely belonged there, nonchalantly joined them as the fourth monk, sinking onto one knee.
As Nizaam gave a satisfied nod, the world dissolved into a thick mist. Whew, I’m glad Nizaam and Rita didn’t turn around and look at me, Kian thought. The scenery of the memory began to transition. A change of scene.
Next, they were in the slums-a sprawl of cold streets where the rain was coming down in sheets.
Kian watched as the four monks, Rita included, sprinted past him. Right, looks like the mission is starting, he realized.
Grasping the situation in a heartbeat, Kian used ‘Shadow Pursuit’ to close the gap instantly. He slipped into their formation with a face that suggested he had been running with them from the start.
”Damn this rain! I’ve lost them!” one of the monks cursed.
”No, it’s fine. The target is over there,” Rita said. She pointed toward the next street over. “They’re trying to cut through the slums to reach the upstream docks and get back to the sea.”
”Can you tell their exact position?” the monk asked.
”Yeah. They cannot escape my perception,” Rita replied. With that, she threw back her hood, her white fox ears twitching in the chill. “You three, circle around to the left from that street. You, take the right. I’ll also-“
”I’m here too! I’ll circle around from the right as well!” Kian shouted.
Rita and her three accompanying warrior monks looked back at the naked Kian running beside them with “Who is this guy?” eyes. Kian shielded his eyes from the downpour with one arm and barked an order.
”Rita, hurry! There’s no time to think! The enemy is a skilled warrior monk-they’ll slip away if we hesitate!” Kian yelled.
”…Fine. You lot, flank from the right. I’ll pursue from the rear,” Rita said. She turned right at the end of the street without a sound.
Kian shoved past the female monk in the lieutenant position to take the lead, putting on a solemn face as he ran beside the fox-beastman girl.
”Once I’m in range, I’ll finish them with a Secret Technique. It is a closely guarded art… but if you want to steal it, be my guest,” Rita said.
The three monks nodded. Now’s our chance! one thought. We can steal the Secret Technique ‘Shadow Pursuit’! The strongest ultimate art of the ‘Leap’ lineage! Look at the way the spiraling Qi wraps around the legs! The weakness is the inability to make sharp turns, and the fact that top speed only kicks in between the third and fourth steps! I’ll keep his eyes peeled!
Kian threw in a boisterous cheer, playing the part of the loudmouth party member to a T.
”……?” Rita glanced back at him, puzzled, but quickly turned her face forward again.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
He’d actually pulled it off. It had been a gamble, but he’d managed to bulldoze through with pure vibes and momentum. Pretty much the story of my life lately, Kian thought.
”HRAAAH!” Kian roared.
Muscles bulging in his powerful thighs, Kian vaulted to the right, overtaking the other four. He tore across the rooftops, smashing tiles as he went, until he spotted two shadows fleeing along a creek toward the great river.
A man and a woman.
Both were draped in heavy black robes. The man moved with the wasted-motion efficiency of a pro. The woman, while she had some physical strength, was clearly an amateur; she was only keeping up because the man was dragging her through the rainy night.
”Found them, Rita! Over there! Surround them! Take them down!” Kian shouted.
”Shut up, you-” the lieutenant began to say.
Kian silenced her by driving a hand-blade through her skull, the sound of tearing flesh echoing as he absorbed her fluids. Stripping the rain gear from the woman he had just killed, he masked his presence and pulled up alongside Rita.
Below, the man realized they were cornered. He shoved the woman behind him and spun to face the approaching Rita. He unsheathed a black scimitar-the mark of a warrior monk.
Rita’s magical power flared with a terrifying chill. This wasn’t just a ‘Shadow Pursuit.’ She kept her shamshir sheathed, her left hand gripping the scabbard while her right hand white-knuckled the hilt.
”Oho, so that’s the one,” Kian muttered. Watching from the eaves, he felt a grin tug at his lips. The defector was a veteran; he’d clearly been through formal training.
But Rita didn’t give him a chance to dodge, let alone defend. Her body simply vanished-and in the next instant, a blade of high-density Qi screamed from her drawing shamshir.
”Imaan…!” the man gasped. In a final act of instinct or sheer willpower, he shoved the woman behind him out of the way.
The man’s torso simply evaporated. The momentum sent his head spinning away into the dark. The woman, though spared a direct hit, hadn’t been fast enough; the arm she’d been holding onto him with was gone. Everything from the right shoulder down. For a mere human, it was a wound that meant immediate death.
”Eh……, Eirene……?” Rita whispered.
In the art of the draw, one should re-sheath immediately. But Rita froze. Her hood had been blown back, and she stared with hollow eyes at the woman collapsing into a pool of blood.
”Eh… Eirene!!” Rita screamed.
The black scimitar clattered onto the wet stones. Rita regressed. She dropped to all fours like a beast, scrambling toward the woman who was twitching feebly in the rain.
”Eirene! Eirene…!! Mother…!” Rita cried.
At that word, the beastman woman, who had been convulsing from the shock of blood loss, went perfectly still.
”Rita…? Rita…?” the woman wheezed.
”Mother…, I, I’m…, I…!” Rita sobbed.
From the outside, it was impossible to read the change in their hearts. Rita tore her own monk’s robes, pressing the fabric against her mother’s wound while desperate healing magic flickered from her hands.
The two surviving warrior monks caught up.
”Rita, that woman is also a target for elimination. Kill her,” one monk ordered.
”…I refuse,” Rita said.
”You dare defy our Lord’s command?” the monk asked.
”……” Rita remained silent.
”Tch. Move aside, we’ll do it,” the monk said.
They raised their blades, but Rita’s ‘threads’ found them first. They were shredded in an instant-the work of a cold, merciless killer.
”Rita…, take this…” her mother whispered.
The blood wouldn’t stop. Unless a user of a Restoration Curse intervened, she was lost. The dying fox-woman fumbled a key from her pocket.
”I’m glad… I could give it to you…. The money… I saved it all. I didn’t spend a cent,” she said.
”────!?” Rita gasped.
”Please… use it…” the woman muttered.
”You didn’t… sell me?” Rita whispered in a voice full of despair.
There was no answer. Without another word, the beastman woman passed away.
”Nothing. You say nothing again. You just give me things and leave me with silence. …The only words I ever wanted to hear…!” Rita cried.
She didn’t wail like a child. Rita just sat there, a hollow shell, weeping without a sound-tears the rain was too thin to hide.
”──Ahaha! What a performance, Ms. Rita!” Kian shouted.
Crap, I got too into watching and missed my cue, Kian thought. He clapped his hands loudly to announce his presence and dropped into the street.
”Get lost. Do you want to die too?” Rita asked.
”Truly tragic about your mother,” Kian said.
”……” Rita rose silently and looked at Kian, her brow knit with rage. “Who the hell are you?”
”I am your inner darkness,” Kian replied.
”Darkness?” Rita asked.
”That’s right… The Dark…ness…” Kian said. Seriously, who even am I? he wondered as he improvised. The scene had been so heavy, and now he was turning it into a farce.
”Fine. One more, two more-doesn’t matter. If you want to die, I’ll kill you,” Rita said.
A twisted, manic grin spread across Rita’s face. She snatched up the fallen monk’s scimitar and leveled it at Kian.
”Haha, now we’re talking! I’ve been wanting to see what you’re really made of in a death match, Ms. Rita!” Kian laughed.
”What? …Wait. …Huh???” Rita’s stance loosened as her confusion grew.
Kian, however, was fully committed. It was a dream, after all-he wanted to see whose ‘Shadow Pursuit’ reigned supreme. He dropped into his starting stance.
”Rita! This is the end! If you want to succeed Nizaam, then prove you can take me down! Give me everything you’ve got! ──Or die where you stand!!” Kian roared.
”No, wait… are you… Lord Kian??? What? Eh???” Rita asked.
”Here I come! Guard yourself!” Kian shouted.
A duel in the rain. Just as Kian reached the peak of his dramatic shout-
”Kian! Kian! Wake up! Get up! Please!”
He felt a sharp sting on his cheek as someone slapped him, and his consciousness surged back to the surface.
—
Summary:
Kian navigates the trauma-ridden slums of Azrael within Rita’s nightmare. He witnesses her mother’s betrayal as she sells a young Rita to Nizaam for a mere four silver coins. The dream fast-forwards through Rita’s lethal evolution into the Shadow’s successor and a member of the Twelve Divine Generals.
Kian infiltrates a traumatic memory where Rita is tasked with killing defectors. Rita accidentally kills her own mother, who reveals she was actually saving money to protect Rita rather than selling her out. Kian attempts to engage a grief-stricken Rita in a duel before being slapped awake in the real world.
—
Trivia:
- The smell of STDs in the slum suggests the severe environmental decay.
- Rita’s mother is a Westerner, as are many in the brothel district.
- Kian is actually using a device on his groin that causes him pain, which he hilariously manages during high-tension scenes.
- The ‘smallpox’ procedure is a physical ritual involving embedding something in the neck.
- Nizaam resents the modern Azraelian warriors for using poisons and bombs, preferring ‘soul’ and martial arts
- Kian was naked during the first half of the chase.
- The Secret Technique ‘Shadow Pursuit’ has a specific weakness: no sharp turns and delayed top speed.
- The mother (Eirene) handed Kian/Rita a key before dying.
- Rita’s mother didn’t actually sell her into the monk order; she was saving money
—
Character Insight:
Rita’s intense loyalty to Nizaam is born from the absolute void created by her mother’s betrayal. Nizaam didn’t just train her; he provided a ‘home’ where none existed, effectively ‘rewriting’ her trauma into cold, lethal mastery.
—
Behind the Scenes:
The ‘Tiger-Whisker’ mustache is a classic visual shorthand in Japanese media for a powerful, disciplined, and often ruthless master.
—
TL Notes:
Notes:
• Sadiq – A man in his late twenties with a scar on his cheek and sun-baked skin. A warrior monk with high muscle mass.
• Eirene – A white-haired fox-woman beastman. Rita’s mother. Her beauty fades over the course of the dream-shift due to her environment.
• Nizaam – A former member of Azrael’s Twelve Divine Generals and the current head of the Malc family, though he has passed both titles to his daughter to return to the battlefield. He is a prominent warrior noble in Azrael, known for his love of beautiful boys and fierce battles.
• tachyonian – a cell that generates magic power, allowing humans to enhance their bodies and perform magic to manipulate the external world. (tachyon: particle that always travels faster than light.)
• Mag – The wolfwoman under Yelmar—the one who was caught by Kian’s group earlier.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
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