Vortigern made his way through the manor. His armor clanked with each step, and his cape dragged across the floor. There were a pair of high doors at the end of a long hallway. It intrigued him, thus he pushed them open.

It was a great hall full of chairs lined perfectly next to each other and a speaking booth at the end, yet empty without a single soul inside. Walking past the chairs in the red moonlight, Vortigern noticed a sound from behind the stage. A lone man leaned against the side wall like a fallen tree, drinking a bottle of sap wine. The man raised his head full of hair and stood up, though his legs barely kept him standing.

“Who are you?” Lionel slurred.

“High king Vortigern. You must be the spawn of Bors.”

“I can’t tell what you’re saying, but I sure heard something.” Lionel took a swig of his bottle. “Vortigern. The first black blood. You come here and tarnish my lands, kill my people and invade my castle. For what?”

“You don't seem to understand.”

“Albian, you speak it? We don't speak gibberish here.” Lionel hopped down from the stage.

"Oberon, I know you are here. Help this fool."

A small green sparkle of light appeared on Lionel's shoulder.

"Let me be clear; I am not doing this because you told me." It said with a shriek-ish voice.

"Do you understand me now?" Vortigern asked.

"Ew, you sound worse when I can." Lionel dug his finger into his ear.

“Hear my name! I am the king of twilight, Lord Vortigern!” Vortigern unlocked his fluttering mantle.

As it fell to the ground, dark armor appeared from underneath. Clad in spiked plates, it reached from the tips of his feet to the base of his neck. It curled behind his ears and over his forehead. The scales formed a glistening crown akin to his head.

“Descendant of Knight Bors, I challenge you.” Vortigern gripped his spiked gauntlets tightly.

"Challenge me? What for?"

"To see who is truly fit to rule this land."

Lionel finished his bottle, opened his suit, and curled up his sleeves.

“By the name of sir Lionel Elyan Claudin, I accept." His lips curled up and stretched from side to side

“Do not be mistaken. This is not a battle.”

Vortigern struck without warning, blasting Lionel backstage. Props and lights buried him under a pile of rubble.

“This is a massacre.” Vortigern shook his fist.

Lionel exploded from underneath a grand pile of debris, smiling widely as ever.

“ You do you, but don't you dare hold back." Lionel cracked his neck. "Because...” He lunged from the stage.

Vortigern saw Lionel’s approach. He could as well dodge, but he barely even braced.

“I sure don't!” Lionel punched with all his might.

Vortigern took the uppercut head-on. It barely scratched his chin, and he barely even nudged.

“Damn, what are you made of?” Lionel felt the bones in his arm ache like hitting a brick wall.

“I would ask that as well.” Vortigern brushed his chin. “The fairies gifted you a truly powerful blessing.”

“Figuring out the ace in my sleeve so early. You read me like an open book.”

“It does not take more than wit to understand. After all, you bear the sins of your forefathers.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You of all people should know!” Vortigern disappeared.

Lionel braced, yet couldn't stop himself from flying off. He slammed against the stage. The strike left him shaking his neck down.

“Was that a bit too hard?” Vortigern smirked.

“No, I’m used to taking problems head-on.” Lionel smiled with the flex of his muscles.

Lionel climbed and jumped from the stage. Vortigern waited for a kick. He looked up, only to see Lionel’s forehead smash against his. The laminated floor cracked in the shape of Vortigern’s feet. Lionel stepped back and was happy to see Vortigern trembling in his steps.

“...What was that?” Vortigern felt a scratch on his forehead.

“You know, a deck of cards has more than one ace." Lionel brushed his forehead.

“It matters not. Whatever blessing you have is but second grade. You and your fairies stand no chance against me.” Vortigern grimaced.

“Don’t be hasty. I’ve barely even started.” Lionel hopped like a boxer.

“Is that so? Perhaps I was not clear enough.”

Vortigern grabbed Lionel's hand. The dark gauntlet with an iron grip pressed into his bones.

Lionel punched with his free hand. His knuckles bled, pierced by the thorns. Yet, it did not leave even a scratch. Then it was Vortigern's turn. He hit Lionel straight in his torso. The strike felt like getting smashed by a sledgehammer. It pushed deep into his innards and crushed his ribs. Next, Vortigern hit him in the face, crushing his nose and cracking his teeth. Over and over, Vortigern broke every bone, tenderized every muscle, and crushed every organ he could.

“I told you. This is no contest.”

Watching a man clinging to his life in front of him was nothing new to Vortigern. He would still dream of the days he sat on his high throne looking down at his attendees.

“Please, my lord, forgive me!” A pale man pleaded.

“Then tell me. Where is he? Where is the blessed child?"

“We do not know! I swear!" Another one in white claimed.

"The prophecy is all we have!" The third bowed down to the floor.

“My court is not for useless worms. You either find him or leave!"

“Please, be considerate! The search is hard enough without the Guerrians and Albians roaming around.” The fourth explained.

“Silence! Do not tell your king how to act!” Vortigern slammed his fist.

The king thought for a moment, letting the silence judge the four men in white.

“Excuse me. You have been honorable subjects for me. For your past and future efforts, I shall grant you a gift."

Vortigern opened his hand to reveal four bone rings with the face of a dragon.

"Thank you, our lord." The four bowed.

"With this, you will find the boy and bring him to me. Only he can save this kingdom."

"Yes, our lord." The four sheepishly took the rings.

"The four of you will become my arms. Your powers, your magic, it will make my kingdom invincible. With an army that does not rest, a castle no one may breach, arrows that never miss their mark, and eyes that turn all terrain favorable, there will be nothing standing in our way."

The memory faded away like a dream. Vortigern let go of Lionel. The man barely kept standing, only to fall back like a board.

“What is that?” Vortigern noticed.

Lionel’s body glowed with dim green light. Tiny sparks buzzed around him like a flock of flies. His closed and clothes repaired themselves.

A single spark left the flock and flew closer to Vortigern. It stared at him with its small round eyes.

"What is it, Oberon?"

“...What are you?” Oberon squinted his tiny eyes.

Vortigern smiled. “Oh, you cannot tell by appearance? I am Vortigern, King of Albion.” He put his hand against his chest.

“That is true, but not really. Why are you here?” The fairy asked.

Vortigern fell silent. He had a somber stare into the void that had become himself.

“So, even you do not know.” He sighed.

On the basement floor, Orel, Isao, and Slacume had made their way through the maintenance tunnels.

“Which way do you think they are?” Orel asked.

“Normally, I’d say how would I know, but I think I’ve got an idea,” Slacume nodded. “There’s a ventilation room up ahead. I’ve never been there myself, but I’ve heard that it’s like a maze of pipes. The perfect hiding spot.”

“You know this building well, forest-dweller,” Isao said.

“I work here. Well, I also like history.”

“We must not dwell in the past, but learn from it.”

“I don’t know. Stupid people will always make the same mistakes.”

“Ignorance is always the easiest way, but never the right choice”

“Sounds like something familiar to you."

“It took me a while to realize."

“I think I see the door!” Orel yelled a bit further.

“Wait up, Orel!” Slacume hurried.

At the end of the tunnel was a small metal door with a warning sign on it. Before Orel could reach it, he heard footsteps echo from the nearby stairs. He stopped and hid around a corner. The steps seemed supple, carefree, even. Orel peeked and saw a slender figure making its way down the stairs.

“Orel, what are you doing?” Slacume asked.

“Hush!” Orel raised his hand.

Slacume immediately stuck to the wall like a cockroach. Isao readied his blade. The steps reached the floor.

There they suddenly stopped.

“Who’s there?” A croaky voice asked.

Orel froze. His hands shook too much to grip a coin from his pocket. Isao tightened his pose, protecting Slacume. Yet, Slacume walked past him. He passed both him and Orel. He walked out of the corner. Orel was about to tug him back, but there was something in his eyes that made him stop.

“Mr.Park?” Slacume asked the man.

In his loose-fitting and overly patched overalls slanted an old gentleman. He leaned on his trusty mop, scratching his lack of hair, apart from the two small brushes of a mustache.

“Oh, if it isn’t young Slacume!” Park smiled with his wrinkly face and slanting eyes.

“You know him?” Orel asked.

“He is the janitor here.” Slacume introduced him.

“You mean a janitor?” Orel corrected.

“No, no. It’s just me here.” Park shook his head.

“Are you alright? Are they paying you well? Are the work hours humane?" Orel worried.

“Oh no, food and a roof on top are all I need.” Park straightened himself, cracking his back.

“What?" Orel stared blankly.

“Orel, stop thinking. You are going to give yourself an aneurysm." Slacume tapped his shoulder. "No one knows his deal except Sir Lionel.”

“Are you not from Azuma?” Isao rested his naginata

“Oh, a monk. “Park squinted his eyes. “Hmmm, Zipangu?”

“Yes. From the Raikou temple in Ryuki.”

“Doesn't ring a bell to me. I left Huangok a long time ago.”

“But Mr.Park, what are you doing here?” Slacume asked.

“My shift just started. Or is my watch not working?” Park checked.

“You start work in the middle of the night...” Orel hung on to the fact. “No, I mean, didn't you notice the attack?”

“So all that noise and rumbling wasn’t the plumbing? Dear gods, I was worried.”

“Mr.Park. It is still dangerous here. You should hide.” Isao suggested.

“Really? Now that I think about it, who are these people, Slacume?”

“It’s a long story, don’t worry about it.”

“If you say so. But what were you doing here?”

“One of the invaders is probably in the boiler room,” Slacume explained. “Actually, could you lead us there?”

“Isn’t that too dangerous?” Orel asked.

“You don’t need to worry about me. If someone is messing with the pipes, I’ll take care of them myself.” Park thwacked his broom.

“Do you have the maintenance key?” Slacume asked.

“Boy, I have all the keys.” Park took out a ball of keys. “Now, which one is the right one.”

“We are in a hurry.” Isao reminded.

“I am going through them as fast as I can.” Park fiddled with the keychain like a raffle. “Maybe this one.”

Park inserted the metal key, yet the lock wouldn’t budge.

“Maybe it needs a bit more force.” Park turned the key.

A sharp snap. Park held a piece of the key in his hand while the rest of it was stuck inside the lock.

“Now I have done it. I need to note that down so I can remember to take it out.” Park took out his notebook and pen from one of the many pockets.

“Let me help.” Isao stepped forward.

“Oh, do you have smaller hands?” Park asked.

Isao gripped the doorknob and sparks burst from his arm. The metal turned red hot. A slight kick was all it took to open the door at that point. Some of the metal dripped to the ground like drops of water.

“What have you done? Now I need to replace the whole door!” Park shook in anguish.

“So he can do that too,” Slacume noted.

“Um, I wasn’t so good in physics class.” Orel scratched his head.

“Well, I wasn’t that good either, but I know that if you apply enough electricity to a metal, it will also heat it.”

Isao stopped at the door. “There is something wrong.”

“What is it?” Orel asked.

“There is no fog on this door.”

“They are inviting us in,” Slacume realized.

“Mr.Park, are you sure you would not rather stay behind?” Isao turned to face him.

“I said I am fine.” Park frowned at being patronized.

Isao sighed. “Chaos truly is inherent in all compounded things.”

“I will go first since I know the layout.” Park walked past Isao.

The four entered the damp, cold room filled with rumbling and steaming pipes. Their vision was constantly disturbed by steam and flickering lamps. It was indeed a maze, and one wrong turn could be a dead-end or a steaming hot tube, ready to burn your skin. Thankfully, Park navigated through it like it was his own house, while others stayed vary of the danger.

Orel noticed something off with Isao. He seemed stiffer than usual and carried his blade out while keeping his distance from the lead.

“Are you nervous?” He asked.

“My mind is wavering. It cannot find peace here."

“Do you think this is a trap?”

“I do not dream of the future.” Isao shifted his sight. “This Mr.Park...I cannot stop gripping my Tomoe in his presence. My instincts are trying to warn me.”

Slacume walked near Park, who walked with his hands together around his back like taking a stroll.

“Mr. Park.” Slacume poked him.

“Yes?”

“You aren’t wearing your gloves.”

Even if their meetings were few and far between, Slacume always remembered the beaten old leather gloves that Park wore all day long.

The wrinkles on Park’s face stiffened, but only for a moment.

“Oh? I must have left them in my shed.” He smiled cheek to cheek.

Slacume had to come to accept that people told lies whenever they wanted, and it was best he should not pry into them. Park was no exception. He could hear when a pipe was leaking from a different floor. He was also one of the few people with the master key. The other keys belonged to the head of staff, Gotthold, the director of security, Ernstein, and Sir Lionel himself. With Ernstein on paid leave, and the others missing, Park was perhaps the only one with full access.

“Do you kids have an idea where they might be?” Park asked.

“Is there a low point here?” Slacume looked around.

“Well, the floor goes down where the backup generators are.”

“Then we need to go there.” Slacume nodded.

“It’s just around the corner from here.” Park showed.

A new sound emerged among the sound of liquids going and dripping through the pipes. Terrible groaning echoed from the darkness. Park stopped in his steps, and so did everyone else.

“They are here,” Park said.

“You should not have come here,” Eargaoth emerged farther down the wide dark corridor.

Orel felt the man’s voice sounded familiar, but he was not sure from where. It was also hard to try guessing when the man was clad in white robes and a dragon mask.

A horde of the undead crawled from everywhere, under the pipes, from small pathways, and all shadows. They had been dead for only a while, but their flesh and skin had already started to peel off like old wallpaper. The rotten smell of corpses was foul and noxious to the point that Orel had to hold his nose.

“I knew this was a trap!” Slacume hid behind Isao's robes.

“Get to safety, Mr.Park,” Orel tried to walk up to him.

“So, these are the ones responsible for this.” Park rolled up his sleeves.

“Mr.Park?” Orel stopped.

“You there, the man in robes. Are you the one that caused all this?” Park pointed his bony finger.

“Hmm? And who are you?” Eargaoth asked.

“Answer the question!” Park stomped his boots.

“I will not apologize if your loved one died."

“No, not that. Were you the ones that messed all the floors in blood and guts?”

“What?” Earghaoth blinked.

“Those things are leaking fluid like crazy. And don’t get me started on how long it will take to clean it off.”

“What are you, a janitor?”

“No-” Park took a strange stance and drew breath.

With a burst of speed, Park lunged forward. Instead of avoiding the zombies or slowing down, he took them out as he went. Park tripped them, struck them to the head, and knocked them away. Eargaoth could only watch as Park picked off his puppets, snapping them like chopping bamboo.

Eargaoth drew his knife, but it was too late. Park closed the distance between them. Eargaoth went for the jugular. Park flicked the blade away and hit him in the chest. Eargaoth coughed and gasped for breath. His vision blurred. He tried to regain his posture, but Park gave no time. He made a precise strike to his chin. Eargaoth fell to the ground with the crumbled remains of his mask.

“-I am the janitor.” Park's face wrinkled up.

A loud shot sparked from the end of the hallway.

“Eargaoth!” Deasdùn cocked his pistol.

Park noticed a sparkling bullet heading his way. Instead of dodging, he pulled Eargaoth up and blocked the explosion. It ripped the clothes like wet tissue, tore the flesh off his bones, and burned anything left.

“...What?” Deasdùn almost dropped to the ground. Even he would have never used such cruel tactics.

Park emerged unscathed from behind the charring body and tossed it aside. His eyes concentrated on Deasdùn. As Park launched himself toward him, he chambered another round.

The bullet traveled fast but not fast enough. Park kicked out a drain cover and flicked it in the air. It hit the bullet, creating a colorful explosion and a cloud of crackling smoke. Park emerged, sliding from underneath it. Deasdùn reloaded as fast as he could. With a kick to the ground, Park rose to his feet and ran. Deasdùn fired again. Park was empty-handed, but that was all he needed. He took out a pair of bloody leather gloves from his back pocket and put them on. It took almost too long. As the bullet came right in front of his nose, Park caught it with his hands. It detonated in his palms and expanded into a vibrant fireball. Park used everything he had to hold back the immense force between his hands. The fire lost as he clapped his hands together and dusted them off.

Deasdùn stood in awe for a moment, and that was all it took for Park to kick the pistol out of his hands.

“What sort of mage are you?” Deasdùn asked in horror.

“You Albians are always so bent up with magic, so you don’t even realize it when it hits you on the head.” Park shook his head.

“Realize what?”

“Strength does not require magic."

Park knocked Deasdùn unconscious with a single swift kick. “You can stay there for a while.”

“Mr. Park, are you alright?” Orel yelled.

“Oh, I am fine!” Park smiled.

As Orel was running toward him, Park could not help but open his eyes open like a pair of eggs.

“Stop, stay away!” He yelled.

The grotesque body of Eargaoth twitched ever so slightly. Orel noticed it a little late as the body raised itself on its knees. While Orel only saw its back, Park had the full view of something horrific.

Eargaoth had stabbed himself in the heart, with the blade still sunk deep in his bare burned flesh. His white robes were mostly blown away, while some charred parts remained burned onto his skin.

Elsewhere, Largaoth felt a cold sweat run down his back. “...Oh, brother. What has become of you?”

“We must carry on.” Eargaoth bled from every orifice where there still was blood left to bleed.“I carry an oath. If lord Vortigern can truly save us from this cursed blood, I won’t stop until I am drained to the last drop!”

With lightning speed, Isao cut off Eargaoth’s head. Blood burst out of the neck wound while the head tumbled on the floor like a bowling ball.

As Isao lowered his gaze upon his kill, the head stared back at him.

“O’ cursed blood of mine-” Eargaoth began chanting.

The splattered blood coagulated into floating trails that connected back to the separated head. Isao cut the blood, yet could not stop it from flowing.

“Become of use once more. My veins are strings, my heart a ball of yarn.” Eargaoth continued with an eery stare.

Isao cut, slashed, and swept down the body from limb to limb until it reminded more of what you would find on a butcher shop floor. Yet, it only made more of the blood emerge from all wounds. The strings of blood sewed the body back together like a patched piece of clothing. Even Orel could feel the vile energy coming from it, though he already felt sick by the sight alone.

“Sow and weave this body, a broken doll, until all strings snap. Let this body reap as a Blood Marionette!” Eargaoth finished the chant.

A burst of malice and a threatening aura emanated from the body. Isao instinctively backed away. The face knit itself a new skin, though a bit off from how it was. His eyes filled with black blood and grew red dots in the middle.

Eargaoth looked at Park with a blank face as he drew the dagger from his heart. What was before a small curved blade came out as a long, bloody sword with veins pulsing through the edge.

“Forefathers, bear witness to your legacy, for I am Rhein Ostwind, the soul weaver!” He declared with a bone-chilling roar.

For once, Park hesitated in his moves.

“You, monk!” He called out. “You are a better match for that!”

“I won’t let you get away!” Eargaoth sprung to action. However, his bloodied blade could not reach Park. Isao stepped between them, clashing against his sword.

“You dare to stand in my way?” Eargaoth's face twisted with rage.

“I will not let you disturb any more souls,” Isao pushed him back.“I will hold him here, so you take care of the others!”

“I wish you luck!” Park ran through the door.

“You will die here,” Eargaoth warned.

“You should have done that already,” Isao said.

“You two, get away from here! We will handle this!” Isao yelled to Slacume and Orel.

“Let’s go, Orel!” Slacume shot some of the zombies.

“Stay safe!” Orel cleared the way with his fists.

Isao sighed in relief as the two left the room.

"Ready to die alone in this dark cellar?" Eargaoth asked.

"Your soul is too foul to be consumed," Isao's eyes crackled with thunder. "Still, I will see your exorcism to the end."