A moment.

In that moment, time seemed frozen. Droplets of water hung still in the air, made incandescent by reflection, like tiny sparkling marbles. Debris hovered over the river below, floating there in the last instant before the splash. White Aether spread out through space like spiderweb cracks, crawling out of the pillar that blasted towards the sky.

And Atoy Muzazi, in that moment, swung both his Radiants -- aiming for bisection -- only to find them suddenly stopped.

Suddenly caught.

"Indeed," said King, his voice deepened by his transformation, the slightest note of amusement coloring his menacing tone. "You really are more pragmatic than they say, Atoy Muzazi… although, if you'll forgive me for saying so, it seems a tad forced."

Two thoughts crossed Atoy Muzazi's mind, in that moment before eyelids met.

He caught it?

Move!

Even with his considerable speed, Atoy Muzazi's body could not react to that command in time. A metal fist slammed into his chest, sending him flying off, flipping end over end from the sheer momentum of the blow. He crashed through the bell tower, reducing the structure to a pile of bricks and broken tile, a booming bong sounding out as the bell itself crashed down onto the rooftops.

Muzazi landed in a heap on a distant terrace, gasping for air as he slowly -- and painfully -- picked himself back up. His mind raced.

His Radiants had been caught? That wasn't possible. Fusion Tool or not, the sheer heat his combined blades of light exuded should have been enough to cleanly cut through anything that made direct contact. Even if they were made of metal now, King's hands should have been no exception.

Only… that ability of his. Silver Ratio, he'd called it. King had stabbed the rooftop with it, and the area had collapsed into its disparate parts a moment later.

If Muzazi had been right, and Silver Ratio was the ability to disassemble a target, then that might explain things. Muzazi's Radiants were made of several intertwining thrusters, as King had speculated. If he could disassemble that combined force into the individual thrusters that made it up, his Radiant could be weakened. His Radiant could be interfered with.

He dearly hoped that wasn't the case.

"Agile in mind and body both," said King. "You truly are the model swordsman, Atoy Muzazi."

Muzazi turned around -- just in time to parry a kick that would have shattered his skull.

There, perched atop the railing like a bird of prey, was King. Needless to say, his appearance had changed.

His Fusion Tool, Zarathustra, had stripped nearly all traces of humanity away from him, leaving him with only his general shape. Skin and clothing had been replaced by solid wood, like he'd been carved directly from a tree, covered in a thin exoskeleton of silver steel.

As he raised his fist up for his next attack, King's wooden body creaked -- but even so, the material that comprised his form was unusually fluid, like it was still somehow muscle. Blades -- like those of his kitchen knife -- intersected down the length of each of his fingers and toes, producing structures like claws. White Aether crackled down the length of the blank steel plate that now served as King's face.

"You seem surprised," King commented. "I was led to believe you had encountered Fusion Tools before."

Indeed, this wasn't Muzazi's first run-in.

Fusion Tools -- special Aether Armaments that allowed the user to combine with them, boosting their parameters and abilities. Two years ago, Muzazi had clashed against quite a few of them. Still… the funny thing was, back then, he'd felt as if using a Fusion Tool had somehow made the users weaker. It was as if they abandoned the strength they'd cultivated themselves in exchange for the strength they'd been given, strength they were unused to, and were easily defeated as a result.

He didn't get that sense from King. He didn't get that sense at all.

Muzazi didn't reply to King's taunt. Instead, he simply took a deep breath and prepared his Radiants once again. Even if they were weakened by Silver Ratio, they'd proved they were still capable of blocking the wooden man's blows. That was all he needed.

"Have at you," Muzazi growled.

All his life, Marcus Grace had tried to live the way he was meant to. He'd been a prodigal son, a loyal Special Officer, and a devoted father. It had been his belief that doing things as you were meant to would guarantee peace in the end.

He'd gone against that principle only twice in his life. The first time, when he'd married Sajha, his father had nearly disowned him for introducing Pugnant blood into their family. Afterwards, Marcus had stuck even closer to his determined path to make up for it. He'd only barely been successful -- especially when Amalie was born.

This was the second time.

Marcus flipped over the kitchen counter, firing off another sequence of shots behind him as he went. Bang bang bang. As before, they bounced off the shell of the sphere floating menacingly after him, even as the floor and walls were scraped away by mere contact. Six shots now, each aimed at different points, but with the same result.

I won't find a weak spot like this.

"Fool," echoed the enemy's voice from deep within the sphere. "I've already become perfect. No matter what you do, the result will be the same."

Marcus' Cogitant-blue eyes narrowed.

Unless…

He turned back to the wall, blasting a hole in it with an Aether-infused shot, and escaped out into the hallway. As he continued his retreat down the corridor, the wall next to him seemed to fall away, revealing the countless filing cabinets of his Archive. One slid open as he passed it and he plucked a file free.

A map of the building. He'd done an Aether ping when he'd first gotten here, so he still had a mental blueprint of the layout. Where was the thing he was looking for? There.

"There's no point in running," the sphere mocked, picking up speed as it pursued him. "Save your breath and die with dignity. Your demise at my hand is what fate has chosen for you. Be grateful."

Fate, huh? Marcus had never believed in such a thing. He'd only believed in the path of least resistance… but did that really exist either?

All his life, Marcus Grace had tried to live the way he was meant to -- and what had it gotten him? The resentment of his sister for an overshadowed youth. A daughter who felt herself unwanted. A son, missing, somewhere in the dark.

Yes. This was the second time he'd gone against the path of least resistance. To him, being a Special Officer was just his job. He felt no special responsibility or sacred duty. Allying himself with Atoy Muzazi to this degree was certainly not something his job demanded.

But if there was someone who would help him find his son, no matter what the task demanded, it would be the Full Moon.

Marcus reached his destination, smoothly turning around as he grabbed the can by the handle -- and hurled its contents over the sphere. Red paint splashed through the air, splattering over the orb, covering its entire front side in crimson. In response, it did little else but chuckle.

"Graffiti?" it mocked. "That's the last act of your life, Marcus Grace?"

It certainly wasn't. Before the sphere could reach him, Marcus pointed his pistol at the floor and blasted himself an escape route. Jumping down the hole, he couldn't help but smirk.

This thing had lost the moment it had called him a fool.

Winded by the sudden palm thrust, Rook leapt back, his metal legs embedding themselves into the ground where he landed. Gritting his teeth, he pointed his massive cannon-arm at the old man on the other end of the alley. The geezer had just made a big mistake.

That strike had been strong, but it had also given Rook a chance to read his opponent. He knew a glass cannon when he felt one. If he got one good hit in, this old fart would go down for the count… and in a narrow space like this, getting a hit in wouldn't be difficult at --

One.

Rook hesitated. What was that just now? He could've sworn he'd heard something, heard a voice, heard his own voice, laced with terror.

On the other side of the alley, Ash del Duran's dry lips spread into a dry smile.

"It seems you've heard it…" he croaked, resuming his inexorable approach, hands again behind his back. "Do you know what nature's most splendid innovation is, friend? It's fear."

Rook sneered, firing off a mighty blast of acid at the old man. "I'm not scared of you."

The acid shot surged down the alleyway, but -- with twin sparks of red Aether -- Ash kicked his way up the wall twice and avoided it. Landing back on the ground, he looked at Rook with dark eyes. He was even closer now.

Rook found himself taking a single step back.

Two.

His eyes widened. There it was again!

"No, you don't fear me," Ash del Duran said, cracking his neck. "You're not nearly wise enough for that… but you do fear death. That is the sole terror that all bodies share. It's fascinating. A body can recognise impending death, even if the mind remains ignorant."

He pointed down the alley with a thin, quivering finger.

"That's what that counting you hear is. It's your body attempting to warn you… that you're about to die."

Rook swallowed, the gun in his eye socket subtly adjusting its aim -- pointing right towards Ash's skull.

"Bullshit," he said.

Bang.

Another spark of Aether flashed through the alleyway as Ash del Duran caught the bullet -- and in that same instant of infusion, he hurled it back. Rook had no choice but to leap to the side to avoid the returned projectile -- it slammed into the wall behind him, sending jagged cracks through the brickwork. Arrogant bastard. Pretending he hadn't seen that coming.

Three.

"Shut up!" Rook roared at the voice in his head.

Ash shook his head. "How sad… your body is doing its best to save your life, and that's how you treat it?"

Again, the cannon swung in Ash's direction. Rook's temper had long since risen over the boiling point, and so his voice boomed as he screamed: "What the fuck did you do to me, asshole?!"

Hand still smoking from the friction when he'd caught the bullet, Ash cracked and relocated his fingers. His calm gaze slid over to regard Rook.

"Black Timer…" he explained coldly. "By striking your heart in a particular way, I can cause a disastrous buildup of pressure to occur. For each step you take, that pressure increases. The moment you take your fifth step after being struck with it… your heart will explode in your chest, and your life will end."

He smiled thinly.

"This is not an Aether ability."

Perhaps the old man had been expecting a look of horror to appear on Rook's face. Perhaps he'd been expecting Rook to beg for mercy. Perhaps he'd been expecting Rook to fall into despair at an inevitable demise.

"Well…" Rook said, his face spreading into a smoking grin, laughter pouring from between his metal teeth. "Hate to disappoint ya, you senile fuck…"

With his free hand, Rook thumped his chest -- and a hatch flipped open, revealing the hollow space in his core.

"But when I'm like this, I don't got a heart!"

Marcus calmly made his way down the scaffolding like a monkey in the jungle.

This building had been under construction when the disaster that had ended Pangloss had struck. That was why there were still canisters of preserved paint around, and that was why there was enough scaffolding for him to get around the different floors quickly. He had that, if nothing else, going for him.

Not that it was doing much to help him avoid the sphere. It ignored walls and floors and all other obstacles, sliding right through them like a knife through butter. The sound of collapsing architecture followed after it relentlessly as it pursued Marcus.

As it zoomed down towards him, clearly intending to crush him between itself and the floor, Marcus kicked off the scaffolding and landed in the main foyer of the apartment building. Disgust trickled over his face as he rose to his feet: he was up to his knees in filthy water here, while the sphere floated menacingly above. It looked down at him, still covered in red paint, almost mocking in the solidity of its geometry as he caught his breath.

"All that running about," it sneered, voice echoing. "And for what? You can die tired, envious of the perfection before you. That is your reward."

Marcus said nothing. He just raised his pistol once more.

"Pathetic," the sphere spat. "Did I not already make it clear? A perfect being has a perfect form. No matter what you try, you --"

Bang.

The sphere, for the first time in a good while, stopped talking. Instead, it made a peculiar strangled yelp, like someone was gripping it by a throat that no longer existed. The shot had struck true.

Marcus smirked to himself -- nothing felt better than being right about a crazy idea.

"You lost the second you called me a fool," he repeated, calmly reloading his gun. "Don't underestimate a Cogitant. I could tell from the reverb -- you didn't turn into that sphere, did you? You turned into something inside the sphere, and that's where you've been talking from. So I started thinking… how were you breathing in there?"

"Y-You…"

"Answer's obvious -- an air hole. Probably behind you, where I couldn't see. I couldn't be too sure, though. After all, you're such a perfect round ball. There's no way to tell the front from the back."

The sphere seemed to realize just how much it had underestimated its adversary. "The paint…!"

"Yup," Marcus said, raising his pistol once more. "Once I'd marked the front of you, I could be sure you were always turning to face me with that same side -- I could be sure you had a front, and that you were hiding your back. That's basically it."

He calmly raised his pistol -- not at the sphere, but off to the side. This ruined foyer, full of broken furniture and shattered glass, had been the last thing he'd needed. A space of convenient angles he could ricochet his bullets off of.

The sphere cried out, shivering in the air: "W-Wait!"

Marcus Grace did not wait.

I'm taking back my family…

He pulled the trigger six times…

…no matter what it takes!

…and landed six perfect shots.

Rook laughed boisterously, throwing his cannon-arm up in the air, allowing the acid to spill forth and form into a solid green blade. This guy was obviously agile enough to dodge projectiles, but Rook had yet to meet a man who could survive being chopped in two. Jets of acid bursting from his back to enhance his speed, he rushed forward, now free to ignore the idiot's useless counting attack.

Four.

Five.

Ow.

The first thing Rook felt was a sudden reduction in his own weight. Skidding to a halt, he looked over to his cannon-arm -- only to see that it was now lying severed on the ground next to him. It had gone flying off when his bicep had popped like a balloon, sending acid spraying in every direction. He looked dumbstruck at the oozing stump, even as his own acid ate at the skin of his cheek.

The second thing Rook felt was the pain.

"You motherfucker!" he screamed, staggering backwards, trying to wipe the acid from the biological parts of his face with his remaining clumsy hand. "I'll kill you, I'll kill you! You fucking liar!"

Still standing at the other end of the alley, calmly watching, Ash del Duran smiled.

"Liar?" he said, stepping forward. "Sorry for the misunderstanding, but 'heart' is just the term we Black Timer practitioners use for the part we use this technique on. The original version of the attack was just for the heart, but… you know, things move on. Sorry for the lack of clarity."

Rage triumphed against pain, at least for a moment, and Rook lunged for the seemingly old man, swinging his remaining fist like a mace. Ash just leaned backwards like he was playing a game of limbo, letting the limb pass over him.

"Awful, isn't it?" he muttered. "That feeling… the sensation of running out of time. I think so too."

Rook shot back a kick that would have split a tree in half. Ash stepped out of the way.

"You get to thinking… what have you accomplished? What marks have you left, what will you be remembered for? Will you be remembered?"

With a scream, Rook swung once more -- and hit empty air once more. When Ash spoke again, his voice came from right behind.

"In the end… what were your fists for?"

To describe what exactly Ash del Duran did next to the man calling himself Rook would require a lengthy explanation of anti-automatic killing arts devised during the Arcana Crisis, a description of the 'Surgeon Eye' perception technique, and a step-by-step recap of Ash's movements when he landed that first palm thrust. As there is not time to do all of this, the killing blow will be summarized as follows:

Ash del Duran reached inside the man and gently turned him off.

King slammed his fist into the wall of the bank, missing Atoy Muzazi's skull by mere inches as he dodged. Muzazi moved back in to counterattack, striking at the arm that was now embedded into the stonework, but --

Silver Ratio.

White Aether flooded out through the limb and infiltrated the entirety of the building in a split second. With a bright flash, the structure collapsed around them, all connections between its disparate parts immediately excised. Muzazi was forced to blast himself backwards with a thruster to avoid being struck by the debris -- while King stood there, simply allowing rubble to bounce off his reinforced body.

He went to crack his neck, only to stop as he remembered he no longer had the same skeletal structure. It was also awkward adjusting to the additional strength Zarathustra granted. With that first attack, King had intended to grab Muzazi and pull him close, but had instead sent him flying off into the distance.

King had a handle on it now, though -- he knew how much strength to exert to get the result he wanted. In the moment's peace granted by the building's collapse, he ran through the next steps in his mind.

Silver Ratio allows me to designate a specific weapon -- and I can then disassemble targets using only that weapon. By designating a Fusion Tool and combining with it, I've now made it possible to use my disassembly from any point of contact on my body. That's invaluable against this opponent -- once separated into individual thrusters, his Radiants likely lose around 90% of their efficacy.

But I can't get cocky. Even if the Radiants are weakened, a direct hit aimed for the right spot could be deadly. It's probably for the best that I didn't grab him, then -- all sustained contact means is that he can spawn Radiants that immediately stab through me.

I can strike with punches and kicks, I can use ranged attacks, and I can manipulate the environment. Stick to those three tools, use them well, and I should be able to eliminate him. He's already on the backfoot.

Still… I must admit, I expected more from…

The dust cleared a tad. If King still had a mouth in this form, it would have been grinning from ear to ear. There, floating in the air, was Atoy Muzazi -- even if he was barely visible.

From his fingers, from his elbows, the backs of his knees, his shoulders, his temples, from everywhere that could fit them… shining swords blazed. Radiants, packed so densely and so strategically that they served as an armour of light. Even moving around in such a form must be incredibly dangerous -- the slightest misstep, and Atoy Muzazi would cut himself to ribbons.

His stern grey eyes glared down at King.

"Radiant Horizon," he said.

Now that was more like it. Without a second's hesitation, Atoy Muzazi shot forward like a comet… and sliced King in half, right there and then.