Silence fills a different room, one shaped as a cube lit up bright as on all the exterior surfaces are grids of screens displaying real time footage from the many rooms and areas of the train, sensory overload to the extent where it’s difficult to focus on any one of them, in fact it’s not designed to be as that’s the justification for the many desks spread across whether it be the few personal desks on the edges and corners towards the top of the room, the longer tables –though is split in half and on the ground– occupied by more chairs on the center floor, or the remainder of the room beneath that center which likely houses similar furniture. However, the single person standing on the center floor, which has a skeletal design to allow for sight below, isn’t at all focused on any of the screens, but rather the contents inside this room.

That person is the senile bald man in the brown overcoat, clutching onto his makeshift handgun with copper wires wrapped around the barrel, aiming it in all directions with rather frantic motions despite there seemingly being no threat.

Yet that man’s face is nothing but safe, his expression wearing a mixture of dread, terror, and reluctance. He stumbles back, glancing from side to side, waiting as he knows he can’t be the one to initiate. All he can do is wait for a threat that seems invisible, or just generally nonexistent.

There behind him a silhouette leaps up onto the wall from below, a jump high enough that it lands him higher than the man’s position, and in the two hands of that silhouette are katanas with both blades pointing up. Immediately the old man’s yellow eyes expand in horror, as without even hearing a sound he senses the danger and spins around just as the silhouette launches off the wall straight for the man who aims his gun, and from his perspective he aligns the barrel with the silhouette who’s revealed to be the Swordsman in the purple hakama whom he fires a light red glowing bolt at that suddenly bursts out a similarly colored translucent sphere that consumes the Swordsman, one that doesn’t move at all but instead suspends the Swordsman in the air as the bubble doesn’t seem affected by the train’s gravity. Furthermore, the inside of the bubble seems to hold some sort of watery content as the man isn’t standing on the bottom but instead is also hovering, with bubbles emitting from his mouth and nose and the vaguely discernible particles registerable.

But with a rapid flurry of slashes with both katanas at speeds such that all that can be observed are blurs, that red bubble pops in an instant, unleashing a flood of red-tinted water that pours down below onto the bottom floor, freeing the Swordsman but after having his momentum suspended he can’t conclude his launch, and instead he spins both blades backwards which strangely forces him to plummet down faster, as though the speed of his spins itself is able to generate its own current to carry him. Regardless, just as quickly as he appeared, he vanished, leaving the Alchemist to stumble back, his attempt of detainment again failing.

Again alone with no sight of the threat, the Alchemist is forced to just make glances to the side with no real direction, only having the option of waiting and warding off the next advance, though that only repeats the cycle that’s been continuing since the start of this battle if it can be defined as such at all.

And similarly repetitive in this fight, the voice of that man speaks again with echoes that drown the room, the deep voice with a judgemental attitude, judgemental and disappointed, “There’s many questions I could ask you, there’s a handful of pointless ice breaker questions any of them would ask and then there are a few more critical questions I myself am curious about, but if I could only get one answer I’d want to know: from the beginning when you first joined our crew, did you always have the intention of one day leaving, that it’d only be temporary and you’d part ways sooner or later? I am genuinely curious, I know you’ve lived a life far longer than all of ours, far longer than ours combined actually, maybe to us those years felt like a lifetime but I imagine to you it was like a short nap at best, maybe a restroom break. Maybe they’re the ones who are too emotional over this because it really wasn’t all that big of a deal, we just passed by each other and that’s it. Is that it?”

Clenching his teeth in agonizing shame from the berating surrounding him at every angle, the Alchemist alas breaks as he squeezes his eyes and pleas, “Why are you even doing this?? Didn’t you say you were going to do your job, cut me down quickly, and go about your day? That the others would try talking to me but you wouldn’t bother? So why are you still talking?!?”

That desperate plea isn’t met with an immediate response other than silence, leaving the Alchemist to open his eyes open, his jaw hanging open dumbfounded as he just glances back and forth, waiting to see if he’ll be ambushed again. His arm doesn’t lower though, as he’s still very much on edge. His expression has changed however even if very subtly, though somewhat contradictorily as while he has some relief in finally speaking after holding his words in for so long, opening the bottle has only exposed his vulnerabilities and shame fully.

Alone on the bony platform, the Alchemist stands alone surrounded by all the screens of moving footage playing with little immediately recognizable organization as after several silent moments, the voice finally responds with a tone only seemingly more irritated, “Is that your preference? Do you just want me to shut up and kill you then? I can do that if you want, you’re right anyways, I am a hypocrite for trying to talk to you.”

Grinding his teeth in angst from that rather distant response, the Alchemist shakes his head to no audience and raises it to clarify desperately, “Wait no that’s not what I meant! I just…if you really think I’m a cruel monster who never cared about any of you, what are you trying to get at? What are you trying to reason with me? Are you just trying to make me feel worse so when you cut me down, you can make my last moments as regretful as possible? But if you think I didn’t care, then that wouldn’t work, and I shouldn’t have any reaction to any of this right? So what is it, do you think I care or I don’t?!?”

Again there isn’t an immediate response, instead the Alchemist is left to drown in his own silence, the echoes of his own pathetic words in the large, empty room.

His expression now leans more into that guilt and shame, as while he still very much is anxious about the danger looming around and the lethality that comes with it, his focus has moved away from the physical battle between gun and blade and instead to the ones that both opponents fought with words. He frowns in overwhelming anguish, still holding his gun up but no longer properly surveying his surroundings as his gaze instead locks blankly, staring off with no real intention of sight.

Indeed the handgun is still being held up, though the grip on it isn’t particularly solid, instead the hand trembles as does the gun being held, very subtly but still inconsistent for the gunslinger who hardly ran into confidence troubles in the heat of battle.

Not even moving anymore, the Alchemist just stands in place, shivering without any cold, for the chills of the silence freeze his skin. It’s finally then when an answer is provided in that same callous voice, “I’m just curious, that group you boarded with, I don’t know the specifics of your relationship with them and I don’t entirely care but I assume you’re some sort of squad, team, alliance, probably not a pirate crew unless all those stories about Meditat were completely off. But either way you were all working together on your way up pretty well, some people are just good at teamwork off the bat but I don’t think a group that doesn’t trust each other would get this far, I take it your little group aren’t just together to go on fights but they have personal bonds with one another.”

Staggering backwards and nearly tripping over the sliced table if not for his stumble forward and refooting, the Alchemist finds himself helplessly boxed in with the voices taunting him, “I knew Meditat had a team a decade back who were all killed in that invasion, but then again I also heard he died with them so I guess the story isn’t all there, but I didn’t figure he had a new one, and I especially never thought you’d be in that. I shouldn’t try to act like I know anyone, especially him of all people, we used to joke about how people like him made no sense, but I do wonder, they all look to have some kinda bond built on trust to some extent with each other, so if that’s the case, do they think they have that kind of bond with you? Do they believe you’re the type to stand your ground with them even to the bitter end? I mean you’re already not really wearing your best mask since you’re up here away from all the action, but then again you really were the king of excuses back in the day weren’t you? So I just want to know, are they prepared for you to abandon them too?”

After having responded so immediately to all previous speeches, this time the Alchemist does not have words to instantly give, no desperate cries that surface involuntarily, as this time he just remains quiet on the platform. Standing alone as the only person from all angles he can face, his arm finally comes down to its side, his handgun no longer aimed in any direction that the opponent may ambush from, like an admission of defeat and surrender without trying.

That jittering of the hand ceases, as the handgun is finally held still albeit there’s no reason for stability anymore when it’s not pointing in the general direction of the attack. Still it no longer shakes, the bulky gun that is technically designed like a side arm though has a body that isn’t ergonomic enough to be traditionally holstered. The interface screen underneath the uncocked hammer has a dim display, and beneath that is the trigger handle with the pale, bony hand grip on, its fingers protected by a hand guard that has copper coils wrapped around it, feeding into the underbelly where the closed cylinder is, which sits behind the wider barrel that has more of those coils wrapped around, the whole weapon appearing like a child’s science experiment.

Naturally the brown coloration of the overcoat makes it easier to conceal dirt, though upon intimate inspection there are indeed traces of such, grime and dust that have by now imbued itself into the coat, integrating itself with the article such that a simple wipedown wouldn’t rid it. The coat is creased and faded, with no telling exactly how long it’s been worn as patches of the darker finish have been eroded off, leaving an inconsistency in color.

Exposed between the gaps of the overcoat is the black jumpsuit, which also upon closer inspection harbors scars of its own, namely in the form of discolorations made from purple stains never removed. Yet the stains at this point have been so ingrained in the jumpsuit that they’ve since faded to the point of seamlessly integrating with the clothing, as though it would have always been part of it. The jumpsuit is strangely more resilient at least in terms of damages to the material, perhaps as the coat has been at the brunt of said damages, but nonetheless it’s still very far from being in mint condition.

Head down, the old man just stands still on the platform whose floor is bony similar to him, surrounded by the screens flashing the mayhem he’s caused to the pirates, the heaps of unconscious bodies littered about many of the rooms that once teemed with life now completely silent. All of the screens boxing him in, he just stands no longer with that same frantic survival instinct, as his expression wasn’t joyous nor was it even fearful anymore, it had all rounded out to nothing.

“It’d be pointless to ask for forgiveness, or ask you to trust me, wouldn’t it?” the old man finally speaks in a weary voice, no longer shouting in torment but instead solemn in misery.

“Yes,” simply and brutally answers the echoing voice, this response made nearly immediately after the question for the first time, no dramatic silence in between. There was no point now, the man finally fell into the lake of his own shame, and now all there’s left to do is confirm that state of despair.

Pointed at the floor, the gun still remains in the bony hand, that much hasn’t changed nor its angle as that didn’t matter. What does change though is that the thumb moves, raising up and placing itself on the hammer, before then pressuring it thereby pulling the hammer down with a distinct clicking sound.

Despair and sorrow fills the yellow iris of the half-opened eye, but slowly it begins to open more with a strange mixture of relief or rather resolve.

In a voice with a stronger drive, nothing with hints of overbearing confidence but nothing drowned in mellow, the old man settles: “Then yeah, there’s no point talking. If you intend to cut me down, stop wasting your time.”

Moments of silence follow that resolution, another period of stillness in the air, but it couldn’t be for the purpose of shaming as now it’s become apparent that somehow that shame has been pushed aside.

After a few seconds though, that voice ultimately agrees in that same tone but with the vague sense of genuine disappointment, “I won’t try to make it agonizing, but I won’t aim to make it painless either.”

As the old man slowly raises his head, both of his eyes wide and alert yet again but without that same panicked animation for instead he moves himself with smooth grace, that silhouette wielding both katanas leaps back up on the wall behind him and launches forward to the center.

Without excitement and anticipation nor fear and dread, the Alchemist simply turns his body around and raises his gun up, aiming it straight at the incoming Swordsman. He fires first, shooting a faint green bolt.

On instinct when faced by another projectile, the Swordsman raises the left black blade and swiftly slashes straight through the green bolt to parry it, deflecting a projectile that could have any effect upon skin contact, even ones that could be immediately lethal.

While the bolt is met by the blade, it simply fades away instead of showing a more intense dispersal, a subtle effect but one the Swordsman expresses shock to with his face as from the extensive experience with this gunslinger, that meant the bolt purposefully had little power, thus wasn’t used with the intent of causing harm.

It’s instead a distraction as the Swordsman peers past his blade to find that on the platform, the Alchemist fires a second brown shot though this time angled down to instead hit the ground beneath him. On impact, a the bolt releases a brown light, but that light then releases a dark brown dust cloud, and from underneath that cloud rapidly grows white silky branches that curl outwards, not directly targeting the Swordsman but instead flying past him from all angles as once it reaches above, they all curl inwards to a central point above his purple hair, covering him like a cocoon.

Gritting his teeth in irritation as it seems the Alchemist is only again opting to use cheap restrainment tactics rather than seeking direct combat, the Swordsman is forced to follow with the same repetitive routine, and he spins in the air with both katanas erratically slashing such that the silk branches are seamlessly cut up in an instant, completely destroying the cocoon before it can fully form.

That irritated glare however shifts to a flabbergasted gaze as below him on that platform, the Alchemist fires another shot towards the ground but this one slightly closer to himself, with this bolt being purple, and upon hitting the ground there emerges a flurry of huge purple spikes that rises at an angle, sharp spikes that could easily penetrate a body fatally.

Caught off guard by the first lethal attack, and an immense one at that given the many spikes all rising straight for him, the Swordsman swings both katanas but right after the first swing he releases his grip on both hilts to grab the two remaining ones on his hips, unsheathing the other two katanas which he also swings, and in a motion so swift that it’s hardly observable he juggles two katanas in each hand, slashing the spikes with every slash at a speed double his original using two.

Whereas initially the flurry of spikes seemed overwhelming, the use of all four katanas allows the Swordsman to cut through all the rising spikes until their growth concludes, though the tipless spikes still remain present which the man places his foot on before charging down the spike, using it as a ramp while juggling the four katanas, making a straight line for an attack.

A few feet from the bottom of the spike though he leaps for an aerial strike which the Alchemist dodges with a roll to the side before promptly firing an icy blue bolt angled towards the ground along the same path as the Swordsman. That bolt, upon landing on the ground by the bridge, grows a thin sheet of ice that spreads further along the bridge beneath where the Swordsman lands, causing said landing to be unstable as he slides on the floor.

Promptly he twists and jumps, spinning the other direction and planting his feet widely to gain more stability, more gracefully sliding along the bridge where he’s able to then swing his katanas to deflect a barrage of vibrant green bolts. While doing so with two katanas he uses the other to plant them into the bridge, cutting through the ice and substantially slowing him down, but furthermore the blades break cracks in the ice that spread over the sheet before it completely shatters, turning the ice floor into a layer of particles like snow that he can run on quicker, pulling both katanas back up in his continued charge now able to deflect the barrage with all four blades.

Among those green shots is a red one, which upon deflection immediately explodes in a fiery blaze that surrounds and attempts to engulf the Swordsman, though in a marvelous stunt he swings all four blades in all directions while spinning at such speeds that he forms a repulsive current that directs all of the flames away, not leaving a single one to graze him.

Still charging onwards, he raises all four blades as he then makes another lunge for the Alchemist who fires a quadruplet of frosty shots which the Swordsman deflects with all four blades, though that only causes all of them to become sealed in a box of ice that spreads over to render them useless, yet even then the Swordsman simply takes another step forward and swings his foot, that one successfully hitting the old man who’s launched backwards from the overwhelming strength.

Sent flying, the Alchemist slams into the broken halves of the table as the Swordsman swings all four katanas into the ground, shattering all of their ice seals nearly concurrently before then charging again, lunging and slashing at the Alchemist who can only roll in the other direction, dodging that slash as the table instead gets it, but rather than that table being cut again in half it instead abruptly crumbles into innumerable small chunks like metal snow as that is simply the true strength of the four katanas at work.

Hungry like a rabid wolf, the Swordsman turns around and races to the Alchemist who dives backwards with three shots fires, all of which are instantly deflected, but even as they’re deflected they all explode a powerful gust of wind in the other direction straight into the Swordsman’s back, blowing him forward right above the Alchemist, who at that very moment fires two dark red shots which are instantly deflected back to the ground, though upon hitting the ground they both grow long thin spikes made of a material resembling solidified blood towards the Swordsman has to slice through them with the other two katanas, an exchange of attacks all taking place in the fraction of a second and only ending as the two opponents pass each other again.

That’s again just a minor hiccup as the Swordsman lands on his feet and turns around, charging again with far less distance to travel, as despite the attempts to repel him he has alas cornered his target who hasn’t even managed to stand up. Instead, as the Swordsman changes the direction that he holds his katanas and plunges one into the ground with the intention of a stab into the face, the Alchemist can only roll over to the side, and when the Swordsman plunges a second katana, he does the same, as such with the third katana, though he’s unable to roll again as he knocks into the base of his own purple spikes, trapping himself in place to which the Swordsman pounces on him, and with the final katana, he drives it straight for the old man whose gun rests at his hip, aiming straight upwards when the shot is taken.

Just as the silver blade plummets straight for the man’s yellow eye, it freezes just about an inch away, and the enraged expression in the green eye immediately morphs into one of absolute horror upon the realization of what had just transpired. He instinctively lowers his head to find that in front of the red belt around his waist as part of his hakama is the barrel of the gun point blank, so close that the smoke secreting rises and touches his body.

He then raises his head back up, though his movements are noticeably lagging more, his arm unable to bring the blade down just the final few inches as it instead just jitters, shaking the same as the blade, the body tightening up.

He clenches his teeth slowly, trying to push against the effect growing over his body, but the Alchemist immediately seizes the opportunity and shoves him off, seamlessly throwing the bulky man backwards such that his back slams into the ground.

Still holding the katana backwards in the same pose, only now on the floor instead of over his opponent, the Swordsman just remains stuck as the Alchemist begins ventilating heavily, clearly having bottled his immense stress to make the right shot which has been agonizing to conceal. He remains laying on the floor for a few more seconds before finally crawling up to his feet, stumbling and swaying before regaining his footing and lowering his arm to his side.

He first glances around the security room, back at the completely minced table but focuses around to the Swordsman due to his shout though one made with strange slurs: “What-...what-did-you-do-? You…you-paralyzed-me-asshole…I-guess-you-need-an-easy-target-huh?” The body shows no visible injury, no bullet wound made in the belt, yet it’s clear severe damage has been caused regardless of a physical scar to signify it. Next to the body is the row of the three other katanas, all of them plunged into the bony floor, penetrating through the metal material.

Staring down at the paralyzed opponent and former ally, Ekitai’s relieved expression calms down, perhaps perceivable as cold, and as he approaches the body with his hand still on the trigger it makes his presence suddenly seem intimidating.

He stands over the body, glaring down on it with vibrant yellow eyes, though he stares in complete silence first, knowing he can’t be touched despite being well within arm’s reach.

Stuck on the facial expression of a grimace, teeth exposed and grinding, Rezzo can’t do so much as move his eyes to focus on his former crewmate, only able to rely on the peripheral angle facing straight forward, or rather up in this case. Of course he can only stare with one eye regardless, as the other is covered by the black eyepatch, the purple rim still glowing.

Though even restrained to that one state, he still manages to sneer in a tone more explicitly rageful, “Well…go-on-then…take-your-damn-shot!”

Right over Rezzo’s debilitated body, Ekitai just glares back coldly, and at last he raises his gun, seemingly to take aim and finish the rather short fight, one better categorized as a standoff if anything as the strongest shooter and strongest swordsman naturally would end their battles in a swift manner.

Unable to emote with his face given its numbness, that stuck face of frustration is sufficient in displaying Rezzo’s current emotions, a face that’d be preserved in tension as it’s clear that’s been his emotion the entire interaction, even when he gave the appearance of indifference. Despite declaring that he wouldn’t bother speaking, he did nonetheless, and he only took action when he ultimately was rejected from a discussion. This battle wasn’t one made in cold, calculated action, those exaggerated swings were proof as such, as especially that final flurry of stabs was drastically careless given that he just left all his katanas in the ground.

Gazing at that aggravated face that has now silenced, Ekitai finally takes action, that being the act of stuffing his handgun inside his overcoat, letting it vanish in his inner pocket as he closes his eyes and releases a burdened sigh.

He then pulls his empty hand out of the coat which is left to his side before opening his yellow eyes, and after raising his head with his hand on his hip where he was kicked he begins to walk with a limp, moving around the body and strolling back to the bridge towards the door that he originally came through.

He then stops from hearing Rezzo’s slurred sneer in a tone of that fixed frustration, but also palpable resentment: “You-must-think-you-can-just-keep-running- away-from-everything-you’ve-done… as-long-as-you-do-you’ll-end up-outliving-it-anyways. Maybe…we-were-the-fools…for-thinking-a-man-who’s-lived-many-lives…would-care-about-our-one.”

Ekitai stands still for a few seconds, his head lowering after that rather gut wrenching insult which he frowns to. His overcoat waves gently from the passive air conditioning of the room, which also causes the rustling of Rezzo’s hair, the only movement of his body in fact.

Ultimately Ekitai raises his head, and in a gentle tone of sentimentality he mutters, “The paralysis doesn’t stay for very long, just enough for what I need to do. Goodbye, Rezzo.”

With that, he resumes his slow and steady limp onwards, leaving his old comrade on the ground, still unable to move, the resentment seeming even worse from the fact he isn’t being finished off but rather left limp and useless. Instead of dying in battle, he’s instead left awake knowing he can’t protect his crew, unable to be of any service, and he’d be stuck thinking that for as long as the paralysis’s effect lasts.

Nonetheless Rezzo doesn’t speak back, he just lies on the ground silently as Ekitai walks down the bridge, reaching the exit door which opens in his presence, letting him walk out on his continued search. Several steps further away from the door, and his absence triggers the door to close once again, now completely isolating the two combatants and concluding the fight.