It was dark now.
The lamplight from the hallway flickered through the open door, casting soft shadows across the room. Niko rose slowly from the floor, his limbs trembling just slightly beneath the weight of his own sweat. The floor beneath him was soaked through—a dark blotch of effort and transformation. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, deep and calm, like waves that had just weathered a storm.
He walked over to the mirror, wiping his forehead with the edge of his shirt. His reflection stared back at him—wilder hair, sharper shoulders, arms that looked like they'd been carved from weeks of training. But it had only been hours. A single day.
He tilted his head.
Still skinny. But no longer soft.
There was hardness in his shape now. Subtle but real. His shoulders didn't slope with tiredness—they squared with readiness.
"I really have to thank Iri for this training…" he murmured, brushing his bangs out of his face.
His reflection didn't answer.
When is she gonna be back?
The thought crept in before he could stop it, like an ember landing on dry grass.
But he pushed it away.
The war. That's what mattered now.
And he was ready—more than ready. His body had healed, his energy flowed smoother, and his mind… sharper than ever. Every part of him had aligned. All that remained was rest. One final night of peace before the coming chaos.
His stomach growled suddenly—deep, empty, almost offended by how long it had been ignored.
"Oh right," he muttered to himself. "Last thing I had was that cake and milk Yuki gave me…"
That felt like a week ago.
He stretched once more, changed into something dry, and headed downstairs, hoping to scavenge something light before bed.
The inn was quiet now, softened by the hour. Candle sconces cast warm halos against the walls, and outside the windows, the city rested under moonlight. Sanctuary looked peaceful when it slept. Like it wasn't sitting on the edge of a war.
At the desk, the same receptionist woman from earlier sat flipping through a book. Her posture was less stiff now, her glasses tilted slightly, her bun a little looser. The silence of the hour made her softer somehow.
She looked up—and her breath caught for a second.
He didn't notice.
"Hey," Niko said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Is there anywhere nearby to get food? Still open?"
The woman blinked, then tucked a stray hair behind her ear. Her voice changed from formal to something far more personal.
"Oh. Um, yes. There's a nice little restaurant just a few blocks down," she said, eyes flicking to his collarbone, his jawline. "You'll know it by the big fish symbol on the sign out front."
She leaned forward slightly, her voice dipping into something flirtatious. "It's open late. Cozy. Candlelit. If you're into that."
Niko gave a slow blink.
"Big fish symbol. Got it," he repeated plainly, missing every cue she laid down.
She hesitated, lips parting. "…Do you have coin?"
Niko reached into his pocket, then winced. Empty.
"No," he admitted. "Mind if I borrow some?"
The request hit her with a mix of surprise and… amusement.
"…Sure," she said, rummaging in a drawer and handing over a small leather pouch. "Should be enough for a full meal."
He nodded. "Thanks."
As he turned to leave, she called out, "You know… most people don't ask strangers for money so easily."
He paused and looked over his shoulder. "Most people don't get thrown into death cults and dragged into a war, either."
She blinked.
Then laughed. A little too loudly.
Niko stepped out into the night.
The air outside was cool, brushing against his still-warm skin like water over stone. The street ahead was empty, but not lifeless. Lamps hung low from curved iron poles, each one flickering with pale firelight. The cobbled road beneath him stretched into shadow and silence.
He walked with purpose. Not hurried—but focused.
Yuki's bar was close. Familiar. But Niko had already gone there twice. And Cane and Yuki had already given him too much—meals, information, protection. He needed to stop taking. He needed to feel like someone surviving on his own again.
That's what Iri would expect of him.
That's what Chalice had demanded of him, even if not in words.
"Make your body a weapon. Forge your soul into purpose."
The restaurant wasn't hard to find. Just as the receptionist said, the fish symbol above the door glinted in the light of a paper lantern. It wasn't extravagant—just a simple sign over a simple place.
But that was what Niko wanted.
He stepped forward and pushed open the wooden door.
A small bell chimed, and warm air spilled out over his shoulders—thick with the scent of seared meat, broth, and salt.
He stepped inside.
Not as the boy who first arrived in the House.
But as a blade nearly finished being forged.
And soon… tested.
The door creaked shut behind him with a soft click, sealing Niko inside the restaurant.
Warm light bathed the interior in a glow that reminded him of fireflies. The floors were polished wood, the tables round and tight-knit, candles flickering gently in red-glass jars. A soft hum of quiet conversations surrounded him—clinking glasses, the scrape of utensils, bursts of gentle laughter. But the first thing to truly hit him was the smell.
Seafood.
The scent of grilled shellfish, salted crab, charred eel, and buttery garlic drifted into his nose like a wave—followed by a background hum of sweet liquor and something citrusy. Niko stopped for a moment, his stomach growling despite already eating once earlier.
Huh… I must've really liked seafood before the House, he thought absently. Or maybe I just like it now.
He took a breath and walked toward an open table in the corner. The chair creaked a bit under him as he sat, posture a little awkward. He wasn't used to being alone in places like this, and it showed—his hands fidgeted on the wooden table surface, and his eyes shifted around at the other customers who didn't seem to notice him. That was good. He didn't want to be noticed.
But then—
"Hey there~!"
Niko blinked up—and his heart nearly stalled.
The waitress standing beside his table wasn't just a blur of warmth and black hair—she was… well, a lot. Short, curvy, and busty, with skin that glowed under the lanterns and a smile that could melt glaciers. Her deep black hair shone like ink, falling over one shoulder in a way that made Niko immediately forget every thought in his head.
Her uniform was modest—technically—but it didn't stop the fact that everything about her presence was overwhelming to someone like Niko.
He swallowed, very aware of how warm his face was getting.
"U-Um… I'll take…" he started, then tripped over the words like they were a pile of bricks. "Some crab… and salmon—uh… maybe grilled if that's okay? And… maybe shrimp. If that's not too much… I-I mean if it is I can—"
She giggled. "You're cute. Not too much at all. Crab, grilled salmon, shrimp…" She tapped the side of her pen against her cheek. "Want a warm sake or something to drink?"
He blinked. "I—I'll just take water."
She smiled even wider. "Coming right up."
As she turned and walked away, Niko sank deeper into his chair and exhaled sharply, hand running down his face. Idiot. His cheeks still burned. He hadn't even looked her in the eyes for more than two seconds.
"I need to focus," he muttered to himself, trying to push the entire interaction to the back of his mind.
But the truth was, it was hard.
Not because of the waitress—not really—but because of everything else. The soft clinking of plates. The little conversations. The small world continuing around him, utterly unaware of the war about to crash into it.
They had no idea.
The thought curled in his chest like a cold knot.
Tomorrow would not be clean.
Chalice hadn't said it out loud—but Niko knew. Whatever was coming, it wouldn't be quiet, and it wouldn't be bloodless. He didn't know how many people Chalice could bring. He didn't even know if he and Chalice could fully trust each other, even if they weren't enemies anymore.
But what he did know—what he felt—was that Chalice wasn't lying.
The Devil of Light was real. And whatever its intentions were… they weren't good. Not if fate itself bent around that thing like iron shavings to a magnet.
Niko glanced around the restaurant again.
The citizens here—they were laughing. Eating. Drinking. One man toasted a friend at the bar, another kissed his partner on the cheek. They were alive, blissfully unaware. And Niko—just a boy, really—was sitting here, knowing the world might split open tomorrow.
He didn't want them to die.
Even if he didn't know them. Even if they'd stare at him like a stranger in the street. He didn't want anyone to die just because he had the bad luck to get caught in this war.
The smell of grilled salmon brought him out of it.
The waitress returned, balancing a tray with far more elegance than Niko expected. His meal was plated with surprising care—steamed vegetables, glistening shrimp, crab legs perfectly cracked, salmon seared and lined with herbs. A little dipping bowl of oil and something citrusy steamed beside it.
"Here you go~" she said, setting it all down with practiced grace. Then she leaned a little closer, eyes playful. "Also, you're blushing, kid. I'm flattered, but I'm a little too old for you."
Niko made a strangled sound, red as a tomato. "I-I wasn't—! That's not—! I didn't mean—!"
Her laughter was sweet and teasing as she walked away.
He sank even lower in his chair, burying his face in his hands for a moment.
But then… he ate.
And he enjoyed it. Every bite. The flavors were strong and fresh, just enough spice to bite without hurting, and the warmth made his whole body hum.
He didn't let himself forget what tomorrow would bring.
But for a few minutes—just a few—he let himself live.