The Troylon Wall had a sound.

  Not the crash of waves, nor the rumble of storms, but a low, ceaseless groan. Steel pressed against steel, ancient stone reinforced with Espercraft humming with restrained power. It was the sound of a continent’s last breath being held, waiting for the day it might be stolen away.

  Raphael stood on that wall in his youth, no older than twenty-two, boots pressed to the battlements of Garrison Prime. His uniform back then was simpler, the black coat of an officer without the weight of his current titles. The night was bitter and dry, stars jagged against the sky, the land beyond the wall drowned in shadow.

  “Lieutenant Vance!” A voice carried over the ramparts.

  Raphael turned, sharp grey eyes catching the shape of a fellow Esper jogging toward him, visor pulled up. The man gave a brisk salute before exhaling.

  “Moutsuki’s shift is over. Said to tell you to remind him to stop burning holes through the horizon and actually rest.”

  Raphael allowed himself a faint smirk. “Did he now?”

  The man nodded. “You know how he gets—‘Duty’s important, but exhaustion dulls the blade.’ He said he’ll cover the last stretch himself if you don’t come down.”

  Raphael exhaled through his nose. Hiroshi Moutsuki. Even back then, the name carried weight inside Garrison Prime. Some called him The Bright Light of God. Others, more simply, called him a friend. Raphael adjusted his gloves, giving a short nod. “Very well. I’ll relieve him.”

  The built-in transport of the Troylon Wall was a strange thing. Half elevator, half pulsing rail that carried soldiers down into the guts of the fortress before spitting them back out on the field. Raphael descended, the walls of steel giving way to the barren plain beyond.

  The stench hit first. Burnt ozone, ichor that hissed like acid when it touched the ground, the metallic tang of Riftborn corpses piling high. His boots crunched over them when he stepped out, and his breath caught.

  Hiroshi Moutsuki stood not fifty paces away.

  The man was lean but powerful, every movement fluid, his short mahogany hair catching silver from the moonlight. He stood upon a mountain of Riftborn corpses, golden eyes glowing like molten sunlight. In his hands, resting against the mound as if it weighed nothing, was the Judgment Blade.

  Raphael had seen relics before. Artifacts, sacred weapons forged with mysteries older than nations but the sight of Judgment was something else entirely. Its silver-white blade gleamed as though it refused the stain of the battlefield. Ancient golden script glowed faintly down its fuller, alive with the weight of something divine. Its crossguard spread like angel wings, opal at the pommel shifting in hue as though it knew it was being watched.

  Hiroshi turned at the sound of Raphael’s approach. A grin split his face, open and unburdened despite the carnage beneath his boots.

  “Raph! My man!” His voice carried, strong and warm. Without hesitation, he leapt from the corpse mountain, landing beside Raphael with effortless grace. Dust scattered. Riftborn ichor hissed. The Judgment Blade sang faintly in the air.

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  “Your shift’s done,” Raphael said.

  “Is it now?” Hiroshi chuckled, patting him on the shoulder with a friendly thump. “Then I suppose it’s yours now.”

  Raphael’s eyes flicked back to the battlefield. The corpses stretched for miles, Riftborn piled atop Riftborn until the horizon itself seemed drowned in them. Thousands. No, tens of thousands felled by the hand of one man. His jaw tightened.

  “You did all this in one night?”

  Hiroshi shrugged as if the question barely mattered. “I had some help. Not a machine ya know.” He raised the blade. “Besides, when Judgment sings, the spawn have no choice but to listen.”

  The image burned itself into Raphael’s mind. The lone figure atop a graveyard of monsters, the sword that glowed as if heaven itself had placed it here, and the man who bore it with nothing but calm certainty.

  That was the night Raphael knew the legend of Hiroshi Moutsuki was no myth.

  ---

  [Present day]

  Raphael blinked against the sun, the vision of corpses fading into the sight of students sparring in the dust of the training field. Shouts rang out, blades struck, Graces flared. The camp was alive with energy, sweat and dirt mixing with stubborn pride.

  From his vantage on a ridge, Raphael folded his arms. He had long since traded the lean uniform of his youth for the mantle of command, but the old weight on his shoulders never left.

  “They’re noisy.”

  The voice behind him was light, teasing, but it tightened something in Raphael’s chest. He turned, expression cooling.

  Ace stood there.

  Silver hair caught the sun, yellow eyes sharp and restless. His jacket was white with wing patterns stitched bold across the back, combat sneakers scuffed but stylish. Metallic wings folded neatly behind him, aviator goggles hanging loose around his neck. Every detail screamed of someone who belonged in two worlds. Street and military, rebellion and order.

  “Relax,” Ace said, smirking as he stepped closer. “We’re brothers-in-law, remember?”

  Raphael exhaled slowly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I shouldn’t be in a lot of places.” Ace tilted his head, gaze drifting toward the sparring field. “So. How’s the training camp? Any gems hidden in this rock pile?”

  Raphael didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned the squads below.

  Zane was sparring with Kael Veyra, purple lightning crackling around his body as Volt Step carried him in sharp blurs across the field. Kael’s metallic shards spun in disciplined patterns, countering each strike with cold precision. Sparks flew, students paused to watch, and the air tasted of ozone.

  Not far away, Tessa faced Akane Kurogane. Gale Force shimmered, her whip-blade shifting forms mid-swing. Sword, bow, chain, and back again. She moved with newfound fluidity, pressing against Akane’s foxlike agility. For the first time, Raphael saw the weapon’s true potential awaken.

  Finn’s assigned group was tighter than before. Daisy moved in sync with Caleb, her grenade launcher brambles coordinating with his modular shield as Iris lined shots from cover. Jian’s strikes redirected enemies toward Carter’s portals, and Stacy’s vines closed gaps with quick bursts. Their coordination no longer stumbled, it flowed.

  Ace smirked at the sight. “Not bad. Some of them are even exceptional. Still…” His eyes narrowed. “Far from the top. They’d be eaten alive against elites.”

  Raphael said nothing, though part of him agreed. Training sharpened edges, but true strength was forged under weight far heavier than sparring grounds.

  Ace slid his hands into his pockets. “And Rei? Haven’t seen the kid around.”

  Raphael’s jaw tightened. “He’s training alone. I haven’t seen him for days.”

  “Shame.” Ace sighed, genuine disappointment in the sound. “Finally had the chance to meet him.” He rolled his shoulders, then shrugged it off as if it hardly mattered. “Another time, then.”

  He began walking away, metallic wings clinking faintly. Before he vanished into the camp’s distance, he glanced back over his shoulder.

  “Well. Let’s see how they fare against the Syndicate raid. Then we’ll know if they’re worthy of standing with elites.”

  The words lingered like a stormcloud as Ace disappeared.

  Raphael looked back at the students. The noise of sparring, the clash of Graces, the stubborn fire in their eyes.

  And in his memory, a golden-eyed man stood on a mountain of corpses, a blade of judgment in hand.

  The question gnawed at him.

  Would these young ones ever carve such a legend?

  Or would they fall, forgotten at the foot of the wall?

  [End of Chapter]

  Hiroshi Moutsuki character model

  Judgment blade design