The golden mist thinned as the corridor unraveled, revealing the Fifth Gate. Unlike the higher gates, where the air felt refined and methodical, this pce had a rougher edge to it. The structures were sturdier, bulkier, built less for elegance and more for endurance. The energy here wasn’t the gentle hum of ancient wisdom—it was raw, tempered, and battle-worn.

  As soon as the group stepped through, they were met with watchful eyes.

  A squad of warriors stood ahead, already assembled, their postures rexed but alert. They weren’t standing in neat formations or lined up in a pristine manner like an elite force—no, they were looser, more rugged, more lived-in. But despite the casual stance, there was no mistaking it.

  These were warriors.

  And at the center of them—

  A towering man, arms crossed, face stretched into a perpetual scowl.

  The Captain of the Gomonban.

  His shoulders were broad, his stance confident, and his expression screamed not the sharpest tool in the shed, but absolutely the most durable. His uniform looked slightly tattered, not from negligence, but because he simply didn’t care enough to repce it.

  Watari and Kaito exchanged a gnce.

  Oh, yeah. This guy was gonna be fun.

  Before anyone else could speak—

  “Payase!”

  The Captain’s gruff voice boomed, filled with hearty amusement.

  “Haven’t seen you in ages, you nosy bastard.”

  Ayase’s smirk was effortless. “It’s Ayase, …Captain.”

  The Captain scoffed. “That’s what I said.” He exhaled sharply, gncing at the unfamiliar faces. His expression tightened just slightly. “I figured you guys would make your way down here eventually. Didn’t expect you to bring a whole crew of faces I don’t recognize, though.”

  His eyes nded on Watari, then Yumi, then Ren, then Ryuko—lingering for just a moment longer on each of them. He wasn’t sizing them up in a threatening way.

  More like he was measuring something.

  Ayase, ever the smooth one, motioned to the group. “Oh, right. Where are my manners?” He gestured zily.

  “These are the ones that handled Kuroda. Well, all except one. ”

  The entire squad froze.

  Silence.

  Then—

  A ripple of energy passed through them—not intentional, not forced. Just a raw, instinctive reaction to hearing that name.

  For a long moment, no one spoke.

  Then, one of the warriors—a broad-shouldered, battle-worn fighter—exhaled sharply through his nose. His jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides.

  “That bastard’s cores took my uncle.”

  His voice was steady, but there was weight behind it. Not rage. Not grief. Just something carved into his bones—something that had been there for years.

  He didn’t look at Watari and the others with admiration. He didn’t look at them with disbelief.

  He just studied them—like he was searching for the reason why they had succeeded where so many others had failed.

  Kuroda wasn’t just some vilin.

  Kuroda was a legend. A nightmare. A story whispered in pces where warriors gathered. Many warriors wanted to leave the Chūkan to stop him.

  And these were the ones who had put him down?

  The Captain exhaled, tilting his head. “That’s quite the cim.”

  But even as he said it, his eyes lingered on Watari.

  There was something off about this kid.

  Not in a bad way.

  Not in a way that screamed danger.

  But in a way that made the wind shift ever so slightly when he moved.

  In a way that made the very air pause in anticipation whenever he took a step.

  The Captain narrowed his gaze.

  “There’s something deeper in this boy,” he thought.

  He wasn’t looking at a regur Jūmonban.

  There was something else there. Something sleeping.

  The Captain didn’t voice it, though. Instead, he simply turned, motioning for them to follow.

  “Come on. Let’s walk.”