Blasting through the door of the parlour, Hiro and Seraphiel dump the cash all over the floor.

  Madarame walks up, his cigarette angled toward the flickering, dim UV lightbulb. He takes it out of his mouth with his index and middle finger, blowing smoke toward them.

  “Where did you get all this from, hmm?” he asks nonchalantly.

  “We seized these funds.” Hiro wraps an arm around Seraphiel, who only now realises they are both splattered with blood. His eye traces the line from Hiro’s ear to Madarame’s eyes. Madarame kicks the pile of money with his foot, as if checking for signs of life.

  “You aren’t lying to me, are you?”

  “No, sir.” Hiro shouts like a soldier—oddly out of character.

  Madarame puts him in a headlock, nuzzling his scalp with his fist. Blood stains his clothes and knuckles.

  Training resumes.

  Seraphiel faces Hiro one-on-one. No weapons. No holds barred. Seraphiel raises his curled fists to just beneath his eyes, standing square-on rather than side-on—more Muay Thai than boxing. Hiro has no stance at all; he simply holds his hands out, unclenched.

  Seraphiel closes the distance. He twists his hip and rotates on his back foot, launching his shin into Hiro’s ribs. It connects.

  “Argh!” Hiro coughs.

  But he doesn’t falter. He grabs the leg and sweeps Seraphiel’s other foot. Seraphiel falls, his leg still held aloft by Hiro, and rolls back, aiming for a leg lock. Instead, Seraphiel smashes his heel into Hiro’s eye.

  “Sorry!” he calls instinctively.

  “For what?” Hiro loosens his grip.

  They both get back to their feet. Hiro rushes forward, jumps, and brings his foot straight down in an axe kick aimed at Seraphiel’s head. Seraphiel raises his forearm; it bends almost to the point of snapping as Hiro connects.

  As they fall, Hiro wraps his arms around Seraphiel’s waist from behind, rolling him over in a kind of reverse suplex. He then wraps his legs around Seraphiel’s neck, choking him.

  “Tap!” Hiro calls out enthusiastically.

  This continues for thirty seconds before the struggling stops.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Seraphiel is unconscious. He would not allow himself to tap.

  He regains consciousness surrounded by Madarame, Hiro, Derek, and a few others.

  “You alright, man?” someone calls out.

  Madarame swats Hiro on the back of the head. His voice sounds distorted.

  “Thirty seconds? That can cause permanent brain damage. He’ll turn out dumber than you.”

  “I thought he would tap.”

  Seraphiel moans, coughing a little before sitting up.

  “I’m fine, guys. Thanks.”

  The crowd dissipates upon realising he really is.

  KNOCK KNOCK

  Someone is banging on the parlour door—something no one in the area has the temerity to do. Everyone is intrigued.

  Madarame walks up and swings the door open.

  A tall man stands outside: luscious brown hair, pointed ears, sharp reddish eyes.

  Mumbling is heard before Madarame turns.

  “Seraphiel, this man… Sock, is it? Wants to see you.”

  “Sock?” Seraphiel asks, massaging his neck.

  He walks toward the door and catches sight of Sol along the way. He signals for Madarame to say he isn’t here and that he doesn’t wish to talk.

  “Erm—Seraphiel? I dunno that name. I’m a bit drunk. Thought I did, aha. Take care.”

  He tries to shut the door, but Sol puts his hand through the gap, gripping Madarame’s wrist.

  “Oh?”

  Madarame frees his wrist and steps outside. In a moment, a he thrusts his fist as if hammering at Sol's neck, at the final second a dagger materialised from the shadows. Sol reacts instantly, grabbing his wrist again. The blade makes slight contact; blood drips down Sol’s neck.

  Sol is astounded at his speed, he is not an appellation and yet he has strange powers and enhanced physical prowess?

  “I know he’s here. I would like to see him.”

  “I said he’s not, so he’s not, you stupid bastard,” Madarame says, clearly irritated. His eyes flick to the book on Sol’s waist belt. Realisation dawns—an Appellation.

  He withdraws, unwilling to cause a scene that could result in collateral damage and potentially destroy the city. He turns his back, walks inside, and shuts the door.

  “Ahem. That’s that.”

  The parlour resumes as if nothing happened, assuming the man at the door is now no longer of this world.

  Madarame takes a seat beside Seraphiel.

  “What does an Appellation want with you?” He lights a cigarette and rests it between his lips.

  “That man brought me to this place—in Seriol—from Cairnreach, against my will.”

  “He brought you here and allowed you to roam the streets in such a state?”

  “Yes. He allowed it—and facilitated it.”

  Madarame is clearly irritated by the man’s perceived cruelty. He had more than enough power to do as he wished, yet dumped this boy in the slums.

  “That’s strange. I’d imagine he took you as a pawn.”

  Seraphiel winces.

  “But to then dump that pawn in the slums? That’s a little stupid, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t worry,” Madarame continues. “You’re as much of a pawn to me as I am to you. You look out for me, and I’ll look out for you.”

  He taps ash into an ashtray and leans back, thinking.

  “Anyway—Verez. The lands are to convene. You’ll take my stead, but I’d very much like to observe. My presence may carry some sway.”

  “That’s fine,” Seraphiel agrees. The former High Pontiff’s presence will certainly help.

  “Say—why don’t you and I pay a visit to Rea? I’m sure I’ve got some things there you’d find of use, hmm?”

  Madarame is concerned Seraphiel might be snatched by the mysterious Appellation if left alone. The man clearly knows his whereabouts. As such, Madarame intends to arm Seraphiel—give the young king power of his own.

  Hiro and Seraphiel drawing blood together was an initiation of sorts.

  He was now one of them.