Fitran had just left the isolation wing. His shadow stretched across the steel corridor cloaked in the fog of arcane light. His steps were slow, his shoulders burdened by a decision he could not take back—handing Rinoa over to Serise’s care and binding his name to an unbreakable soul contract.

  He paused at the corner, gazing at a silhouette standing against the wall, half-shrouded in soft light.

  “Your steps seem heavy,” spoke a woman, her voice low like a whisper against the steel surface, “it seems you are risking something—half your soul, or perhaps even more.”

  Her hair shone a vivid orange-red, tied back neatly and high. A bold impression flickered in her eyes, clear and radiating calm while concealing the chill of her surroundings. A black kimono lined with protective layers hugged her form elegantly, while a katana rested at her waist, as if waiting for the moment to speak.

  Fitran lifted his shoulders slightly, trying to rearrange the pile of emotions that felt so suffocating. “I’m not used to being targeted,” she responded, her voice steady despite the pressure. “Are you waiting for someone, or merely enjoying the performance unfolding behind the door?”

  Oda Nobuzan offered a thin smile, the corners of her lips curving subtly. “A performance? If that’s how you wish to phrase it. It is rare to see someone scrawl their name on ancient legal stones for the sake of a single soul,” she remarked, turning her gaze back toward the isolation wings. “Rinoa—seems fortunate, doesn’t she, to have a woman reckless enough to do such a thing.”

  Fitran stifled his reaction, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “If you intend to judge, do so with a blade, not with words,” he said firmly, his voice echoing through the silence of the corridor.

  Oda Nobuzan stepped closer, her stride unwavering. The flames in her hair flickered faintly, signaling the tension she felt—restrained by a discipline forged over many years. “No. I do not judge you,” she replied, tilting her head, assessing Fitran without intent to harm. “I am entranced. Your blood, your essence—you know it is no longer solely yours. Many eyes aboard this ship will take notice… Yet I… shall remain silent,” she stated, her voice laden with profound meaning.

  Fitran lifted his chin, a laugh nearly escaping his lips but cut short. “Silent like one who hides a dagger behind your back,” he replied in a critical tone, his eyes glinting with skepticism.

  “A dagger drawn too hastily becomes dull,” Oda Nobuzan met Fitran's gaze with unwavering intensity, her eyes unblinking. “I wish to witness your moves. You claim you want to end this battle… You mention the name Irithya. Whispers in the corridors are enough to send the careless fleeing in fear,” she continued, her voice firm, laden with conviction. “Yet I am not swayed by carelessness—instead, I am waiting.”

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  “Waiting for what?” Fitran lowered his gaze briefly, lost in contemplation. The steel shimmered, reflecting the light of the Lattice that stretched from afar.

  “Waiting for the moment when every soul's breath shall cease,” Oda Nobuzan replied flatly, her tone seemingly echoing from the depths of her being. “It is then that the blade’s edge cleaves the darkness with utmost clarity.” In an instant, silence enveloped them. “The question is: how much blood must flow again before you feel it is enough?”

  Fitran raised his face, his clear eyes appearing weary. “If that is the price I must pay to end this cycle,” he said with conviction, “then I shall pay it! This world has been desolate long before my birth. If I must seal this sorrow with my blood, then so be it.”

  There was something softening in Nobuzan's gaze—not a sign of weakness, but rather a rare honesty. “Perhaps we will tread the same path…” She shrugged, uncertainty echoing in every word. “Or end up stabbing each other as we get ensnared at its end. I do not know how it will unfold. For now, I am but an observer.”

  Fitran responded with a voice full of conviction, “A silent spectator who stays quiet for too long must eventually step onto the stage! We cannot hide forever.”

  Nobuzan replied, “And when that moment arrives, ensure that you are ready to bear the weight of every consequence that follows.”

  They exchanged glances, two fates intersecting, sizing each other up yet remaining unentangled. From the edges of isolation, the hum of the Ethereal Cluster flowed softly, signaling the stability of Phase-2. The newly formed Anchor Echo from the reliquary seeped through the knots of Serise; its security level was assured as long as Fitran remained within Leviathan's reach. The Mirror-Law safeguarded the ship’s secrets: no words leaked, no ears listened without permission. Nobuzan did not attempt to eavesdrop; she simply sensed the remnants of magic that filled the air—the scent of ozone, smoldering metal, and the footsteps of someone who had just signed an old decree into existence.

  With a resolute decision, Fitran closed the distance between them. “I have no time to weave words. If you choose to step onto the stage, also choose the side of the stage you will support. And choose now!”

  Oda Nobuzan did not respond with any hint of a duel. She merely bowed her head, her breath as thin as the morning dew, a recognition that choices could arrive without the sound of a trumpet. “Not now,” she said, her voice calm yet firm. “I want to see how far that blood will alter the map we know.”

  Fitran turned, striding with purpose. “If that’s the case, open your eyes! Don’t just sharpen your sword,” he shouted, his voice flowing with an undeniable intensity.

  “My pulse will await you,” Oda Nobuzan replied, her tone half-jesting, yet devoid of laughter, her eyes conveying seriousness as they gazed deeply into the journey ahead.

  The corridor fell silent once more, suffocated by the tension enveloping them. The thin smoke from the ember held in Oda Nobuzan's hair slowly dissipated, while arcane light restored the mechanical calm around her. At an unseen distance, a river battered the belly of the Leviathan, noisy as an hourglass resisting the last grains of sand.

  Oda Nobuzan uttered a single sentence, barely audible—“That blood… I wish to see how far it can change the world.”

  She stepped away from Fitran. “Waiting…” she murmured, “and anticipating are two forms of preparing for victory.”