Fang led the way, rushing through the ruined streets in a manner that suggested that he was very well familiar with the terrain that could one day be their endless battlefield. Exalt’s advantage was that they had thoroughly scouted and studied the maps of Rakab when they hunted the One-Eyed King. No other clan or alliance, currently, had as current and extensive knowledge of the area as Exalt did. With how the buildings crumbled, on an almost daily basis, blocking roads or changing the topology of the city, older maps were not exactly worthless, but they were not ideal either. For those who wanted to battle at the peak of their abilities, complete and thorough information was a requirement, not a bonus. Not that Exalt could be considered a top clan or anything of the sort.

Eventually, the group made it to a smaller square in the southwest of Rakab. It was the merchant quarter of the city, and it looked the part. Even ruined, it still resembled buildings that the wealthier people lived in with architecture that was distinctly different from the rest of the city.

In the square stood a man with black hair and black eyes. He wore a black coat with a silver coat of arms in the shape of a sword pointed downwards, and beneath the coat, sparse silver armor glimmered in the sun.

The man was surrounded by five individuals and a corpse lay at the man’s feet. The man held a sheathed sword in his left hand, and stood casually, completely open and defenseless, while those who surrounded him had their weapons bared.

Fang came to a stop and the rest of the group did as well. After a moment, Estella stepped forward, reaching for her sword, but Fang stopped her.

Estella looked at Fang, gaze asking the question she did not speak.

“Observe,” Fang said coldly. “Maybe even you can learn something from that maniac.”

As if sensing he was being spoken of the black-haired man glanced towards Fang, and then slowly turned towards him. Even though dozens of meters separated them, his voice carried easily in the silence of Rakab, tone hard, yet somehow yielding and soft. “Is this my welcome, Fang?”

Aren’s eyes widened as he recognized the person. He had seen that warrior before. Not only had he seen him, but Aren watched him, in that one final junior tournament match where he and Fang fought for the title.

It was Ame.

To say Ame was a miracle — the world’s gift to Singularity — would be an insult to Ame. The only reason why Ame was not a world-famous genius was because he displayed his skill in the relative backwater junior arenas, of which there were hundreds in the world of Singularity. Perhaps calling him skillful was not quite correct either. There was something in the way that Ame moved that was so pristinely elegant and inspiring that it captured hearts and minds. Fang was similar in that, but the reason why he captured hearts and minds was because of his unyielding, challenger nature. Without Ame, Fang perhaps never would’ve improved the way he did, and season after season, people came to watch the two fight in the finals of the junior arena to see the world-shattering progress that they made in the time between their fated bouts.

Now, Ame stood there, like an unapproachable island of martial supremacy — an untainted ideal of measured and precise violence — while those who tried to reach for him stood their ground far away from him, both fearing and anticipating the eventual charge.

“If I wanted to ambush you,” Fang said, his voice also carrying, “I would do it differently. Besides, if I wanted to fight you, I would do it myself. I would let none other interfere.”

Ame closed his black eyes and lowered his head slightly. The singular braid of his hair slipped over his shoulder and rested against the top of his chest with its tail. “My apologies for doubting you,” Ame said, bowing towards Fang. “It was thoughtless of me.”

Fang smiled and shook his head. “Not at all,” he insisted. “We should’ve met you outside the city. It is our fault.”

“No,” Ame insisted this time. “I knew they were following me. I should’ve dealt with them sooner.”

Fang frowned. “No.” Aren began to suspect that this was going to become an endless cycle. “I should’ve see—“ Fang trailed off when one of the warriors surrounding Ame suddenly launched himself forward, thankfully breaking the feedback loop.

“Charge!!” the warrior screamed, and Aren thought of the warrior as Heavy, because he wore armor that was, by all accounts, impractical. It was bulky. The man was practically a juggernaut of spiked plate armor, wielding a sword that was taller than him, even though Heavy himself, in that armor, stood at almost 8 feet tall.

“That one is a Titan, probably,” Fang said, explaining. “They favor maximum offensive power and make up for their lack of defense through ultra-heavy armor. It is quite a rare class.”

His comrades lagged behind Heavy, but it didn’t seem like it would matter. Ame had not even raised from his bowing posture by the time Heavy was upon him, and it looked as if the titan would smash Ame to bits and pieces with one swing of his sword.

Then, Ame righted his posture in a split second, and Aren could not even see the moment when the black-haired warrior drew his sword. Ame’s blade was curved, and like his fighting style, it was an evolution of its Eastern roots. It was thicker and wider, almost like a Chinese war sword, its wider base tapering to a narrower point. It resembled the katana that inspired its shape, but had a much thicker spine that allowed the fragile blade to be used for parrying, and to endure chopping through bones.

The two blades impacted each other — Ame’s from below, and the titan’s from above — and both warriors were forced back a single step, which was an absurd idea. The titan must’ve weighed three times as much as Ame did, at the very least, and he was in full charge, and yet Ame was forced back only a single step.

With his lighter weapon, Ame recovered faster, gracefully moved the blade to his dominant side, and then slashed upwards, carving through the ultra-heavy armor as if it was made of paper.

Blood burst into the air, creating a curtain of red rain, as Ame stepped forward, and slashed again, reversing the trajectory of his eastern war blade. Once more, the edge of the sword cut through heavy armor as if it was nothing, and the titan’s shoulder and left arm went flying into the air, severed from his body. It was entirely pointless, as the very first blow had instantly killed his opponent.

Not waiting for the enemy to recover, Ame glided forward. His movements truly looked as if he was gliding, not walking. He turned his body as if executing a graceful war dance, and a crossbow bolt sailed past his neck at the exact next moment, barely missing him. It almost seemed prescient, the way he turned his body.

The enemy caster pointed his staff at Ame and unleashed a ball of fire that was the size of a man’s entire torso, and the speed at which it departed the staff shocked Aren. And yet, Ame reacted to it as if it was not fast enough, and his blade carved through the ball of fire, sending each hemisphere heading in a different direction, and away from the warrior. One half crashed into an old building, causing it to collapse, while the other impacted the ground with enough force to throw up debris from shattered, molten tiles covering the square.

Ame’s blade carved through the crossbowman’s weapon, which the individual raised defensively, and then through the crossbowman’s head, going through the crown and stopping at the base of the neck. Then Ame turned his sword and cleaved it free of the dead man’s embrace, spraying blood everywhere. In old samurai movies, the crossbowman would spin one last time, throwing his arms up helplessly, but in reality, at least in Singularity's reality, the crossbowman was dead the moment the eastern blade parted his brain right down the middle. The crossbowman just dropped to the ground, lifeless.

With a bounding, gliding step, Ame circled the caster who was preparing another spell, too fast for the man to track. Suddenly, Ame changed directions, causing the caster to overshoot his compensation. Before the caster could recover and point his staff at Ame, the eastern war sword plunged into the caster’s chest.

Ame smiled darkly, glancing around himself. Following the two remaining opponents with his gaze as if to confirm their locations, and then he looked at the caster. “I've struck your vital area,” he said calmly. “If I remove my sword, you will die. If I leave it like this, you will also die. What will you do?”

The two exchanged gazes. Ame’s was hard, yet calm. It was like looking at the developing cloud formations of a raging hurricane. From a distance, it looked safe, but in one’s heart, one knew that it was heading for them. The caster’s on the other hand showed only fear and disbelief.

“Wrong answer,” Ame said, kicking the caster off his sword, and then decapitated him with a single horizontal slash.

Fang sighed. “That maniac. He hasn't changed at all,” he grumbled.

Aren looked at Fang. He felt as if he knew where those words came from, but his mind could not catch up to the feeling in his heart. Aren had never seen Ame in an open-world battle like this, and it was a side of the warrior that Aren had not seen, but perhaps expected.

Both Fang and Ame were like two sides of the same coin. They sought martial superiority and excellence — that much was obvious. But Aren could not exactly pinpoint the difference between the two.

It was a blink and miss it type of situation. Aren blinked — or rather glanced at Fang — and one of the two remaining opponents was already dead. Before the light-armored warrior’s body even hit the ground, Ame was already within striking range of the other one in similar armor who tried to circle behind Ame.

Ame struck the last opponent with the palm of his hand, pushing him against the wall. The warrior raised his short-sword to try to slash Ame, but Ame’s knee pinned the warrior’s hand against the wall.

Slowly, Ame pressed the edge of his sword against his opponent’s neck, gradually applying increasing pressure. At first, blood trickled from the emerging wound, and before long, it poured. The look of increasing panic on the poor guy's face was something Aren would probably never forget. Ame was merciless. Finally, Ame drew his blade across the warrior’s neck, painting the walls red, and then slashed the blade through the air, causing blood droplets to spray on the ground.

Slowly, Ame turned towards Aren’s group and stood motionless, scabbard held in one arm, and the blade in the other. Aren felt Ame’s gaze on him, and his heart shrunk in his chest. His body wanted to flee, but his mind defied such an instinct.

“Ame does not respect those who play with weapons,” Fang said, quietly. “He hates those who use violence as a crutch, without becoming masters of violence itself. For them, he has nothing but psychological trauma to give. I am fairly certain he enjoys it too.”

Aren glanced at Fang again, and that is when he understood the difference between Fang and Ame. Fang was someone who loved to teach, and he did not belittle those who followed a different path. Fang was a leader. Ame was a tyrant. Though Ame never demanded anyone’s obedience, his presence alone commanded respect. Ame was a brutal warlord — the lonely blade that stood in defiance of fate itself. Whether he was against one opponent, or a million, it did not seem to matter. Ame would never waver and his blade would drink the rivers of blood dry.

Then Ame began approaching the group, and Aren reached for his shadowblade, eyes widening when he remembered that he no longer had it. It was strange how that weapon had become so much a part of him in the little time he had used it that its absence had still not set in his mind.

Standing just a few meters before them, Ame sheathed his blade and looked at each face, and then at Fang. Slowly, Ame bowed. “I hope you enjoyed the performance,” he said, casually speaking of the slaughter as if it was just that: a performance.

“It was brilliant,” Nissa whispered, smiling. "You were so quick."

Ame looked at Estella when he straightened up, and his gaze lingered on her for far longer than on anyone else. His gaze queried her opinion.

Estella bowed her head slightly, approving.

Ame smiled, satisfied. “So, Fang-san told me a bit about you. You wish to fight the world?” he asked. “Just the six of you?”

Fang nodded. “Not by choice,” he said.

Ame’s smile never waned. In fact, he chuckled. “Will you allow me to take part in this? It would be a good opportunity for me as well.”

Aren tilted his head. He wasn't sure what Ame meant by it being a good opportunity for him, but considering how easy it seemed to recruit such a fabled warrior, it must've meant that Ame had good reasons of his own. Especially considering the fact that death was more than a likely outcome in the days to come, fighting against other adventurers.

Fang looked at his companions, and it was obvious that he was conflicted. Maybe, on some level, Fang and Ame were friends, but on every other level, they were rivals. Fang refused to join Alliances because Ame refused to join Alliances — and he would never join an Alliance that was not dichotomously opposed to the one Ame would be in. Their warrior spirits were bound by fate. Their duels were the thin red thread of fate that bound them together.

Or at least, that is what it was in the past.

Fang extended his hand to Ame and smiled. “We would love to have you as a comrade,” he said.

Ame bowed his head politely and took Fang’s hand with his own. “Let’s do our best,” he said.