[Outer World]

  Intent: What you believe your Anima will do shapes what it actually does. Vague Intent produces unfocused Anima. Doubt weakens Anima, while conviction strengthens it. Named techniques power Intent through verbal declaration.

  Anima Depletion: A condition where Anima reserves are exhausted. An exhausted user has the inability to flare or coat. However, natural rest and practiced bits of Flaring will bring it out again.

  Flaring: The basic act of engulfing one's body in Anima, used for empowering and replenishing.

  Coating: Derived by Flaring, it precisely applies Anima to one’s body part or object.

  Masking: Simply hiding one's Anima from untrained senses or those without Eye-Coating. However, it prohibits the usage of Anima.

  Concealing: Derived by Masking it camouflages one’s Anima to other users, despite the usage of Coating. Allows users to use Anima.

  ***

  Ringing, ringing, ringing in his ears.

  A wet cough escaped his lips.

  Everything blurred like smudged colors.

  Snow, rubble, blood, and sky.

  Ragged gasps tore from his throat.

  Names called.

  “Lo…”

  “Lo…”

  “Lod…”

  Each word fizzled out before it reached him.

  Amidst the rubble, Lodio lay on his back. Blood spurted from his nose like a macabre waterfall—too hot and wet—running down his cheeks. Some entered his mouth, tasting like copper. Each breath rasped, graveled, and scratched. Blood spilled across the snow.

  ”Lodio, a blade has two sides: life and death. Every time you use your blade, you either cross or not. No matter what, your blade will follow.”

  He could hear cicadas, his father’s voice, and the sound of streaming water over flat stones.

  ”Lodio, this is the gentleman sword. Train with it. Sleep with it. Cherish it. Come here, let me tell you a tale.”

  “F-f-ffa…ther?” Lodio rasped.

  ”In a streaming water I found you, crying, crying, crying. So much that I wanted to leave. Tktktktk. Dogwood blossoms. Pink. Not white. Covered you as the basket moved. You were hugging a scabbard, and that scabbard had a sword. Your name, Lodio Azhario, was ingrained on the steel. You may not be a Twog, and you may not be my biological son, but it sure feels like it…”

  His hand moved, trying to grab, grip, and wield his sword. Instead, they found rubble. Cold stone. Crunchy snow. Through the blurry haze, he stares at the huge hole blown through the second floor. Smoke curled in the air. Wooden beams were black. It hadn’t taken long for the people downstairs to flee. He’d heard their screams, running feet, and the slam of the front door.

  Silence?

  No.

  Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!

  Crushed snow under boots. Many of them. Surrounded him.

  Slowly and painfully, Lodio turned his head and saw them through the blurry haze. A sea of men circled around him. Rough men. Gnarly men. Violent men. Men with weapons and mean eyes. They emerged from the building. More than one. Obviously.

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  One of them—a thick-necked man with a shaved head—pointed at Lodio. “Poor bastard, didn’t know about Big Man’s ability.”

  ”All he had to do was to deliver the woman,” another one said.

  “I know, Big Man is loyal to a fault,” a third, taller man with a scar through his lip said. “I say we should bring him alive.”

  Lodio stared up at them. The gray sky beyond their heads cried: snowflakes drifted down, landing on his face before melting in his blood.

  ”Train with it. Sleep with it. Cherish it.”

  His sword was gone. Lost in the explosion. Somewhere—perhaps under that rubble or snow, or it could be in the building. But one thing was certain.

  He still had his hands.

  He still had his blood.

  He still had his Intent.

  Lodio pushed himself up.

  Blood poured fresh from his nose. The men around him shifted, muttered, and some grinned.

  Animals.

  At one point, Lodio had been like that.

  All feral.

  And he still is.

  Slowly, his lips curled into a smirk and then into a wide, bloodied grin.

  “Look at him,” someone laughed. “Can barely—“

  Lodio flared.

  Pink anima erupted from his body like a volcano. And then the vines. His Healing Vines. From the wounds on his face, from the cuts on his arms, from the other gashes he hadn’t even noticed. Vines appeared. They wove together, stitching, knitting, and healing. Lodio felt them pull his skin closed.

  The men stared.

  “H-his wounds a-are closing!”

  “What the—“

  “The hell—“

  Around Lodio’s body, dogwood petals orbited.

  The thick-necked man lunged first. “Get him! He’s weak!”

  Three men rushed forward.

  The first one swung a wooden club at Lodio’s head.

  Lodio didn’t dodge.

  Not like he needed to.

  The club shattered against the orbiting petals. Wood splinters exploding outward, piercing the attacker’s face.

  “A-ahh!” He had one eye closed, blood trickling. “B-bastard!”

  Then he punched Lodio in the face. Not really. They made contact with the petals. And a scream erupted from the man’s throat.

  His hand came apart. The razor-sharp petals sawed through flesh, bone, and everything. Blood sprayed like morning mist. Fingers hit the snow, still twitching. The man stumbled back, staring at the fingers, still screaming.

  The other two stopped in their tracks.

  “What the hell—“

  “I-it’s the air! Look! Like heat!”

  One of them pointed with a shaking finger. “You are right! Around his body—it’s heat—“

  Lodio let them stare. Let them stare at the haze surrounding him. Let them wonder. They couldn’t see the petals. He knew this. All they could see was the man thrashing on the ground, clutching stumpy fingers.

  Deep inside him, something bubbled, stirred, and begged to come out.

  Living.

  Breathing.

  Alive.

  The men hesitated.

  Then, heavy footsteps.

  The men parted.

  A bald man walked through—the same man who opened the door. He wore no shirt under his open coat, revealing scars, cuts, and burns.

  He looked at Lodio. Looked at the orbiting petals. Looked at the screaming man on the ground.

  “You’re using Anima.” A statement.

  Lodio said nothing.

  All he did was grin ferally.

  The bald man smiled. “And pink petals?” He paused. “How quaint.” He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck side-to-side. “How did your own Anima taste?”

  He flared.

  His Anima was white: dull as white paint. It coated his body. No shaping, no altering, no Intent beyond the basics.

  The bald man stepped forward, snow crushing under his boots. “Never learned the fancy—“

  “Don’t monologue,” Lodio’s voice cut him off. “Not when you’re not strong enough to take me on.”

  Thwack!

  His fist connected with the bald man’s jaw; petals came with it. They tore through flesh. The bald man’s cheek opened in different directions, deep enough to show teeth. He stumbled back, clutching his face.

  “You—“

  In an instant, Lodio punched the air, sending dozens of petals. They shredded the bald man’s coat, his skin, and the Anima coating. He skidded backward. His chest bled from a thousand shallow cuts.

  That something in him went away.

  Waste of time.

  Lodio panted, his breath condensing into the air.

  The other men stared.

  “Hah.” The bald man breathed. “A few months ago… there was an invention, something powerful.” On his face, a knowing grin curled. “You’re the first one to make use of it.”

  Inside his coat, he reached for that something.

  Lodio’s gaze dragged over the man’s movement before faltering.

  Gun.

  Not just any gun. Not like those flintlocks. Not like those matchlocks. Not like those hand cannons.

  This was different.

  Black.

  That was Lodio’s first thought. Black. It wasn’t iron-colored nor green rust. True black: blacker than a moonless night, smooth like a baby’s skin.

  The shape was wrong but familiar.

  At the front, the barrel was too long. Not a tube, but something more circular. There was a notch at the front and back like a crossbow sight, but it was shrunk down.

  But the strangest part?

  Behind the barrel was a six-chambered wheel. It was made of that same black steel. Each chamber was a half-circle—a full circle, Lodio presumed.

  The bald man’s thumb pulled a small lever near the cylinder.

  The cylinder swung out, revealing the empty holes. From his coat, he pulled out six bullets and slid them into the chamber.

  Click, click, click.

  He flicked his wrist.

  Click!

  The bald man raised the weapon and aimed it at Lodio.

  “Ever seen one of these?” He grinned. “They called it a revolver. Six shots. Faster than any bow. Stronger than any crossbow.” He paused. “Made by a man named Colver Revoton. One shot is all it takes.” A laugh bubbled from his throat.

  Lodio stared down at the barrel. The hole was deep and dark. A cold sweat traced down his temple.

  The bald man’s finger found its trigger.

  “Let see how your petals handle this.”