Chương 115: Chapter 108: The Echoes of Borrowed Shadows

The sprawling, floating metropolis of Atlas gleamed like a polished diamond beneath the midday sun. Unlike the dark, soot-choked, freezing slums of Mantle below, the upper kingdom was a breathtaking utopia of pristine white skyscrapers, sprawling transit bridges, and meticulously maintained avenues.

Walking down the center of the high-end commercial district, amidst the wealthy citizens wrapped in luxurious furs and the occasional hovering military patrol drone, were two figures who fundamentally did not belong in the light. Emerald Sustrai and Mercury Black moved with practiced, predatory casualness. They had discarded their pevious gear for attire better suited to the biting Solitas climate.

Emerald wore an olive-green winter jacket over her brown combat top, her utility straps secured tightly against the wind, while Mercury sported a heavy gray coat, his metallic legs clanking softly, almost imperceptibly, against the frosted pavement. Despite the serene, glittering beauty of the city around them, the atmosphere between the two assassins was suffocatingly tense.

"I still can't wrap my head around it," Emerald murmured, her dark eyes darting nervously toward a passing Atlesian transport ship. She pulled her collar up, her breath pluming in the freezing air.

"Back in Haven... the way those kids fought. It wasn't just that they were faster. It was like their bodies were made of solid steel." Mercury shoved his hands deep into his pockets, letting out a harsh, bitter scoff.

"You're telling me. I hit the blonde brawler with a spinning heel kick that should have shattered her ribs, and it felt like I was kicking a reinforced bunker. They didn't fight like that during the Vytal Festival. Not even close."

"It has to be him," Emerald whispered, a cold, phantom shiver running down her spine that had absolutely nothing to do with the Atlesian weather.

"That...

'Hero of Vale'. If that invincible bald freak has been using those students as his personal sparring partners for months, it makes sense why they're suddenly moving like they're on fast-forward." Mercury rolled his gray eyes, entirely uninterested in dwelling on the power scaling of their enemies.

"Whatever. They got lucky at Haven. But out here? The board is completely different." Mercury gestured lazily toward a massive, holographic billboard projecting the smiling, arrogant face of Jacques Schnee, who was currently advertising his run for the vacant Council seat.

"Watts is playing his little slow, boring political games," Mercury complained, his voice dripping with pure, unadulterated apathy.

"Hacking heating grids, manipulating elections, watching the elites turn against Ironwood. I hate politics, Em. I don't care who sits on what council, or who freezes to death in the slums down below. I just want this stupid mission to be over so we can get off this frozen rock." Emerald slowed her pace slightly, her gaze dropping to the pristine snow accumulating by the curb. The cynical exhaustion in Mercury's voice mirrored her own, but her anxiety was rooted far deeper than mere boredom.

"It's Cinder, Merc," Emerald confessed, her voice dropping into a strained, emotionally fraught whisper. Mercury paused, turning his head to look at her with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm worried about her," Emerald continued, her hands wringing together inside her pockets.

"Ever since she encountered that anomaly at Beacon... ever since her Aura was completely bypassed and shattered by a single punch... she hasn't been the same. She's traumatized, Mercury. And now that she possesses the powers of two Maidens? The magic is eating her alive." Emerald looked up, her dark eyes filled with a desperate, terrifying realization.

"I look at her now, and I see her differently. She's losing herself. The elegance, the control... it's all being swallowed by this blind, frantic obsession to become powerful enough to kill him. The Grimm arm is literally growing, and she doesn't even care!" Mercury stared at her for a long, quiet moment. He let out a dull, unbothered sigh, his breath misting between them.

"She's exactly the same as she's always been, Em," Mercury shrugged, entirely devoid of empathy.

"She's always been power-hungry. She's always wanted to be the biggest, baddest thing in the room. The only difference now is that she actually has the firepower to back it up. Stop overthinking it."

"You don't understand..." Emerald sighed deeply, her heart sinking as she realized Mercury would never see the cracks forming in their leader's sanity. Distracted by her overwhelming emotional burden, Emerald failed to watch her step as they turned the corner of a high-end bakery. Thump.

"Oh!" Emerald gasped as she walked squarely into a solid, unyielding chest. The impact wasn't forceful, but it completely broke her balance. The man she bumped into had been standing stationary in front of the bakery's glass window. The collision caused a large, brown paper grocery bag in the man's arms to slip, spilling a half-dozen glossy red apples and a carton of milk onto the frosted cobblestones.

"Watch where you're--oh. Sorry," Emerald hastily corrected herself, her Huntsman training immediately masking her irritation with a polite, civilian facade.

"It's alright," a completely flat, mundane, nasal voice replied. Emerald glanced up. The man was dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit and a heavy, pristine white trench coat. Resting squarely on his head was a stylish black bowler hat with a crimson band. However, despite the sharp, mafia-esque aesthetic of his clothing, his face was a perfectly blank, unblinking oval of profound, soul-crushing boredom. The man didn't look angry.

He just crouched down with a soft, lethargic sigh, using his bright red-gloved hands to casually gather the rolling apples from the snow.

"Let me help you," Emerald offered automatically, picking up the carton of milk and handing it to him.

"Thanks," the man mumbled, shoving the milk back into his paper bag and standing up. He didn't spare her a second glance, immediately returning his blank gaze to the interior of the bakery window. Emerald and Mercury exchanged a brief, dismissive look before continuing their walk down the avenue. However, as they put some distance between themselves and the strange man, a nagging, highly uncomfortable sensation began to itch at the back of Emerald's mind. She furrowed her brow, glancing over her shoulder.

"Did... did he look familiar to you?" Mercury shoved his hands back into his pockets, kicking a chunk of ice off the sidewalk. He pondered the question for a moment, his gray eyes narrowing.

"The face? No. Guy looked like an egg," Mercury scoffed.

"But the outfit... the white coat and the bowler hat? Reminds me of Torchwick." Emerald stopped walking. Her eyes widened slightly as the realization clicked into place. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

"You're right. Roman Torchwick. It's almost an exact replica of his style." The memory of the flamboyant, cynical master thief brought a heavy, melancholic silence between the two assassins. They had worked closely with Roman and his diminutive, mute partner for months until the Battle of Beacon.

"I wonder about Neopolitan," Emerald murmured softly, looking down at her boots.

"We never found out if she survived the Breach. I heard Roman was eaten alive by a Griffon right in front of her. If she did survive... I honestly pity her. To lose the only person who cared about her in the middle of the apocalypse... she must be completely broken." Mercury rolled his eyes, utterly immune to sentimentality.

"Whatever happens to the little psycho is her own fault. They knew the risks when they signed up with Cinder. Torchwick got cocky, and he got eaten. End of story." Emerald glared at her partner, a spark of genuine anger flashing in her dark eyes.

"Show a little respect, Merc. Roman helped us secure the Dust we needed for the Breach. He was a criminal, but he was reliable. The least you can do is not spit on his grave." Mercury let out a long, dramatic sigh, raising his hands in mock surrender.

"Fine, fine. Rest in peace, Roman. Happy now?" Emerald simply shook her head, continuing their patrol of the city.

Back in front of the bakery, Saitama was currently engaged in a high-stakes battle of patience. He stood with his shoulders slumped, clutching his re-packed grocery bag against his chest. He tapped his red rubber boot rhythmically against the snow-dusted pavement, his dotted eyes staring through the glass window of the shop. The door jingled merrily. Neopolitan, in her black winter coat and warm white scarf, strutted out of the bakery.

She carried a sleek, high-end shopping bag filled with Atlesian souvenirs, and in her hands, she held two warm, freshly baked sweet breads.

"Finally," Saitama groaned, his voice dripping with dramatic exhaustion.

"What took you so long? You're spending Lien like it grows on trees! We're living in a luxury penthouse for free, stop pushing your luck!" Neo simply smiled, an elegant, wildly unapologetic smirk that radiated pure smugness. She gracefully shrugged her shoulders, completely ignoring his financial lecture. With a soft, fluid motion, she extended one of the sweet breads toward him. Saitama blinked. His scowl instantly vanished, replaced by a mild, satisfied expression.

"Oh. Thanks," Saitama said, eagerly accepting the warm pastry. They began to stroll side-by-side through the glittering commercial district, casually eating their breads. The towering white skyscrapers and floating holographic advertisements of Atlas passed them by, but Saitama was far more interested in the flaky, buttery texture of his snack. Suddenly, Neo stopped walking. She turned to face him, pulling out her Scroll with a sharp, demanding motion.

She typed rapidly and shoved the glowing screen directly into his line of sight. [The cake. Now.] Saitama stopped chewing. He stared at the screen, a prominent, throbbing vein appearing on his temple just beneath the brim of his bowler hat.

"You're still bringing?" Saitama complained, waving his half-eaten bread at her.

"We literally just walked out of a bakery! Besides, do you know how expensive premium cakes are in this city?!" Neo didn't flinch. She simply crossed her arms, tapped her boot impatiently against the cobblestones, and gave him a look that clearly communicated: A promise is a promise, meat-shield. Saitama let out a massive, soul-crushing sigh.

"Yeah, yeah. But we're splitting it. I'm not paying for a whole just for you." He turned to continue walking, but abruptly froze. Saitama didn't take a combat stance, but his dotted eyes narrowed into sharp, intense lines. He slowly turned his head, looking over his shoulder toward the corner of a nearby, high-end Dust boutique.

"How long are you going to keep doing that, by the way?" Saitama asked, his voice entirely flat and devoid of any tension. For a moment, the snowy street was silent. Then, stepping out from the shadows of the boutique's alcove with perfect, rigid, robotic precision, a young woman revealed herself. She had dark skin, dark blue hair cut into a sharp, immaculate bob, and wore a pristine white-and-blue Atlas Academy uniform, complete with a blue beret.

Her most distinguishing feature was the large, ticking pocket watch strapped securely to her wrist, and the cold, unblinking, matter-of-fact intensity in her eyes. She marched directly toward Saitama and Neo, stopping exactly three feet away, and executed a flawless, crisp military salute.

"I am thoroughly impressed by your inhuman sensory capabilities, sir," the young woman stated. Her voice was a near-monotone, delivered with the rapid, clinical precision of an automated machine.

"I maintained a precise, calculated operational distance of exactly forty-two meters to avoid detection. Your spatial awareness exceeds standard Atlesian military parameters." Saitama stared at her. His flat expression did not change.

"I am Ciel Soleil," she introduced herself, lowering her salute.

"I have been explicitly ordered by General James Ironwood to serve as your designated escort and tactical liaison during your localized civilian excursions." Saitama let out a long, heavy, exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Let me guess," Saitama droned miserably.

"You're an academy student."

"Correct," Ciel nodded sharply, her face betraying zero emotion.

"I am a Third-Year student of Atlas Academy. I have been fully briefed on your existence and operational capabilities by General Ironwood, and conversations from Team FNKI. You are considered an unparalleled, reality-breaking asset to the Kingdom of Atlas and Remnant as a whole, despite your heavily documented, highly consistent buffoonery nature."

"Buffoonery?!" Saitama shrieked indignantly, his left eye twitched violently. His face twisting into a comical scowl. Beside him, Neo covered her mouth with her gloved hand, her shoulders shaking with silent, absolutely hysterical laughter at the deadpan insult delivered with such polite military accuracy.

"We are currently operating three minutes behind optimal patrol schedule," Ciel stated blankly, checking her watch with a sharp flick of her wrist." Shall we proceed?" Saitama rubbed his face in pure defeat.

"Instead of acting like a creepy stalker hiding behind buildings, just come along. But I'm warning you, I walk slow when I'm looking for discounts."

"Yes, sir," Ciel replied instantly, falling into perfect, synchronized step beside them. The trio continued their walk down the avenue. Saitama chewed the last bite of his bread, his shoulders slumped in familiar resignation.

"You know, this is exactly like my time in Vale," Saitama grumbled, side-eyeing the rigid Atlesian student.

"Every time I tried to go to the supermarket to buy tofu, that crop-lady would send four terrified kids to hover around me like I was a ticking time bomb."

"The protocol is a logical necessity, sir," Ciel explained without missing a beat, her eyes scanning the crowds ahead with mechanical vigilance.

"You are an anomalous entity capable of generating catastrophic, kingdom-level kinetic events simply by tripping over municipal infrastructure. Escorting you minimizes the risk of accidental apocalyptic devastation and ensures your public profile remains untracked by hostile agents." Saitama stopped chewing. He stared at the girl, his dotted eyes wide with mild bewilderment.

"For a human, you talk a lot like a robot," Saitama commented bluntly.

"I am a product of General Ironwood's rigorous, unyielding disciplinary training," Ciel answered, her tone carrying a faint, undeniable trace of pride.

"Logic, order, and precise execution are the cornerstones of Atlas." Saitama's face suddenly drained of color. A look of profound, comical dread washed over his features as a terrifying realization clicked in his brain. He looked at the unblinking, hyper-disciplined Ciel, and then pictured the rigid, terrifying authority of Glynda Goodwitch and the paranoid, militaristic strictness of James Ironwood.

"Oh man..." Saitama shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself as if suddenly chilled.

"To think about it... the robot-arm guy and the lady with the crop aren't so different after all. They're both obsessed with rules, they yell a lot, and they treat everyone like toddlers. They would actually make a great pair of incredibly scary, overbearing parents."

"Your hypothetical familial comparisons aside, sir," Ciel interjected, pulling a sleek data-pad from her uniform jacket.

"General Ironwood has provided me with the complete, highly classified dossier regarding your recorded feats on Remnant. It is imperative that I understand the exact parameters of your capabilities to effectively manage your escort." Ciel didn't wait for permission. She began rattling off data with the rapid-fire, soulless efficiency of a supercomputer.

"Incident one: Vale CCT Tower. Complete vaporization of a Wyvern-class Grimm and subsequent atmospheric displacement resulting in the annihilation of a secondary airborne horde. Calculated kinetic output: Unquantifiable." Saitama groaned, rolling his eyes to the sky.

"Incident two: Emerald Forest," Ciel continued, her eyes never leaving the screen.

"Annihilation of multiple Elder-tier Grimm without active Aura utilization, while simultaneously dragging a standard industrial refuse bin."

"Please stop," Saitama whined.

"Incident three: Mistral Underground," She continued again.

"The systematic dismantling of three heavily armed criminal syndicates in under ten seconds." Saitama sighed.

"You're giving me a headache."

"Incident four: The Argus Coastline," Ciel stated, finally looking up from the pad, a faint glimmer of profound, analytical awe breaking through her robotic facade.

"The total, sub-atomic pulverization of a Leviathan-class Grimm and an entire Manticore swarm in a fraction of a millisecond, executed beneath the visual cover of a hard-light illusion." Ciel snapped the pad shut, placing her hands behind her back.

"Your physical density and reaction times violate the fundamental laws of thermodynamics, gravity, and Dust-catalysis. You are a living impossibility." Saitama trudged forward, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his white trench coat. His face was a mask of supreme, deadpan exhaustion as he endured the relentless, rapid-fire exposition. He looked to his left, where Neo was happily browsing window displays, and then to his right, where Ciel was marching with stiff, unblinking military precision.

"Damn..." Saitama mumbled to himself, a heavy, incredibly tired sigh escaping his lips.

"This is just like walking with Genos."