Akano Souha’s kid sister, Akano Souu, is only sixteen.

She was forced by her family into the combat special zone—under Japan’s proxy war rules, until the verdict drops, every fighter is caged inside that boundary like birds sealed in a glass aviary.

“So, coming back here—are you saving your sister and mother, or settling scores with the family?”

“Both.”

“Got it—I’ll back you up.”

A pity to toss a rare honeymoon into the fire, like rice wine poured into the sand.

But running for a friend doesn’t need complaints; quick in, quick out, like striking flint in a storm. Yekase watched the crew flick lifeboats onto the sea at the emergency exit, passengers lining up like gulls on a rail, and finally let out a breath.

A moment later, Ivaris swept in on the wind and brought good news.

“A few light to moderate injuries. No deaths.”

The plane mess could pass if the passengers kept quiet, like smoke tucked under a rug. But the three were already inside some camera’s glass eye. To keep playing weak, Yekase didn’t use flight. She let Crimson Field carry her like a lantern held high.

Ivaris took her girlfriend from the phoenix’s arms and cradled her aside. After hearing the story about Crimson Field’s sister, she frowned like a cloud snagging on a mountain ridge. “Then what about our trip? Delay it?”

“Her targets split in two—find the girl in the zone, and settle the family tab. How about this: the zone only needs us to locate the kid, so we go in together, treat it like a spring hike through ruins—this full, intact city carcass is a sight you can’t buy elsewhere. The family part’s messy. Let her handle that alone.”

Ivaris weighed it, like testing silk with her fingertips. A stroll is a stroll; if Yekase doesn’t tire, she doesn’t mind. She agreed, reluctantly but soft as dew. “…Mm, fine.”

They told Crimson Field.

Her face, now scrubbed of every trace of its old self, pinched into a knot, like paper creased by restless fingers.

She still couldn’t let go of a sister gone for years; she wanted to see safety with her own eyes, like checking a lock twice in a storm. But the Doctor was someone she could trust—handing it over meant no shadows left.

“…I’ll leave it to you two.”

Resolve settled in like a stone in a bowl. She pulled a slip of paper from the pocket of her red dress and passed it to Yekase.

“Anyone ranked above ordinary fighters must carry an ID card. This is the Crimson Field crest. If you see a girl wearing this emblem, that’s Souu.”

On the paper, two triangles met tip to tip, an hourglass sharp enough to cut a finger.

Crimson Field bowed in the air, deep and earnest despite the awkward angle, like a willow bending to the river. Then she turned. Flame stitched her wings brighter. With the greatsword gripped, she surged inland like a comet over water.

…

“You went through Alice’s lie. Don’t you fear this is a plot too?”

Watching Crimson Field’s back shrink against the sky like a brushstroke in gray ink, Ivaris asked with a voice like winter sunlight—clear, but cold.

“She’s my friend. She won’t lie to me.”

“She’s no longer the Akano Souha from six months ago. You don’t know what carved her in that time. If she lied, or only offered half the truth?”

“Then I’ll find the reason that forced her to lie, like following a thread into a hidden room.”

…Forced to, huh.

Ivaris already knew Yekase would answer like that; she asked while knowing, like tossing a pebble into a still pond to watch the ripples. Hovering along the horizon gives you process and outcomes, like reading a map from the sky; it doesn’t give you the heartbeat beneath. The dome above all things records no human feelings, like frost ignoring footprints. But she still knew—because she was Ivaris, and that name was a vow—she understood Yekase better than anyone.

“Then let’s enter, Lady Arco.”

“Mm.”

Yekase took out a straw hat and crowned her head like a ring of wheat.

“Relax—let’s burn this city to ash.”

…

By the time she remembered their luggage still sleeping in the plane’s bones, the tide had already pulled it away.

Welp, shipped to oblivion. Whatever.

Ivaris lifted Yekase in a princess carry, arms a cradle, and flew toward Old Tokyo Port like a silver ribbon over blue glass. The “lady” felt her cheeks sting with embarrassment, like heat under a veil; she wanted to refuse but found no anchor, so she nestled in like a cat finding sun. A moment later, comfort bloomed like warm tea; she looped her arms around Ivaris’s neck.

Their eyes met by accident, a spark in dry grass. Yekase jolted and slid her gaze away, like a bird darting from a branch.

Her arms stayed where they were.

Ivaris said nothing, calm as a stone in clear water.

“Master and servant,” both with bright silver hair catching the light like fish scales. When they were still a hundred meters up, a drone drifted close like a curious dragonfly, grabbing close shots of the two uninvited guests.

It spoke in a peppy anime-girl voice, bright as bells. [Gentle reminder, gentle reminder. Ahead lies the Old Tokyo Special Zone—Port District. This district is the representative battlefield for “Crimson Field Group” and “Dewa Planetary Technology,” from August 7th to August 15th. If you entered by accident, you may find the nearest drone—me!—within five minutes and request evacuation. If you exceed the time, it will be treated as intruding participation. Thank you for your understanding. Have a lovely day!]

On the drone’s tiny screen, [5:00] flashed, then slipped to [4:59], like sand in an hourglass.

“What happens if we intrude and join?” Yekase asked, voice casual as a breeze, eyes fixed like a cat’s.

[Intruding participants are rare neutral units. You’ll get a special neutral ID. Both sides earn extra rewards for defeating you!]

“So if Souu was forced to fight, then after we swat incoming enemies, she’ll be the only one left. If she’s chasing victory, she’ll come find us.” Ivaris nodded, like a blade testing its edge.

“Perfect terms. Thank the organizers for us.”

They landed light on the port’s steel deck, soles kissing iron like rain tapping roofs.

The sea wind blew through, salty and damp, carrying a rare slice of summer cool, like shade under bamboo.

If the exogenous incursion was a meteor, then Arcadia was the first impact, and the year-long war in 2012 the second. Cities and people were shoveled into black history like fossils under ash, until last year pulled some bones back into daylight.

This once-splendid port had been abandoned cleanly, like a banquet hall after a flood. Rust veined the plates of steel, reddish as dried blood. Containers and cranes stood like sleeping giants wrapped in dust. Open-air meant little real grime, but time had pooled in corners—desolation rose from everywhere, wrapping the two of them like mist.

Yekase remembered her mother saying: you can tell if a house has people. Even without light or sound, a lived building breathes a warmth—renqi—like steam rising from rice. Fighters rushing through don’t count; their heat is only sparks in a storm.

This was Old Tokyo Port… once ranked No. 13 in the world.

A lucky number, crooked as a smile.

“No need to wait five minutes. Issue our IDs now—and in exchange, I want a temporary permission.”

Yekase pressed her palm to the drone’s top, stopping it like pinning a moth. She leaned in until her face covered the screen, eye to lens, mirror to eye.

[Please hold. Transferring you to a human operator.]

[—Temporary permission? Sounds fun. What is it?]

Ah, someone else took the line. Yekase wanted to chat about the zone, like skimming stones across water, but more words mean more cracks. She swallowed the impulse and kept it clean.

“I want one full-area broadcast.”

…One minute later, every fighter in Old Tokyo Port heard a voice roll out of the drones like thunder through metal canyons.

[Good afternoon, uncles and aunties of the battlefield—☆]

“?” “Who?” Voices flicked up like sparrows.

Drones rarely say anything beyond critical updates. The two sides were fighting for organizational interests, not blood feuds. Blades paused in midair like sunlight caught in glass. Heads tilted up.

[Here’s breaking news: this lady has arrived!]

[I heard Japan’s turf wars are super proper. On site? Eh—so-so. A ruin this big, I bet there isn’t even a clean bath. Eh—do you not shower till it’s over? Stinky, stinky, lol.]

[Just now, a drone told me if I don’t leave in five minutes, I’ll become some neutral unit. Silly thing. I haven’t finished sightseeing. I’m not leaving, lol.]

[That’s all—bye! I’m in the Port District. Come play with me!]

…

The drone spat out a card and skimmed away like a leaf caught by wind.

It was a tarot card—the Tower, standing against lightning and black cloud like a spear of stone. The top read [16].

XVI—The Tower.

Yekase sweet-talked the GM behind the drone, painting herself as a European noble lady, while Ivaris was her handmaid—private property without human rights, like a vase that didn’t count as a person. She hinted at power and money the way storm clouds hint at rain. She spooked the office worker just enough to treat them as one unit and issue only one ID.

She clipped the chip card between her fingers like a trump monster and watched the drone drift away, a moth vanishing into sky.

“A maid without human rights, huh.”

Ivaris’s amused voice brushed her back like silk.

“…You aren’t taking that seriously, right?”

“That depends on how you make it up to me.”

Yekase rolled her eyes, slow as a tide. How to make it up? Get pinned, get teased, get her energy siphoned—either way, comfort flows back to her like warm rain. Whatever.

“Should we secure the stage first… do we need to?”

“No.” Ivaris didn’t pause. She pulled a yellow beanbag from her transport box, sunrise in her hands, and gestured with a bow smooth as water.

“My lady, lounge here and watch me perform.”

“Oh.”

Not bad—no wonder she was the late-game tactics core of the Twenty Second Squad. The words alone had gravity, like a bell before war. Yekase gathered her skirt and sank into the beanbag, swallowed by softness like dough into honey, hands resting on her belly like two doves.

“Hahaha, you’re actually here?”

They looked up. On the factory roof, a figure in powered armor rose like a statue against sky.

Here comes a new challenger!

“Little girl, a combat zone isn’t clean—let me teach you how it works!”

“Pay your tuition with your life!”

Classic villain lines, so old they felt like carved wood. It was almost a joke.

Simple is good. Fists speak clearer than riddles.

Yekase lay still, a stone on a riverbed, and watched. Ivaris lifted the heavy hem of her maid dress like a curtain rising on stage. Eleven nano-BITs slid out from beneath like fireflies escaping dusk. They formed a slow-turning ring behind her, red light blooming like a holy firewheel.

She stood quiet in front of Yekase, leaving a back that never changed, calm as a cliff.

The sea wind tugged her long hair, yet seemed to carry away all sound. Waves, steel, armor, white gulls—the world fell into an unnatural hush, waiting like grass before lightning.

What were they waiting for?

Yekase remembered ten years ago on the battlefield—before each action, Ivaris would say the same line, a sortie cue that snapped every Magical Girl to attention like a drumbeat. Sitting in the ready room watching the live feed back then, Yekase thought she was just posing, because saying that line meant breaking a promise each time, like cracking ice to cross a river.

The line went like this—

“—All right. Let’s head for the final battlefield.”