Nao and Chiaki are sitting on the restaurant roof, shoulder to shoulder, not looking at each other.
Chiaki takes a drag from his cigarette.
Nao, glancing at him from the corner of his eye:
— Smoking is going to kill you.
Chiaki exhales smoke through his nose.
— I’m hard to kill.
Nao snorts softly.
But it doesn’t last long.
The silence returns.
Chiaki doesn’t look at him, but his voice drops half a tone.
— Today also marks two years.
— You’re taking it worse than you let on.
Today you weren’t as loud as usual.
— But you’re not the only one.
Nao presses his fingers a little harder against his knees.
Chiaki continues as he takes another drag:
— Yesterday I heard Tadaaki and Kimi.
They were… praying for her.
Nao blinks.
He didn’t know.
— And this morning I went to her grave.
He looks at the ember of the cigarette.
— There were flowers.
— Hidetaka.
Nao’s eyes shine.
He looks at the sky, but this time not to think.
Chiaki, gentle but firm:
— I also look at the sky a lot.
Nao looks at him, surprised.
— Sometimes I think my wife and my son are up there.
Watching to see if I’ve finally stopped doing stupid things.
— That’s why I walked away from my old life.
His voice doesn’t tremble.
But it carries weight.
Nao swallows.
His eyes grow wet.
Nao, small voice:
— Do you think… Giichi would be proud of me?
Chiaki doesn’t answer right away.
He puts out the cigarette against the sole of his boot.
Leans forward slightly.
— Look ahead.
Nao lowers his gaze.
He sees the town.
The lights.
The people.
The restaurant.
The life that didn’t exist before.
Chiaki smiles:
— Nokoribi-mura is a home now.
— You helped make it one.
He turns slightly toward him.
— Don’t you think she’d be proud?
Nao lowers his head.
A tear falls.
Chiaki bumps him lightly with his shoulder.
— Those who leave don’t need us to cry forever.
They need us to live long enough for their death to mean something.
The wind passes between them.
This time it doesn’t feel cold.
Nao takes a deep breath.
He wipes his face with his sleeve.
— Then… I’ll keep bothering you for many more years.
Chiaki snorts.
— What a tragedy.
But he’s smiling.
Nao speaks without looking at Chiaki.
— Hey…
Was Fangdrift ever a normal continent?
Chiaki takes a moment to respond.
Not because he doesn’t know.
But because he’s deciding how much to say.
— Yes.
— Before the Continent 3 Revolution.
Thirty years ago.
The cigarette is already out, but he keeps holding it.
— Though… the hatred toward Fangdrift comes from much earlier.
Nao turns his head slightly.
Interested.
Chiaki:
— A hundred years ago there was a mage.
Not a strong one.
One who broke the rules.
— He did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, however he wanted.
He traveled across all the continents.
Kings, armies, magical orders… no one could stop him.
It was the first time the continental government felt real fear.
Nao listens without blinking.
— So they united.
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They fought him.
And they defeated him.
The wind blows again.
— Before dying, he said he would return.
That his soul would always live.
Since then…
the governors of the world hate the place where he was born.
Nao whispers, understanding before it’s said.
— Fangdrift…
Chiaki nods.
— That’s why, when Fangdrift supported the Revolution of 3…
they decided to erase it.
Not destroy it.
That would have been mercy.
They turned it into a prison continent.
Filled with criminals, internal wars, and abandonment.
They killed any chance of a normal life.
Silence.
Nao clenches his teeth.
— It’s unfair…
He looks at the dark horizon.
— I’d like to travel the whole world.
See different cities. Different cultures.
Pause.
His eyes shine a little.
— And above all… different food.
His stomach growls.
— Now I’m hungry.
Chiaki looks at him.
Long.
Then lets out a low laugh.
Real.
— You’re hopeless.
Nao smiles.
The weight of the world… lightened for a second.
Far from Nokoribi-mura.
Far from rusted metal and warm lights.
Somewhere else in Fangdrift…
dawn breaks differently.
A mansion rises on a fog-covered hill.
Heavy architecture, dark stone, domes and tall windows.
Ancient, imperial style.
As if the building didn’t belong to the present… but to a past that refuses to die.
Black flags hang motionless.
The air here doesn’t smell of metal.
It smells like silence.
Interior
A wide, elegant room.
Walls covered in dark wood.
A large antique mirror in front of a man who has just stepped out of the shower.
Water droplets trace down his marked skin.
Narrator:
Uta still looks like a 2.00 m monster, just as massive as two years ago.
His dark green hair is more carefully kept than ever, combed back.
The braid, now thin, long, and perfectly ordered, falls down his back like a personal signature.
Tattoos run across his chest, visible as he dresses.
He doesn’t hide them.
He doesn’t need to.
He puts on a black suit, precisely fitted.
Deep green shirt, open collar.
Thin gold chains rest against his chest.
His expression is calm.
Not cold — serene.
A soft knock on the door.
Man outside:
— Lord Uta.
The entire organization is already present… for the burial.
Uta looks at himself in the mirror.
Adjusts the collar.
Nods.
He says nothing.
But in his eyes, something is clear:
Today is not a day of mourning.
It is a day of decisions.
The door opens.
The hallway light enters like a line cutting through the room.
Uta walks toward it.
And the sun finishes rising.
The people leave.
Black cars depart the gravel road one after another.
The sound of footsteps fades.
The burial is over.
Only the wind remains, moving the flower wreaths.
Before the newly placed gravestone, Uta stands still.
Mikhail Dragunov
The name weighs more than the stone.
A man in a dark cassock stands beside him.
— The entire Krov organization is now yours.
You have my condolences.
Uta extends his hand.
A firm handshake. No visible emotion.
— Thank you, Father.
The priest leaves.
Silence returns.
Uta looks at the grave.
His fists slowly clench.
There are no tears.
There is contained pressure.
Something touches his shoulder.
Light.
Almost friendly.
Narrator:
Kuro Tsarovich.
Tall, sharp presence. 1.87 m
Pitch-black hair, shaved sides, the top combed back with almost surgical precision.
Marked face, firm cheekbones, perfect smile…
Metallic gray eyes.
Black shirt open at the chest, fitted vest with red stitching.
Criminal tattoos peek from his neck and skin.
Worn military boots.
He doesn’t look like a bodyguard.
He looks like a problem.
He smiles.
— So now… what do we do, boss?
Another voice cuts the air like a thin blade.
Female voice:
— Shut up. This isn’t the moment.
Narrator:
Shizuka Kuklova, 30 years old.
Braided silver hair, secured with a metal ring engraved.
Blue eyes that don’t look — they evaluate.
Elegant black coat, white shirt, dark skirt, sturdy boots.
Measured movement, impeccable posture.
Height: 1.72 m
She takes position on Uta’s other side.
Narrator:
The right hand and the left hand of Uta Dragunov.
The wind passes between the three.
A new power structure, formed in front of a grave.
Uta doesn’t turn.
He doesn’t look at either of them.
But his voice changes.
Deeper.
— First…
— Order.
His eyes drop to the gravestone.
— Then… Fangdrift.
Kuro’s smile widens.
Shizuka closes her eyes for a second.
Acceptance.
The dawn finishes illuminating the cemetery.
The mansion is silent.
Too big.
Too empty.
Uta’s footsteps echo through the long corridors, lined with dark carpets and old paintings of men who no longer exist.
Closed doors.
Soft echoes.
A home that was never a home.
Uta enters his room.
Closes the door without looking back.
He removes his suit jacket.
Lets it fall onto a chair.
He drops onto the bed on his back.
Stares at the ceiling.
White.
Immaculate.
Cold.
Narrator:
Mikhail Dragunov ruled with a closed fist.
Chaotic. Cold. Relentless.
An enforcer.
A man who believed fear was the purest form of order.
Uta interlaces his fingers over his chest.
Stares into nothing.
I am not him.
Silence.
The ceiling doesn’t answer.
The organization is an empire of blood.
If I soften it… they’ll see me as weak.
If I follow his path… I’ll stop being myself.
He clenches his jaw.
The tattoos on his chest rise and fall with his restrained breathing.
— Tch…
He rolls onto his side.
Covers his face with one arm.
— …I’m hungry.
The moment breaks.
He sits up with a long sigh.
Runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back.
Narrator:
Leader of Krov’ Imperiya.
Owner of a criminal empire.
And the only clear thing in his mind…
is that he needs to eat.
He stands.
Walks barefoot down the hallway.
The mansion is still silent.
But now it doesn’t feel so heavy.
Just… large.
Uta goes down the stairs toward the residence’s private cafeteria.
Warm lights turn on as they detect movement.
For an instant, he looks like just another boy.
Not an heir of fear.
Just someone trying to understand who he wants to be… before the world forces him to decide.
The mansion’s “cafeteria” is, in reality, a huge kitchen.
Long wooden tables.
Hanging utensils.
Pots still warm from the staff’s breakfast.
A place too alive for such a cold house.
Uta sits at one of the tables with a cup between his hands.
Steam rises slowly.
His gaze is lost in the dark liquid.
A soft voice breaks the silence.
Voice:
— Uta-san…
Something in his expression loosens instantly.
Narrator:
Ryōna Dragunov. 16 years old.
Copper-red hair in two uneven braids already starting to come loose.
Flushed cheeks, a small smudge of flour on her face she didn’t even notice.
Honey-green eyes, huge, impossible to hide what they feel.
Simple dress, oversized apron full of utensils.
Old boots. Thick stockings.
She doesn’t look like part of a criminal organization.
Height: 1.63 m
She looks like… someone who got lost and decided to cook.
She approaches with short steps.
— What are you going to do now, Uta-san?
Before he can answer—
Another voice, youthful and tired:
— Man, 32 years old already… isn’t it time you did some work?
CLONK
A spoon hits his head instantly.
Narrator:
Hayate Volkov, 16.
Tall, 1.78 m, lanky, eternal dark circles.
Oversized inherited military jacket.
Dirty scarf like an emotional shield.
Face that says “I didn’t ask to be here.”
Gray eyes always looking for exits.
Ryōna looks at him reproachfully.
— Respect.
Uta looks at both of them.
Silence.
And then—
He jumps up.
Grabs them both.
— Little siblings.
Hayate, voice crushed:
— HELP—! HE’S CHOKING ME—!
Ryōna laughs, trapped in the hug.
Flour stains Uta’s jacket.
For a moment…
the leader of Krov’ Imperiya doesn’t exist.
Just a boy who lost his father…
and found something that wasn’t in any plan.
Uta lets them go.
Sits back down.
Looks at his cup.
Then at them.
— Let’s make breakfast.
And for the first time since the funeral… he doesn’t look like someone who inherited an empire.
He looks like someone who wants to protect something small.
