That morning, the sky over Samsara reflected a soft amber hue across the warming desert. The remnants of the night wind drifted gently, carrying the scent of freshly shifted sand and the fading smoke of a dying campfire.
Tents were being dismantled one by one, and movement slowly stirred in the small square where the Band of Massiah had stayed the night. Susan was busy checking water satchels and supplies, while Nea helped rewrap the medicinal herbs she had dried the night before.
The Hassasin stood in silent formation, as if they had never slept at all. Their pitch-black cloaks fluttered in the morning breeze, and beneath the fabric, sharp eyes remained alert to any direction not yet tamed.
Inside that strange van, Nico Mustang—a name known by many. But to the few who truly knew him, he was Rentaro Takamura, or just Ren. A silver-black-haired man with bright blue eyes, usually brimming with energy. He was fiddling with something while patching up his Mark 2 armor.
