They stayed at the Kid's adoptive father's home, a modest structure tucked deep into the labyrinthine alleyways of the Kutolian slums. It wasn't luxurious, but it was safe. The walls were reinforced with layers of metal and crystal, humming gently with energy. Inside, soft lights bathed the space in an amber hue, contrasting sharply with the cold despair outside.
Seko sat near a window, his body relaxed but his mind far from it. His thoughts clung stubbornly to the composite sword like vines around steel. He couldn't shake the feeling that it was meant for him—or at least, meant to test him. It didn't call to him like a whisper in the wind; it pressed against his thoughts, silently, persistently. He wanted to ask about it, but before the words could form, Kiyomi's voice cut through the haze.
She looked at the Kid's father, her eyes sharp beneath a veil of exhaustion.
"Why is a planet with no crime facing such a crisis?" she asked, her tone more curious than accusatory. "Why does everyone here seem so… hollow? Depressed. Like they're just waiting for the end."
The father, who had been silently preparing some kind of herbal stew with bitter Kutolian roots, paused. He stirred the pot slowly, then exhaled.
"There's no violence here, true," he said, placing the ladle down. "But peace enforced by fear is not peace. It's paralysis."
He turned to face them. His expression was calm, but his eyes—like two old lanterns—held a sadness that words rarely touched.
"Kutol trades with every faction. Villains, heroes, mercenaries, broken gods, fallen angels. It sells weapons to all... but chooses no side. That neutrality keeps the planet from war, but it also robs the people of purpose. We are the backbone of bloodshed—but can never raise our own fists."
He gestured toward the city outside. "Imagine growing up in a place where you're surrounded by the most powerful tools in the galaxy... but you're forbidden from ever using them to protect, to avenge, to feel. Every crime you've suffered—unpunished. Every loved one lost—unanswered."
A long silence followed.
"Over time, people learn to smile without joy, work without passion, live without fire. The 'Void of Light' and 'Void of Darkness'… they aren't prisons. They're reminders. That even in a world with no crime, pain still thrives."
Kiyomi's eyes narrowed, her fists clenched slightly.
Seko didn't look away from the window. But now... he understood the sword even more.
It wasn't just forged in contradiction, It belonged to it.
Then Atama adds, "I heard that some kind of angel has taken over this planet and now oversees the trade here... I wasn't allowed to investigate further because of Humanity's reliance on Angels. Is it true? That they replaced all previous trade agreements with a new system—only accepting Deno'r crystals in exchange for anything?"
The room seemed to pause with Atama's words. Even the bubbling of the Kutolian stew felt quieter, as if the very air held its breath.
The Kid's father didn't answer immediately. He rubbed his hands together slowly, then wiped them against his apron before turning toward Atama.
"…You weren't wrong to hear that," he said grimly. "An angel—if you can still call it that—did arrive. Not the kind with harps or mercy. One of the Dominion Class. Seraphim, cloaked in divine law and empty judgment."
He walked to a wall-mounted chest and opened it, revealing a set of old, dust-covered tablets etched in swirling script. "The trade system once ran on a barter of balance—exchange what you have, for what you need. Services, stories, materials, even memories. But after the angel came, it changed."
He tapped the tablet lightly.
"Now… only Deno'r crystals hold value. Nothing else. No trade without it. No exceptions."
Atama raised a brow. "And who controls the Deno'r veins?"
The father chuckled darkly. "Three guesses, General."
Seko looked up now, sharply. "The angel?"
The old man nodded. "Or whatever it's become. It calls itself Luzriel—and it doesn't care for souls, it cares for order. The crystals fuel not just commerce, but control. Emotionally reactive. Drawn from the light beneath Kutol's surface. The stronger your conviction, the brighter the crystal you can mine… but it drains you. Leaves people hollow."
Kiyomi narrowed her eyes. "So the depressed people outside…"
"—Are the ones who gave too much," the father finished. "They sold pieces of themselves. Hopes. Dreams. Love. All for a single shard of Deno'r. And Luzriel keeps the stockpile."
Atama leaned back, his tone surprisingly serious. "Humanity depends on angels to keep the outer borders safe. That's why I was pulled off the case. If we ever speak against them—"
"You're silenced," the father said bluntly. "Or traded away."
Seko looked back toward the city. Toward the streets filled with smiling faces and hollow eyes. Toward a world enslaved not by violence—but by peace twisted into currency.
And in his mind, one word echoed again and again, dripping with warning and fury.
Luzriel.
The air had shifted in the modest home. A quiet, simmering weight lingered between their breaths.
The Kid stood near the door, his small frame trembling—not with fear, but purpose. His eyes, usually distant or playful, now burned with an ancient fire.
"I'm going to kill that Angel," he said, his voice low and unwavering. No dramatic declaration. Just truth, spoken like it already happened.
Kiyomi whipped her head toward him. "You're insane," she snapped. "That's not just any angel. Dominion Class? They create laws with their breath. You attack one and you'll be erased before your heart skips its next beat!"
The Kid didn't blink. "So be it."
Atama, sprawled lazily on a sunken couch, looked up with a yawn. "Yeah, yeah, I'm in," he mumbled, patting his stomach. "But before we go committing holy war, I need to grab some of that Kutol 'Fish Dirt.' That fermented street vendor goo with crispy layers and whatever-the-hell seasoning they use? That stuff's divine."
Both The Kid and his father visibly twitched.
"Don't say that again," his father muttered.
The Kid nodded, disturbed. "Seriously. That name? It means something untranslatable. You just said something like 'I want to be born again through goat mucus on moonlight' or something close."
Atama blinked. "Huh."
Seko, meanwhile, stood by the open window. He hadn't spoken a word through the exchange. His eyes were already drifting toward the city. Toward the pillar of light piercing the dark skies far in the distance.
He cracked his knuckles slowly.
He was already there—mentally, spiritually, physically—one hand on the hilt of possibility, the other on the idea of revenge. The idea of balance.
Kiyomi turned toward him, frowning. "You too, Seko?"
He didn't look back.
"I'm not interested in killing an Angel," he said. "I'm interested in cutting away the cancer. If that means it has wings and sings in holy tongues…"
He stepped forward, cracking his neck.
"…Then I'll make it scream like any mortal."