The clown figure paused, the air between them stretching tight.
After a breath, the man's voice cut through the quiet. Tired. Raw.
"I lost that name long ago," he said. "Please… don't speak it again."
Toki's jaw clenched slightly. He nodded, respectful. "All right. I'll honor that."
Silence again, until Toki stepped back from the grave and gestured gently toward it.
"I came to offer respects. Bernard told me everything."
The clown's painted smile didn't change, but his gaze shifted briefly to the grave.
"There's nothing to respect," he murmured. "A man who takes his own life forfeits that, doesn't he? At least… that's what the Order thinks."
"Not what I think," Toki said. "He gave everything. Maybe more than he had to give."
The clown stared at the flowers, at the flickering candle.
"I saw your speech," he said suddenly. His voice softened a little, almost surprised at himself. "The one at the ceremony. They broadcast it across the city square, you know."
Toki blinked. "I didn't realize."
"It was a good speech," the clown added. "Elegant. Honest. You spoke like someone who actually believed the things he said. I didn't expect that. You sounded… noble."
Toki looked at him carefully. "I meant every word."
"I know," the clown said. Then, after a pause: "That's why it hurt to watch."
Toki took a step forward. "Then you know I meant it when I said I would do more than speak. I'm trying to rebuild something worth believing in. And I want you with me."
The clown tilted his head. "I assumed you might ask. You're Commander now—Fourth Division. It suits you, oddly."
"I haven't earned the title yet," Toki said. "Not fully. Not until I can put a real smile on your face."
That made the clown pause. His fingers tightened slightly around the shaft of his cane.
"You brought flowers," he said after a beat. "You didn't have to."
"I know. But I wanted to." Toki crouched again, brushing a petal that had fallen to the dirt. "I didn't know your father, but I knew he once led the Fourth Division. As its new commander, I felt… this was my duty. Or maybe not duty. Maybe just respect."
The clown's painted face remained unreadable, but his voice faltered for the first time.
"…Thank you."
Toki stood again. His eyes didn't waver.
"But I also came for something more."
He stepped forward, unwavering.
"I want you to return to the Order," he said. "I want you to be my right hand."
The clown let out a quiet laugh—one without mirth. "You really are serious."
"More than ever."
"And Bernard? He's in on this too?"
"He wants to see you," Toki said. "He didn't say it outright, but I could see it in his face. He remembers you. He wants to hear you play again."
A beat.
"He misses you."
The clown turned his head, as if watching something distant.
"You said in your speech that the Order should remember those we've abandoned," he said. "Well, I'm one of those people. You think just because you showed up with flowers and pretty words, I'll return to the flame?"
"No," Toki said. "I'm asking you not because I expect it. I'm asking because I believe no one else can stand beside me the way you can. And because I think you deserve a chance to reclaim what was taken from you."
The clown looked away, voice sharp now.
"I don't want to reclaim anything."
Toki's voice softened. "Then what do you want?"
There was silence.
Finally, the clown whispered, "Nothing."
He took a step back.
"I told you. Ozvold Edmund is dead. I buried him with my father."
"You didn't," Toki said quietly. "You buried your pain. But you're still here."
The clown's hands trembled, almost imperceptibly.
"I'm a shell," he said. "My father was a coward. And I'm worse. He gave up. But I lived long enough to watch everything fall apart. Every memory I have is ash."
His voice cracked.
"I have no legacy. No family. No honor left to claim."
Toki didn't move.
"You have me," he said.
The clown froze.
"I'm not asking you to forget the past," Toki continued. "I'm asking you to walk with me into something new. Something that might matter. Be my right hand. Be my brother in arms. You and Bernard… you could be my first true friends."
Still, the clown didn't answer.
So Toki dropped to one knee.
"Ozvold Edmund—" he hesitated, then corrected himself, "—Whoever you are now… lend me your strength. Help me build something that outlives us. Put a smile not just on my face, but on the faces of those who've suffered. Together."
He extended his hand.
A long, painful silence followed.
Then—slowly—the clown took a step back.
"…I can't."
Toki's hand lowered.
"I'm not the man you think I am," the clown said. "I don't want to be remembered. I don't want redemption. I want to disappear."
He turned away.
"Tell Bernard nothing. Don't come back here. And don't try to save me."
Toki stood. "Then I'll save what's left of the Fourth Division without you."
The clown kept walking.
"I'll lift it from the dust and carry it on my own. I'll restore its name. And if you've truly abandoned your honor—then I'll carry that too. Not out of obligation. But because someone should."
Still, the clown didn't stop.
"I'll build a future worth living in," Toki called after him. "Even if I have to tear the whole world down to do it. Even if I have to wear a crown to protect it. I swear it."
No reply.
Only the echo of footsteps vanishing into the mist.
Toki stood alone beside the grave. The candle's flame flickered one last time before going out.
He looked down at the tombstone.
"I'll do it, Henry Edmund," he whispered. "Even if your son won't."
He turned, cloak billowing behind him, and walked into the night.
Above, the moon burned white.
The streets of Luminith had grown quieter as night deepened, the once vibrant city now hushed beneath silver lanterns and yawning alleys. Toki walked alone, his cane striking a measured rhythm against the cobblestones, the scent of bread and incense slowly giving way to something colder. He was still thinking of the cemetery—the weight of Ozvold's words pressing heavy on his shoulders—when he felt something slam into his leg.
He staggered slightly, instinctively bracing—only to look down and see a small figure clutching him tightly.
A child.
No, not just any child.
"Hana?" he said, blinking down in shock. "What happened? Where's Kandaki?"
The little girl looked up, her face pale and blotchy, streaked with tears and soot. She tried to speak, but her breath caught in her throat. She gripped his coat with trembling fingers.
"Th-they took our money…" she sobbed. "Th-three men… knights… they were in a bar. Kandaki tried to stop them, but—he… he went after them!"
Toki's breath hitched. "Knights?" he echoed, his voice low.
A horrible thought crawled its way into his mind. A bar… knights in a bar… Bernard's words flashed in his memory: "Division Four hasn't been active for some time. It might be safe to assume your people are… in a tavern somewhere."
He clenched his fists. Hard. His nails bit into his palms. His knuckles turned white.
My division.
My men.
Stealing money from children.
A quiet fury swelled inside him, sharp and cold as steel.
"Come with me," Toki said, his voice tight with barely restrained rage. He reached down, gently taking Hana's hand. "Show me where they went."
The girl nodded quickly, brushing away tears. Together, they moved through the winding alleys, past dimly lit shopfronts and shuttered windows, until finally they turned a corner—and there it was.
A massive tavern, its crooked sign swinging in the breeze. The Broken Horn. Light and laughter spilled from within, chaotic and raucous. Shadows of movement flickered against the stained windows. The smell of ale, sweat, and pipe smoke wafted out, thick and suffocating.
Toki paused only a moment.
Then he raised his leg and kicked the tavern doors open with a sharp crack, the sound echoing like thunder through the street.
They swung wide, slamming against the walls.
Toki stepped inside, Hana behind him.
The interior was chaos.
A vast hall of tables and overturned chairs, the air thick with shouting and drunken laughter. At least two hundred men packed the space—knights, all of them, wearing the patchwork sigils of Division Four. Some were arm-wrestling, others gambling, many simply slumped over mugs of dark ale. Plates clattered, bottles rolled, and someone somewhere was playing a terribly tuned lute.
But none of it registered.
Not to Toki.
Because right in the center of the room, Kandaki stood alone—blood on his lip, his arms raised in a stance Toki knew too well. One leg back, one hand forward, weight low. His stance. The exact form Toki had used when they first met.
Three knights already lay unconscious around the boy, groaning on the floor.
And another—twice Kandaki's size—was looming over him now, drunk and furious, a shattered bottle in hand.
"KANDAKI!" Toki shouted, voice slicing through the chaos.
The room froze.
All heads turned toward the door.
Toki's gaze locked onto the scene—just in time to see the drunken knight lunge forward, jagged glass aimed straight for Kandaki's chest.
Too fast!
Toki moved.
The world seemed to slow.
His boots slammed the floor as he dashed across the room, Hana screaming behind him.
Just as the bottle was about to strike, Toki thrust his hand out—catching the full brunt of the broken glass.
It buried into his palm.
Blood sprayed.
Kandaki gasped. "M-Master?!"
Toki didn't flinch.
With his bleeding hand still gripping the jagged bottle, he pulled Kandaki behind him with the other.
"You're an idiot," he growled. "Why would you come here alone?"
The boy opened his mouth to speak, but Toki cut him off.
"Go. Sit with your sister. Do not move until this is over."
Kandaki hesitated—eyes wide, heart pounding—then obeyed, rushing to Hana and shielding her.
Toki turned to face the knight.
Blood ran freely down his wrist, dripping to the floor.
The man blinked, confused by what had just happened. "Wh-who the hell are you supposed to be?"
Toki didn't answer at first. He yanked his hand back—the bottle still embedded in his palm—then twitched his fingers.
The bottle burst, glass flying in all directions as it shattered against the nearby wall. The blood from his palm splattered across the floor like crimson ink.
"I'm Toki," he said.
He stepped forward.
"The new Commander of the Fourth Division."
A pause.
"And it seems," he continued, voice deadly calm, "that I need to remind my men that stealing from children is not a trait befitting knights."
There was a silence in the bar.
And then—laughter.
The drunk knight laughed first. "You? You're the new boss?" He gestured to the tavern around them. "You think this bunch of bastards is going to salute a boy in a coat with a cane?"
Another knight howled from the back, "Go home, pretty boy!"
More laughter.
Toki didn't laugh.
Instead, he reached out, grabbed the drunken knight by the face, and slammed him through the nearest table.
The table split in two under the force, dishes exploding, ale flying into the air like rain. The room went dead quiet again.
The knight groaned, unconscious.
Toki straightened, blood still dripping from his hand.
"Anyone else want to question my authority?" he asked.
A beat.
Then the sound of chairs scraping.
Dozens—hundreds—of knights stood. Swords were drawn. Shields hoisted. Helmets donned.
Toki stood alone in the center of the room.
Behind him, Kandaki whispered, "Master… why are you here?"
Toki's eyes didn't leave the sea of angry faces.
"I came," he said, "because this is my division now."
He took one step forward.
"And you are my responsibility."
Another step.
" I will not tolerate thieves. I will not tolerate cowards. And I will not allow anyone—anyone—to hurt children in my name.