The Night Shift

Pasta stood by the doorway, his head lowered, the fresh bandages around his forehead barely concealing the dried blood beneath. At the opposite end of the room, Emilia sat with her book.

A woman entered with grace, flanked by two maids carrying scrolls. Her golden curls swayed slightly with each step, and the moment her gaze met Pasta's, she let out a dramatic gasp.

"Oh my! Were you caught in that fight I heard about?" she exclaimed. "I must apologize for Zyrion's recklessness. He can be quite thoughtless at times."

Pasta sighed, not bothering to meet her eyes. "Forget about it."

The quietness in his voice made Emilia glance up from her book.

"I'm relieved to hear that," the woman said, taking a seat. "I'm Matilda, the bride's younger sister. Would you care for some tea?"

"No, thank you," Emilia answered flatly, studying Matilda. "So you know the general?"

"Oh, so you're familiar with his status." 

Matilda chuckled, leaning back slightly. "We're not exactly friends, but he's been close to my elder sister for years. They bicker constantly, yet somehow never fail to get along. But I assure you, he's a nice guy."

"Nice guy," Pasta said under his breath.

Matilda's eyes flickered toward him, but she said nothing. Instead, she turned her attention to Emilia. "Where is the swordsman?"

Silence lingered between the siblings before Emilia finally spoke. "I'll see to it that he's informed of his responsibilities. Please excuse his absence."

Matilda said nothing further, simply gesturing for the maids to hand over the scrolls. "My father wanted me to explain the details of tomorrow's ceremony to you all when everything there is to know is right there in those scrolls. Why would I need to explain these things when you can just read them, you all are educated, right? Not like you're stupid or something"

She groaned, leaning her head back. "No need for me to go over it again—it's a real hassle, I tell you, an absolute—"

The door swung open, cutting her off.

A woman entered, wearing an identical dress to Matilda's, yet something about her presence was strikingly different. She was older, her beauty so radiant it seemed to brighten the room itself. Even in silence, she carried herself with the authority of a queen.

"The adventurers have already arrived," she said, her gaze settling on Pasta. "And this one is already injured. Your bandaging is dreadful—I can still see the blood seeping through."

Emilia forced a smile, trying to hold in her rage. "I'll be sure to fix that later."

Matilda stood, her tone softening. "Jane, you should be resting. What brings you here?"

Jane stepped closer and whispered something into her sister's ear. Matilda's expression darkened, her gaze lowering as she absorbed the words.

"Please excuse me," Matilda said, straightening up. "Something urgent has come up."

She and Jane left the room, the maids following closely behind.

Emilia watched them go, curiosity flickering in her eyes. But in the end, she simply shook her head and returned to her book, choosing—for now—to mind her own business.

#

The mansion at night felt like a nightmare. Gone was the warm, bustling household preparing for the wedding. Its once-grand chandeliers swayed ominously in the breeze, casting eerie shadows that twisted into monstrous shapes across the halls.

Emilia could swear their glowing eyes were fixed on her, judging her… waiting for the perfect time to strike.

She clutched her sword tightly, her grip firm in defiance though the same couldn't be said for her knees, which wobbled inside her boots. A sudden creak from the corner made her spin so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet.

"Who's there?!" she said, her voice bouncing through the empty halls, demanding an answer she absolutely did not want.

Silence.

Except for the whisper of the wind. A soft, unsettling murmur brushed against her ear that made her wobbly legs practically shape into noodles.

Emilia straightened up, puffing out her chest. "Come on, Emilia, get it together. You're practically a grown-up now! An adventurer... Yeah. No reason to fear the dark… or the things lurking in it… the ones that could, I don't know, murder you… or worse, torture you for hours and then—"

She stomped her foot on the floor. "Nope! Not doing this! Come on, come on, come on!"

She swung her sword wildly at the air, as if striking first would somehow make her less afraid.

"Bring it on, you—!"

A hand landed on her shoulder.

The battle cry turned into a choked gasp. Emilia's entire soul abandoned her body as her limbs locked up, her face draining of all colour. Slowly—so, so slowly—she turned her head, muttering every single novel deity's name under her breath.

The figure behind her was massive. Towering. A hulking warrior with a round head and an imposing stance.

Bandit. It had to be the bandit Kaden mentioned. This was it. She was about to die in a mansion with awful heating and no proper lighting. A tear ran down her cheek. 

At least I became an adventurer.....

Her eyes widened as she lifted her blade with trembling fingers. No! I'm not going down without a fight.

"The lights went out," came a familiar voice. "Came to check on you and Pasta."

Emilia blinked. Then groaned. Then smacked her forehead against Mr. Swordsman's chest before wordlessly hugging him, her legs still recovering from nearly giving out.

"Next time," she grumbled, muffled against his cloak, "lose the hat."

Mr. Swordsman blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," she said, letting go of him.

"Well, I'm fine. Mostly. Kind of. Maybe a little not fine," she admitted, rubbing her arms. "I just—look at this place! It's like a ghost decided to host its own wedding! The halls are freezing, it's pitch-black, and somehow, despite being a high-ranking noble, the owner doesn't even have reliable lighting! If he can afford it from the second. Of course, he should be able to handle its management. I'll tell you this, If I trip over something and break my neck or perhaps get eaten by some unnamed monster, I'm sending the bill to that rude heck of a merchant!"

An owl conveniently hooted, causing Emilia to leap off her feet.

Mr. Swordsman nodded. "I'll check on Pasta now. Protecting you both is my main mission. I can't be sidetracked."

Emilia watched him go with a deadpan stare. Oh sure, great timing as always. After I informed him of his position, he disappeared and now decided to show up when the lights were out, the cold is biting through my bones, and I'm this close to hallucinating shadow demons. Real helpful, Mr Swordsman. 

She leaned against the bride's door, muttering to herself. "This whole job feels weird. If Kaden really wanted the bride guarded, wouldn't Mr. Swordsman be the better choice? And then after reading that scroll for tomorrow's preparations… ugh, whatever. If I get paid for risking my life, then I guess that's just part of the business... Being an adventurer is hard!"

She crossed her arms, momentarily forgetting the lurking horrors.

Until another creak echoed from the kitchen.

"Alright, that's it! No more nice Emilia."

#

Pasta sat atop the roof, his legs dangling over the edge as he lazily counted the stars scattered across the night sky, a place he could never reach. The wind ruffled his hair, carrying with it the distant echoes of clashing blades. Zyrion and Mr. Swordsman's battle. 

Every strike, every precise movement, every clash of sheer skill.

It had been beyond spectacular.

"What a fool I am"

His fingers curled into fists against the roof.

"I'm reckless," he whispered. "Both of them said it. An unskilled, thoughtless fighter. Useless in battle and too playful. The only thing I've got going for me is a blade that kills with just a scratch. A weapon perfect for a coward like me."

Bloodborne's office. Pyrovile. Every fight and lesson. He always stood in Mr. Swordsman's shadow. The weight of those moments settled on his chest, reminding him of the ever-growing gap in power, in experience, in sheer presence.

The difference in lifeforce.

"Maybe…" he whispered to himself, his voice barely carried by the wind. "If I change… I could be stronger. If I become more like him"

Zyrion. Mr. Swordsman. The strongest warriors. There was a calmness in them, an unwavering focus. No wasted movement, no unnecessary thoughts.

"A warrior's strength isn't just in their blade—its in their mind according to Mr Swordsman. A man who could think in the midst of battle, unshaken by distractions, would always triumph over a reckless fool. Yet, I play the the fool. Always laughing through the fear, always running his mouth."

Behind him, a shadow stirred.

"The lights are out," Mr. Swordsman said, standing behind him.

Pasta didn't turn. "I can see that. I'm not blind."

"Good. I'll see you in the morning then," Mr. Swordsman replied, his presence vanishing as swiftly as it had appeared.

Pasta turned slightly, catching only the faintest blur of movement before the night swallowed him. He let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair.

"Typical. And then there's the speed too," he muttered.

#

Mr. Swordsman returned to his post outside Matilda's room, his steps silent against the cold floor. He exhaled slowly, shutting his eyes as his lifeforce expanded.

"Burst."

In an instant, the entire mansion became an extension of his senses. Every hallway, every corridor—his energy coiled around them, embedding itself into the very walls. If anyone so much as breathed out of place or dared to set foot in, he would know. 

His gaze flickered to his cloak, torn and tattered, the long tear marks on his skin still fresh.

He ran a hand through the fabric, tracing the ruined threads. How long has it been since I took damage like this?

"A strong man, that one," he muttered. "His speed… his resilience… his skills and abilities—almost on par with mine."

Almost.

His fingers curled into a fist. 

"I almost lost."

His very words pierced his chest.

Pathetic.

Pathetic.

How was that even possible?

Lifeforce was supposed to be absolute. The body had three layers of energy, yet only the ungifted relied on all three. The gifted—those born with extraordinary power—had two. That was the rule.

But Zyrion… Zyrion had three.

That technique he used—it wasn't from his gift. It was something else. Something that required more skill to master.

Mr. Swordsman stared down at his calloused, worn-out hands. 

I need more.

His grip tightened.

More power.

#

After boldly declaring her intent to investigate the noise in the kitchen, Emilia remained frozen in place, her sword stretched out before her.

"Come on, you're better than this. You saved Pyrovile and everything."

Yet, her legs wouldn't budge.

The kitchen doors suddenly burst open with a violent crash, sending a sharp jolt down her spine. She barely had time to yelp before a shadowy figure darted past her, a fleeting blur in the dark hall.

Her knees buckled. She collapsed onto the cold floor, her breath uneven, her fingers trembling against the hilt of her blade.

That was probably the psycho bandit.

Yet, she couldn't move. The air felt colder, sticking her to the floor.

"I'm not as strong as Mr. Swordsman or Pasta," she whispered, gripping her sword tighter. "What can I even do? Maybe I should just yell for help... maybe they'll hear me..."

But the thought of calling for help stung more than the fear itself as the cool breeze brushed against her hair.

Time seemed to slow only leaving her voice in its wake.

"Is this the sort of adventurer I wish to be?"

Emilia clenched her fists, bit her lip, and forced herself up.

She surged forward, spinning her sword between her fingers in a quick flourish. Even if she got hurt—even if this was reckless—at least she wouldn't sit there waiting for someone else, for someone to come save her. To do the job she claimed she loved.

The figure leapt over the railing, bypassing the stairs entirely.

Emilia skidded to a halt at the edge, gripping the rails. She peered down.

"If only I knew how to command the air," she muttered.

For a brief second, she considered jumping.

Instead, she turned, grabbed the smooth wooden railing, and slid down the staircase. The wind rushed past her as she landed, pushing off into a sprint.

She tore through the mansion doors and out into the night.

But the figure was fast—too fast.

And then, he was gone.

Emilia came to a staggering stop, bending over as she panted. "I was so close to catching him..."

High above, Pasta lounged on the roof, peeking down at her.

"What's she up to now?" he mumbled. "Not like it's any of my business. She can take a midnight stroll if she wants."

Emilia wiped the sweat from her brow, still catching her breath.

Her frustration melted into something else—a grin. The chase had been brief, but for those few seconds, she felt alive.

"That was so cool," she whispered, barely suppressing a giddy squeal as she turned back toward the mansion.

Her gaze flicked to the fence.

"I'll get you next time, bandit."

She marched back to her post at the bride's door.

But the moment she stepped inside, something in the dim hallway made her pause.

Wet footprints.

Leading deeper into the mansion.

Her breath hitched.

Her fingers instinctively curled around her sword.

"Someone else was here."