Chapter 13 – Midnight Moves

The poster hung limply against the wall, a soft rustle of paper carried by the midnight breeze. Kenji stood frozen beneath it, hand lightly on the hilt of Stelix, the other clutching the crumpled sheet of paper he had torn from the thug's jacket. Midnight. South Warehouse. Last shipment.

The ink had run slightly from seawater smudges, the handwriting crude and hasty. A message for desperate fingers, not dainty ones.

Behind him, Author changed his stance, boots scraping against the streaked earth of the alley. He attempted to hide it, but Kenji detected the quiver in his breathing. Not fear, exactly. Just the close straining of nerves, stretched tight to breaking.

Kenji didn't fault him.

He felt it himself.

In their room, the air was heavy with a silence of desperation. The ancient inn, its timbers groaning beneath every wind outside, its shutters clattering like scowling skeletons.

Kenji sat, twining at the bedside of the narrow bed, meticulously running a whetstone along Stelix's edge. Deliberate, even strokes. The sword hardly needed honing—the fruit that resisted inside of it tempered the steel far beyond ordinary measure—but Kenji needed the ritual.

Something to ground him.

Across the room, Author knelt, tightening the laces of his boots with clumsy fingers. His lips were pressed thin, his jaw tight.

"You're sure about this?" Kenji asked, not looking up.

Author's hands froze for a second. Then he nodded.

"I'm sure."

The stone rasped along Stelix once more. Kenji set it aside, wiped the blade clean, and slid it into its sheath with a final click.

"If it goes wrong," Kenji whispered, "you flee. Don't wait for me."

Author snorted, raking his hand through his hair. "Not a chance."

Kenji allowed a shadow of a grin to tug at his lips before he rose, adjusting the strap over his shoulder.

"Then stick with me. And believe me."

They left the inn in silence. None was needed.

The village looked different in the dark. Gone was the din of vendors, the shouts of sailors, the drunken laughter spilling from taverns. Instead, there was only the groan of the sea and the slap of water against the docks, muffled. A fog enveloped them in billowy whips, covering the lower portions of the buildings, hiding their path in twisting white.

Kenji led, hand always near Stelix, senses strung tight. Each ring of metal, each flickering shadow made his heart pound harder in his chest. But he kept his breathing even. Made it slow. Controlled.

They traversed side streets, deserted streets, down towards the water where the warehouses stretched up like giants asleep.

South Warehouse.

The structure towered in front of them—a two-story hulk of rotting wood and rusty spikes. A wide loading bay yawned out in front of it, strewn with abandoned crates and broken pallets. Lanterns hung from crooked poles smoldered low, their light more shadow than fire.

Kenji crouched behind a stack of barrels, motioning Author to stay low. They waited together.

And waited.

The minutes dragged together, slow and thick as molasses.

Kenji's body was still, but inside, he measured every second, every heartbeat. He marked the way the fog curled around the crates. The way the shadows moved—or didn't move—under the sagging rooflines.

He tasted the salt on the air, but beneath it, something else. Sharp. Metallic.

Gunpowder.

Author shifted beside him. A tiny sound, barely a scuff, but it echoed like a gunshot in the oppressive quiet.

Kenji shot him a look. Author stood frozen, lips compressed, once-nodding.

Kenji surveyed the lot again.

At first, it seemed empty.

And then he saw it.

A rope swinging innocently from a broken mast.

But there was no wind.

His stomach tightened.

Something's not right.

He tapped Author's arm, telling him to stay behind. Sliding low and quiet, Kenji worked his way along the fringe of the lot, hugging deepest shadows. His body shone dimly with pent energy from the sun, ready to erupt at any moment.

A sound—this one real. A step.

Slow. Quiet.

Kenji stilled.

Between two boxes, out of darkness, materialized a form.

Then another one.

And then another.

Masked, lightly armed, drawn guns. They moved as practiced, methodical. Professional.

This wasn't a shipment pickup.

This was a hunt.

Kenji's heart didn't race. It slowed. Every sense sharpened to a blade's edge.

He turned back toward Author—just in time to see more figures slipping in behind him, cutting off their escape.

It's a trap.

The first clash was silent—almost beautiful in its brutality.

Kenji moved like a ghost, like a burst of light weaving between the attackers. Stelix sang in the fog, the edge of the blade cutting what little moonlight came through the mist.

A man swung an axe—Kenji dodged beneath it, hit the man in the ribs, unleashed a blast of fire that sent him crashing to the ground.

Another attempted a knife. Kenji grasped his wrist, spun, and used the momentum of the man to toss him headfirst into a crate.

But for every one he lost, two more appeared to take his place.

He saw snatches of Author wielding a splintered plank as a club, warding off a thug twice his size. Sloppy, hopeless—but fighting.

Kenji gritted his teeth. He could not guard him and fight without restraint simultaneously.

He had to stop this.

Now.

Rapping the Sun Sun Fruit, Kenji let out a burst of heat from his body—enough to scald the air without incinerating the bunch. The goons staggered, choking, eyes watering.

Kenji pursued the assault, cutting through the dazed attackers with ruthlessly easy efficiency.

The bunch was soon littered with bodies moaning in agony.

And then—

There was a slow round of applause throughout the yard.

Kenji froze.

From the darker depths beyond the warehouse doors, a man emerged.

Tall. Slick. With each step, the flaring longcoat.

Ellion Sparrow.

He was not what Kenji expected. Not the garish smuggler he had pictured, but hard, contained, eyes narrowed with calculation.

A pistol hung loose from his hand, barrel glinting in the light. Knives ran through the belts that criss crossed his chest.

He smiled.

And Kenji knew, at that point, that the real war hadn't yet started.

authors note : If you enjoyed the story, please consider leaving a review or voting! Your support means a lot and helps me know if I should keep going. Thanks so much for reading!