The New Chess Piece

Dante was back in his London property, the familiar scent of old leather and expensive paper, a grounding presence after the chaos. Laurance, true to form, had successfully roped him into an upcoming Arcana Anonymous (AA) meeting.

"You can't just vanish yet, old boy!" Laurance had declared with feigned outrage over the phone.

"This is big! You're practically a founding member! And besides," he'd added, a hint of steel in his usually jovial tone, "I've made sure your usual travel arrangements out of London are... experiencing some technical difficulties. A little friendly persuasion from certain, ahem, mutual acquaintances."

Dante had sighed. Leaving London before this meeting would indeed be a headache, one he wasn't quite ready to endure.

He sat in his private study, a room usually reserved for quiet contemplation and the meticulous organization of his vast collections. But tonight, his focus was entirely on the object now resting in his gloved hands: Durandal.

The sword, less rusted now than it had appeared at the auction, hummed with a faint, almost imperceptible vibration. It looked the same as it had on the auction lot, yet in Dante's grip, it was undeniably more special. It wasn't just ancient steel.. Infused with the raw, visceral belief of hundreds of astonished onlookers. Each gasp, each whispered "magic," each wide-eyed stare at its impossible glow during the auction had, in a strange, inexplicable way, fed into the blade. It felt heavier, not in weight, but in presence, almost a low thrumming of concentrated awe.

He ran a gloved thumb along the unmarred edge. The government's response, of course, would be a whitewash. Behind claim of structural failure, unfortunate accident, and gas leak, they were moving quietly behind the scenes, investigating every little crumb along the way, but would eventually finds nothing noteworthy. The media, with their short attention spans and hunger for the next headline, would move on. But for those two hundred plus attendees, their reality had been irrevocably altered. And some among them were now buzzing in Laurance's group chat.

The events of the night had opened up a fascinating new chessboard. Perhaps adding a few chesses piece may move the game along.

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Kaito Tanaka usually hated taking the alley shortcut behind his apartment building. It smelled faintly of stale trash and damp concrete, and the graffiti-covered walls weren't exactly a picturesque welcome to his new life in London. But it shaved five minutes off his walk home from school, and five minutes meant five extra minutes of trying to decipher British slang online before his homework completely defeated him.

Today, however, the alley offered something far more jarring than a discarded takeaway box.

He froze mid-stride, his backpack slumping further down his shoulders. A figure lay slumped against the grimy brick wall, half-hidden by a overflowing dumpster. It was a unconscious woman, with blonde hair and judging by the sleek, dark fabric of her clothes, she was probably an agent of some kind – or at least, someone who took their fashion very seriously. But it was the blood that truly caught his eye. A dark, rapidly expanding pool stained the pavement beneath her, and angry red smears marred her coat.

In her right hand, clutched with desperate force even in unconsciousness, was a long, padded bag. It looked like a rifle case, the kind he'd seen in action movies, but its contents were clearly too important for her to let go. Her breath was shallow, ragged, and a low moan escaped her lips.

Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through Kaito. He fumbled for his phone, his fingers trembling as he tried to dial the emergency services number he'd memorized. This was beyond anything he'd ever encountered in his quiet, structured life back in Japan.

His thumb hovered over the call button when, unexpectedly, her fingers twitched. Her hand, pale and covered in grime, slowly reached out. Her grip was surprisingly strong as she clamped onto his wrist, her touch sending a jolt through him. Her eyes, half-lidded, were a startling shade of green, and even through the pain, held a desperate plea.

"Don't," she whispered, her voice barely a breath, before her eyes fluttered shut and her grip went slack, her body going limp once more.

Don't.

The word echoed in Kaito's mind. Don't call for help? But she was bleeding out! He looked around the empty alley. No one. It was just him. If he left her, she might die. If he called an ambulance, what then? Her desperate plea suggested something... dangerous.

He made a split-second decision that went against every logical fiber of his being. He couldn't just leave her. And he couldn't involve the authorities if she specifically asked him not to. Rather, he feels compel to not get involve with the authorities at all. 

Taking a deep breath, Kaito awkwardly knelt beside her. She was heavier than she looked, but he managed to hoist her arm over his shoulder, gritting his teeth as he dragged her out from behind the dumpster. The long bag, still clutched tightly, clanked faintly as it dragged beside her. With immense effort, he half-carried, half-dragged her out of the alley and into the discrete side entrance of his apartment building.

Getting her up the two flights of stairs to his small, tidy flat was an Olympic feat, punctuated by grunts and desperate huffs. Finally, he got her through his door and gently lowered her onto the rug in his living room, the gun-like bag still stubbornly held in her hand.

He stared at the messy scene for a moment, his mind a jumble. "Okay, Kaito. First aid. You can do this." He'd learned basic first aid in school, but it had always been on dummies, in sterile environments, never with this much blood. He went to the bathroom, grabbing his small, well-stocked first-aid kit.

Returning, he felt his cheeks flush as he carefully began to move her ruined clothes to assess the wounds. There were several deep lacerations, and some nasty-looking burns. He tried to ignore the embarrassment, focusing on the task. Swabbing, disinfecting, bandaging. He worked methodically, trying to remember every instruction from his health class.

As he was carefully wrapping a gash on her arm, he paused. He'd noticed it earlier, but now, with a clearer view. The edges of the wound he had just cleaned seemed to be... pulling together. The angry redness of the burns on her skin was subtly fading, the charring lessening. It was incredibly slow, almost imperceptible, like watching a flower open in time-lapse photography, but it was happening. Her body was healing itself.

Kaito frowned. This was not normal. Not normal at all. His quiet, structured life had just taken a very sharp and strange turn. His guts told him that he had gotten himself into a trouble that's beyond him. However, he didn't regret helping a person in need.