The evening lingered on… but its end was already in sight.
The embers in the hookah no longer burned as red.
The smoke, thinner now, floated more lazily.
And the flavor—fading, inevitably.
In this quiet, almost soothing decline, a new figure disrupted the calm.
The bar's door opened with a soft chime.
A strange man walked in, dressed entirely in green.
He wore a hat pulled down to his brows, messy gray hair spilling out, and dark circles carved into his face.
He looked like a drifter who had wandered into the wrong place.
He scanned the room, spotted an empty couch—right next to Guts—and flopped onto it without ceremony.
Back against the cushions, eyes fixed on the ceiling, he seemed to float somewhere between reality and another world.
The cheerful owner arrived a few seconds later, still beaming.
Owner:
"Well, Otto! Rough day, huh? Business's been booming lately, hasn't it?"
Otto didn't answer.
He just offered a tired smile, barely able to string two words together.
He lifted a trembling hand, halfway in greeting.
Owner:
"The usual, I suppose? One Mi Amor to get you back on your feet?
Alright, I'll bring it right out."
He vanished toward the back of the bar, humming a forgotten tune.
Guts, silent until now, took a calm drag from his hookah, then leaned slightly toward Rem.
Guts:
"I think it's time we headed out… We're attracting some real characters tonight."
Rem stifled a quiet laugh as she looked at the oddball slumped beside them.
Otto hadn't even noticed them. Too focused on… not falling over.
He muttered to himself under his breath:
Otto:
"Alcohol's no good… but business is business…"
Guts raised an eyebrow.
Guts:
"Otto, was it? You could've picked another seat, you know.
There were plenty. Didn't you see?"
He took one last draw from the hose, not angry—just puzzled.
Otto slowly lifted his head, finally registering their presence, and stammered:
Otto:
"I… I'm sorry. Didn't mean to intrude. Really… sorry…"
He had said the same thing twice.
Guts noticed, but said nothing.
He stood up slowly.
Rem followed without needing a word.
He paid the bill at the counter, then returned to meet Rem at the door.
Before they could leave, Otto's voice called out behind them:
Otto (loud, slurred):
"I'll see you again, I can feel it! You guys seem like great customers!"
Guts didn't reply.
But a faint smile touched his lips for a second.
Behind them, Otto leaned forward to receive his hookah, his gaze still lost… in a direction only he could see.
The walk back was short.
The calm, so sweet just moments ago, was already unraveling—carried off by the cold wind of reality.
They both knew it: this break was ending. As always.
The streets, swallowed by darkness, felt frozen in time.
The sun had long since set, devoured by the night. And with it, the warmth of the world.
Their steps echoed through the empty arteries of the capital.
A few hurried shadows slipped through alleyways, but no words broke the silence.
Time moved on—quiet, merciless—even when buried in a cloud of smoke.
And then… Guts froze.
A burning.
A shiver.
The mark on his neck… was bleeding.
His breath caught. His muscles tensed.
That hadn't happened once since his arrival in this world.
Impossible.
An Apostle? A God Hand emissary?
No… he would've known.
But what he sensed wasn't human.
It was an ancient call. A familiar shadow.
A scent of death.
His eyes drifted to a side alley.
A figure stood there, cloaked in shadow.
A long robe. A hood. Motionless.
Invisible… and yet unmistakably present.
Guts narrowed his eyes.
This wasn't a hallucination.
Wasn't a memory.
The figure stepped back.
Then… vanished.
The alley was empty now. Silent and still.
He raised his hand, touched his neck.
No more blood.
But he knew what he had seen.
What he had felt.
And deep inside… a flicker of hope.
What if that presence… was a key?
A breach.
A door out.
A path—however small—back to his world.
To the ones he'd left behind.
Casca. Isidro. Schierke. Puck…
All of them, left behind without goodbye.
He didn't know what it was.
But he couldn't ignore it.
Rem (breaking the silence, worried):
"Guts-kun? Are you alright?"
He turned toward her.
She was really there.
Real. Pure gaze, soft voice, steady presence.
He looked at her for a moment, then gave her a tired smile.
Not to reassure her.
Not exactly.
More to protect her. From that. From all of it.
Guts:
"I'm fine… Don't worry."
She didn't answer.
But she understood.
He wasn't ready to talk. Not tonight.
And she wouldn't force him.
They resumed walking—quieter still.
As if the world itself held its breath behind them.
They returned to the hotel.
Darkness reigned in the hall, heavy and silent.
Not a sound. Not a voice.
Only a pale light slipped out from under a half-open door, casting a faint glow across the stone walls.
Guts didn't need anyone to say a word.
He understood.
Roswaal was waiting.
And even if he didn't want to… even if he lacked the strength…
He had to face him.
He was no longer just a guest.
He had named himself Emilia's knight.
He had spoken.
Acted.
Broken a promise.
Now he had to take responsibility.
He entered the room slowly.
Rem followed, quiet as a shadow.
But she could feel it.
The tension.
The weight in the air.
She didn't belong here.
Rem (softly):
"Lord Roswaal… we're back. I think… I should take my leave."
But Roswaal simply raised a hand.
A gentle gesture—but absolute.
Roswaal (low voice, no singsong tone):
"Stay, dear Rem. I need you here. Don't disappoint me."
He was no longer the flamboyant man of exaggerated laughs and musical speech.
This was a different face—the one he kept hidden.
The one he reserved for when things got serious.
Roswaal (calm):
"Emilia has already left.
She chose to return to the manor alone. Tonight."
A long silence followed. Then he stepped forward.
His figure emerged from the shadow, and his gaze locked onto Guts—intense. Almost too human.
Roswaal:
"I'm leaving tomorrow.
But if I'm still here… if I've delayed my preparations… it's because of you."
He approached slowly. His shadow stretched as if trying to swallow the room.
Roswaal:
"I have a mission.
For you.
For Emilia's knight—if you still want to be one."
Guts didn't reply.
His body felt twice as heavy.
His throat still burned with cinders.
But he looked up.
A silent nod.
Steady. Composed.
Roswaal:
"What you did today… moved Emilia.
But not the way you hoped.
You defended her with your heart.
But she didn't want a shield.
She wanted her own voice."
Guts clenched his teeth.
It was true.
He had meant well—but he had betrayed the essence of what she wanted to become.
Roswaal (graver voice):
"Then listen closely, Guts.
You will go meet Crusch Karsten.
You will fight by her side.
And together… you will slay the White Whale."
Rem gasped softly.
Even she hadn't known.
Roswaal (stepping closer):
"This will be the beginning.
Of your path.
Of your atonement.
And perhaps… the day you return victorious… she'll look at you again."
A dull beat echoed in Guts' chest. Then another.
Emilia's averted gaze.
Silent.
Wounded.
Each word from Roswaal struck like judgment.
Guts hadn't just failed—he had to make amends.
Guts (inner thoughts):
I swore never to let my mistakes rot in silence again.
If I can fix what I broke…
Then yeah.
It's worth it.
He stood upright. Slowly.
His own shadow—massive—crossed Roswaal's.
Two men who couldn't be more different.
Now bound by something greater than both.