Roland was strolling through the nicer part of this district's Backstreets, and found his mind wandering from the stillness of the early morning. To his surprise, the streets weren't all too active.

It was strange to think he'd actually died, and while he wasn't sure about why he was both back alive and in time, he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

His memory was a little hazy about the last… 'reception', but he had… He'd managed to get through the nine other floors, hadn't he? That was more than Xiao, who had raged through nine and had come frightfully close to defeating the Library, The Red mist herself who was taken down by Philosophy after three hard hours of combat, and The Purple Tear herself, who ended up matching the latter in having taken down six floors in total.

He had done more than the best of R corp's forth pack– He even surpassed the Hana association, albeit sector three would've been well worn by the overflux of paperwork caused by section one and two falling. He wouldn't have counted that as all too impressive.

But Roland knew damn well, for a fact, that he couldn't have done that. Xiao was… Well, Angela had explained that not even Kali had been able to manifest her own E.G.O suit and weapon– which was supposedly a divine feat of will— and he had… done better than even that? Angela was hardly one to exaggerate, but Roland couldn't envision a world wherein he managed to outclass that blazing wildfire of a woman.

Roland admitted that he was strong– Very strong– but thinking about that reception emitted a resounding headache that pounded his skull. He could remember, Netzach had utterly exhausted him- and then… Angela had killed him. But he'd made it up to General works. He'd had to have gone through every other floor– But…

'That was that… It's really none of my concern on how strong I was. Only how strong I can get now. So I can find Angelica.'

Right now, his lack of strength would disappear with a few taps of Durandal and he'd be on par with a grade six or seven fixer physically- maybe even a grade three if one also applied a few damn decades of experience under his belt.

Only a few hundred kills would be needed to bring him and Durandal back to a sliver of The Black Silence that was inside the Library— and a few nights out in the backstreets would surely complete that. Wings aren't built in a day and all that.

Roland pushed his way into a quiet corner of a cafe he'd never heard of before.

The sun still hung low in its mantle, creating a beautiful purple-pink shade across the horizon, so the place was mostly empty, bar the restless looking woman who looked as if she'd stayed the night.

They were in a residential and small-time business area so break-ins should be taboo, probably explaining the lack of overall security he's seen just about anywhere on the block. That being said, it wasn't a taboo made from the Head. Sweepers and gangs could still break in, but for such lax security Roland imagined they must be under the protection of a Finger.

She mumbled out an annoyed "What do you like to have–" She cringed, pulling away. Roland snickered. "Ugh, what do you want?…" She repeated.

"Macchiato." He answered. The clerk still looked miffed at her mistake as she looked under the counter.

Chesed had gotten him hooked on the stuff, the puffiness, the sweet– and then bitter– taste, mixing that in with whatever brand and equipment that used in the varying processes done to refine it had made the experience one he and many other librarians sought every morning after, and through that he found the joys of being a coffee addict- as Gebura would put it.

Roland hadn't asked the recipe however– he'd have to find Chesed and ask personally when the time came.

The woman groaned in annoyance, grumbling something that Roland didn't quite pick up, though he shrugged it off as she got to brewing.

He'd have to find a nearby HamHamPangPang or another one of his favourites soon enough.

'Yeah, after all the shit that went down, a stomach of nice tenderised ham sounds like a nice treat. It's been years since I've been blessed with the taste. Actually- it's been almost two years since I went to one of my hidden gems… I'll have to hit Dong-hwan's pub when I'm in the area too- If it's around right now. Maybe I'll try the K corp chicken aswell- Netzach said they were decent enough.'

It's been a while since he had backstreets coffee too, usually being a small treat to pass time or socialise- Though most of it felt like sludge on his throat and acid on his tongue.

Roland extracted his phone to do some local research, typed in his password, and…

'Incorrect Password.'

Darn. Roland tried again with a capital A, then a capital R before the 'Three Tries Left' subsequently appeared next to it. He scowled in silence.

The phone's background picture was a default one instead of the Charles' Office he'd have had before.

Of course his password wouldn't be RolAngelica. He hadn't met her yet..

Roland thought on it, any possible combination was entered; all failed. He sighed mournfully. A new phone's gonna be a pain in the ass to buy with the check of a grade eight.

The sound of a cup hitting the reception desk turned his attention upwards. Taking out what little change he had, he looked into the cup.

No fine patterns nor delicate, a lack of the intricate weaving of ingredients and blends that Chesed had performed with his practised ease, just a plain simple serving, but it would—hopefully— be half as nice.

As he set himself down again, he let out a sigh and let the situation wash over him for a second, taking a sip from the mug, inhaling the sweet scent of macchiato. He'd say it 'brought back memories' but truthfully he had only been away from Chesed's coffee for roughly three days now.

Alas, a poor texture and a worse taste. Too strong and not sweet enough. Roland swished it around in his mouth before—

"No greetings for poor old Granny, Kid?"

…

It took him another second of pondering the cup for the familiar voice to ring to his ears, his eyes widening as he choked, almost unveiling the cup's contents on his suit as he slammed it to the table.

A woman sat opposite him, face that –while not aged– showed the experience of a veteran vying for a time gone; something Roland could sympathise with.

It was all too familiar of a sight in the city. An unfortunate truth that stood as an unopposable fact, so it wasn't worth worrying about— that's that, this is this…

Though not a wrinkle nor grey hair had blemished her face.

Yet he recognized her so. "Iori–!" Her hair and clothing style hadn't changed all too much, a purple garb adorned her body and a hairband that complimented her opposing colour of hair, and heels that boosted her already domineering height.

She smirked at his recognition, eyes closed as she sat opposite him in a relaxed posture.

Roland shot up on the instinctive reflex that somebody much, much, stronger than he was before his eyes, and would have drawn Durandal, had he known he'd already be dead if she so wished, but for pure comfort's sake he rested his hand near the hilt.

"Kid."

Her eyes were closed, a serene look on her face and a content– even a tad warm– smile graced her expression. "A little bird told me you've followed in my footsteps? It truly warms my heart that you've decided to follow my teachings in the ways of a fixer. Starting so young— before it's legal too, though I suppose you get that deviancy from me, hmm?" She let the pleased look wash over her expressions, before sipping a cup of something she'd carried along through her tear.

'Follow your footsteps my ass.' He was tempted to say, gritting his teeth instead.

Literally everything she said might have just been a lie– and calling it out would only make her more suspicious. Well, this at least washed the remaining doubt of his current situation he had found himself in; Had she retained her memories too he'd be a stain on the floor.

'Fighting's the only way you taught me to survive in the first place.'

"Learnt from the best, didn't I? May as well put my skills to use. Hana believes I'm good enough to skip right to grade eight, so your teachings must've really helped." He wasn't technically lying, but he was absolutely talking out his ass. He'd been doing that a lot as of late.

"Maybe I'll be a badass fixer like you one day, Iori. I mean, the pay of being a colour's gotta be pretty nice, right? Fame too. I can imagine the wings and their lot are trying to one up each other?." Roland shrugged. eyes closed in an attempt to calm his nerves– but a sliver of anxiety still latched to his words.

"Oh, indeed It is." She nodded.

Looking at the cashier —who had dozed off at the counter— with a look of curiosity, she continued. "Indeed, it's enough to grow my eyes and ears anywhere I'd so please, Kid. Wings would be envious." She placed her cup firmly and her hands placed gently on her lap, though her eyes turned to analysing slits as her purple irises bore into his with a tensity that made the smallest bit of sweat form above his brow. "However, Kid, It is not I that has brought my attention to this part of the City, it is you I have come to discuss."

Roland winced, chewed his teeth and swallowed the now very bitter tasting coffee in his mouth. "H-hm? Ah, but– err…" He didn't remember a thing about this time – other than he was a new fixer, so not much came to mind in the way of averting their conversation from the path she had suddenly slapped it toward. Safe to say she knew something was up.

"Something about you has changed. That shimmer in your eyes, they are far different from last we spoke. Though you may not realise it, you have matured. Evolved. Your personality is not the only change you've had so far, kid. You left that mask I so graciously gifted you at your apartment, did you not? An accident caused by the excitement of starting your career as a fixer I suppose."

Lilac eyes scanned the cafe– a movement many would've missed only caught by the years of paranoia that had honed Roland's skills of body language and subtle prompts. "You've paid for your drink, no? Then I should suggest we discuss further, away from the more… curious individuals."

She stood swiftly, yet quietly as her chair scraped back almost silently.

He followed, albeit reluctantly– though hey, when a colour requests, the only answer is 'yes'.

So, when she tore a purple trail through the open air outside, he grimaced- only hoping this wasn't some death trap he was about to dive head first into.

The dwindling patience was evident in her stance. "Well? In you go."

Roland sighed and entered the Tear first, removing any chance of going about his day in the relative peace a backstreets-dweller would have..

A hand left his pocket to shield his eyes against the harsh winds of the brutally red dust that was lapping against his face and suit. It was hard to see, but from the moments of weakness in the wind he could properly discern that he was somewhere in 'The middle of fuck-all-nowhere'.

Roland looked back with a flash of annoyance at just being thrown into the middle of nowhere outskirts– And found slight relief in Iori following through behind him.

"So, you should know I'm kinda looking for some work, so if we could make this snappy-..." Roland's words fell back down his throat as numerous white, shining orbs in the far distance that glinted to his eyes, and though he could hardly see, his survival instinct whispered into his mind that whatever it was had promptly locked onto the pair.

"So, kid. Mind telling me exactly what happened to cause your… current predicament? The Cat's Eyes seem more than a little fuzzy when it comes to you and your future– but most importantly that woman at that little store you went to. Whatever sort of fate-destroying blight you've contracted is affecting more than just you, Kid." She didn't look all too worried– hopefully a good sign– but her hand laid on the hilt of the sword that lay along the back of her waist.

"Either the Head themselves have changed your destiny, for whatever reason– or something beyond most singularities has its hooks sunk into you, Kid."

"Right, right" He brushed off her little analysis, half listening as most of his attention was on the myriad of slowly approaching objects that appeared to be some sort of hive-mind mass that towered a good… Maybe thirty or forty metres up?

"But ah, gotta ask– where exactly did you spirit us away to?" Anxiousness slipped into his voice. "And what's with the, ah, ominous growing polka dots over there? They're… Well I don't doubt your wisdom in places to comfortably hold a conversation– but they don't look like they're the kind to peacefully graze the fields?" He said semi sarcastically, giving her a questioning glance.

She didn't look too happy, but hey; that's an expression he hadn't seen –from what little he could remember– on her face before. If he didn't know any better, he'd say she's curious, if a little peeved as she gazed down at him.

"Those lot? One of the hundreds of simple Gear Hordes that roam the ruin's many entrances. Even a few hundred are barely a threat- even for a grade five Fixer. Nothing more than fodder to be scrapped and be made use of within the City." Her gaze turned. "For a mere Grade 8, however?..." She trailed off, sending him a smug, trite smile that played her lips as Roland gnawed his cheeks.

Roland let out a low growl as Durandal hissed slowly from its sheath.

Back in the library, the invitation gave them some insight on her manipulative nature upon being confronted by that Blue sicko– but evidently she wasn't as omnipotent as she tried to make herself seem.

If she's had to stoop so low as to threaten to turn him into Ruins' chowder, it meant she was scared- No, that would be too strong of a word. Intrigued, and cautious. She was still learning, despite her age. She must've only recently been promoted to colour if that was the case.

Her voice was laced with taunting, satirical sweetness as she spoke- as though she was speaking to a child in the midst of a tantrum. "Now, now, Kid. Aren't you jumping the gun a tad? You've become oh so paranoid in only the few months I've been absent- it's as though you believe a colour such as I would wish for harm to befall you, a random Grade eight fixer.."

Her sweet face dropped as she continued, "But there's undoubtedly a sharper edge to your instincts. I'm not exactly certain as to the events that have led to a change this drastic to occur, but I am willing to listen, if I'd be privy to your own perception on this change?"

The underlying threatening tone was there. It was subtle, cautious, even. Of him. 'She doesn't know if my strength has changed- So she's decided to test me then… Explains why she brought me here.'

Chances are, if he's too strong, he's left to die to that horde of Ruins machinery, and if he's too weak? Roland wasn't quite sure. From what it seems, Iori has never been all too fond of unknown variables- being around the same level he was before would put her to ease, but would also reveal his hand to her, and Roland's trust hardly extended that far.

Changing the topic, he cleared his throat; "Well, I got into Grade 8 day one. That's pretty big, right?" Roland's eyes were squinted at the still harsh dust bloated winds that did little to hide The Purple Tear's unimpressed expression.

"I believe we've discussed this already. Don't take this off track."

Roland was drawing blanks.

And whatever the hell was on the horizon- making those grinding, ticking noises- was getting closer. Stalling this out was probably a bad idea, he should really make a run for it…

…But that could wait.

Because, however dangerous that thing was, it was not The Purple Tear.

Her glare was met by his own, and Roland noted the twitch in her hand. She'd be in her thirties or so, closer to her prime than ever— yet her eyes squinted and she took a defensive step back.

Before opening a portal behind her, from which he could hear the motors of cars and the chatter of people. "I wouldn't suggest coming back to the city until you're adequately prepared. Far more people than I have noticed your disruption."

Roland's hands found their residence in his pockets as he nodded, still with a rather fierce look on his face as she sank through her portal, he found himself relaxing, and decided to speak his mind to the woman who'd saved him from a pitiful existence as a Rat…

"Stay safe, Iori."

Cheesy, but he didn't regret it. She'd left him with some parting advice back then, hadn't she? He shook the scary mood and face off— it just didn't feel right. Looking back at the still approaching horde, he grimaced.

"Best follow my own advice and hightail it."

[-]

Roland found himself in some ancient run-down factory– rusty machinery filled the expansive lobby room, having been scavenged of almost everything; nuts and screws lay to broken scrap that fell subject to the test of time and littered the grounds of the white tiled floor with shards of miniscule paint flakes.

It would be difficult to hazard a guess on what these things' purpose might have been. Production was a given; but of what exactly was what really piqued Roland interest.

Even if most of the products have been taken or rusted over, information about the Ruins was high in demand, some breakthroughs earning thousands upon thousands oh ahn.

Every single machine in the place was empty; No wires or components, only a few skeletons of unfortunate rodents who'd fallen inside and starved, along with some horrendously murky waters Roland that smelled worse than The Blood Red Night's den…

He'd staked the place out the best he could, a top to bottom search of the front few rooms revealed little more than a cobweb and the expected signs of erosion that infested the site.

"Hello~? Anybody home~?" He had shouted down the empty corridors that had trailed into dusty, dimly lit halls.

The silence had answered.

Out of curiosity- and a sprinkle of caution- he methodically searched each corresponding room until the natural light that infiltrated the entrance had fallen deep inside the facility. These rooms had been completely stripped bare- Not even the floors were spared.

In what he considered a stroke of genius, Roland took his phone from his pocket- and whilst unable to use the torch feature, a faint light emanated from the touch screen- barely enough to illuminate the powerless rooms.

Only to confirm what he'd already known; Every room had been completely demolished. There were marks of construction and destruction- evident from a piece of rebar that prodded the wall, hardly as though this was a forgotten build site- everything was taken methodically.

The first thought that occurred was a group of outskirts nomads, but Roland couldn't fathom a use for the stolen materials.

And so, after a little rest -Much needed after discovering his past self was very much bereft of the previous vigour he'd come acquainted with- on some flat enough scraps of metal, he ventured further.

The facility was massive, not dissimilar to a Wing facility or a Finger's outpost- yet was in a state of complete disrepair. Walls filthied with rust and mold, and the occasional claw markings were scattered paces away, each of varying size; Roland noted some caution as his eyes lingered on the tri-pronged markings

It was the scuttling of rats -Of the rodent variety- that had forced Durandal from its covers.

Even with the muted lighting the facility afforded to him, it shone without fault, the dark steel threatening the grounds in front of him.

The human survival instinct told him to run from the strangely repugnant, viscous darkness. But something else drew him closer- the dim lighting flickered overhead and Roland could smell the danger.

Durandal rested in his hand, his own steps falling more and more into the encompassing silence until each footfall was as quiet as a hare's.

It was quiet enough to hear his own heart ring through his head- granted, such a sound was hardly unfamiliar.

Even the silent whirring of power Durandal hummed as it cut softly through the air with that incredibly sharp blade was the only accompanying noise.

He could taste it now. In front of him lay something– a Beast not dissimilar to some of the more volatile books that lined the Library's shelves.

That used to line the Library's shelves.

With a sudden tense in the atmosphere, Roland willed, and so Durandal leapt and shrieked out, intercepting a tendril mid jab and eliciting a heinous screech from the wall of suddenly fearful white dots- eyes- that recoiled in pain only a metre before Roland, shooting itself backwards out of his senses.

Wary eyes examined the rubbery, fresh substance- which appeared to shiver and writhe on the floor under the faltering lights- prodding it with the tip of Durandal. It provided little resistance, splitting with a simple glide of the blade across the surface.

It was… Strangely crusty- A cool, ashen texture licked his fingers, it felt that it had been dried and strained out as opposed to the silky smooth texture that coated the scaling of the flexible mandible that had been thrust toward him.

"Fweh… Smells like shit too." He pinched his nose, drawing back and sheathing Durandal.

His eyes turned further in. When was the last time he hunted like this? With Astolfo? Some Outskirts monster in the black of night, chasing it through the great forest of District 4.

Whatever creature roamed these halls alongside him couldn't have been any more powerful than an Urban Legend, let alone that thing.

Oh well.

It'd stave off his boredom at the very least.

[-]

With a final grandiose punch, the black conglomeration of flesh was sent crashing past a few concrete walls, rebar stabbing its viscous body as its pained squeaks grew more prominent and it stumbles fell- falling over the shards of metal and iron jabbed into its coarse hide.

Roland almost felt bad for the creature; but it didn't matter. This was this and that was that.

It lacked any major vital spots; which would have been devastating for a group of fixers without any way to do significant damage. Thought with Durandal after a few hacks and cleaves of its rotund form had him significantly overpowering it, even if it was still writhing around in that agonising pain.

'Agonising pain, huh? I know a thing or two about that.' He approached the creature, lacking any real way to kill it quickly. A wall of shining eyes glared into his- unspeakable wrath and fear ran counter to his sombre look. "Sorry bout' this."

He peered into its eyes for a moment- So humanlike were they, irises of different colours decorated its body before Durandal's blade struck the mass, swiping his arm out and around again until he'd dissected a substantial margin and it was assuredly dead.

The thick inky substance that just have substituted blood flowed lightly from the sizable chunk of flesh torn sunder, the persistent smell of bile and gore arose from it, and Roland fell back.

He felt… Directionless. Looking at this lifeless amalgamation.

But seeing one of the many mandibles that curled up on the thing's frozen corpse could only bring a bile filled memory to mind.

Angelica.

Money. Seven association.

Yeah; he needed money. So what if some animals got in the way? This was this and that was that- somebody needed to lose something; to suffer.

Looking on with a bitter taste in his mouth, he advanced. Step after step that feeling didn't leave- but it hadn't bothered him yet, so what of it?

Because that was that.

"You're…" The voice had him spin on his heels, and black met crimson; Duranal tasted blood as same as claw sundered his.

"-A bloodfiend."

"-A human."

It resembled a grizzled middle aged man, scruffy poorly cut stubble and canines that slipped out from the man's lips. Basic rags soaked in black, its apparel matched that of a Rat's and its stood disarmed– aside from the claws that had grazed and stung Roland's forearm.

"Don't usually get visitors don 'ere… Specially not ones that know what we're." It sent him a toothy, wild grin. "And usually not un's so weak… It took ya tha' long ta kill one uf' em scouts o'rs?" Roland's eyebrow quirked curiously…

The accent sounded as similarly indecipherable as the smiling faces— hell, Angela's translation of Sweeper talk had been better than this.

Roand's gaze steeled at that moment, Durandal hung between them as a warning more than stance; something it didn't heed even the smallest bit.

Its long, disgusting tongue licked his residue off its elongated nails, the mocking gesture that was its feeding forced Roland's pride to bound far faster than he himself could have seen; the blade pierced it wrist and just protruded its chest- but it coughed and hacked, pounding the blade with the vampiric force it had been cursed with.

Yet Durandal was no ordinary sword, a fact it swifty discovered as its knuckle ruptured against the abyss tinted blade- striking with force enough to make Roland wince as the muscle in his fingers gripped with might beyond their years- doubtlessly spraining his left hand, and the creature reacted poorly.

Its face exploding a red gore stained the missing half, its fangs became primal- as savage as a wolf- and it gleefully pressed Durandals steel through its corpus and drove its ugly canines to his neck, but Roland weaved and forced it to plunge into his shoulder- its fatal blow had missed however, and even if it tried to tear up his collar a bloodfiend had their limits, and the twisting of a sword and tearing through the torso had proven to be this ones.

It muttered little else- a disappointment if anything with how fast he had dispatched it, yet that was simply the way of a bloodfiend. The more one fed the stronger it would become- much like the Blood Red night.

And with that in mind, his gaze turned to his weapon.

And four more scarlet eyes reflected the little light of the labyrinth he stood in, bloodlust hung in the air and Roland switched to his dominant arm.

And Durandal would feast.