*Kakariko Village (The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess OST)

**The Demon Thief (The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess OST)

***Brave General, Brave King (FE9 OST)

****The Devoted (F10 OST)

*****Battle of Pride (FE10 OST)

******Victory United (FE9 OST)

*At long last arriving in the dusty, windswept main settlement of the Wind Tribe, while never having been herself, Flora could not help but sense a certain inexplicable desolation to the environs. Perhaps it was due to the able-bodied young men shuttering away those weaker than them at the intrusion of the outsiders or the posted sentries taking even less kindly to Florian than even a few Nohrian locales, after their being received by the tribe's chieftain, Flora was largely vindicated in these observations.

"I apologize for my people seeming unusually...on edge as of late," began Fuga. "But we've generally been protected by both our neighbors and our relative isolation from time immemorial and these slavers have been taking even more of a toll on us than the other tribes."

"You'd think being fellow 'savages' would break some of the tension." remarked Florian darkly. "But no such luck."

Fuga scratched the dome of his immaculate head in irritation. "You might think so, but no. No offense at all to our honored guests, but your background may actually have seen some of my people give you a harder time than you deserve."

"I actually wished to discuss that with you, Chief Fuga." Flora interjected. "My companion tells me of a certain tribesman of ours by the name of Bela and his band of ne'er-do-wells with tacit Nohrian support may be behind many of your current woes."

Judging by his reflexive expression and derisive scoff, the chieftain was well aware of the rogue and his activities. "He thin with that long, stringy purple hair? Your companion is sharper than he appears." remarked Fuga with a scowl. "Yes, I've encountered him in passing. What relation has he to you?"

"He's my father's most trusted advisor." said Flora gravely. "In fact, his trust in Bela is so unshakable, he actually wishes me to be his bride."

Fuga's eyes dropped. "Oh, gods, that does bode ill for us. That would explain how he and his men keep inflicting such heavy casualties on our warriors; not to mention the fact that we keep recovering brand-new Nohrian weapons from them."

None too keen on discussing the single most irritating individual in his life, Florian actually saw it preferable to indirectly discuss the pivotal event in his life than bring up Bela. "Chief Fuga, would you happen to know anything about a certain type of Nohrian weapon?" he inquired respectfully. "A lance that can shoot flames, obviously wielded by an individual with considerable magical and riding ability."

As if these words working together formed a key for a lock in his memory, the Wind Tribe chieftain's eyes lit up, but with a twinge of hesitation in them nonetheless. "As a matter of fact, I do. It's an extremely old story from our people and not everyone takes it at face value," he prefaced. "but are you still interested?"

Florian quite obviously desperate for any information even remotely connected to his nemesis, gave his lady a pleading, almost childish gaze. Flora, for her part, responded with a resigned expression. "Oh, fine, why not?"

The tribal elder cleared his throat. **"Alright," he began. "ages ago, there was a horseman from the western deserts out on the farthest reaches of the continent. Exactly what his name was is lost to history, but all agree he was a man possessed with unnatural skill with the blade, wicked magical power, and limitless ambition. Desiring to place the entirety of the continent under his rule, he and his followers cut a bloody swath across the land, either assimilating or destroying the scattered principalities of the north and west with ruthless efficiency."

"But what does this have to do with any of the tribes?" Flora interrupted to her companion nudging her disapprovingly.

Doubtlessly having anticipated this very question, Fuga cleared his throat once more before the crux of the story. "For those who displeased him or showed any hint of dissension, there was nothing even resembling mercy. For one of the tribes that refused to submit their sacred mountain to him, he was said to have fed the lot of them to a dragon to make an example to the other 'heathens' out of them. To the north, he was said to have projected a mounted phantom of himself to terrorize the restive tribes into submission. Not even his own followers were safe; for supposedly fomenting an uprising against him, he marched on the lands of a noble house and had them slaughtered. Not even the women or children were spared. We were always smaller in number compared to yours and the Flame Tribe. Some ascribed that fact to this man."**

"What happened to this warlord?" inquired Florian breathlessly.

"Unsurprisingly, no one is quite sure. Some say he was killed in battle. By a tribe known as the Sun Tribe probably. Others say his empire collapsed into assorted squabbling states. Others still say he and his followers cursed his descendants to finish his work before he and his inner circle were dragged into another world, a twisted mirror of our own during a ritual."

While the anticipation was visible in the eyes of her companion, Flora raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Chief Fuga," she prefaced politely. "I may have been privy to an unusual degree of information during my time in Krakenburg, but I've never heard or read of a 'Sun Tribe' in my life."

*Fuga's expression turned oddly conciliatory. "Well as I said, it's a very old story." he reminded, much of the heaviness from his earlier tone gone. "A very old story not everyone takes at face value, let alone believes. As for myself, I have my own theories about the identity of-"

As though recalling some deep-seated taboo, the chief abruptly halted his ramblings. "My son and I have business to attend to shortly and will be away from here for some time. It's already dark; make yourselves comfortable as long as you need."

"Oh, no, we couldn't impose." insisted Flora, well-aware of the complications the chief's impending absence could cause them. "Besides, we must be making haste back to Father."

"Well, if you're certain. Give the stubborn old bastard my regards when you see him."

Bidding the chief farewell, Flora led her protector to the foot of a butte a good distance away from the settlement before igniting a bundle of sticks with her magic. The prospect of being ambushed by angry members of the Wind Tribe was clearly on her mind. Florian however, had other concerns. "So, that was some story, eh?" he began, poking at the flames with a stray stick.

"Yes, it was." Flora confirmed distantly, still preoccupied with some matter or another. "I'm still fairly certain I'd have known about another major tribe, even within the distant past.

"But even so, didn't the part about the 'mounted phantom' or whatever sound at least kind of familiar?"

Finally turning her attention to her companion, Flora expressed her approximate interest by rolling her eyes. "Like Chief Fuga said, it's a very old story." she cautioned. "One that he's not sure himself is true."

By this point, given how much of his emotional energy had been tied up in his hypothesis (not to mention his affections for the woman), Florian started to become rather irritated. "Doesn't that sound even a little like the legend of Arminius to you?" he inquired. "When a monster was slaughtering our people and driving them from the holy ground, he braved the temple and killed it? Some people describe the monster as a phantom horseman!"

"Florian, I know you want to connect it to Nohr and- that monster, but-"

"Of course it's related to them! Who the fuck else would it be?!"

Now fairly irritated herself, Flora growled in frustration. "Be realistic about this, Florian!" she snapped. "How many Nohrians really think of us- our history, our legends, as something worthy of study? Most of them don't even see us as human beings! No, to pattern his entire appearance and fighting style off of an ancient tribal legend, even as an act of psychological warfare, he would have to be an extremely strange Nohrian on a number of levels."

"You know what? Fine!" raged Florian, throwing a tarp over himself as a makeshift blanket. "Think whatever you want, Flora! But I can guarantee you that they're more related than you want to admit."

Her companion's back now figuratively and literally turned to her, Flora, still occupied with a decision that had concerned her for months now, decided to let the matter drop, beginning to scribble a letter against one of her spellbooks. Going off of a "feeling" was not and never would be solid ground for making monumental decisions such like that. Decisions which could and would affect their entire nation. Why else had she been defying, deceiving her father to traipse around the continent while half of it was literally a war zone, she wondered. To collect evidence either vindicating or quashing her suspicions about Bela, King Leonard and the Nohrian court, and what they truly intended for the tribe. Given the complete and utter absence of any Sun Tribe from the folklore of Nohr or their own people, the possibilities for their disappearance ranged from utterly natural and mundane to absolutely horrifying, portending ill for any and all who stood in the kingdom's way.

Still, she had to give Florian his due; she had no reason to dispute the authenticity of the figure from the champion's recurring nightmare and it was extremely unusual that his battlefield persona matched up almost precisely with the demon of legend. Even so, what kind of Nohrian was that well-versed in the tribe's folklore, let alone obsessed with the phantom (or possibly those who supposedly suffered under its wrath) enough to pattern his armor, weapon, and fighting style after it that precisely?*

Ungrateful Chevois bastards, thought Nichol bitterly, ruining what precious little time allotted him for leave. What did they really expect the savages would be doing to them had they, their Nohrian brothers, not been selflessly shielding them from the beasts all these centuries? Exactly how many more times would he and his men have to clarify the consequences, he wondered proudly at the sight of his men having finished impaling some twenty rebels and lining the road into town with the pikes containing the dying and the dead. Nonetheless, the wyvern lord was given scarce little time to enjoy this reprieve before the mundane dreariness of work intruded once again.

"A letter, sir!" reported a rider, not even bothering to dismount. "It's been given even higher priority than my life itself!"

Scanning the parchment briefly and spotting his superior's seal, Nichol's black heart leapt in fear at the notion that the Savagekiller himself would see fit to contact him directly. Unfurling the parchment, Nichol breathed an audible sigh of relief as a cursory examination revealed the letter to not directly concern him.

"To my reasonably-competent subordinate, Sir Nichol. By order of His Majesty himself, you and your vanguard are to be recalled immediately to the homeland in preparation for cleansing operations against the mangy pack infesting Mount Garou."

Nichol shrugged noncommittally. Perhaps his lost leave needn't have been necessarily a complete loss? Even if he did not go down in the annals of Nohrian history with an epithet like his superior for overseeing the end of an age-old pestilence plaguing the kingdom, the bluebloods would still pay decent gold for their pelts, even if command didn't see fit to issue bounties this time.

"And finally ma'am," reported the Wolfskin scout wearily, gesturing at the crude map. "the Nohrians have stationed armor formations at select choke points along certain narrow passages to prevent any real movement or escape. Apparently, they're looking to starve us into submission."

***The scout's superior, a rugged, fierce-looking woman in her late twenties with wild, dark-brown hair, gave an audible scowl at the obvious pessimism in his tone. "So what?" she inquired belligerently. "You'd see me go crawling to Leonard with my tail between my legs? Fuck no! You all know damn well where that gets the likes of us! I only see one way and one way alone out of this."

"But Chief!" interjected a second member of her council. "From the reports, the Nohrians have all the cards in their hands! Attacking with such little preparation could be a disaster!"

The chieftaness raised a bushy, skeptical eyebrow at him, doubtlessly with her brother and gods-only-knew whatever vile tortures he'd endured at their enemy's hand in mind. "And waiting even further wouldn't be? Besides, it's not true to say they have all the cards."

Finally joining the meeting from his position sulking against the cave wall, for the first time in months, Fuga managed a smile. "I actually have to concur with you, Lupina." he conceded, his grin somehow more disturbed than he'd intended. "It has been a disaster that we've waited this long to deal with them. Whatever you need, we'll do what we can."

Lupina smirked hungrily at this promise. "Well, would you mind letting me have a bite of him, if you know what I mean?"

Hayato visibly blushing, Fuga's expression turned sour. "Yes, I would. My son is probably our most talented mage and the only one I'd trust with something so important."

"Oh, lighten up, old man!" scolded the chieftainess. "I was just kidding- mostly."

Their Wind Tribe guests and her subcommanders dispersing to rally their warriors, the chieftaness was abruptly impeded by one of her lieutenants as she approached the mouth of her cave command post. "Lupina, please." he said solemnly, his eyes pleading even through his wild, teal hair and muscular frame. "Let me take care of this one."

The wild woman scoffed, straightening out her tunic's collar. "Please, you think I'd miss my chance to give some of these bastards what they deserve, Fen? Hell, it's part way my fault for not trusting my instincts and acting sooner against them."

The wolfskin warrior, Fenrir gave a fatigued sigh for one of his oldest friends. "I know you're still spitting mad. Keaton may as well have- er, might as well, be my brother too. I just think you might be letting that anger cloud your judgement. That's something we just can't afford. It'll be dangerous, even for you and gods know they'll be expecting you-"

"Good. Let them expect. It's not going to save 'em anyway."***

It went without saying, for both the besiegers and the besieged alike, that any break out attempt would come at night; for all the rampant contempt possessed for their enemy, the Nohrian regular and officer alike had to concede his nighttime vision and senses in general were far superior to their human ones. On one hand, the attackers lit their checkpoints and encampments with torches, however, this deficit in low-light vision also extended to the Wolfskin's allies.

"Godsdamnit." swore the middle-aged warrior under his breath. "At least it isn't raining. Hey, kid; Ever fought Nohrians before?"

Hayato exhaled sharply. "Yeah, once." he recalled. "You don't like the dark, Taketora?"

"It's not so much that I don't like it. I just can't see well in it."

"Heh heh, yeah, that's it with me too."

"Although, I've got the easy part, protecting you lot. Our furry friends down there are going to be doing most of the leg work."

The position of the Wind Tribe mages, along with their protectors, was that of a forested ridge overlooking the mountain path; with enough cover to (mostly) mask their presence with just enough space for the five mages, including their diminutive commander, to aim. Of course it was nerve-wracking, his second, actual battle ever. Between the naive Nohrian princess and his adoptive father, he could be reasonably assured no harm would be allowed to come to him. But this was quite the escalation in stakes, as Hayato was well aware, what with the Nohrian slavers preying on the tribe in recent months. Indeed, it was actually a relief to see the signal, a single brilliant fireball hurtling fruitlessly toward the moon, and get into position to cast.****

"Fuck, we've got savages!" cried one Nohrian pikemen as the furious lupine creatures began streaming from the foliage, rending, tearing, and slashing at any enemy stragglers. Some reiteration of this was repeated ad nauseam until their armor began to plug the hemorrhaging lines, beating back any attempts to infiltrate their lines. "Now!" Hayato cried, he and his fellow mages tuning out the inherent distractions to the best of their ability, sending a motley assortment of translucent creatures of the Zodiac and miniaturized natural phenomena to ravage their armor.

"Mages!" cried an enemy axeman. "We're taking fire from that ridge up there!"

Cursing to himself, Hayato commanded another salvo to disperse the incoming Nohrian infantry reinforcements as a caster some ten years his senior sent three incoming wyvern riders and their mounts crashing to the earth with a massive fireball. "Hayato!" the man cried. "You still have that tome you got off that Nohrian sorcerer?!"

"Of course, Hayubasa!" he replied, scanning the path for their next target.

"The wolves will be fine! Cast it at that enemy storehouse over there! I can smell oil!"

Given that everyone and their mothers had heard of the drubbing the enemy received in Cheve as of late, the diminutive prodigy had a good idea what the senior mage was thinking, leafing through the pages inscribed in the tome, his chants calling a cyclone from the void to scatter the building's contents (along with the poor sods who happened to be in the immediate area) across the camp. For his part, it was quite counterintuitive for Hayubasa to ignore the bowmen nearby. Nonetheless, he so did, peppering the immediate vicinity of the ruined storehouse with an assortment of fireballs. While not taking immediately, a number of localized infernos began to spring up around the encampment, quickly turning it into a maelstrom of flame and panicked Nohrian stragglers attempting to escape the blaze to varying degrees of success.

Momentarily reveling in his coup, the veteran mage, while well-aware of the risks (and being fully prepared to take them), ultimately paid a hefty price for ignoring his instincts, taking an arrow to the chest, the shaft penetrating his ribcage and lung, rendering breathing, let alone standing and casting, a Herculean task.

Hayubasa collapsing to the ground with a defiant curse, Hayato, purely off of instinct, dispatched the bowman before tending to his fellow mage. "Hayubasa!" he cried, covering his retreat with another miniaturized tornado. "Oh, gods, this is bad- We need a healer over here, now!"

"We're pulling out!" announced Taketora, drawing his blade. "Any casters who can still stand, fall back! Everyone else, on me!"

Astonishingly enough to the lad, Hayubasa, now deprived of the flame tome, began to weakly recite from one of his scrolls, hacking up blood after his ethereal dragon ravaged the terrified and angry Nohrians ascending the ridge. "I'm done, kid." he said weakly. "I'm gonna do what I can for these guys, but-"

"But you can't-" Hayato protested almost as weakly. "You can't just-"

"Listen, you've gotta fall back! The chief's gonna have my butt in the next life too if anything happens to you!"

As badly as it sat with him, the young mage swallowed in spite of himself, casting an apologetic glance at his senior over the din of battle before retreating with the rest of the casters present. He'd had his first real taste of war tonight and Hayato had not particularly enjoyed it; all the training and casting practice in the world could never have truly prepared him for the sheer chaos and carnage of an actual battlefield. While he was sure there would be nightmares to come about this and other experiences, one thing and one thing alone would keep him moving forward; the prospect of the living hell to which King Leonard and his people would subject the tribe's surviving members, should they even be allowed to continue existing for the "crime" of inconveniencing them.****

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" swore a terrified Nohrian pikeman, heart and eyes both racing anxiously. "I swear I just heard one of 'em around here! The savages!"

While their culture was such that the cavalrymen received the most prestige by merit of their specialty, the common Nohrian footsoldiers were firm believers in the adage of "safety in numbers" and they had to be, given how much enemy territory there was. With this said, it was perhaps unsurprising that this particular patrol group of eight, evenly divided into pikemen and axe-wielders, scarcely could foresee what the wooded crag had in store for them.

"What the hell are you on about?" inquired a bored-looking axeman irritably. "There's nothing here! I swear, cowards like you are a worse threat to the unit than the savages."

"I say we should just burn the entire godsdamned mountain with them on it." suggested a second pikeman. "Do you think we have enough casters to pull it off?"

A second axeman shrugged, only taking notice of the enraged, gleaming eyes the instant it was far too late. "I dunno, maybe." he remarked. "I'd think we'd need- Oh, fuck!-"

In the blink of an eye, a massive wall of flesh and fur pounced with all its might on the poor slob, breaking his neck with the sheer force of its blow before rending and tearing a few unsightly gashes on the poor slob's person and turning its attention to his terrified comrades. The most striking things about the beast accosting them, apparently a sort of lupine brown bear easily taller than two large men, were its piercing, blood-red eyes trained on them. And of course, its razor-sharp fangs and claws, easily long as a grown man's forearm and visibly stained with human, almost-certainly-Nohrian, blood.

The pikeman repeated his profane incantation, clutching his spear for dear (and extremely fleeting) life. "Casters!" he plead. "We need support-"

For all of his many years and many battles, Fuga still turned away, shutting his eyes and grimacing at the sheer one-sided carnage dealt to their mutual enemy. After several seconds, as the terrified screams and pleas for help ceased, the old chief emerged from the thicket, taking care not to pay too much mind to the butchery dealt out by his junior. "Gods, Lupina! You enjoy this way too much!" he complained

Abruptly shifting back to her human form with a flash of light, the chieftainess grinned toothily and shrugged. "Hey, can you really blame me? Besides, I already told you; we get a little...strange without a decent fight every now and again."

"No, I can't say I do."

In the distance, yet another explosion, this one particularly deafening, destroyed what little calm remained in the evening mountain air, the flames illuminating another Nohrian checkpoint or installation, it was impossible to tell from this point.

"Well, that sounds like our cue." remarked Fuga with a smirk. "I, of course, don't need to remind you."

"Just go link up with your warriors and keep a look out for reinforcements." insisted Lupina hungrily. "We'll take care of the rest."

Dismissing himself with a bow at the neck, Fuga and his small retinue departed to join the rest of the Wind Tribe formations.

Starting down the narrow mountain path, Lupina met up with her own vanguard; seven of her most trusted, battle-hardened warriors. "Well, we've just made horsemeat of another Nohrian heavy cavalry detachment." reported Fenrir. "That should be the last of them. What now?"

"Half of you on Fenrir and follow his lead." the chieftainess ordered steelily. "The rest of you, watch my tail and try not to get in my way."

Momentarily pondering among themselves how exactly they divided an odd number of warriors, Lupina's cold expression decided for them, Fenrir deciding it wise to assign the three most-senior to his lady as she dealt with the commander.

It never ceased to amaze Lupina how much crap these people required to bring with them to wage war, given hers were a famously hardy and resourceful people. In any extended campaign, this necessity also, more often than not, proved their downfall. In these conditions, her wolfish senses alone would have made hunting the Nohrian commander child's play. But with three of her most tested fighters? It was no wonder they'd come across the count's camp within an hour or so, positioning themselves among some greenery just outside the stables.

"-has me taking orders from a glorified street urchin and his bandit!" raged a haughty voice. "As if my family's contributions to Nohr over the centuries have meant nothing!"

"Milord, please keep your voice down!" plead one of his aides. "The enemy's senses are-"

"Oh, you can't possibly believe that rot about their 'superhuman senses!' Nothing more than filthy, self-righteous, heathen savages! I'll send for more reinforcements first thing tomorrow and we'll crush them, just we've always done with the insects."

The chieftainess' red eyes narrowed into slits. "Oh, ho! I think I recognize this douchebag!" she remarked amusedly.

"Really, milady?" inquired a graying warrior.

"Yep, Count Francis of Nice. He's made a damn fortune skinning our brothers and sisters and selling their pelts to the highest bidder."

"Bastard!"

"I know how you feel, but his pompous arse is mine. On my signal, you and the others are going for the horses and the mages, the bowmen, anyone who can attack at a distance."

True, even among Wolfskin, it took a very special sort of individual to truly appreciate just how symphonic the orgy of destruction left in the wake of a well-planned assault by her people. However, even with a relatively minor production as this one, Lupina never ceased to appreciate that particular tune. Her warriors bursting forth from their concealment, rending havoc upon terrified and/or outraged Nohrian man and beast alike, the chieftainess, with that very particular and offensive fragrance worn by the count assaulting her senses, took it as her cue to his position, transforming into the her beast form with a brilliant flash.

Barrelling forth as quickly as her limbs would take her, Lupina laid waste to whatever lay in her path as though it were soggy paper of an especially-poor quality, the rare Nohrian weapon or spell to (almost always on a fluke) come in contact with her of no more a bother than a snowflake on a hot day. Curiously enough for the one-woman trail of abject destruction that she had torn through the camp, the chieftainess, after dealing his vanguard a series of unpleasant, painful, and very-fatal injuries, decided to toy with the greedy count a bit by transforming back.

*****"Hi, there." she remarked, fangs bared with an evil smirk. "Remember us?"

"N-n-not-in my-life..." sputtered Francis, feeling very vulnerable even in his ornate general's armor. "Y-you m-must b-b-be mistaken!"

"Oh, no, it's no mistake. I NEVER forget poachers of my people. Particularly tubs of Nohrian lard like yourself. So you've made quite a bit off the lives and skins of us wolves, eh? Why don't we see how much YOURS fetches?"

"G-guards! K-k-kill her!"

The three pikemen, no mere common footsoldiers themselves to be assigned to a count's guard, had scarce little time to ponder their poor career moves as they were gored, rent, and torn by the enraged Wolfskin chieftainess, their specialized lances meant to counter her people may as well have been sticks for all the good they did. Much like his subordinates' Beastkillers, the thick plate armor worn by the count did just as little to save his own hide. Indeed, even were the Nohrians able to send a party to retrieve their wounded and dead, locating Count Nice's remains would have been impossible.*****

******Exhausted, but accomplished, Lupina smiled as she returned to her humanoid form, knowing that many of her people hunted and murdered to sate the greed of Nohrian nobles could finally rest in peace. There was still much to do of course, many scalps to claim, to say nothing of Mad King Leonard's, but In the odd, macabre serenity of the utterly-demolished Nohrian count's camp, Lupina was heartened by the victorious howls of her warriors echoing across the mountains and their new ally's report.

"This camp looks like it was struck by a cyclone after passing over a blacksmithing town!" remarked Fuga, shielding his adoptive son's eyes. "And I take it you dealt with Count Nice?"

"Yeah, he's right over there," said Lupina half-facetiously. "and there, and there, and there, and there, and there. And I take it the Nohrians didn't harass you with reinforcements?"

The old warrior returned the self-satisfied smirk. "The enemy is in full retreat. It wasn't easy and they'll be back and spitting mad, but it's been a good night."

Removing his hand from Hayato's eyes momentarily, Fuga recalled something of the utmost importance. "That reminds me!" he said urgently. "Kikai has been trying to get a hold of you for months now!"

"Oh, yeah, that summit he's been going on about, right?" answered Lupina. "So the old gasbag's actually considering some kind of joint action against Nohr? About damn time too!"

"Yes, we'll no doubt need their help as well, but his daughter has supposedly developed a rapport of sorts with Princess Sakura. With that said, sooner or later, we'll need to take some of the pressure off those poor bastards."

"Fenrir can more than handle defense of the homeland. And I'll see what I can do about gathering up some raiding parties behind their lines."

The chieftainess smirked lewdly, halfway directed at the boy. "And speaking of things I can do-"

"No." denied Fuga flatly.

"Oh, come on!" plead Lupina. "You know, a lot of boys his age go through that liking-older-"

"No."

Hayato was grateful the moonlight as the sole major light source hid his red face from both his father and the would-be-predator, whose interest he was finding rather...intriguing.

"A-actually, Father-" Hayato stammered.

"No." denied Fuga once again.