Darren sat back in the chair opposite the broad glass windows, his gaze drifting momentarily to the view beyond them. The office he now found himself in was nothing short of remarkable. Floor-to-ceiling panes of glass revealed a sprawling metropolitan skyline stretching as far as the eye could see, the towers of Earth's Capital rising like steel monuments beneath a pale sky. Even at this height, Darren could see movement far below—streams of vehicles threading through wide avenues, clusters of people like shifting currents along the streets.

  The building itself towered above nearly everything else in sight and it was for good reason.

  This was the World Government Headquarters, one of the tallest structures on Earth. The building dominated the skyline, a symbol of the authority that now governed the entire planet.

  After the First Invasion, the concept of separate nations on this Earth had quickly dissolved. Borders had proven meaningless against an enemy that threatened the extinction of the human race itself. In the aftermath, the fractured world had united under a single banner.

  A single government.

  Its leader sat across from Darren now.

  Orwell Rubin moved slowly as he poured tea into delicate porcelain cups placed neatly on the table between them. The gesture felt oddly domestic given the setting.

  For a moment, the scene could almost have been mistaken for a quiet late afternoon conversation rather than a meeting with one of the most powerful men on this world.

  Orwell himself looked far less imposing than the title he carried might suggest.

  He was of average height, perhaps only slightly shorter than Darren. His hair was mostly a deep grey, though the edges had faded entirely to white, giving him the appearance of a man who had weathered many long years. His frame was thin—almost frail looking—and his posture relaxed in a way that made him seem more like a scholar than the leader of the world.

  Yet Darren’s instincts refused to be fooled by appearances.

  Despite his unassuming figure, Orwell’s General Level was far from insignificant. And that alone would have made most people treat him with caution. But it was Merlyn’s evaluation of this man's Threat Level that had truly confirmed Darren’s suspicions.

  It was incalculable.

  Exactly like Darren’s. Exactly like Marianne’s.

  Which meant the old man seated before them was far more dangerous than his thin frame and calm demeanor suggested.

  As he watched Orwell move, his senses searched for even the faintest hint of hostility.

  He found none.

  Darren had grown accustomed to the subtle currents of intent that people carried within them. Aggression, fear, killing intent—these things always left traces.

  Orwell carried none of those things.

  If anything, the World Government's Leader seemed entirely sincere.

  The old man finished pouring the final of the three cups before settling back into his chair with a soft sigh of satisfaction. Steam rose gently from the tea, curling upward in thin wisps before dissolving into the air.

  Orwell lifted his own cup first and took a quiet sip.

  Across from him, Darren and Marianne did not move, their cups remaining untouched.

  Instead, the two simply watched the thin spirals of steam rising from the tea as silence lingered in the room.

  No introductions were exchanged because they weren't necessary. Even Orwell seemed aware of that.

  Finally, the old man lowered his cup and regarded Darren calmly.

  “That blade that you held once belongs to Ramiel,” he said, his tone measured. “He was once Earth’s strongest Jaegar.”

  Darren’s brows knit slightly at the unfamiliar word.

  Before he could voice the question forming in his mind, his own System's voice spoke calmly within his thoughts.

  “In this world, they refer to users of their System who have excelled beyond the norm as Jaegars,” Merlyn explained. “Think of them as warriors of renown on Hiraeth, individuals who stand above the rest. It seems that the ranking system for their Jaegars is not too dissimilar from how I personally measure Threat Levels.”

  The explanation settled quickly in Darren’s mind.

  Across from him, Marianne leaned forward slightly.

  “Is he dead?” She spoke before Darren had the chance to respond, her voice direct and utterly devoid of politeness.

  The question cut straight to the heart of the matter. Marianne had never cared for formalities. Her bright golden eyes remained fixed on Orwell Rubin without the slightest blink. There was an intensity to her stare that could make even hardened warriors uneasy. If Darren had not been on her side all this time, he could easily imagine how terrifying the Wicked Witch must appear to those who faced her from the other side.

  Yet the World Government's Leader did not seem intimidated in the slightest.

  Orwell slowly lowered his teacup onto the table between them, the faint clink of porcelain against glass echoing throughout the office room. The old man seemed to gather his thoughts before speaking again. His fingers intertwined calmly as he rested his hands together in his lap.

  “Well,” he began, his voice measured, “that was initially our belief."

  Marianne nodded, urging Orwell to continue.

  “Ramiel went missing three months ago. Since then, we’ve uncovered no new information regarding his whereabouts. And this is in spite of our considerable efforts in trying to search for him.” Orwell paused briefly, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “It did not help that Ramiel had many enemies. Enemies…who did not want him to be found.”

  “In fact,” he continued, “the battle you two found yourselves in the midst of was related to that very matter.”

  Darren remained silent, but the statement confirmed what he had already suspected.

  “That conflict,” Orwell said, “was for the succession of the title Ramiel once held.”

  So that explained the chaotic nature of the battlefield they had arrived in. It had been a contest for power, a struggle to determine who would become Earth’s next strongest warrior. Darren had little doubt that if the battle had continued without interruption, Joan of Earth likely would have been the one to emerge victorious in the end.

  Orwell’s voice pulled him back from the thought.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “We had nearly abandoned the search for Ramiel entirely,” the old man admitted quietly. “That was…until you came along, Mister Ittriki.”

  His gaze shifted downward toward the table between them, toward the sword Darren had laid across its polished surface. Without the urgency of battle clouding his perception, Darren could now properly appreciate the weapon for what it truly was.

  It really was a thing of beauty.

  The craftsmanship alone made that much obvious. The blade had been forged with extraordinary care, its steel reflecting the ambient light in smooth, flawless lines. The design reminded him strongly of the armor worn by Joan and her brother, elegant patterns of silver and gold intricately carved along the hilt. The metalwork was refined without being excessive, every detail balanced in a way that suggested both artistry and purpose. At the center of the hilt sat a brilliant blue jewel, embedded carefully within the design. The gemstone caught the light from the tall windows, gleaming softly as if alive.

  Everything about the weapon spoke of prestige.

  Now, with what Orwell had told them, it seemed to also speak of legacy. This was the sword that once belonged to Humanity’s strongest warrior.

  Orwell studied it quietly before speaking again.

  “The man you took this blade from, Mister Ittriki,” he said calmly, “I assume he is dead?”

  Darren simply nodded.

  There was no point in hiding the truth.

  The outcome of that battle had already been decided, and nothing would change that fact now.

  He had killed Joan’s brother.

  The memory carried no pride, nor did it carry regret.

  He had simply done what he needed to do in the face of an imminent threat.

  Such was the nature of war.

  Orwell did not appear surprised by Darren’s answer. If anything, the World Government's Leader seemed to have expected it.

  “Well,” the old man said softly, “his name was Joseph. May he rest in peace.”

  There was sincerity in the way he spoke the name.

  “Joseph was Ramiel’s sole disciple,” Orwell continued. “After his master’s disappearance, the blade was entrusted to him.”

  His eyes returned briefly to the weapon resting on the table.

  “However, even Joseph could not awaken its power.”

  That statement caused Darren’s brow to tighten slightly.

  The old man leaned forward just a fraction, his curiosity now plainly visible.

  “And yet,” Orwell said, “somehow it deemed you worthy enough to deliver its message.”

  His eyes lifted to meet Darren’s.

  “Why do you think that is?”

  The question carried no accusation, not even suspicion. If anything, Orwell Rubin simply sounded intrigued.

  Darren considered the question for a brief moment.

  Then he answered honestly once more.

  “I don’t know.” His voice was flat and straightforward. “Nor do I care about Ramiel, his sword and its message, or anything else to do with this world you call Earth."

  Their mission had nothing to do with the politics of this planet. The affairs of Earth, its warriors, its titles, and its legends meant nothing to them.

  Because if he followed the instructions that had been given to him, if he fulfilled the task he had been given by the God of the Underworld, then he would be allowed to see his family again. Everything else was irrelevant. That possibility alone outweighed everything else.

  The matters of Earth, its warriors, its politics…they were nothing more than distractions.

  None of it truly concerned him.

  That meant even if the sword and its message stirred a faint spark of curiosity within him, Darren refused to allow that curiosity to lead him astray.

  His path had to remain unchanged.

  “Oh, but that is where I think you are wrong, Mister Ittriki.” Orwell Rubin spoke again, the faintest hint of amusement touching his voice.

  The old man’s lips curled into a small smile as he reached for the teapot once more, calmly pouring himself another cup. The steam rose lazily from the fresh tea as he lifted it to his lips.

  “How on Earth,” Orwell continued casually after taking a sip, “do you plan to continue your journey with no means of transport?”

  The question caused Darren to pause.

  For the first time since the conversation had begun, he found himself without an immediate answer.

  Admittedly…he had not thought about that.

  His gaze went instinctively toward Marianne. The Wicked Witch met his eyes, her expression unreadable, but the slight narrowing of her gaze told him everything he needed to know.

  She had not thought about that either.

  Fighting for one's survival had a way of completely consuming attention.

  In the midst of all the chaos, the condition of their vessel had been the last thing on either of their minds.

  The Ferry of the Dead had been destroyed, ripped to shreds.

  The ship had broken apart under the strain of escaping the undead immortal. Its shattered remains now lay scattered across the battlefield outside the Capital, twisted metal and broken structures strewn across a landscape already devastated by combat.

  Without it, continuing their journey would be impossible.

  The Ferry had been their only means of traversing the cosmos, the Lands of the Lost. And without it, their search for the Emissary for the City of Iron would come to a complete halt.

  “I propose a deal,” Orwell said calmly, his eyes moving between the two of them. “One that will benefit all of us greatly.”

  Darren remained silent, waiting to hear it.

  “The World Government will repair your ship,” the old man continued. “In return, you will assist us in locating Ramiel."

  Darren’s first instinct was to refuse.

  Trusting others—especially the leader of an unfamiliar world—was not something he was inclined to do lightly. No matter how long it might take, it would likely be safer to recover the remains of the Ferry themselves and find some way to repair it on their own terms.

  Relying on someone else introduced risk, too many variables that were not in his control. But just as Darren was preparing to voice his refusal, something appeared within his vision.

  A familiar translucent screen unfolded before his eyes.

  It was his own System's interface.

  A new notification pulsed quietly in the corner of his sight.

  // New Mission - [ Take A Slice ]

  // Mission Objectives:

  1. Accept Orwell's Proposal to repair the Ferry of the Dead

  2. Participate in Earth's next Invasion

  3. Begin the Search for Ramiel

  The moment it appeared, Darren felt that same lingering question rise once again within his thoughts.

  Did Merlyn really have his best interests in mind?

  He said nothing of the notification.

  Across from him, Marianne remained silent as well. But there was a subtle change in her posture now, a faint curiosity flickering behind her sharp gaze. She seemed interested to see what Darren would decide.

  Finally, Darren turned his attention back to the old man seated across the table.

  “Your word means nothing to me,” he told Orwell bluntly. “How do I know you’ll hold up your end of the bargain?”

  The World Government's Leader laughed. It sounded genuine, almost amused by Darren’s wariness. When the old man spoke again, his words carried the same amusement that had begun to appear in his eyes.

  “I swear it on the River Styx.”

  The moment those words left his mouth, Darren’s eyes widened slightly.

  So this world knew of the River Styx and its embodiment—the Goddess of Unbreakable Oaths.

  To swear upon it was no small matter. Such an oath could not be broken without consequence. Even gods treated those vows with the utmost seriousness. Which meant Orwell Rubin understood exactly what he was invoking.

  After a brief pause, Darren gave a small nod.

  “Very well then, Orwell,” he said. “We have a deal.”

  Across the table, Marianne leaned back slightly in her chair, seemingly satisfied with the outcome as well.

  Under her breath—quiet enough that it was almost meant only for herself—she murmured softly, “Then may Styx oversee this oath…and punish those who break it.”