CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Before Three



A man sits in a wicker chair, clasping his hands together in a display of nonchalance and confidence. His face is shrouded in darkness, with only a single overhead light illuminating his body. The folds of his long white coat draping across his chair. A wide-brimmed, flat-topped hat sits on the table in front of him, next to a glass of ice water and an empty ashtray.

He leans forward, and some of his face is revealed. He is black, his skin dark and features angular and aged, with a simple square goatee-beard. He pulls his hands apart and raises a single finger.

“Time for a pop quiz~…” says the old man, before gesturing to the seat across from his. “Sister Phantasma, can one of your people step forward and tell me how the Roman Empire met its end?”

Sitting across from him in a similar chair is a large woman. Her stature is incredible. She wears a bright turquoise tuxedo, sparkling all over in the low light, her fingers decked in rings. Over her face she dons a bright blue mask patterned with white flames, its design very similar to that of a luchador. “Dust,” she says in a low voice, “is this really necessary?”

“Please, humor me, that is all I ask!” the old man laughs.

Exhaling, the woman named Phantasma gestures to someone standing to her left. The attendant steps forward, revealing herself. It is Moya, her face still scratched up from her fight with Shizuka.

With certainty, she answers. “The barbarians of Central and Eastern Europe. They united against their Roman oppressors and struck them down when they were at their weakest point.” After answering, she steps back behind Phantasma’s chair. Standing next to her is a tall man, but his features cannot be seen clearly.

“Very good!” the old man exclaims, applauding. “Very good! I see you’ve been paying attention! Now Brother All-Kill, is there anyone among your retinue that can tell me how the Mongol Empire collapsed?”

To the man’s right sits a bespectacled Asian man, dressed in a plain charcoal suit, his tie hanging out over his blazer. His head rests in one hand, one leg crossed over the other, and generally appears disinterested in the proceedings. Without looking up, he says, “Sang-ok.”

A young man to his left steps forward and scratches the back of his head. Dressed plainly, with faded blue jeans and long-sleeved white shirt, he looks like he woke up only fifteen minutes ago. When he speaks, it is in a slow, lazy drawl.

“Let’s seeeeeee… ehhhh, I know this one… Oh yeah, it was ‘cause ol’ Genghis died, right? Only reason they got so far as they did was 'cause, they had the big man leading 'em forward. Once he clocked out, all the lords and shit basically bickered among themselves until the Empire was just a bunch of lame mini-kingdoms. That what you were lookin’ for, Dust-nim?”

The man in shadows leans forward fully, revealing his face. His head is shaved and bare. He wears no ornamentation, and around his neck he wears a clerical collar. This man is Brother Dust. The silhouettes of a young man and woman stand on either side of him, shrouded in darkness. The female stands rigid with hands on her hips, while the male reclines on the back of Dust’s chair, balancing on one leg.

“That is indeed the answer I wanted,” Dust declares, “Thank you for indulging me. Now I have but one more question, though it shall be the final question, and it is open to anybody: What did these two empires lack? How could such powerful forces of not only men, but also of faith, for it was faith that drove them to greatness, ultimately fail?”

There is silence for a time. Then someone from All-Kill’s side, in a soft but clear voice. A woman’s voice.

“Balance.”

Dust, still grinning, speaks into the shade. “I’m so sorry, my dear, but I didn’t quite hear you. Would you please step over here and repeat that?”

The woman’s voice groans. “I’d rather not.”

“T’onga…” All Kill says, a slight chiding tone to his voice.