Aya’s blade caught the moonlight as it rose, a clean, merciless arc suspended above Crawford’s bowed head. The night was breathless around them, heavy with the metallic bite of imminent violence. Gravel shifted under Crawford’s knees. He did not move. Did not resist. He only knelt before Aya as if offering himself to the sword.
Aya narrowed his eyes.
Crawford would never allow himself to be cornered like this. A man who saw the future didn’t simply kneel for execution. This wasn’t surrender. It couldn’t be. It had to be a trap. Schwarz did not abandon their own, not like this, not ever.
Aya’s grip tightened on the hilt. His pulse thudded loud in his ears.
Where were they?
He swept the clearing with a sharp, searching gaze. Shadows spilled between the half-collapsed warehouse walls. The night was thick enough to hide an army. Any second, he expected Schwarz to launch themselves out of the dark with lethal precision.
But nothing moved.
No footsteps. No breath. No glint of a hidden gun.
Only silence.
Aya took a step back, blade still raised, his instincts screaming.
And then Crawford spoke.
“Just do it,” he rasped.
Aya’s head snapped toward him, and for the first time, he saw.
Crawford’s suit was immaculate—untouched, uncreased, pristine in a way that should have signaled control. But the polish was a lie. His breathing came in sharp, uneven bursts. The muscles along his back were locked, drawn like a bowstring stretched far past breaking. A faint tremor ran through him, subtle but unmistakable.
Fear.
Raw, unguarded, almost feral fear.
Crawford—who always moved as if the world bent itself around him —was trembling.
He wasn’t defending himself. Not summoning a vision, not reaching for a hidden weapon, not calculating an escape. His fists were clenched so tightly they trembled with strain. His entire body was coiled, not for attack, not for flight, but as if bracing for the blow.
Aya stared at him, the sword suspended uselessly in the air.
This wasn’t Schwarz’s leader. This wasn’t the immaculate strategist who could dismantle enemies with a single prediction.
This was a man stripped to something fragile, something exhausted, something that looked disturbingly like defeat.
Aya’s breath caught.
What had happened to Brad Crawford—what could possibly have shattered him enough—that he would lay his life down at Aya’s feet?
And offer no fight at all?
Aya hesitated. Then he moved in a slow, predatory circle around Crawford. Each step deliberate, controlled.
Crawford didn’t move. He didn’t track Aya with his eyes. He didn’t lift his head. His breath came in quick, uneven bursts—too fast, too shallow, as if every inhale scraped against something raw inside him.
Aya stopped before him. Another heartbeat passed. Then he stepped forward and slid the katana beneath Crawford’s chin, forcing his head up.
Crawford’s eyes met his—wide, blown-open with something Aya had never seen in him before. Fear. Desperation. Hopelessness. Not the cold precision of Schwarz’s leader. Not the calculating calm of a man who claimed to see the future. The certainty was gone. The composure stripped away.
Before him knelt a man undone, panicked to the point of shaking—someone who had surrendered completely, before Aya raised his blade.
Aya’s eyes widened.
Slowly, he let the katana drift downward. Its steel gliding from Crawford’s throat to his sternum, tracing the line of his heart, sliding lower toward his abdomen. He held Crawford’s gaze the entire time, watching for the moment realization dawned.
And it did.
Crawford flinched sharply. His eyes widened. His spine jerked as though the blade had already pierced him.
Aya allowed a small, cold smile to pull at the corner of his mouth.
Very slowly—agonizingly slowly—he pressed down. Not enough to cut. But enough that Crawford could feel the promise of it, could understand the type of death Aya was offering. Inch by inch. A wound that left Crawford alive just long enough to feel every shred of agonizing pain. A slow, intimate execution.
Crawford’s trembling intensified. His gaze locked with Aya’s, desperate and helpless, until something shifted. Crawford clenched his jaw, swallowed hard, and shut his eyes.
Aya hesitated.
He had expected resistance—anything. An attempt to escape. A lunge, a plea, a flicker of fight. But Crawford, despite his terror, remained perfectly still.
And presented himself to the blade without a single move to protect his life.
Aya stared at Crawford, and for a moment time simply… stopped. Every heartbeat felt suspended in air, stretched thin and fragile. The world narrowed to the trembling man kneeling before him.
Crawford didn’t move. His eyes stayed shut, his fists clenched tight enough that the knuckles blanched, his entire body rigid with strain. The trembling ran through him in small, uncontrollable waves. His breath came too fast, too shallow, each inhale sharp enough that Aya half expected him to choke.
Slowly—deliberately—Aya drew the katana back.
Crawford’s eyes snapped open. He stared up at Aya, and the despair in them was so raw it almost didn’t look human. His voice broke as he rasped, hoarse and pleading, “Do it. Make it painful, make it slow—just do it!”
Aya stepped back a few paces, blade lowered but still ready, and watched him carefully.
“Why?” he demanded.
Crawford shook his head once, an abrupt, jerky motion. No explanation. No excuse. Only the trembling.
“Why?” Aya repeated, sharper.
And Crawford’s answer was a broken whisper: “Please… just kill me.”
“Not until I understand why you’re here,” Aya said, voice cold and steady.
Crawford swallowed hard. “It’s Rosenkreuz’s judgment.”
Aya’s brow tightened. He didn’t understand. Crawford saw the confusion and forced himself to continue, each word unsteady, dragged, painful.
“This is the price of my failure,” Crawford managed. “I am to kneel before you and accept your judgment.”
Aya snorted, disbelief flashing over his features. “You? Fail? You’re the Oracle—you never fail, not ever.”
Crawford’s eyes closed in visible anguish.
“When it comes to missions, yes,” he whispered. “You’re right. I never failed Rosenkreuz’s objectives.” A tremor passed through him, deeper than before. “But I failed on a… personal level.”
Aya said nothing, but the question was in his eyes.
Crawford pushed the words out like they scraped him raw. “As Schwarz’s leader, it was my duty to control my team. To keep them as tools, as assets. But I—” He paused, jaw tightening with shame. “I began to care. To worry for them. To place their wellbeing above the missions.”
Aya’s expression flickered—confusion and disbelief flashed across his features.
“With my foresight,” Crawford continued, voice shaking, “I still completed every objective flawlessly. But Rosenkreuz discovered my… attachment. And now they’re making an example of me.”
Aya stared at him in open shock. “You? Care? The cold, logical commander of Schwarz suddenly grows a heart?”
A bitter, broken sound escaped Crawford—a laugh that wasn’t laughter at all. “I didn’t choose it,” he whispered. “When I became Schwarz’s leader, I believed I would keep them at a distance. Maintain the proper boundaries.”
His gaze dropped, breath shuddering.
“But little by little… I started to care.”
Aya’s grip tightened on the katana.
“And when Rosenkreuz forced me to choose,” Crawford said, voice barely more than breath, “your blade—or Schwarz’s destruction—I realized I had failed completely.”
His eyes lifted to Aya’s, shining with helpless, unhidden truth.
“Because for me… there was only one choice.”
Aya stared at Crawford, silent, unmoving. He had expected many things from Schwarz’s leader—lies, defiance, manipulation. But not this. Not a confession carved out of raw shame and fear. Not a man offering his life because it was the only shield left between Rosenkreuz and his team.
Crawford met his gaze, and there was nothing cold in his eyes now. No arrogance. No veneer of control. Only a silent, desperate plea.
Not for mercy.
But for death.
Aya felt his throat tighten. The weight in his chest shifted painfully, memories echoing with unsettling clarity. He knew what it meant to give everything to protect the few people who mattered. To sacrifice himself without hesitation if it meant keeping them safe. That kind of loyalty, that kind of love—Aya understood it far too well.
He looked at Crawford again. Really looked.
Here knelt his enemy. The ruthless, merciless leader of Schwarz. The man responsible for countless deaths. The man connected to the day Aya’s world was shattered. His enemy in every sense.
But Aya’s eyes no longer saw the monster.
They saw a man—broken, shaking, bowed under the weight of a sentence he believed he deserved. A man begging for the only thing Rosenkreuz would accept as atonement: his death.
Aya’s breath stuttered, sharp and uneven. A flicker of doubt rose in him, confusing and unwelcome.
Until moments ago, the path had been clear. Kill Crawford. End the threat. Claim justice. Close the wound that had bled inside him for years.
Now?
One part of him wanted to lift the blade and finish it—complete the vengeance he lived for.
But another part—quieter, deeper, frighteningly human—recognized Crawford’s desperation. Understood his grief, his failure, his hopelessness. That part recoiled at the thought of ending someone already so shattered. That part did not want to destroy him – it wanted to save him.
Aya’s heart hammered, breath coming far too quickly. The turmoil inside him tangled tighter with every passing second.
A moment ago, everything had been simple.
But now…
Now he had no idea what he was supposed to do. Shuld he cut Crawford down? Or garant him mercy and let him live?
Crawford had no way of knowing what storm was tearing its way through Aya’s thoughts. No way of sensing the chaos behind those narrowed amethyst eyes. All he saw was the blade, the hesitation, and his own failure drawing closer with every second Aya lingered.
“Aya,” Crawford rasped, breath shuddering, “you need to end it. Schwarz is coming.”
Aya flinched.
If Schwarz arrived now, Aya’s life would be in real danger. He knew Crawford wasn’t lying. Crawford had no reason left to lie.
Resolve snapped tight inside Aya. He stepped forward, muscles coiling with lethal purpose. He lifted the katana again, higher, steady, cutting through the cold air with a whispered promise of death.
Crawford’s face went bloodless. His eyes flew wide, panic raw and unguarded, as Aya brought the blade down in a clean, decisive arc.
And at the last possible heartbeat—Aya wrenched the strike aside.
The katana sliced harmlessly past, its edge hissing through empty air instead of bone and flesh.
A strangled, broken sound tore itself from Crawford’s throat. A sob, forced from his chest. He stared first at the blade, then at Aya—dread, and despair twisting through every trembling breath.
“Aya…” His voice cracked. He had to swallow hard before he could force out any more words. “Aya… please… I know you have no reason to make it quick. But…” His voice broke again, shaking. “I don’t know how long I can keep still. How long I can kneel for your blade without flinching, without fighting, without—without resisting. Please… end your game.”
Aya froze.
And in that moment he understood: Crawford thought he had done it on purpose. That he had missed to prolong the fear. To mock him. To savor the control.
Aya shook his head, the motion sharp, almost pained.
“That wasn’t a game,” he said, voice rough, unsteady. “I meant to kill you. I did. But something in me…” His breath faltered. “Something in me couldn’t.”
Crawford stared at him, disbelieving and trembling.
And Aya stared back—caught, conflicted, unable to look away.
From the darkness, a sharp, echoing clap cut through the night.
Aya spun, blade lifted, instincts snapping into readiness. Crawford went rigid beside him, his breath seizing in his lungs. A tall man stepped from the shadows with the slow, lazy confidence of someone who had nothing to fear.
“Is that your judgment, Abyssinian?” he drawled. “To let your greatest enemy live?”
“Your Excellency…” Crawford choked, voice cracking with dread. But the man lifted one hand—barely a gesture—and Crawford fell silent instantly, as if the air had been torn from his throat.
Aya narrowed his eyes, studying the stranger’s posture, his smirk, the oppressive aura that rolled off him like a silent warning. “A representative from Rosenkreuz, I presume?”
The man grinned wider.
Aya’s teeth clenched. Something in the man’s manner—arrogance, certainty, a predator’s casual cruelty—irritated him deeper than he liked. But he also understood precisely what he was dealing with. This was no ordinary operative. No ordinary threat. Someone who could command Crawford with a lifted hand. Someone who enjoyed doing so.
Aya’s gaze flicked back toward Crawford—and froze.
Crawford was no longer kneeling.
He had lowered himself fully, pressing his forehead to the dirt, body folded in complete submission. Not to Aya. Not to the blade.
To the man now watching them both with idle amusement.
A cold fury uncoiled inside Aya, sharp and sudden. Whatever Crawford had done, whatever blood stained his hands—seeing him humbled to this degree twisted something vicious in Aya’s chest. Who was this man, that he could crush Crawford so effortlessly? Break him this completely?
“Well then, Abyssinian,” the man said, and now his voice carried a deadly seriousness beneath the mockery, “what is your judgment?”
Aya hesitated. The katana felt heavy in his grip.
Then, with a voice like ice, he said, “I will not kill Crawford.”
Crawford flinched—sharp, involuntary, as if struck.
The man narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain? Crawford had his hands in the death of your family.”
Aya’s jaw tightened. “I am certain.”
“Mm.” The man’s tone was oddly unsurprised. “If you’re quite sure…”
He turned his attention to Crawford.
“And you? What do you think of this judgment?”
Crawford lifted his head only enough to speak, his voice reverent and shaking. “Your Excellency… please. Give me the chance to do it myself. Allow me to end it. Now—here—however you command. Knife or bullet… slow or swift… whatever you desire.”
Aya stared, stunned by the desperation in his tone.
But the man simply shook his head. “No, no.” He waved the offer away like an inconvenience. “Your punishment was to submit yourself to Abyssinian’s judgment. He has spoken.”
He smiled.
“And so this matter is settled.”
Aya stared… It sounded as if—
The representative stepped toward Crawford and lowered himself to one knee before him, bringing their faces level. Crawford stiffened, trembling, unable to meet the man’s eyes at first. But the representative tipped Crawford’s chin up with two fingers—gentle, almost reverent—and forced him to look.
When he spoke, his voice was strangely soft.
“Brad. You were sentenced to face Abyssinian’s judgment. The judgment was not that Abyssinian must kill you.”
Crawford blinked at him, utterly lost. He shook his head, breath breaking. “I… I don’t understand.”
“Brad,” the man said, and there was real patience in his tone, “your failure was not that you began to care for your team. Your failure was that you tried to hide it from Rosenkreuz.”
Crawford’s eyes widened. He shook his head again, more violently. “But emotions are forbidden!”
A shadow of sorrow touched the man’s expression. He placed a hand against Crawford’s cheek—an intimate gesture that made Aya’s grip tighten on his katana.
“Emotions are human,” the man said quietly. “And you are an extraordinarily powerful precog. You have always treated feelings as a flaw. As something beneath you. But now…” His thumb brushed the trembling line of Crawford’s jaw. “Now you have learned that you are still human. And that there are people in your life you would sacrifice everything for.”
Crawford stared, frozen, unable to breathe.
The man’s smile softened, a strange blend of sympathy and regret. He cupped Crawford’s face more securely.
“Is it so impossible to believe,” he whispered, “that we do not want to destroy you?”
Crawford swallowed, voice breaking. “I am a tool. Nothing more. And this tool is defective.”
The man’s eyes flew open, shock slicing through his composed facade.
“I didn’t know you were trained by Kestrel.”
Crawford flinched at the name but nodded. “I was his protégé. He trained me… personally. Outside the official program.”
The man swore under his breath. Something dark and furious flashed across his features.
“That explains everything,” he growled. “We couldn’t understand why you manipulated missions, why you resisted orders in subtle ways. Your alleged attachment to your team—” he shook his head, almost disgusted— “it seemed like fabrication. An excuse.”
Crawford lowered his gaze, shame twisting his features.
“And even here,” the man continued, “as I watched you with Abyssinian, I doubted. I thought perhaps you’d foreseen everything and were orchestrating some grand deception.”
He exhaled sharply—then looked at Crawford with a new, aching clarity.
“But now I understand. Kestrel should never have had access to you. What he taught you was not the truth. It was corruption. His own twisted doctrine.”
The man rose slowly and turned to Aya.
Aya hadn’t moved, but he had listened to every word—every revelation painting a far more complex portrait of the enemy he thought he understood.
The representative bowed his head. Bowed. To Aya.
“Thank you, Abyssinian,” he said quietly. “Thank you for sparing him. As a representative of Rosenkreuz, I hereby declare the hostility between Rosenkreuz and Weiß ended. No Rosenkreuz unit will act against Weiß—unless Weiß begins hostilities first.”
Aya inhaled sharply.
Peace with Rosenkreuz? Impossible. Unthinkable. And yet…
Rosenkreuz was still a threat. Still a force that killed innocent people. Aya knew this peace would never last. Sooner or later, Weiß would clash with them again. It was inevitable.
But for now—for this moment—he accepted the offer.
Aya lowered his blade, eyes steady.
“I accept.”
Aya watched as the man turned back to Crawford. He reached out without hesitation, steadying Crawford with a hand beneath his arm as he helped him back onto his feet.
Crawford was shaking—unsteady in a way Aya had never seen—but he accepted the support, leaning into it with quiet exhaustion.
“I’ll take you to Schwarz,” the man said softly. “They’re waiting for you.”
Crawford hesitated. His eyes flickered toward Aya one last time—disbelieving, raw, almost helpless in their openness. Aya held the gaze without speaking. He didn’t have the words, not now.
Then, the man guided Crawford toward the door. Aya listened to their footsteps fade, and the room was silent again.
A few weeks later, they met again on neutral ground.
Aya stood with his hands loosely at his sides; Crawford mirrored him a few meters away, posture composed, but there was something new in him—something open, almost fragile in its sincerity.
For a long while, neither spoke.
Then Aya broke the silence. “How are you?”
Crawford hesitated. The answer wasn’t automatic, wasn’t polished. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than Aya remembered.
“Better.” A pause. Then an honest smile touched his lips—small, but real. “My team and I… we’re closer now. I didn’t expect that.”
Aya nodded. He wanted to say more, but everything inside him was a knot of contradiction. Part of him still saw Bradford Crawford as the enemy—calculating, merciless, deadly. Part of him remembered the offer of mercy, the choice he had already made.
They stood in silence until Crawford drew a slow breath and said, very softly, “Thank you for my life.”
Aya’s jaw tightened. He looked away, then back, and admitted, “A part of me, still wants to kill you.”
Crawford closed his eyes for a moment and nodded. “I know. But I won’t forget what I owe you. If you ever need help…” His gaze sharpened—not threatening, but resolute. “I’ll know. And I’ll be there.”
The offer hung in the air, strange, impossible and real.
Aya hesitated, searching Crawford’s face for any trace of manipulation, any sign of the old games. He found none. Only a man who had been broken open and was trying to rebuild himself from the pieces.
At last, Aya gave a single, small nod. “I accept.“