While Sylvie and other moving pass to get out of the room, A girl in jet-black hair cut into an asymmetrical fringe, with the left side reaching down to her chest and its backside colored golden. She wear uniform with a black coat with a golden trim and fur on her shoulder. Underneath, she wears a black knee-long dress with a black-yellow necktie adorned with a glossy golden brooch, along with knee high boot. A beauty mark next to her left eye, and two rectangular golden earrings swing gently as she block in front Sylvie way.

  "She might not but having a leverage always good." She smile.

  Jaune sit on the edge of the couch. "Binah, Garion last time you have an leverage what happened to you again?"

  Binah’s-Garion smile didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened, her golden eyes half-lidded in amusement.

  “A show? Hm. But if you knew the script, would it still be entertainment? Or do you prefer surprises, Ayin?”

  Sylvie didn’t move, her expression calm but calculating. The others behind her, however, weren’t as composed—Nora clenched her fists, Ren’s posture stiffened, and Pyrrha’s concern deepened.

  Jaune exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Leverage only works when the other person cares about the trade.”

  Binah tilted her head, her earrings swaying slightly. “And yet… you gave the order to evacuate. How considerate.”

  Jaune’s smirk didn’t fade. “That’s called cleaning up distractions. Not hesitation.”

  A soft chuckle come from Garion. “Ah… Then I wonder… what would it take to make you hesitate?”

  The weight in her words hung in the air, the kind of question that had no single answer—because it was never really a question.

  Sylvie finally spoke, her tone polite but firm. “Lady Binah, would you kindly step aside?”

  Binah didn’t move immediately. Instead, she turned her gaze toward Kali, watching as the mist around her pulsed, shifting like a living thing not as before she see.

  “…Interesting.” Her tone was distant now, analytical. “The Crimson Mist given structure beyond its old shell… I see. I wonder if you’ll shatter just as beautifully.”

  Jaune leaned back slightly on the couch, rolling his wrist as a single card flickered between his fingers. “You sticking around to watch, Binah? Or are you hoping to be part of the show?”

  Binah’s smile sharpened ever so slightly. “Who can say?”

  She stepped aside. Just enough.

  Sylvie bowed once more before leading the others through the now-open pathway.

  And then, only those who belonged in the battle remained.

  Jaune stood up, facing the group with arms crossed, as if waiting for something—or someone.

  Then, without fanfare, Roland appeared, his form materializing in a sudden burst of pixelation a like. His eyes darted around, confused for only a second before locking onto Jaune.

  Angela turned, lightly startled where Roland once stood, there was nothing now.

  “What the—?! Hey, what the hell did you just—” Roland started, fists clenching.

  Jaune ignored him, holding out a hand casually. “Roland, may I borrow it for a bit?”

  Roland scoffed, already taking a step back. “No way. We’re enemies, remember? You’re not using my glove.” He waved a dismissive hand, pushing against Jaune’s arm.

  Jaune didn’t move. “No, I mean Durandal.” His hand remained outstretched, unwavering.

  Roland hesitated for a moment, brow furrowing. Then, almost against his will, a black longsword flickered into existence, forming within his grip.

  The moment it fully manifested—Jaune snatched it.

  Roland blinked. “Wait—”

  Jaune spun the sword in his palm, its weight familiar, as if it had been waiting for him all along. He hummed, a smirk forming. “Hm. Seems like it missed me.”

  Jaune pats on Roland's back then start walking toward the middle of where he'll face Kali straight on. "Go, I don't think you should be near at the moment."

  Roland watch as Jaune take away Durandal but something else drawing his attention. What is that on the floor, was it there before. But before he figure it out he got send back to where he was.

  Roland mind shuffle to remember. was he throw it at that moment?

  "Liz, put away the couch." Jaune as unsheathe Durandal. The couch disappear in pixeled effect.

  "That sword~." Kali low and raspy voice from her helmet.

  "Yep, it our training sword Kali." Jaune playfully, while he move ready in stances.

  Jaune’s grip on Durandal tightened—not in desperation, but in readiness. Only one hand held the sword, its hilt crossing his body, resting just at his right eye level. His stance was unorthodox, unfamiliar to most, but not to Kali.

  His legs formed a shape almost like a segitiga tengen without the hypotenuse—a deliberate positioning meant to focus all momentum into a single thrust. His stance wasn’t for show; it was the prelude to a strike aimed with intent.

  Kali’s grip on her sword shifted ever so slightly. Her helmeted gaze locked onto his posture, analyzing. This was a stance she knew. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t broad. It was precise.

  "...You and your weird stances." Kali's voice was low and raspy beneath the helmet, but there was no true mockery in it.

  Jaune smirked. “And yet, you’ve never broken through it.”

  The tension in the air grew heavier. The training sword of the past was now wielded in a battle neither of them could call practice anymore.

  "Tch." A sound barely audible through her helmet. She had seen this stance before, had fought against it over and over. And every time, it was the same. A single thrust, faster than expected. A strike that forced her to react, not control.

  This wasn’t a stance meant for trading blows. It was a stance meant to end things.

  Roland instantly understood. That was the key—light.

  For as long as he had wielded Durandal, it had always been lighter than expected, almost like a katana disguised as a longsword. A weapon meant for quick, precise strikes rather than overwhelming force.

  And in Jaune’s hands, that difference mattered.

  Jaune charged forward, his body coiling like a spring before snapping into motion. His hind foot pushed off the ground, spine straight, Durandal thrusting toward Kali’s neck with blistering speed.

  The blade nearly met its mark—

  Kleng!

  A sharp redirect. Durandal’s trajectory twisted mid-flight, retreating just as quickly as it struck. The clash of steel rang out as Kali’s flesh-forged sword intercepted from below, deflecting the thrust with a powerful upward counter.

  But it wasn’t over.

  Jaune’s momentum didn’t halt—it flowed. Using Durandal’s scabbard as an extension of his motion, he twisted, swinging the sheathe like a club. The scabbard slammed into Kali’s helmet—her head snapped to the side, a sharp clang echoing through the room.

  Durandal snapped back, the scabbard locking Kali’s sword in place—then slashed upward, tracing the path her blade had formed, aimed squarely at her visor.

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  Kali fell back, spine bending at an unnatural angle. Gravity pulled her into a controlled drop—but she didn’t roll with it. Her right foot braced behind her, steadying her stance as her flesh-forged weapon twisted—extending, curving, reshaping. Its edge reversed, warping into a wicked scythe.

  With a sharp yank, the hooked end caught Jaune’s neck, a momentary hold before she pulled.

  Jaune let the pull take him, ducking just as the blade skimmed overhead. His momentum carried him forward, the scythe twisted again—its edge snapping outward, shifting into a spear in Kali’s hands.

  Kali didn’t stop—she adjusted instantly, spear lunging toward Jaune’s head.

  Jaune ducked—the spear was already there.

  Durandal snapped up, its black edge colliding against the incoming tip. Sparks flashed as Jaune deflected the strike, sending it gliding upward rather than meeting it head-on.

  Kali let go. The weapon twisted mid-air, steel snapping with a sickening snap into a greatsword before Durandal even finished the parry already coming down with Kali adding more forces.

  Jaune shifted, Durandal rolling in his grip—deflecting, guiding, twisting into a downward counter-slash.

  A long metallic kleng rang out as both weapons clashed. Jaune let Kali’s flesh-forged sword glide downward—then, the moment it hit the ground, she countered with a great slash, forcing him to step back to her left, boots skidding across the floor.

  But the moment they separated, her sword shrunk a bit, compacting into its base form again—ready for the next attack.

  Kali’s relentlessness never wavered.

  Jaune exhaled. No openings. Not yet.

  The moment Jaune caught his footing, Kali thrust forward—not with her weapon, but with her shoulder.

  Kali crashed into him. A sharp crack. He slid back, boots screeching—but nothing else.

  Tch. He had fallen for it. Predictable.

  Kali wasn’t just using her weapon anymore—she was using him.

  Her blade was already shifting—scythe, spear, greatsword, all flashing in an instant.

  She wasn’t attacking to win—she was dragging him deeper, piece by piece, waiting to see where he’d break.

  Kali didn’t even glance at the others. “Focus.”

  Her voice was low, raspy—right before her fist slammed into Jaune, forcing him to brace against both her punch and the crushing weight of her sword.

  The others staggered, shaken by the intensity of the fight, but one by one, they steeled themselves.

  Yesod—no, Gabriel’s fingers twitched—his E.G.O. weapon thrummed with energy, poised to strike. Then… nothing.

  His fingers twitched, but his feet refused to move. Like invisible chains locked them in place.

  Binah—Garion—tried to step forward. Still nothing.

  Then, slowly, beneath them… a rectangle. A card. Chains stretched from each of them, converging at a smaller one—placed exactly where Jaune started the fight with Kali.

  Netzach—Giovanni—gritted his teeth as realization set in.

  "Fifteen seconds in—none moving entities is locked down!"

  His eyes shot toward Jaune.

  "Then why the hell did you tell us to join in!?" he roared.

  Jaune slid back, finally creating space. He exhaled, rolling his shoulders, and smirked.

  "Damn. Took you guys long enough to notice."

  Beat. Then, a chuckle—pure arrogance.

  "Haha—sike."

  Gabriel narrowed his eyes at Angela. “Carmen, are you sure this is Ayin? He’s… too expressive.”

  Angela didn’t hesitate. “This is him. He knows our names.” A pause. Then, irritation crept into her voice. “And why did you get caught too?”

  Jaune vanished.

  Kali’s eyes flicked—too late.

  A strike from behind. She ducked, barely dodging as Durandal whistled past her head.

  Jaune reappeared in front of her, blade rising from below in a sharp, vertical slash. She twisted away, but his kick caught her mid-turn, launching her into the air.

  Then—he was above her.

  Durandal in both hands. Aimed for her neck. The moment she hit the ground, it would be over.

  And then—he disappeared again.

  Jaune’s voice cut through the stillness.

  “Now, now, Angela, no need to be so sarcastic. I have reincarnated a lot, after all.” He tilted Durandal, its tip gleaming under the dim light. “Anyway, Carmen—do you remember what happened to Giovanni?”

  A beat.

  Angela remained silent.

  Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

  Michelle’s expression darkened. “…First subject.”

  “Sickness. Deathbed,” Daniel muttered.

  Giovanni didn’t speak.

  Jaune let out a breath—mocking, almost disappointed. “We extracted anger to make Mimic for Kali here.” His grip on Durandal loosened slightly. “Then you died, Carmen. So we used him to resurrect you. Then he died.

  “And I turned him into Netzach.”

  He lowered his blade, voice steady—unwavering.

  “…Do you really think anger was all we took from him?”

  Jaune’s gaze locked onto Giovanni. His voice was steady. Cold.

  “Can you feel it, Giovanni? Your time. Your deathbed.”

  Giovanni remained silent.

  Jaune turned his head slightly, eyes shifting to Roland.

  “You did quite the job, Roland. It’s reached its full Kogito potential.”

  Then—his toned firm, voice lowered, an oath.

  “Oath by the blade. Lay under the blade. All shall rise as my blade.”

  Durandal pulsed.

  A dark trail erupted from its edge, winding around Jaune’s left hand. The energy condensed, folding into itself—melding into metal.

  When the light faded, his arm was no longer flesh.

  A knight’s gauntlet had replaced it.

  A weapon reborn.

  Roland’s eyes widened. “…I can do that?”

  Jaune flexed his fingers, testing the new weight, then smirked.

  “Yes, you can.” He glanced at Roland, amusement flickering behind his gaze. “Probably. You aren’t its rightful owner yet… but don’t worry.”

  Kali struggled to rise—only for Durandal pointing at her.

  Jaune’s voice was calm, almost casual. “Stay down, Kali. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She gritted her teeth. “You—”

  A flash.

  Before she could finish, a projectile slash erupted from Durandal—faster than thought. She barely had time to brace, Mimic flaring to absorb the impact.

  Light flooded the room.

  And when it faded—her armor was gone.

  Now exposed, Kali’s true form was revealed. Long red hair, an unruly mess tied into a high ponytail that reached her thighs. Scars traced faint lines across her face. She wore the same Patron Librarian uniform as the others—a crimson jacket with a high collar, a glossy red brooch on her tie, maroon leggings, and polished loafers.

  Jaune stepped forward, kneeling down until he was eye-level with Kali.

  Irritation burned behind her gaze, but Jaune just smiled.

  With a slow, deliberate motion, he raised his right hand—the back of his fingers brushing lightly against her cheek. Then, with a flick of his wrist, a cigarette materialized between his fingers, reversed, its filter resting just near her lips.

  His thumb flicked, a tiny flame igniting at his fingertip, lighting the cigarette with a flicker of gold.

  Kali scoffed but didn’t move away. “You and your magic tricks.”

  Jaune’s smirk deepened. “Oh? Then don’t take it.”

  He pulled it back—and the burning tip droped into his own palm.

  The ember sizzled against his skin. Jaune didn’t even blink.

  Kali’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. She clicked her tongue. “Idiot.”

  Jaune chuckled, returning it to her lips.

  "You should be careful, you know,” he murmured. “New body or not, with your schedule, you’re heading straight for the Lungs."

  He stood, Durandal humming in his grip. His gaze swept over the others, smirk widening.

  "So… who's next?"

  Jaune turned, weaving Durandal lazily through the air. "Hm. Interesting."

  His gaze flicked to Liz’s screen. "Liz, I think I’m in the mood for rain."

  The room dimmed. White faded into gray. A soft patter echoed as droplets began to fall—yet, not a single surface grew wet.

  Jaune lifted his hand, watching the rain pass through his fingers. A slow smirk tugged at his lips. "Doesn’t this feel great? The cold sets the mood… fitting, isn’t it?"

  Then, his eyes shifted.

  Back to the question.

  Durandal tilted, then pointed.

  "How about you, Garion?"

  His voice was calm, but the blade’s edge wasn’t.

  "You always go against me. So why so silent now?" A pause. "Don’t you crave revenge for the torture? The easiest way?"

  His smirk deepened.

  "Oh, Arbiter."

  Jaune exhaled, eyes flickering with recognition. "Why don’t you escape the trap card like Hokma?" A pause. A slow smirk. "I mean… Benjamin. He reverse time a few seconds, avoiding the trap entirely."

  The name tasted foreign—no, old. Familiar, yet buried beneath layers of repetition.

  He turned slightly, eyes narrowing. "Or… have you figured out what these Plankton do yet, Garion?" Another second. He exhaled. "Now. That’s not quite right, is it? Angel. Can't even escape."

  Silence.

  Jaune ran a hand through his hair, chuckling. "Tsk. So many cycles, and even I need a moment to sort through it all." He lifted a finger. "Let’s review them, then."

  "Limit time points. Prevents external forces from altering or rewinding time beyond a fixed point. A safeguard against resets or time loops." Garion’s fists clenched at her sides.

  "Limit reality dilation. Stops reality from being stretched or expanded unnaturally, restricting large-scale time distortions and regeneration." Benjamin—Hokma—remained still, unreadable.

  "Limit reality condensing. Prevents reality from collapsing inward or contracting too much—ensures stability in localized spacetime or simpler is restrict extra laws unnecessaries in reality." His gaze settled on Giovanni.

  "Limit time multiplication. Stops time from accelerating exponentially. A countermeasure against things like Quantum Immortality or accelerated evolution."

  "Extracting energy. Draws energy from external sources, potentially even from alternate timelines, dreams, or past selves. Angela~."

  "Depositing energy. Stores and transfers energy into a fixed point—whether into an object, a person, or an event in time. Now, isn’t it an annoyance, Angela?"

  Each word felt heavier than the last—not because they didn't know, but because they did. Because this conversation had happened before.

  Garion remained still.

  Jaune sighed.

  Then, in an instant, he was gone.

  A presence settled behind her—his right arm draped lazily over her shoulder, as if greeting an old friend.

  His breath barely ghosted near her ear.

  "Roland, you’re from the City, right?" Jaune mused, his voice light, amused. "Lived there. Ate. Drank. Survived. All that."

  His fingers twitched against Garion’s shoulder—a subtle, taunting pressure.

  "And you were a Fixer. Basically just another mafia thug, yeah? Ya-di-ya." He waved his free hand dismissively, as if brushing off a dull story.

  Jaune tilted his head, smirking.

  "So, you know how interrogation works, don’t you?" His voice dipped lower. "To really break someone… you don’t need knives. Or fire. Or pain."

  A pause.

  His fingers shifted, deliberate.

  Jaune’s hand fondled Garion’s breast.

  "Their dignity."

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then—a black-yellow mass pierced through Jaune’s position like a spear of entropy.

  Garion was gone.

  No sound. No warning. Just absence.

  Several feet away, she now stood beside Benjamin, golden eyes flicking toward where Jaune had been.

  Benjamin idly tapped his pocket watch, his gray overcoat trailing to his feet.

  Garion exhaled, voice empty.

  "How primitive."

  Jaune reappeared, untouched, smirking.

  "You seek a reaction, as if that would grant you control over this moment."

  She tilted her head slightly, as if studying an insect under glass.

  "You misunderstand inevitability, child. Your actions are variables. But the result…" Her gaze sharpened. "Will always be the same."

  From the other side of Benjamin, a voice answered.

  "See? I knew you could do it. But that took effort, didn’t it? Must’ve cost a lot, right?"

  Jaune. His tone was easy, almost playful.

  A chuckle. A slow tilt of his head toward Benjamin.

  "Call me ‘child’ when you don’t even know who came first?" He grinned. "Oh, and ‘primitive’? That’s rich, coming from someone who once moaned a lot."

  Garion did not react.