Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 126: Beneath the Ash

Chapter 126: Beneath the Ash

The headquarters hadn’t changed much.

Same stone walls, same maps curling at the corners, same hum of silence wrapped in candlelight and wood polish. But for Amari, stepping inside wasn’t a return—it was a reckoning. The space carried weight it hadn’t before. Memory. Failure. Choice.

Sergei stood by the far wall, flipping through a leather-bound folder that smelled faintly of ink and age. He didn’t look up immediately, but his voice emerged without effort, low and familiar.

"You’ve gotten taller," he said, as though those were the first words owed between men with history.

Amari approached slowly, fingers brushing along a carved desk edge, eyes tracing the curve of a brass dagger mounted beside an outdated ledger.

"It’s been three years," he said, not smiling. "If I didn’t grow, I probably wouldn’t be alive."

Sergei chuckled, soft and knowing, turning to face him fully.

"You haven’t changed much."

Amari glanced at him—at the smooth lines of a face that refused time, at the slight glint of reflected firelight dancing across his pupils.

"You have," he said. "Or... you haven’t. Not even a little."

Sergei smiled wider, lips parting just enough to reveal the edges of teeth too clean, too sharp, and unmistakably inhuman.

"I don’t plan on aging any time soon," he said lightly, walking toward the liquor shelf, picking up a bottle he didn’t uncork. "The perks of surviving too many wars."

Amari leaned back against the table, the ache still rooted in his shoulders, the bruises speaking louder in stillness than motion.

"I need clarity," he said, finally, voice steady. "They want direction. And I’m supposed to give it."

Sergei didn’t respond right away.

He stared at the bottle in his hands, the glass catching the light like it knew more than it wanted to reflect.

The firelight in Sergei’s chamber burned low, casting long amber reflections across the black steel of exposed weaponry and the cracked leather bindings of war logs that hadn’t been opened in decades. Amari stood in the stillness, arms crossed loosely over his bandaged chest, watching Sergei move with methodical grace—no ceremony, no suspense, just the precision of a man who had long stopped treating danger as a spectacle.

"Come," Sergei said, voice quiet but threaded with intention. "There’s something I want you to see."

Amari stepped forward, slower than usual, breath hitching once from the wound stitched above his ribs. Sergei reached into the narrow vault behind his desk and pulled free a cloth-wrapped shape, long and flexible, wrapped in dark velvet that held its own weight. He set it down on the table and began to unravel it—fold after fold—until the Kusarigama emerged in full.

Two curved daggers gleamed faintly at either end of a chain so dark it seemed forged from shadow. They were sharpened asymmetrically, modified not for flourish but for disruption—tools that didn’t ask for style, only finish. The balance of the weapon was perfect, the chain length precise, the blades neither too ceremonial nor too crude. It felt familiar. And new.

Sergei rotated it slowly in his palms, fingers brushing across the connecting links like they were sensitive to breath.

"I adjusted it from the Kraft Tournament," he said. "Weighted for your current reach. You’ve grown since then."

Amari didn’t reply. His gaze remained locked on the weapon, not in curiosity—but in something quieter. Restraint. Recognition. As though the Kusarigama already knew his blood. He reached forward and touched the hilt.

The air around him seemed to slow.

A tremor moved down his shoulder, past his elbow, into his wrist.

It wasn’t power.

It was inheritance.

He lifted the weapon carefully. Studied it. Let the chain droop across his fingers. Listened to the faint click as the blades touched the table.

Sergei was still talking—mentioning the blade weight, the chain tension, the edge memory carved into the steel—but it all blurred into background haze. Amari already understood.

"This is fine," he said quietly, interrupting. "I asked for something real. This is enough."

Sergei nodded. "I made weapons for everyone."

Later that evening, the boys were called into the chamber. One by one, they entered—still bruised, still sore, still unsure whether this summons would sharpen their spirit or fracture it further. But as their eyes landed on the weapons Sergei had laid out with meticulous care, something inside them shifted.

No speeches.

Just steel.

Just precision.

Each one had been forged to match instinct—to echo history rather than flatter imagination.

Maverick was handed twin tonfa, forged from compact alloy laced with impact foam and aggressive spike channels layered down the forearm guards. Built not only for defense but interruption, they held weight in the handle and deflection in the edge—perfect for Maverick’s direct, charge-first momentum.

Kenneth received a quarterstaff fitted with dual retractable blades, the core spine reinforced with resonance coils and balance tuning that made each strike echo through its own weight. Designed for someone who fought in arcs, not bursts—for clarity, for presence, for control.

Milo was presented with paired sai, light and deceptively sharp, the handles fitted with woven gripwire and torque sensitivity. They looked unassuming. They weren’t. Designed for feints and close disruptions—perfect for a fighter who made quiet movements mean more than aggression ever could.

Johnny’s weapon was a split bo staff, capable of separating into dual rods with magnetic anchors, tailored for speed and rapid adaptability. Sergei had adjusted the handle pressure to accommodate Johnny’s looser stance, sculpting a weapon that rewarded rhythm and punished interruption.

Then Sergei turned to Shylo.

For him, a rope dart—segmented cable laced with memory fiber and tipped with a hooked blade resembling a crescent fang. It was light enough to disappear in the hand, deadly enough to command attention when airborne. This weapon didn’t call attention to itself—it let the quiet speak. And in Shylo’s palm, it felt like gravity had made room for something more dangerous than volume.

Each boy held their weapon with a shift in posture—shoulders straightening, eyes lifting, breath rediscovering the pulse beneath restraint. There were no cheers. No celebration. Just silent understanding. These tools hadn’t been given. They had been earned.

Sergei watched them all with careful attention, his arms folded beneath the torchlight, his face unreadable save for the slightest pull at the corner of his mouth—a grin, reluctant and faint, but real.

"They’re tuned to your temperament," he said. "They don’t forgive sloppy form. And they don’t ask for permission."

The boys nodded in quiet agreement.

He took a step forward then, voice dropping lower.

"I’ll say this once," Sergei continued. "You do not fail with these. You do not fumble. You do not retreat. Dragunovs don’t arm cowards. So walk straight. And don’t make me regret sharpening steel for bleeding wrists."

The fire behind him burned darker then, its light settling into the blades like they belonged to dusk.