Hillel leaned his head against the rough canvas, closing his eyes. Unanswered questions swirled in his exhausted mind as the wagon rumbled onward, pulled by the silent silver Lune. Inside, a tense quiet had settled, broken only by the occasional creak of wooden wheels and the responsive swaying of their gear. Gaja remained near the front flap, facing forward, her decree about Scissia hanging heavy in Hillel's mind. Caladeus sat quietly beside Hillel, occasionally stealing worried glances his way. Johan had become a statue near the back, while Lafayette had seemingly fallen asleep under his wide-brimmed hat.
WHUMP!
The heavy impact against the back of the wagon hit like a physical blow, jarring everyone inside. Hillel's eyes flew open. Lafayette jolted awake with a startled yelp, nearly tumbling off the bench. Johan's hand shot to the hilt of his cleaver, muscles coiling tight beneath his clothing. Caladeus instinctively shifted to shield Hillel with his body. Gaja spun around, her amethyst eyes narrowing to slits, hand darting toward her belt.
Lodged in the thick canvas flap at the rear of the wagon was a jagged, fist-sized rock, sending wooden splinters flying inward. It vibrated slightly from the force of impact.
Before anyone could fully react to the projectile, the air wavered directly beside the embedded rock. With a faint pop and a flicker of displaced light, a figure materialized seemingly from nowhere, landing with surprising tenderness on the moving wagon floor despite the jarring entrance.
It was the intruder.
But he looked...different. His usual flamboyant confidence remained in his posture, but his carmine hair was wilder now, flecked with soot and grime. His dark red duster coat hung in tatters at several places, liberally splattered across the front and sleeves with dark, wet gore—blood and other unidentifiable filth that clearly wasn't his own. Even his face bore streaks of blood across one cheek.
He straightened up, ignoring the stunned silence within the wagon, and casually plucked the rock from the canvas flap, tossing it lightly from hand to hand. A familiar, mischievous grin spread across his face, though it looked slightly feral now against the stark contrast of blood spatter.
Lafayette broke the silence first. "Oh... it's Ezra." His voice carried equal parts relief and wariness.
"Miss me?" Ezra asked, his deep pink eyes sweeping over his crew before finally landing on Hillel with a spark of renewed interest. "Hope the ride hasn't been too boring."
"It hasn't," Johan mumbled, his voice low and gravelly. "We only just started."
Hillel was surprised. Nobody seemed to question the copious amount of blood that covered their leader. Perhaps, this was normal?
Ezra's brow furrowed, the grin faltering momentarily. "Is that so?" He glanced through the canvas opening at the position of the sun. "I expected you to be further up the path than this."
Lafayette smiled and jabbed a finger toward Hillel. "This guy's fault. He was knocked out cold for quite a while. Because of that, Gaja decided we should go on a hunt to kill time." There was no real accusation in his tone—merely stating facts with a hint of amusement.
Hillel's shoulders tensed. Being blamed for their delayed schedule, however lightheartedly, struck a nerve. "That's not my fault," he said, his voice stronger than he expected.
Everyone in the wagon turned to him simultaneously. Hillel swallowed hard but pressed on.
"I got injured pretty badly, yes...but that isn't on me. I was being attacked and I had to defend myself somehow." His words hung in the air, neither apologetic nor defiant—simply truthful.
Lafayette tilted his head, studying Hillel from beneath the shadow of his hat brim. "Who were you fighting against?" There was genuine curiosity in his question.
The interest surprised Hillel. "A whole bunch, actually. Two-headed cyclopes—several of them. A massive beast with a sharp horn and its rider. And an old man with some kind of ink ability."
Johan flinched visibly, then turned toward Hillel with a weird intensity that seemed to come out of nowhere. "Say that list again," he demanded, his voice tight.
Hillel straightened, suddenly aware of the shift in energy. "A bunch of two-headed cyclopes. A fat beast and its rider. And an old man with ink powers."
A weighted silence filled the wagon. Hillel glanced between their faces, trying to read their expressions.
Why are they on edge? Did I say something wrong? No, that can't be it...
Finally, Lafayette whistled low and broke the tension. "Damn, you're a powerhouse! Sustained all that damage and still fended off monsters and a sparker?" He turned toward the front of the wagon. "Hey boss, he should totally join our gang, right?"
Ezra merely chuckled and waved his hand dismissively, but there was something calculating in his eyes now as he watched Hillel.
Hillel offered an awkward laugh in return. What an asshole... The sarcasm wasn't lost on him, though. He wasn't that strong—far from it. He'd nearly tasted death facing each of those foes, especially the beast and those cyclopes. The old man hadn't been quite as—wait. Sparker? What was that? Were they referring to the old man?
"Excuse me," Hillel ventured cautiously, "but what's a sparker?"
The question landed like a stone in still water. Every head snapped toward him, expressions ranging from surprise to suspicion.
"Did I say something wrong?" Hillel asked, discomfort crawling up his spine.
"Yeah, you did," Gaja answered bluntly, moving closer from her position at the front. "You don't know what a sparker is?"
"No. First time I've ever heard the term." Hillel shifted uncomfortably under their collective stare. "To be fair, I haven't heard of much."
Gaja's eyes narrowed. "Sparkers are humans who can wield sparks—special powers, like Caladeus's flames or my summoning ability." Her tone grew increasingly concerned. "This is common knowledge, though. Even folks from the most isolated villages know what a sparker is."
The atmosphere in the wagon had changed. Everyone was staring at him with an expression he couldn't quite place—suspicion mixed with disbelief. Even Ezra, who had appeared so carelessly confident moments before, seemed taken aback.
Caladeus leaned forward, his voice gentle but probing. "What's your name again?"
"Hillel."
"Do you have a spark, Hillel?" Caladeus asked carefully. "I figure you must, especially if you managed to handle so many formidable enemies."
"If you mean some kind of strange power, then yes." Hillel nodded slowly. He closed his eyes, focusing inward to find that familiar heat. When he did, his eyes shimmered with bright crimson light as a phantom hand materialized beside his right one. It felt good—with his hand in working condition again, he could maintain the presence of the ghostly appendage a bit longer than before. After several seconds, it fizzled out like dying embers. "I can't control it much, but yes. I have a 'spark.'"
The others observed his display with mixed reactions—surprise at its manifestation, but none seemed impressed by what they saw. Their expressions remained guarded, tinged with curiosity and growing concern about his profound ignorance of things they considered basic knowledge.
Ezra pushed himself away from the wagon canvas, taking deliberate steps toward Hillel. The playful, feral energy he'd arrived with dissipated like morning mist, replaced by an unnerving seriousness. His pink eyes narrowed, losing their mischievous glint as sharp focus replaced easy confidence. The shift was palpable throughout the wagon—Caladeus subtly leaned away, Lafayette grew perfectly still beneath his hat, and even the stoic Johan seemed to tense further.
"Forget the spark-talk for a moment," Ezra said, his voice low and measured, cutting through the previous chatter like a blade. He stopped directly before Hillel, close enough that Hillel could see flecks of dried blood near his hairline and smell the metallic tang of it on his coat. "You were inside that facility. In the organ farm, to be exact. You told me you were a prisoner." It wasn't a question but a statement of fact. "Why? What was Axel Road doing with you in a place like that?" He leaned slightly closer, his gaze unwavering. "I expect the truth."
The intensity in Ezra's eyes made Hillel's breath catch in his throat. The rest of the crew remained utterly silent, watching the exchange with undisguised interest.
"I...I don't know," Hillel stammered, intimidated but determined to explain. "They weren't...holding me there, not really. Not until the old man caught me." He swallowed, searching for words that wouldn't sound absurd. "I just...woke up...underground. I was trying to escape the whole place when he found me near the stairwell. That's when they locked me in that cell."
Ezra tilted his head, skepticism etched into every line of his face. "Woke up underground? Trying to escape?" His voice remained quiet but gained a dangerous edge. "That facility is layers deep, tied directly into the farm. You don't just wander in, and you certainly don't just 'wake up' there unless Axel Road deliberately put you there." His eyes narrowed further. "How did someone like you get inside there in the first place?"
Hillel felt cornered, the illogic of his own experience pressing down on him like a physical weight. How could he explain something he didn't understand himself? There was only the raw, impossible truth. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Ezra's demanding gaze.
"I didn't get in there," Hillel said, his voice barely above a whisper but crystal clear in the wagon's sudden silence. "I told you. I just...woke up." He drew a shaky breath. "Inside. Underground."
He hesitated, then forced the rest out. "Inside a coffin. Buried in the dirt...inside the organ farm."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Hillel watched Ezra's face transform. The cynical amusement and probing intensity vanished in an instant. Ezra's deep pink eyes widened almost imperceptibly, his jaw tightened, and something Hillel couldn't name—shock? Disbelief? Recognition?—flashed across his features before being masked by sudden rigid stillness.