They had been sent to clear a Nobushi encampment. By the time they arrived, the camp was a crime scene. Not of stealthy assassinations or arcane Electro overloads. It was a scene of profound, cartoonish, and absolute demolition.
Scaramouche didn’t look up. He gave the club a final, loving wipe. “Injured? No. Enlightened? Yes.” He hefted the massive weapon onto his shoulder with a casualness that defied physics. The timber groaned. The rivets strained. He looked ridiculous. He looked terrifying.
“I find,” Scaramouche whispered, tapping the flat of the club against his palm, “that with the proper tool, a debate can be concluded very, very quickly.” scaramouche x debate club image
He stood up, the club casting a monstrous shadow in the setting sun. The Balladeer, the puppet who despised the world, had found a new voice. It was not a clever argument or a whispered threat. It was a blunt, uncompromising statement of fact, delivered at high velocity.
The shrine maiden cowered behind a broken omamori stand. “Please, Lord Harbinger, that is a sacred relic of debate resolution!” They had been sent to clear a Nobushi encampment
And yet… he didn’t drop it.
“From now on,” he said, his voice as light as a summer breeze, yet cold enough to freeze the agent’s spine, “all diplomatic negotiations with the Shogun’s forces will be handled by me. Bring your reports to my tent. Bring your concerns to my tent. Bring any dissent to my tent.” It was a scene of profound, cartoonish, and
“This,” he said, his voice a silken whisper that could curdle milk, “is what the Grand Narukami Shrine entrusts to its guardians?”
