TBR CH100

“Everything can end tomorrow? Both the beginning and the end lie with him—that was my request. I don’t find death frightening, only regretful that I never truly lived.”

—From Isidor’s diary hidden deep in a drawer, dated the day before he was transferred to Project Alpha seven years ago.

Outside Isidor’s office, John Cliff saw a man who looked vaguely familiar.

He tried to recall more carefully but figured he was probably mistaken—he had no real impression of that face. Still, the man seemed to notice his gaze and returned it with a mildly puzzled look.

Those eyes were as deep as the ocean—pure black with faint, colorful arcs of light—suggesting he might be of mixed heritage.

John, unusually, felt a bit embarrassed. Mostly because he’d already been loitering outside Isidor’s office for quite some time. As the captain of the Special Armed Division, he normally did things openly and decisively. Now, he looked suspicious and sneaky.

He hesitated, torn between wanting to advise his teacher and not daring to face Isidor at all.

However… that man also seemed troubled, standing there as if unsure of what to do next. John sensed something familiar in that indecision—like they were alike.

He thought for a moment, then took the initiative:

“Hello,” John glanced at the coffee in the man’s hand. “I noticed you’ve been here for a while. Waiting for someone?”

The other man seemed a little surprised by the conversation, though not uncomfortably so. This wasn’t a working area—researchers frequently rushed past, and small talk was common.

“No, not really,”

He gave a slightly awkward glance at the paper cup in his hand. “Just wandered here by accident… Actually, could you tell me where the nearest restroom is? I’m not really into black coffee.”

He was someone who thought of others—even going so far as to pour the coffee out in the restroom before throwing away the cup, rather than dumping it into the nearest trash can.

Either way, John was glad to have someone help him make a decision. That was the real reason he had approached—so he could justifiably delay what he needed to do.

It sounded childish, but seven years later, the one person the Black Hawk of the Special Armed Division still feared was his old teacher. Even if the “Kingfisher” had lost all power and now went by the name Isidor, a mere researcher, nothing had truly changed.

“This way,”

John not only pointed but started walking to lead the way himself.

The stranger—who was in fact Asta, sneaking out from the room—also found himself with a bit of a headache.

He’d been in a foul mood for some time, and things had gotten worse after the Black Book showed up yesterday. His thoughts were all over the place. So he decided to take a walk in human form. He hadn’t intended to see Isidor.

But somehow, his feet had carried him near the human’s office anyway.

He had stood in a shadowy corner, sipping the bitter, sour black coffee that Isidor often drank—but which he still couldn’t understand.

He split his attention, watching the office door—and naturally noticed someone else wandering the same area.

That person’s presence was subtly different from the other staff. Asta could smell blood on him.

When the man walked straight toward him, Asta tapped a finger against the straw and stared intently. He didn’t know what this person wanted, but he was confident in his disguise.

Besides, he hadn’t talked to anyone in days—though in truth, he’d only ever spoken to Isidor. He blinked and realized he was even craving this interaction a little. It shouldn’t go too badly.

And he needed an excuse to stop standing stupidly outside Isidor’s office drinking coffee.

He couldn’t stay here any longer. Otherwise, the bitterness he tasted wouldn’t be from the coffee, but from something deeper inside himself. Asta lifted his feet and walked toward the “nearest restroom,” hearing the other man walking beside him—he even seemed to let out a silent sigh of relief.

“So what about you?”

The monster suddenly asked, startling the stranger beside him.

The man looked up with wary, steel-gray eyes—too slow to hide the tension. Asta pretended not to notice.

“I saw you pacing back and forth while I was standing there. Were you looking for someone?”

“No, I…”

John hesitated. There was something strangely trustworthy about this black-eyed man. His voice was low and gentle, though with a faint, odd accent. A foreigner, likely of mixed blood—confirming John’s earlier guess.

He’d been running nonstop lately. The institute’s affairs left him barely a moment to breathe. The murder investigation remained unsolved, and the recent abnormal monster outbreaks couldn’t be ignored. Though the institute didn’t think much of monsters that two armed unit members could handle, John still felt something was off.

And of course, there was the Dawn Project. He’d come here to talk to Isidor about it—but couldn’t bring himself to speak. Deep down, perhaps his former teacher might even be the enemy now.

Asta stopped walking. Only then did John realize they had reached the restroom. The man didn’t seem too interested in his answer and quickly brushed past him, poured the remaining coffee into the sink, and threw the cup away.

Then he exited and gave John a polite, grateful smile.

Only then did John glance at his name tag—a name he’d never heard before.

That loosened something in him.

“To be honest,” he began with a lighter tone, “I was going to talk to someone. But it’s more complicated than that. That person probably doesn’t want to see me. I’m not even sure if I want to see him.”

True to form, the man—Asta—slowed his pace politely and listened like someone hearing a stranger vent.

John was surprised by how easily he began to speak about what he’d kept buried for so long. But once the dam broke, words poured out like a flood. Asta seemed like a good listener.

“How did it come to this?”

Asta hadn’t expected an answer from this potentially dangerous man, but John’s words unexpectedly struck a chord. His response came out more sincerely than he’d intended.

“We used to… know each other,” John chose his words carefully. “But that was a long time ago. There’s something urgent now, and I wanted to ask his opinion. But I’ve got a lot I can’t let him know.”

“Are you planning to lie to him?”

John gave a bitter smile. He thought of his teacher’s demeanor and eventually replied honestly:

“Compared to me, I think he’s the one hiding a lot more.”

The man across from him fell silent for a moment. Then he lifted his eyes slightly, and in them shimmered a kind, sympathetic understanding. John blinked in surprise. For a moment, before the feeling of trust settled in, he felt a chill down his spine. But in the calm and noisy illusion surrounding him, that detail was quickly forgotten.

“I’m sorry to hear that,”

Asta said—and he meant it. John’s troubles reminded him again of Isidor, especially that forced smile when he’d mentioned lying.

Perhaps the person John was talking about really was Isidor.

It was a ridiculous thought, but not impossible. Asta remembered how John had been lingering outside Isidor’s office. After confirming that the green-eyed researcher really was Kingfisher, many mysteries clung to the man.

Maybe he was a habitual liar. Maybe he was hiding even more secrets.

In any case, all this made Asta want to keep listening. He felt he ought to offer some encouragement:

“I had a friend,”

He said, “And only recently did I find out he’d been lying to me all along. So I think I understand that feeling—when trust breaks, and you no longer know how to be around someone.”

“Yes, exactly,” John nodded.

It was like randomly talking to a stranger only to find they shared the exact same troubles. Asta’s response clearly encouraged him to speak more.

He looked around and realized it was now lunchtime. Many office doors were opening and researchers were heading out to rest.

Asta hadn’t seemed busy to begin with, and now it was clear this wouldn’t be a bother.

John let out a long breath. He decided to set aside his worries for now and invited the employee he’d just met to the café nearby. Though the man didn’t seem to like coffee, the café also sold milk tea and juice. Just for a while—he really needed to get this weight off his chest.

“Of course.”

Having come this far, Asta had no reason to say no.

“I think our situations are different,”

John was beginning to feel frustrated. He stirred the last thin layer of cappuccino at the bottom of his cup with a coffee spoon, feeling deeply exasperated by Asta’s lack of awareness.

“So, according to you, she clearly did it because she loved you. I mean, sure, lying is a terrible thing, but you said she was also hurt, and… it wasn’t completely voluntary. If you really can’t let it go—no, stop, don’t tell me again that you don’t care about her. I can see it, you still have feelings for her. Why don’t you just go argue with her again?”

Asta carefully used terms like “a friend” and “that person” to avoid revealing too much, but John naturally interpreted the story as being about a woman. The monster thought for a moment and decided to just go along with the misunderstanding.

“Then you should have the courage to face it,”
it said. “If it’s guilt you feel, then you should strive to make up for your mistake. You can’t keep hiding it from that acquaintance of yours and continue doing something he wouldn’t want.”

“It’s complicated,” John said, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Right now, he’s the one who’s wrong. He’s the one being stubborn. I want to convince him to stop doing the wrong thing, but…”

“Are you really sure about that?”

Asta asked. They looked at each other for a brief moment.

“It’s been a pleasant conversation, Mr. Asta.”

John finished the last sip of his coffee, glanced at the watch on his wrist, and knew that no matter how reluctant he was, he had to pull himself away from this rare moment of leisure.

Asta was a good conversation partner—sometimes perceptive, but at other times so lacking in common sense it was almost bizarre.

For someone in John’s position, casually befriending a researcher within the institute was dangerous.

Still, he felt a bit better than before. As a Black Hawk, a member of the Special Armed Unit, John decided to forget about this brief encounter with a stranger and return to his duties.

“I feel the same,” Asta remained seated, offering a faint smile. “Remember to apologize to that acquaintance of yours.”

It was one of the rare points of agreement they’d reached during their conversation.

Facing this stranger met by chance, John also curved his lips slightly.

“That young lady is still waiting for you. Maybe you should make your decision soon. Don’t miss out on someone who loves you.”

Young people entangled in love often struggle with how to define “love.” Just like earlier, when Asta had genuinely asked him, “What is love?” in confusion. John thought of the “Son of God” Hill—by now, they’d reached the stage of sharing candlelit dinners with roses. Every time he saw that beautiful and sensible young man, his heart raced.

“Love is…” John had answered, “feeling happy when you see the other person, missing them when you’re apart, being ready to spend the rest of your life with them, and wanting to give them the best of what you have.”

“That’s it? Then how is that different from liking someone?”

“Liking is just a preference for a certain trait. But if you love the person you say you do, even if she’s very different from who you thought she was, you still can’t help but want to accept all of her.”

When he saw the look on Asta’s face, he knew that it had experienced all of that firsthand.

After John left, Asta remained seated in the café for a while longer. It still couldn’t untangle its feelings. Isidor’s deception was different from others’ lies—exposing it would be like tearing open a massive wound that had run through seven years of emotion.

And yet, when it thought of Isidor, its heart still felt light, as if it had no weight.

Its time outside was nearing the limit.

Even if it hadn’t figured things out, it had to leave.

“Teacher.”

Isidor turned around, unsurprised to see the Black Hawk in his security chief uniform. The man looked slightly awkward—normally exuding a dangerous aura as the leader of the Special Armed Unit, now he stood there as nervously as a student who’d made a mistake.

Isidor said nothing, waiting for what came next.

“I still hope you won’t do anything impulsive.”

John took a deep breath and said, “But maybe your resolve is not something I can change. Maybe one day I’ll truly have to stand on the opposite side and defeat you.”

He used the word “defeat.” Isidor gave him a thoughtful glance. Though John wasn’t explicitly trying to talk him out of going against the institute anymore, his word choice still revealed a clear awareness of power dynamics.

Even if a crippled Kingfisher could still hold a blade, it couldn’t compare to the Special Armed Unit that had reached its prime—this was probably what John believed.

“But,” John lowered his head, “I came today to say something else.”

“What is it?”

For the first time, Isidor spoke. His voice was devoid of emotion, and it instantly transported John back seven years to his harsh training days. The taste of blood and rust returned to his throat.

He struggled to speak, feeling his face burn with shame:

“…I’m sorry.”

Isidor looked up at him. The flash of green in his eyes reminded John of the cold, inorganic gaze he saw during the trial, pinning him in place like a nail—unable to move.

John felt completely exposed, but he gritted his teeth and went on:

“I’ve never forgotten what I did wrong back then. I’m sorry, teacher. I know it’s hypocritical to say it now after so long, but I truly feel ashamed—even today. I had to apologize. I’m sorry.”

Isidor stood silently. John didn’t dare look at his expression.

After a while, Isidor finally spoke:

“You came just to say that? I forgot about it a long time ago.”

It wasn’t an unexpected response, but John still felt at a loss. He knew he deserved this—there’s no such thing as a perfect apology that earns full forgiveness, especially one that came seven years too late.

He stepped back, knowing he no longer had the right to say more and that he had nothing else left to tell Isidor.

The former teacher and former student now stood separated by an unbridgeable gulf.

“I’ll go now,”

John said softly, turning to leave.

“You—” At that moment, Isidor suddenly spoke. It sounded like a sigh, one of helplessness—exactly like the ones he used to let out when correcting John’s grip on a gun or adjusting the force of his strikes. John looked up sharply, meeting Isidor’s eyes.

Still green—but no longer so piercing.

“I’ve never blamed anyone,”

Isidor said. He didn’t seem to be talking directly to John, yet he still looked at him. “Not even you. Your testimony wouldn’t have changed anything. If you had spoken the truth, it would’ve only brought you trouble.”

The Kingfisher’s downfall was something everyone had accepted. Anyone could add blood to his already dim feathers—those who didn’t were the ones treated as strange.

But the Black Hawk had been the Kingfisher’s finest student—the one he dragged back from death itself. Maybe, at the time, he still held onto a final sliver of hope.

John didn’t believe what Isidor said, because he had seen those eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

He repeated.

Isidor sighed again. “Go.”

He paused for a moment, offering what might be his final piece of advice to his former student:

“Don’t do something you’ll regret again, Black Hawk.”

There was no need to piece the broken past back together—especially when he himself was already covered in wounds and barely holding on. He could see the sincerity in John’s apology, and he was surprised by it. But for someone they were destined to cross swords with in a few days, it meant little.

The Kingfisher of the past was already dead.

Isidor was the name he had given himself—a name for a new life.

Countless days and nights had passed, during which he harbored secret hopes and remained by its side. So many nights he had gazed into the sea and remembered how it all began—when he stood atop the high platform, looking down.

He had lowered his head then, staring at the swaying, deadly tentacles in the water—each sharp enough to pierce straight through his chest. In that moment, he suddenly felt that everything could end. He blinked slowly, and a sweetness laced with venom welled up from within.

He no longer had a reason to live. Nor any need to.

All it would take was a slight lean forward, and his body would lose its balance. The Kingfisher stared at the black stars at the bottom of the sea, pondering what death might feel like. He fell downward, the sea wind brushing against his cheeks.

His eyes reflected only one thing—so cruel, so terrifying, so beautiful. It made Isidor question his sanity. Otherwise, why, when he looked directly at the creature deemed an SSS-class monster, did he no longer feel fear—only a perverse sense of release, as if shattering everything into pieces was a kind of liberation?

“I was created for you.”

He murmured. Had the muscles around his mouth not stiffened from the rapid descent, he might have even smiled. “A mistake like me should be destroyed by your hands.”

The Kingfisher fell—lightly, heavily. He was embracing death, already resolved, without a trace of regret.

…Until he was caught.

The shock of that moment was beyond words. What followed was a string of obscure syllables, awkwardly twisting against his eardrums. He strained to make them out:

“Human.”

Its English was poor, but there was a faint tone of reproach that could be sensed. “You’re too careless.”

Back then, Isidor had thought: a star—he had been caught by a star from the sea. And it had called him human. That identity, so often stripped from him by others, had been returned to him through the mouth of a monster.

And in that instant, he saw another possibility for the world. Vivid color finally emerged before his eyes, and his heart pounded wildly.

He would become a complete and genuine “human.”

Such a thought was beautiful.

Such a thought, even after all this time, still shone as brightly as ever. But Isidor lowered his emerald eyes and stared at his own pale hands—hands that had once again regained power beyond that of any human. He knew he had once again lost the meaning he had once found—the glow of that star.

He had to return to the weapon he had been seven years ago, one who knew nothing of emotion, who had to learn to deceive and betray.

He might even do things it no longer wished to witness—no, by now, it probably didn’t care about anything he did anymore.

But as long as he could protect it, Isidor thought, then he would do anything.