Fate's Slave - Shadow Slave X Honkai Star Rail

Eventually, Sunny exhaled and pushed the lid open.

The outside world returned all at once, light spilling in as he climbed out with the same casual indifference he would display stepping out of a doorway. There was no hesitation, no lingering attachment to the small, enclosed refuge he had momentarily claimed. That was not his way. Once the moment passed, it passed completely.

He stepped back into the alleyway, brushing off his armor as if that would accomplish anything, before glancing upward for a brief moment.

The ring was still there.

Of course it was.

His gaze lingered for only a second before dropping again. There was no point in thinking about it now. Not yet. Not when there were still simpler matters to attend to.

Without another word, Sunny dissolved into shadow once more.

The transition was seamless, his body slipping into the darkness beneath him before reemerging somewhere else entirely. This time, when he stepped out, the environment had changed.

The border.

It stood exactly as he remembered it, and yet not at all the same.

The massive dome of impenetrable glass curved overhead, enclosing the Center in a pristine, controlled environment while the Outskirts pressed against it like a living, breathing contradiction. From the inside, it might have looked like protection. From the outside, it looked like a cage.

Guards stood stationed near the steel door embedded within the glass, their posture rigid, their weapons held with the practiced ease of those who had spent too long expecting trouble but not long enough experiencing it.

On the other side, people lingered.

They did not cross.

They could not.

They simply watched.

The tension was palpable, even without words. The Outskirts did not hide its resentment, and the Center did not pretend to acknowledge it.

Sunny observed the scene for a moment, his expression unreadable beneath the mask.

Memories surfaced, unbidden but clear.

The riot.

The months of careful manipulation.

The slow, deliberate escalation of conflict until violence became inevitable. He had not rushed it. That had never been his way. He had nudged, whispered, positioned events until they unfolded exactly as needed. By the time the gangs turned on each other, by the time their rage spilled over toward the guards, the outcome had already been decided.

He remembered the bodies.

The blood.

The moment the door opened.

And the opportunity that followed.

He remembered crawling out from beneath a corpse, the weight of it still pressed into his memory in a way that felt almost physical. He remembered running, not out of fear, but out of necessity. He remembered the beating he received when he tried to return to the Outskirts, the way the guards had treated him as nothing more than a problem to be discarded.

That had been the day everything changed.

That had been the day the Nightmare Spell claimed him.

Sunny exhaled slowly, the past settling back into place where it belonged.

Then, without hesitation, he moved.

There was no need to sneak any longer.

He simply stepped forward and appeared beside the nearest guard.

The man did not even have time to react.

Sunny’s fist connected with his jaw with enough force to send him crumpling to the ground instantly, unconscious before he even understood what had happened. The second guard barely had time to turn before he met the same fate, collapsing just as quickly.

It was completely unnecessary, but Sunny was a very spiteful person.

Sunny reached for the steel door and kicked it open with a single motion, the impact echoing sharply against the glass dome.

Then he stepped through.

The reaction was immediate.

People moved.

Not in panic, but in instinctive avoidance. Space opened around him as those nearby stepped back, their gazes sharp, assessing, wary in a way that the people of the Center had not been.

These were not sheltered civilians.

These were survivors.

Some bore visible augmentations, cybernetic limbs, reinforced frames, subtle genetic modifications that marked them as individuals who had adapted to a harsher reality. They recognized danger when they saw it, even if they did not fully understand what they were looking at.

Sunny did not acknowledge them beyond a brief wave.

Then he kept walking.

There was no urgency in his steps, no tension in his posture. He moved as if he belonged, as if there was no question about his presence there.

And in a way, there wasn’t.

Power had a way of simplifying things.

As he walked through the Outskirts, the environment shifted once more. The polished precision of the Center gave way to something far more chaotic, far more real. Buildings were worn, patched together with whatever materials were available. The air carried a different weight, heavier, filled with the lingering presence of industry and survival.

It was familiar.

It was home, unfortunately.

Sunny took it in without slowing, his gaze moving across the streets with quiet observation. Nothing had truly changed, and yet everything felt different.

He had changed.

That was the difference.

After some time, he exhaled quietly.

He had come a long way.

The thought was not particularly emotional. It was simply a fact.

And yet, as it settled, something else followed.

’...I guess I do have day ones, huh?’

Eventually, his steps brought him to a stop.

The police station stood in front of him, its structure as worn and guarded as everything else in the Outskirts. It was not the kind of place one simply walked into. The door remained closed, locked, with only a small peephole offering any form of interaction.

Sunny approached and knocked.

There was movement inside, slow and unhurried. Through his shadow sense, he felt someone get up, stretch, yawn, and make their way toward the door.

The peephole shifted.

”Yo. What’s the issue— the fuck?”

There was a pause.

”You look like a dog got cozy with a much, much uglier dog, brochacho.”

Sunny did not respond.

Instead, he disappeared.

The man inside blinked, confused. Then he shouted:

”Wait, wait! I didn’t mean to hurt your pretty little feelings! I like dogs! Especially the ugly kind!”

A voice spoke behind him.

”I like dogs, too.”

The officer froze. Then he turned slowly. Sunny sat on the bench, casually twirling his armored middle finger in the air.

The man stared, squinting as his eyes tracked Sunny’s middle finger with faint recognition.

”...Sunny?”

Sunny snorted, a little surprised that he deciphered his identity despite Weaver’s Mask covering his face.

”No, I am God. Who else could I be, you rimbo—”

”I thought you got your shit snatched by a tiny terminator.”

There was a pause.

Then Sunny lifted the bench with one hand.

The man immediately panicked.

”I take it back! I said I take it back!”

A door opened in the back.

Another man stepped out, holding a pug, his expression groggy.

”Who the hell are you talking to, Lando?”

The pug stared at Sunny.

Sunny stared back.

”Damn mutts. Why can’t you kick the bucket already?”

Lando nearly screamed as cracks formed in the bench.

”Avian, tell Sunny to stop breaking my precious bench! Where am I going to sleep now?!”

Avian blinked as he rubbed his eyes at the sight. He looked at the onyx armor. Then the mask. Then, finally, the bench held up in the air.

”...The fuck?”

”That’s what I said when he freaking teleported!”

Avian rubbed his eyes.

”How the hell are you doing that? Wait... Sunny? I could have sworn he got his shit snatched by someone’s newborn.”

”Great minds think alike— I’m sorry, seriously sorry!”

As Lando shook in fright, Sunny turned toward Avian.

”I ate a plenty of honey.”

Avian frowned.

”What’s honey? Like a honeypot?”