And for the first time in centuries, he felt understood.
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. 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.
“It is a time-honored tradition,” she squeaked. scaramouche x debate club image
And yet… he didn’t drop it.
None of them would use a Debate Club. None of them would deign to touch something so vulgar. That, precisely, was its power.
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. And for the first time in centuries, he felt understood
But then he remembered the Doctor’s smug face. Dottore, that preening collection of scarves and scalpels, always going on about “efficiency” and “clinical precision.” He remembered Signora’s cold, condescending smile. He remembered the Raiden Shogun— her —and her immutable, divine perfection.
“Lord Balladeer,” the lead agent stammered. “We came to assist. Are you… injured?”
The next day, on a remote island in Inazuma, a Fatui recon team found something they could not file in a standard report. By the time they arrived, the camp was a crime scene
The air in the Grand Narukami Shrine’s back archive was thick with the scent of ancient vellum, dust, and impending violence.
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.
And in the center of it all, sitting daintily on an overturned crate, was Scaramouche. He was polishing the Debate Club with a silk cloth. A single drop of something that was probably rain glistened on its iron face.