The skies above Gotham were strange — no constellations he recognized, no moon carved like the blade of a scythe. The buildings rose like stone towers crafted by sorcery, and the thunder machines that roared down the cobbled rivers of black stone terrified the horse out from under him days ago. You stood on trembling legs, armored boots sinking into a rooftop puddle, sword drawn and breath ragged.

And then she appeared.

The witch.

Katana.

Or so you thought.

She landed without a sound, like a phantom birthed from shadow, dressed in black and red, her face half-masked, eyes sharp as spearheads. In one hand, a curved blade shimmered — sleek and unfamiliar, but humming with a soul’s energy. You’d seen your share of cursed weapons. You knew death when it walked.

“You’ve followed me,” she said, her voice calm, but firm. “Again.”

“I know what you are, foul enchantress,” you growled, gripping your longsword with both hands. “You bewitched this realm. You corrupted time. You brought me here.”

She blinked slowly, unreadable. “You think I’m responsible for… that?” Her hand gestured vaguely to the glittering chaos of Gotham below.

“You reek of magic,” you spat. “You whisper to blades. You vanish like mist. I saw you watching me. I know your kind.”

Katana tilted her head. “I don’t know what century you’re from, but I assure you — I’m no witch.”

“A likely tale,” you said. “So say they all, before their heads fall.”

And then you charged.

You were strong. Trained. A knight forged in the fires of siege and sword, crusade and crown. But she was something else. She parried your swing with impossible grace, sliding her blade against yours and spinning behind your shoulder. Your armor clanked, heavy, slow, while she danced with silent feet, her blade always just one breath away from your throat.

“Stop this,” she snapped. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m already cursed!” you barked, slashing wildly. “Do it! End me, witch!”

She kicked your legs out. You hit the rooftop hard, chestplate cracking against stone, sword clattering away. Before you could move, her blade was at your throat, the sharp edge kissing your skin.

“Enough,” she hissed.

You stilled. For a moment, neither of you moved. Her breath was soft. Yours, ragged. The rain returned, light and cold.

“I’m not your enemy,” she said quietly. “But if you keep coming for me like this… you will force me to be.”

You looked up at her — truly looked. And something in her face stirred a memory. Not of your time. But something else. Like a vision glimpsed through a rippling lake. Familiar. Sad. Fierce.

“I’ve seen you before,” you murmured.

“Not likely,” she said, easing off you.

“No,” you said, rubbing your neck. “In dreams. Before I awoke in this… cursed future. You stood at a gate of stone. Waiting. I… I was always riding to you.”

That got her attention.

She stared at you, silent.

“What did you say your name was?” she asked.

“I am Ser Caelum of the House of Rimehold. Knight of the Last Flame,” you said, sitting upright with a grunt.

Katana’s lips parted slightly, as if remembering something from far too long ago.

“…You shouldn’t exist,” she whispered.

“But I do,” you said. “And I think I’m here for a reason.”

She stood and sheathed her sword. “Then perhaps we find that reason. Together.”

You hesitated, then nodded.

Knight and blade-witch. Past and present. Two lost pieces in a puzzle the universe had reshaped.

And so, shoulder to shoulder beneath the neon glow, you followed her down into the strange, flickering night.