Before Issei could ask more, a shadow fell over them. A woman descended from the cliffs. She had long, raven-black hair braided with vines, amber eyes like aged chacha , and a pair of curved, ram-like horns. Her wings were not feathery or bat-like—they were woven from threads of golden wool.

“I am Natela, Guardian of the Sakartvelo Border,” she said. “You carry a dragon’s soul. That makes you a guest... or a threat.”

He activated his Balance Breaker—but instead of the usual crimson armor, scales of gold and red formed around him, patterned after the ancient Georgian Bolnisi crosses. From his back, wings of flame and grapevine unfurled. The battle was brutal. Kokabiel summoned ice spears; Natela countered with Svanetian dancing , her steps creating seismic cracks. But Issei—fueled by both the Boosted Gear and the lingering faith of the land—shouted:

Natela snarled. “You mistake strength for arrogance.”

Issei’s Sacred Gear, Boosted Gear , pulsed red on his left hand. But something was different. The dragon inside, Ddraig, spoke with a rumbling echo: “This land is old, partner. Older than the Three Factions. The local pantheon—the Ghvtismshobeli —sleeps, but their magic lingers in the blood of these people.”

And somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—still sealed, but dreaming.

Issei stepped forward. “I don’t fully understand your culture yet. But I know one thing: you don’t mock someone’s supra (feast table) or their ancestors.”

Using a final, unexpected move—the Khasia Embrace (a traditional Georgian wrestling hold)—Issei pinned the fallen angel and sealed him inside an empty qvevri (clay wine vessel) with sacred runes. That night, the mountain villagers celebrated. Natela carved Issei a small wooden horn. “You are now an honorary Khevsur —a warrior of the cliffs.”

“In Georgia,” she declared, “we do not duel with swords first. We duel with toasts .”

“No,” Issei said, landing beside Natela. “But a guest protects the table.”

Kokabiel mocked the local faith. “Your saints, your samepo (kingdom)—none of it matters. Christianity mixed with paganism? Pathetic.”

A wooden ladle hit his head. Natela smirked. “Focus on the toast, boy. To friendship. To fire. To the flame that never dies—even in the Caucasus snow.”

“Then you will learn.” She raised a horn cup. “The first toast: to the dead who guard this land. Drink.”

“Where the hell am I?” he groaned, rubbing his head. The air smelled of wild herbs, wine, and iron.

As Issei raised his horn one last time, Ddraig whispered: “This is your true power, partner. Not just breasts—but bonds across worlds.”