The abandoned building creaked softly with the passing wind. Dust clung to every surface, and the broken wooden beams overhead groaned under their own weight. Outside, the outskirts of Arcanum City lay veiled in mist and silence—a forgotten corner far removed from the Academy's shining towers.
Lyra sat on the floor near the wall, a piece of bread in her hands. She nibbled slowly, barely tearing off crumbs at a time. Her pale face looked even more drawn in the dim light seeping through the cracked windows.
"Eat a little more than that," Elara said, her voice firm but gentle. She was crouched by a shattered window, peeking through the dusty glass. "Your body's weak, Lyra. You need constant energy so you don't faint from exhaustion."
Lyra glanced up, her expression troubled. "Sis Ela… how is it?"
Elara turned slightly, enough for Lyra to see her frown. "Like I said, I was planning to bring us straight to the Academy. But Vellian's lackeys already cut off our route. We're stuck here for a while."
She reached into her coat and quietly checked the magic communicator she'd hidden in her inner pocket. The crystal embedded inside remained dark. No signal. No pulse.
Of course.
Magic tools made life easier—transportation, defense, communication—but their convenience also made them vulnerable. Because they relied on mana resonance, even basic jamming magic could easily disrupt them.
And whoever their enemy was, they had already prepared for this.
This one's just standard-grade, she thought grimly, closing her fingers around it. Unless I had a tier-three artifact or higher, it's useless.
With a sigh, she moved away from the window and approached Lyra. The girl hadn't touched more than half of the bread. Her breathing was steady, but shallow.
Elara crouched down and placed a hand lightly on her forehead—cooler than she liked.
This child really is fragile, she thought, her chest tightening. Born with a weak body, and now dragged through city streets, hunted, afraid.
She stood and rummaged through a dusty closet nearby. After a moment, she pulled out a wide piece of cloth—old, but surprisingly clean. She returned and wrapped it around Lyra's shoulders gently, tucking the ends in to keep it snug.
Lyra's eyes shimmered. "Thank you, Sis Ela…"
Elara offered her a small smile. "Don't thank me yet. We're not out of this mess."
"I'm worried… about my brother," Lyra whispered.
Elara hesitated.
"…He can take care of himself," she replied, softer this time. "Your brother's… strong."
Stronger than most people I've met.
She remembered the way Soren had come home last night, dragging his injured body through the door. There had been blood—more than she wanted to recall—and the twisted remains of his arm told stories she wasn't ready to hear.
But the look in his eyes… That had changed.
She didn't know whether he really had slain the Crimson Apostle. But there was something undeniably different about him now. Like someone who had walked through fire and came out not just alive, but sharper. Hardened.
Scarred, maybe.
And yet, even with one arm gone, his presence felt like a man still ready to take on the world.
Especially when it was for his sister.
Elara turned back to the window.
We need to get out of here.
She tightened her grip on the communicator. Her mind was already running through alternate routes, fallback shelters, safe contacts. She could feel time slipping through her fingers. The longer they stayed, the tighter the noose would get.
---
Two men walked with measured strides through the narrow alleyways of the outskirts—neither dressed like mercenaries, yet neither completely apart from them. Their fine coats and tailored boots contrasted sharply with the rough, armored thugs trailing around them. Even in this shadowed, forgotten part of Arcanum City, their presence drew unease.
Vellian moved like a man used to control. Sharp-jawed, silver-streaked hair tied at the base of his neck, and eyes that gleamed with the edge of long-nurtured ambition. His face twisted into a slight scowl, displeased with the silence around him.
Beside him walked a younger man—Caldus, his nephew. While his hair was darker and his build more athletic, the same calculating eyes ran in the family. But unlike Vellian, Caldus wore his tension openly, shoulders stiff, glancing constantly around the broken ruins.
"We need to find them fast," Vellian muttered, his voice low but sharp. "Every wasted second gives our enemies more time. The longer this drags out, the more vulnerable our ploy becomes."
Caldus frowned. "Uncle… isn't this risky? What if the Academy catches wind of what we're doing?"
Vellian stopped walking.
He didn't look at Caldus when he spoke—his tone was quiet, yet laced with frost.
"I wouldn't be doing this if I had a choice."
He glanced toward the old buildings ahead—half-collapsed structures long abandoned by Arcanum's growth. Places forgotten by the Academy's sweeping surveillance.
"But the Black Vow…" he continued, his eyes narrowing, "I have a bad feeling about them. How could they fail a direct kill order? Soren returned from his mission—alive. Worse, unshaken. The man should be a corpse."
He resumed walking.
"We need to silence him. Before he talks. Before someone with power listens."
Caldus hesitated. "But… the envelope. Wasn't it yours?"
That finally drew a flicker from Vellian.
"No," he admitted, voice quieting with a touch of gravity. "It belonged to my late father."
He touched the inside of his coat, feeling the faint weight of the now-empty black envelope. Its seal—long broken.
"I was told once… Father helped the Black Vow in the past. Some obscure deal, one that bought us an untraceable favor. A single command. That's how we had access."
Caldus's brows furrowed. "So you used that… but they failed?"
Vellian's gaze sharpened. "I try. And now I'm starting to wonder if even that was a mistake."
Around them, the mercenaries shuffled silently, weapons at the ready. Vellian had brought his personal force—discreet and loyal through coin, not oath. They were expendable, but useful. And more importantly, deniable.
"We find Soren," Vellian continued, "and finish the job ourselves if we must."
Traceback, before Vellian had caught wind of Soren's return from the shadows, he received a call.
It came through a mundane device, a static-laced crystal communicator rigged through obscure channels—something only the underground would bother to use. Vellian answered without hesitation.
The voice on the other end was genderless. Calm. Cold.
"Your order is not permitted," it said.
Vellian's breath caught.
"But your wish remains valid for other use," the voice continued. "Soren Noctis is off-limits."
Click.
The call ended before Vellian could even form a word.
He stared at the device in his hand, mind racing, fury simmering beneath his composed surface.
Still usable? What for, if not to remove Soren? he thought bitterly. What use is a wish if I can't erase the one threat that matters now?
He ground his teeth.
Black Vow had drawn a line. But why? He can't think any reason.
He couldn't retreat. Not now. Not after everything.
Back to present, Vellian exhaled slowly and turned his head.
"Mister Hawking," he said, voice measured. "Your assistance, please."
The figure standing near the crumbling wall didn't move at first. Clad in a long, high-collared black coat with silver buckles and straps, the man looked like something out of an old hunter's tale. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed his eyes, but the faint metallic glint of the custom sniper-rifle strapped across his back made him anything but forgotten.
The man stepped forward. His boots clicked against stone.
"I'm being paid a fortune," Hawking said, his voice rough like gravel yet precise. "And you want me to hunt down… rats. Some helpless women?"
He scoffed, clearly insulted.
Hawking tilted his head once, then without another word crouched low and launched himself upward with a clean motion. His coat fluttered as he landed soundlessly on the roof of a nearby two-story ruin, crouched like a predator ready to pounce.
Then his eyes opened fully.
Vellian and Caldus caught it. The air seemed to shift as both of Hawking's pupils warped—spiraling, fragmenting like fractured glass before stabilizing into a cross pattern etched in red and silver.
His voice was quiet.
"X."
It wasn't just a name. It was the codename of his ocular ability.
The Cross-Sight.
With it, solid structures turned translucent in his vision. Stone walls and crumbled roofs faded into wireframes. Shadows bled into outlines. Movement left trails. Mana signatures burned like faint heat through layers of concrete and wood.
A true tracker's eye—designed for urban hunts and cloaked pursuits.
"I see them," he murmured.
Vellian's lips curled into a slow smile. Even Caldus, usually skeptical of his uncle's extravagant spending, looked impressed.
"Two women. One is weakened—she's barely conscious. The other's alert. Armed. Still watching the outside."
He rose from his crouch slightly, shifting the angle of his vision.
"They're hiding in a storage room beneath the main floor. One of them has placed wards at the doors… but nothing that would stop me."
Vellian folded his arms, satisfied.
"Good. Proceed as needed. I want the girl alive," he said sharply. "The sister. Elara can be disposed of if she interferes."
From above, Hawking gave no reply.
He was already gone.