The warehouse was in wreckage and ruin.
Shattered beams groaned above battered stone. Amid the rubble, Church clergymen in black coats moved methodically, sealing lingering traces of the battle, marking fallen bodies for later retrieval.
And near the edge of the warehouse, half-propped against a splintered crate, slumped an unconscious man…
Edwin.
And he wasn't alone.
Standing beside him, cloaked in the illusion of an ordinary bystander, was another figure — inconspicuous in a gray traveling coat and dusty boots, a simple bluish-black cane resting loosely in his right hand. If anyone bothered to look directly, their eyes would slide past him, as though he were simply part of the wreckage, unremarkable.
Jack's gaze slid lazily over the surrounding mess, his eyes catching the faint glow of the ruined walls.
"A pity," he murmured under his breath, tone dry. "You set the board, you shuffle the pieces, you make your clever little plays—and yet..."
He tipped the cane forward in a mocking salute at the unconscious Brokers nearby.
"...someone always forgets the last move."
After ensuring the Overseer's collapse — having implanted corruption into him long before the chaos began, and pushing him past the point of return at the final moment — Jack had moved once more. His Bloody Archduke marionette, Erynos, had arrived earlier, slipping through the wreckage unseen before the Church finished sealing the warehouse.
The marionette, crimson-veined and faintly grinning, stood now near the unconscious Edwin, unnoticed by the clergy finishing their sweep.
Jack crouched beside the fallen man, setting the cane down with a muted clack against the stone.
From the void, he pulled something from the void — a glove, its surface pale and papery, stitched from human skin.
Creeping Hunger.
He slipped it on, flexing his fingers once as the glove tightened eagerly against his hand.
A mouth, lined with jagged teeth, split open across the palm.
"Loose ends," Jack said, almost kindly, "should never be left unattended."
He reached forward, pressing the gloved hand against Edwin's chest.
Just a soft, wet sound — like a sigh dragged across broken glass — as Edwin's body collapsed inward, devoured whole by the gloved hand.
In seconds, nothing remained but dust.
Jack rose, brushing invisible ash from his coat, and reclaimed his cane.
Without a glance back, he stepped forward — and vanished.
Outside the ruined warehouse, a few blocks down through the fog-stained alleys, Jack emerged — his cane tapping once against the cobblestones as he stepped into the night air. The bruised glow of the gas lamps caught the faint patterns etched along the bluish-black wood, their twisted designs writhing ever so slightly in reflection.
Waiting for him in the dark stood two figures, with their faces hidden within their robes.
Hvis Rambis and Qonas Kilgor.
Their projections bowed slightly at his arrival, their expressions showing patience.
Jack regarded them with a quick gaze.
Both marionettes dispersed into nothing, vanishing.
Through both of them, Jack had already confirmed that the marauder was at a safe distance, out of the Church's radar.
Jack exhaled once, faintly amused.
Really, he thought, an operation of this scale, carried out so thoroughly... The Evernight clergy do know how to spare no effort when it matters.
He tapped his cane lightly once, a faint hum passing through the wood.
"Efficient and ruthless. Almost admirable."
A pause, as a thin smile touched the corner of his mouth.
But even so, it is still manageable.
He shifted his cane slightly, resting both hands atop its head, his weight leaning forward with casual elegance.
"As for dear Graham…" Jack let the name slip out with casual ease, his tone lighter, almost reflective.
He tapped the ground softly with his cane, the sound barely audible.
"It wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on him. There's always more lurking beneath the surface than what first appears."
His gaze sharpened faintly, almost amused.
"Dismissing any piece from the board too early… now that would be a fool's play."
The corner of his mouth tugged upward — a crooked smirk playing across his otherwise impassive face.
"Now Rocket..." Jack mused, voice soft and almost fond, "managed to catch his prize without tripping over his own feet. Perhaps it's time we 'properly' introduce ourselves."
The smirk sharpened.
With a soft tap of his cane against the ground, Jack vanished once more into the Spirit World, leaving only the hollow wind rustling through the empty street.
…
The warehouse still shuddered with the aftermath of battle.
The walls bore deep scars — splintered beams, scorched patches where the battle had lashed out. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.
Greswin straightened first, his coat still torn at the sleeve from a near-miss earlier. His breath came steady now, drawn through the pain. Across from him, Lucienne lowered her blade slowly, her battered Dawn Armor flaking away in soft gleams of fading silver light.
Their eyes met briefly.
Before either could speak, hurried footsteps approached from the side of the ruined hall. One of the Red Gloves skidded to a halt before them.
"Report," Greswin said without raising his voice.
The Red Glove snapped a brisk nod. "The majority of the targets have been neutralized. Most died during the first sweep. The rest were caught in the crossfire from the engagement with the Overseer."
"And?" Lucienne pressed, with her voice clipped.
The man shifted slightly, grimacing. "One of the primary targets — Edwin Arkwright — is unaccounted for. We have no sign of him within the premises."
Greswin's expression didn't change, but the air around him grew subtly colder.
The Red Glove continued quickly, "The artifact — the Mirror assigned to the operation — has also gone missing. And..." He hesitated. "The perimeter teams outside were found incapacitated. No casualties, but most of the reinforcements are unconscious. We're still determining the cause."
A beat of heavy silence passed between the two Deacons.
Then Greswin spoke, voice even but leaving no room for doubt.
"Send out recovery squads. Secure the wounded. Confirm the status of everyone within the block."
He glanced toward the broken entrance, the weight in his gaze sharpening.
"And sweep the immediate streets. Anyone suspicious, anyone missing — bring them in for questioning. I want a full search across Belltaine if needed."
A pause.
"And finish the sweep here first. No delays."
The Red Glove saluted sharply and ran off, his figure vanishing into the haze of movement that filled the ruined warehouse.
Greswin exhaled slowly, the weight of unfinished business settling on his shoulders.
The two Deacons moved toward the fallen Overseer.
His body lay twisted amidst the wreckage, half-shrouded in the shadow. The mirror-like shards of his own defenses were scattered around him, catching faint reflections of the ruined hall. His once-imposing form was barely recognizable now — frozen patches along his limbs, and deep cuts crisscrossed the remains of his coat and flesh alike.
Greswin stood over him in silence for a moment, studying the stillness that now clung to the corpse.
Lucienne halted at his side, her Sword of Dawn resting against her shoulder, its blade flickering with the last dregs of conjured light.
"It ended faster than it should have," Lucienne murmured, gaze sharp beneath her calm exterior.
Greswin gave a faint grunt of agreement. "He was already fraying," he said. "The agitation of his soul — it was a bit deeper than expected. Too deep."
He crouched slightly, reaching toward the Overseer's chest — to feel the lingering traces left behind.
Faint, chaotic echoes bled into the air around the body. Corruption, heavy and strange.
"He was destabilized before we even struck him properly," Greswin continued, voice low. "It's not natural. For someone of his standing... whatever had its claws in him wasn't a simple thing. When I agitated his spirit, it just gave the final push."
Lucienne stepped closer, her gaze sharpening.
Complex dark green symbols bloomed within her irises, swirling and locking into precise patterns. A faint shimmer crossed her vision, cutting through the ruined air and battered spirit residue clinging to the Overseer's corpse.
For a few seconds, she simply watched.
Then she drew a slow, steady breath.
"Corruption," she said. Her voice was quiet, but certain. "Demonic even, from the Abyss Pathway. And not weak."
Greswin's posture tensed immediately, his hand tightening slightly on the hilt of his blade.
Lucienne turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze.
"It's deep-rooted. Not something a stray influence could've caused. It's been festering."
They stood there, both fully alert now, their previous composure sharpened into readiness despite the battle's end.
Greswin straightened fully, scanning the surroundings once more.
"Something else finished the job," he muttered, grim. "Something we didn't see."
They let the realization settle between them — a silent admission of the unknown stalking the edges of this affair.
"We'll leave it. Seal the corpse and lock down the remains. No divinations."
Lucienne tapped the flat of her sword against her armored thigh once — an absent, agreeing gesture.
"And the report?"
Greswin gave a brief nod, his voice brooking no argument.
"We bring it directly to Saint Arianna."
…
The streets of Belltaine pressed close, steeped in fog and the slow churn of midnight lamps.
Impheil moved swiftly, quietly — slipping through alleys where the gaslight missed, through side streets filled with stacked crates and sleeping stray dogs.
No signs and no tells, his pace was measured and practiced, never hurried enough to draw attention but never lingering either.
He shifted paths every few turns, circling here and there, never holding to a straight line. His coat, plain and weather-stained, made him just another faceless silhouette in the city's crumbling veins. Every few streets, he cast glances behind, into windows, into reflections.
Paranoia wasn't the enemy. Complacency was.
As he moved, his mind ticked over the situation, sharp and and quick.
The Church had pulled no punches. It hadn't been a sloppy trap, nor a rushed one.The operation had been precise, deliberate, and brutal in its efficiency, leaving no space for easy escape. Heavy reinforcements, heavy hitters — even a High-Sequence Overseer among the Brokers' supposed ranks, though not high enough to withstand the collapse once it began.
Impheil allowed himself a dry, sardonic breath. And fall they did.
But it wasn't the Church that unsettled him most. Nor the Brokers.
It was the... third party.
That roar. That ripple through the battlefield. Someone he hadn't seen — hadn't even felt — until they crushed the Red Gloves' advance like dust.
Someone with power sharp enough to upset Demigods and yet subtle enough to vanish like mist afterward.
He didn't like unknowns. He liked surprises even less.
Still, he adjusted. Survive first and ask questions later.
His hand briefly tightened around the Constantine Mirror, pressed hard against his body.
The artifact writhed faintly under the wrappings, as if sensing the open night, sending jolts of dissonance through his Spirit Body. Impheil bore it, reinforcing the parasitic control he had into it — but even now, he could feel it slipping.
The Mirror's hunger wasn't something he could fully stop, only delay.He would need to store it soon.
Each step, each breath, brought a slight shiver along his spine — a constant reminder that he wasn't just carrying a mirror, but a ticking bomb.
It wasn't supposed to react this strongly. Not yet.
A slow frown ghosted across Impheil's face as he moved. Had something been stirred deeper within it? Residual influence from the Brass Book incident, maybe?
A ripple left behind, still warping artifacts in ways he hadn't fully understood.Or worse — something new altogether.
The thought sat heavy in his gut.
If this thing was waking up ahead of schedule…
He clenched his teeth lightly, forcing the creeping tension back down. No games for now, he thought. No careless risks.
His thoughts drifted, finally, to Graham.
There was no need to rush. If any loose threads remained — survivors, witnesses, or else — Graham would clean them up.
Impheil moved once more into the folds of Belltaine's winding streets, the Mirror's agitated pulse rattling faintly against his ribs.
The streets blurred past him.
Within minutes, Impheil slipped into the side entrance of his apartment.
He climbed the narrow stairwell two steps at a time, reached the second floor, and slid the lock open in a single, practiced motion. Inside, dim light greeted him. Everything was exactly as he had left it: sparse, plain, calculatedly forgettable.
He stepped in — and froze.
A man stood by the table.
Clad in a formal suit of dark red stitched so finely it seemed almost to absorb the light. From polished leather shoes to gloved hands, not a thread was out of place. A black tie sat crisply against his shirt, its knot neat and severe. His bowler hat rested casually on the corner of the chair, revealing slicked-back dark hair. His demeanor radiated a restrained, easy poise, like a guest who had always belonged, holding a bluish-black cane topped with a starlight-glimmering gem.
Impheil didn't hesitate.
His mind moved faster than breath — eyes flashing silver as he started to decrypt him
The moment he did, a violent warning flared up through his intuition — a violent, screaming jolt.
Impheil wrenched himself back, cutting the decryption mid-flow, closing his eyes in a sharp, reflexive gesture.
When he reopened them, he didn't try again. nHe simply stood there — watching.
The man smiled — a slow, measured expression that didn't reach his eyes.
"Quick," he said warmly, voice smooth like a knife hidden in velvet. "And wise. Most wouldn't have stopped themselves in time."
He leaned slightly forward. "That's why you're still breathing, Rocket."
Impheil stiffened — just slightly.
Rocket.
The name he'd only ever heard passed down through intermediaries. The boss he'd never met, until now.
Before Impheil could speak, the man's gaze shifted meaningfully toward the bundle wrapped tight against Impheil's coat. "You've done well," he said, tone almost light. "But the mirror's agitation is growing. It needs... safer keeping."
The words were casual, but not the weight behind them.
For a long moment, Impheil said nothing.
He weighed his options and he didn't like them.
His mind ticked through probabilities, failures, betrayals. But the artifact pulsed against him again, harsher this time — like a living wound pressing deeper.
No real choice, then.
With a controlled exhale, Impheil drew the Mirror out and held it forward. The man extended one gloved hand — and the moment they made contact, Impheil saw it.
The Mirror wasn't simply taken. It was consumed.
Drawn into a black, endless hollow that opened for just an instant on the man's body — a glimpse into something far deeper and far hungrier than Impheil wanted to contemplate.
When it was done, the man gave a satisfied nod.
He moved to the chair and sat with a casual, unhurried grace — as if he had all the time in the world.
"Now," he said, smiling again, "no need for tension. You've bought us some breathing room, Rocket. Let's finish... pending matters, shall we?"