Illusory — Tenfold Veil. Ashe Vaxille's personal signature, a discipline so stubbornly refined that most believed it impossible for one his age.
Where old illusions had failed in the face of sharpened mana perception, Ashe had rebuilt the art from its ashes. Tenfold Veil was not a single curtain of lies but ten overlapping strata, each slightly offset in purpose and texture: a shimmer of false light here, a bend of sound there, a delicate pressure against the skin to mimic touch. Alone, any layer might falter. Together, they formed a seamless lattice—a cage for reality itself.
It was a paradox made manifest: a symphony of silence.
In music, the mark tacet tells an instrument to fall silent, letting the orchestra breathe around it. So too did Ashe's veil withdraw the true world, muting it into the backdrop while illusion carried the melody. Within it, presence was erased, movement disguised, sound dampened into nothing. A "tacet of reality"—where absence itself became the loudest note.
Yet mastery bore a price.
"…Yes," Ashe finally answered Trevus, his gloved hands tight around the seals he had made. His voice was quiet, but firm. "Tenfold Veil can cloak us—sight, sound, even the creaks of the wagon. To anything outside, we'd vanish."
The cabin stirred with faint relief. Until Ashe added, "But not everything. Snow still records tracks. And scent… scent can't be hidden."
Trevus's expression sharpened. The scent of their rations, the musk of Beck and Betty, the faint oil on their weapons—those trails were beyond illusion. Still, he nodded slowly. "It's enough. Silence will be our ally, if nothing else."
"There's… another limit," Ashe admitted, looking down at the seals. "Each one lasts thirty minutes. But sound is tricky. There's a threshold—too much noise, a shout, steel on steel—and the seal begins to unravel. For every breach, a second is shaved off. If it happens often, we'll lose the veil long before its time."
The silence that followed was heavier than before, broken only by the groan of the wagon wheels and the hiss of wind against the ridges.
Camylle finally spoke, her arms crossed, her voice sharp as frost. "That officer at the checkpoint… remember his words? 'We've no plans to fight you here. Not right now, anyway.'"
Her eyes flicked toward Trevus. "Later is coming due. And later is close."
Trevus sat with his arms folded, the fading orange light of the sun catching against the rough tan of his skin. His hand brushed thoughtfully across the trimmed stubble on his chin, his eyes narrowing at Ashe.
"Those seals of yours," he said at last. "Can you fuse two into one? Make them last an hour each instead of thirty minutes?"
Ashe blinked, caught off guard, then quickly nodded. "I… I think so. If I print a connecting rune and overlap their sequences, they should synchronize."
Without wasting time, he pulled out his tools—slips of parchment already etched with faint traces of ink. With practiced precision, Ashe pressed two seals together, his fingers glowing faintly as threads of illusory script stitched one onto the other. The papers pulsed once, harmonized, then fell still. He handed them back to Trevus with quiet pride. "It's done. Two seals. One hour each."
A ripple of relief passed through the cabin, but it didn't last. "I still don't know the sound threshold," Ashe admitted. "If there's too much noise, the seconds start falling off, and I don't know how fast it'll unravel—"
Trevus cut him short with a raised hand. His eyes carried the weight of command, steady and unshaken. "It doesn't matter. Even if they catch us later, we'll deal with it. We're a -A ranked party, together. And at worst? We'll be facing nothing but grunts, trying to play dirty."
The others didn't look reassured, not fully. A thin stiffness hung in the air, each of them imagining the road ahead lit by steel and blood. Still, they nodded. Plans had been set.
The wagon creaked onward. The pocket watch in Ashe's hand clicked past the six o'clock mark, the sun slipping low enough that the ridges burned gold at their edges. They were only a quarter of the way down the slope, but each turn of the wheel felt like another step into shadow.
Above, Nira's Shadow Crow wheeled in silence, its form little more than black ink against the bleeding sky. It circled once, twice, then perched high on a jagged outcrop, its head twitching downward. Through its eyes, Nira whispered hoarsely to the group.
"The path's empty."
But her words tightened as she added, "…Or it should be."
The crow stared hard. Tracks were being pressed into the snow. Hoofprints. Wagon lines. The clear trail of their caravan cutting through the ridge.
Except—no caravan was there. Only the ghostly imprint of something moving unseen.
Tenfold Veil was working.
The world had forgotten them. Yet the snow had not.
Nira's breath steadied as her shadow crow slipped between bark and branches, silent as a falling leaf. Its sharp eyes caught a flash—a glint buried in the treeline. The crow dove lower, weaving through the skeletal remains of autumn's canopy, and soon shapes emerged: men hunched behind trees and rocks, armor dulled beneath thick cloaks.
Her gut tightened.
They weren't just thugs. They were Dototore Fakshyun grunts, yes—but armed far beyond expectation. Rifle-spears gleamed with steel and trigger-mechanisms; lock-rifles bristled with runed barrels; and strapped to their belts, humming faintly, sat mana-warping grenades. These weren't street weapons. They were military grade.
Nira's lips pressed thin. This isn't right… I thought we'd face blades and cheap powder, not war stock.
Meanwhile, the invisible caravan rolled on, the Tenfold Veil disguising carriage and horse alike. The snow betrayed them, though—wheels and hooves pressed trails into white frost, a ghostly road leading past the grunts' hiding spots.
Yet none of the Dototore were watching the ground. Their eyes angled skyward, waiting for prey that had already slipped by.
The crow alighted on a branch just above them, head cocked, ears prying for sound. A cloaked figure emerged from deeper in the woods, his steps sure and heavy.
"—Sir!" one of the grunts snapped to attention, voice sharp with excitement. "We've gathered more men from the downslope—"
"Keep your voice down, fool," the cloaked man hissed. "We're scouting, not parading. If the caravan isn't here by six-twenty, then it's taken another route. We move there."
The crow drank every word, its head twitching with precision, before sending the memory back.
Inside the shrouded carriage, the tension was suffocating. No one dared move more than a breath. Harlen's hand crushed against the hilt of his sheathed sword, gripping it so tight the leather creaked. The others followed suit, holding their armor and tools close to keep every buckle, plate, or charm from rattling with the wagon's sway.
Nira exhaled slowly, her lips curling into the faintest grin. She whispered, barely a sound, yet enough for the group to hear:
"They're waiting. If we hold until six-twenty, they'll withdraw to another slope."
The air loosened, just a fraction. A small mercy.
"Twenty minutes," Trevus muttered, though his eyes stayed fixed on the curtained horizon. "That's all we need."
Outside, the crow shifted on its perch. The Dototore grunts sat coiled in silence, rifles loaded, grenades primed, eyes cast upward toward a kill that was already sliding past them unseen.
The caravan pressed forward, each turn of the wheel a gamble against time.
Six o'clock ticked on.
Six-ten crawled nearer.
A few minutes bled away into the dusk.
Up above the sloped path where the caravan had already ghosted past, the young officer from the checkpoint appeared. His cap had slipped loose, exposing pale skin kissed faintly by the cold, hair short and swept black, eyes like charcoal smudged across glass. He stood on the ridge, gaze cutting down into the valleys and zigzagging slope that carved the mountain's side.
The officer crouched, his hand brushing the snow. Two fingers pressed into the thin crust, lifted, then tapped against his tongue. His face twisted.
"…Oak," he muttered, low. The taste was unmistakable—aged wood, stubborn and dry. His mind pulled back to the sight of the caravan earlier. Oak boards, thick frame. The scent of it had clung even through the musk of horses.
He grimaced. "Hells, horses…"
The realization caught him late, almost comically. Of course the damn thing had horses. He spat violently onto the ground, wiping his tongue with a conjured ball of water, scrubbing as though purging filth.
"Tch. Should've thought of that first. Hope I didn't swallow any of that stink."
But his scowl softened as his thoughts caught. Oak or not, their trail was here. They had come down this road. Yet reports below remained empty. No sightings. No confirmation.
He straightened, the mountain wind snapping at his cloak, and revealed himself in full.
Lieutenant Hans Hipzeig.
They called him the "Hare." Swift, cunning, and lucky enough to hop where others fell. Fate—or perhaps mischief—had brought him here. Though rank had elevated him, his mind wandered to his earlier years as a mere Dototore Guard, long before ambition tightened its grip. Back then, he had guarded crossroads and wagons, following orders, living by the hour.
Now? Now the game was different.
He looked down the slope again, the silence almost mocking. His lips curled into a thin grin.
A Tropico Guild caravan. Trevus Regulus himself inside—a Legionnaire-turned-guilder, the kind of man whose name still carried weight in westward barracks. To down him, to cripple a Guild party in these parts? Such a prize would echo across the ranks.
Hans tilted his head, dark eyes catching the last flicker of sun.
"Not every day a rabbit gets to outpace the lion," he whispered, voice laced with hunger.
His hand drifted to his belt, where the faint gleam of steel and etched runes waited.
Although Hans's suspicions gnawed at him, he did not give the order. The "Hare" waited, sharp eyes scanning, his men shifting uneasily in the trees below. Patience, he told himself. If fate wished to deliver prey, then prey would stumble into the snare.
Meanwhile, 15 minutes crawled by in silence.
Now at 6:25, Nira's shadow crow glided high above the slope, its ink-feathered wings blotting out a pale strip of sky. From its vantage, the snow below shimmered faintly with movement. Black dots—one after another—trailed away into the distance. Dototore grunts withdrawing, peeling off the slope, convinced their quarry had taken another route.
Nira released a slow, measured breath. Relief tinged her tired features. Safe, for now.
Harlen, ever unable to bottle himself, clenched a fist. "Hah! Knew it—"
A sharp smack landed on the back of his head. Camylle's palm.
"Pipe down, idiot," she hissed. "We're still in Heinirirc Route. Celebrate when you're not a moving target."
Harlen rubbed his scalp, muttering something about ungrateful teammates, but he quieted all the same.
Lotha sat straight-backed, her posture carved from discipline. She had hardly said a word since the ascent began, yet now her gaze flickered briefly toward Ashe. The boy sat there with the calm mask of someone who didn't realize the scope of what he'd done. Illusion—true illusion—at this level was near unheard of in this age. For Lotha, it was nothing short of a marvel.
Mina, too, let a small smile slip as she leaned her head slightly against the cabin wall. Her eyes softened on Ashe. His work had not only saved them, but done so elegantly. His Tenfold Veil was more than useful—it was artistry.
At the reins, Trevus gave a final glance back at them. His voice carried firm but steady.
"Keep still. Don't let the relief sink too deep. We've got four, maybe five more hours 'til we're through Heinirirc and into Jullio Route. Then—maybe—we can exhale."
The wheels creaked, the cold wind pressed against the canvas of the cabin, and the long descent continued in silence, their invisible trail vanishing deeper into the mountain's shadow.
Though most of the Dototore Fakshyun grunts had withdrawn from the slope, fate was not so merciful.
A sudden streak tore across the twilight sky—searing flame, hot enough to melt snow as it passed. Nira's shadow crow squawked sharply as the fire ripped past its wing.
From above descended a figure, pale-skinned and lean, his black-swept hair whipping violently in the wind. Lieutenant Hans Hipzeig—the "Hare."
In a flash, he inverted midair, body spinning like a predator springing from the heavens. His charcoal eyes locked onto the faint ripple of distortion on the road below. His instincts had not betrayed him. The "invisible caravan" was here.
Hans's finger curled, a ball of compressed flame spiraling at his fingertip—unstable, pulsing, hungry.
Ashe's Tenfold Veil shattered. Reality reasserted itself, tearing down the layers of silence. The caravan snapped into sight.
The fireball dropped—then burst into a deafening explosion.
Snow, ice, and dust mushroomed upward. The force rocked the wagon violently. Horses screamed, wheels screeched.
Hans grinned, sure his strike had landed clean on the animals. But as the dust parted—his grin faltered.
Trevus Regulus stood in the blast's wake. His body shimmered faintly, veins of mana crackling across his armor. His broad shoulders shielded Betty and Beck, arms braced as though holding up the sky itself. The horses shivered, but they lived.
Trevus spat to the side, chest heaving.
"Hah! As expected of you, Trevus Regulus!" Hans's laughter cracked like firewood, wild and giddy. With another explosive burst from his palms and heels, he rocketed downward, weaving flames into propulsion—mock flight.
He crashed shoulder-first into Trevus. Both men tumbled violently across the slope, rolling behind the wagon.
"TREVUS!" Harlen's voice tore from the cabin.
"RUN!" Trevus bellowed back, his tone brooking no argument. "JUST KEEP GOING! FULL SPEED!"
He jammed his boot into the road, righting himself as he grabbed the reins. Betty and Beck lunged forward, hooves pounding the frozen path. The wagon jolted, speeding down the slope.
Only once the caravan surged ahead did Trevus draw his sabers—twin curved blades gleaming in the last gasp of sunset. He pressed into the ice, boots carving lines, turning the slope itself into his battlefield.
From above, Hans plummeted again, laughing. "Hah! Look at us! Ever tried fighting while sliding on an icy road?"
Trevus's eyes narrowed. "You… I knew something was off about you."
Hans spun, flames bursting from his feet to stabilize his glide. He spread his arms wide, theatrically, grinning as though drunk on the moment.
"I like your intuition, Trevus Regulus. Adventurers like you should always doubt. Keeps you alive." His laugh rang again, shrill and sharp.
"But enough names, hm? Hans Hipzeig, the Hare, reporting! Been waiting to fight someone like you, Trevus Regulus!"
Trevus grunted, blades ready, ice spraying in arcs as his boots carved into the slope. The caravan was growing smaller ahead. He needed to fight—and keep pace—or lose everything.
Hans's flames flared violently, crackling with concussive force. Combustion-path. His discipline twisted flame into explosion, each burst a rocket that hurled him forward like artillery made flesh.
Trevus steadied his stance. He was a blade dancer first and foremost, honed through blood and war. Yet beneath his breath, frost crackled faintly across the steel of his sabers. A whisper of chill-layering—his quiet affinity, his edge against fire.
Two men, sliding down an icy graveyard of a road, their duel beginning amidst sparks, frost, and flame.