In what was once a lively tavern, now reduced to ruin, a dozen shadowed figures encircled three young captives. The young teens were blindfolded, huddled together on their knees, their wrists bound tightly behind them.
The men surrounding them were not petty street thieves. Their movements carried a sense of experience, the kind honed in blood and coin. These were mercenaries—seasoned and dangerous.
The tavern itself was a corpse of its former self. Broken glass littered the floor in jagged pieces. The door had been ripped from its hinges and lay splintered against the wall, a small hint to the forced entry. Dust swirled thick in the stale air. The only light came from a mana lamp on the bar counter, its faint, sickly glow stretching shadows across the room.
One mercenary crouched in front of a trembling girl, tilting his head as if inspecting a prize.
"Hey," he murmured to the others, "this one's a real looker."
Another leaned lazily against the counter beside the lamp, arms crossed, voice low and mocking.
"Keh-heh-heh… shame we can't sell her. I bet she'd fetch a fortune."
The first mercenary reached out, running a rough hand down her cheek. Tears welled, her breath hitching in quiet terror.
"Shhh," he cooed with false gentleness. "Don't be scared. I'm not gonna do anything… as long as you don't do anything stupid."
His tone shifted abruptly, like a spoiled child denied a toy.
"Come on, why does our leader have to be such a tight-ass? We could have a little fun before they get sent off to some royal sector. Wait… what did our patron even want again?"
A sound echoed from above—the groaning of the creaking stairs grew ever so loud as they descended. A figure descended slowly, boots hitting each step with deliberate weight. From the shadows of the upper floor, their leader appeared—eyes narrowing, gaze locking on the mercenary who dared to touch the frightened girl by her chin.
The figure emerged into the dim light — a man, likely in his mid-forties, dressed head to toe in suffocating black. Heavy combat boots thudded against the floor, his cargo pants and thick coat weighing down his imposing frame. His face was marked by deep scars, one of them sealing shut a blind eye. His skin held a weathered tan, and not a single strand of hair crowned his head.
As he stepped into the lobby, his gaze swept downward, pinning them beneath a menacing stare. His voice cut through the tense air — cold, with an undercurrent of danger.
"Do not touch them."
The mercenary standing near one of the captives exhaled in open frustration, muttering under his breath.
"Lucky bastards…"
But before he could turn fully away, one of the victims — the young teenage girl — lashed out. Her foot connected with his knee in a vicious strike, a sickening crack echoing through the tavern's hollow interior.
Gasps and startled murmurs rippled through the room by the other mercenaries. The mercenary staggered, caught completely off guard. He turned on her, teeth bared, his voice low and venomous.
"You little fu—"
He shifted his weight, ready to drive a kick into her, but just as he was about to do that. A shadow loomed behind him. In the next instant, a brutal punch sent him flying, his body crashing into a row of battered tavern tables.
The bald man lowered his fist slowly, his voice ringing with cold finality.
"I said… do not touch them."
His gaze dropped to the girl and her two fellow captives, standing now in the space where their aggressor had been.
"You are blood sacrifices for the Council — the Circle of Nine."
He turned his head toward the doorway where the tavern's door once stood. Moonlight streamed in through the jagged frame, silvering his expression.
"Quite frankly… it is an honor to be chosen."
One of the captives — a young teenage boy bound beside the girl — screamed out in muffled protest, his face still obscured by cloth. The bald man pivoted sharply, his fist striking the boy with such force that a sickening crack sounded from his neck.
The other captives recoiled, eyes wide with terror. The girl cried out for him, but her gag smothered her voice into frantic, muffled sobs.
"Rest assured… I didn't kill him," the man said flatly. "He's merely in a deep slumber."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"If you don't want to meet the same fate… I suggest you keep quiet."
The young teenage girl tried to calm herself — or at least pretend to. But the truth was, she was terrified. The large man's words, blood sacrifices, had lodged deep in her mind, sparking an overwhelming anxiety that refused to let go. Her thoughts scattered in every direction, desperately searching for some plan, some way out, anything. Yet, the reality pressed down on her like a crushing weight.
Nine mercenaries surrounded them. Even though the exit was close, she doubted she could outrun them in her condition if she managed to shed the wrist binds. Her legs were weak, she was exhausted, and what little chance she thought remained was probably fading away by now.
The boss casually made his way to the counter, as though they were nothing more than pests to him, and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He took a slow sip.
"This hits the spot."
Turning toward one of his men, he asked,
"New guy, have you notified the Council that we've met up with Themenos?"
The mercenary stiffened at the name, nodding quickly.
"Yes, sir. They should be arriving soon."
"Good."
The girl's energy started to drift away, the adrenaline that had been holding her together was finally running dry. Her mind started to cloud with exhaustion. She was hungry, exhausted and utterly drained, unable to think clearly. Her head slumped against the wooden frame beside her. Her visions started to turn blurry.
Until she saw it.
Just beyond the broken doorway, framed in pale moonlight, stood a figure.
A long, thin coat swayed slightly in the night air. Boots crunched softly against the gravel and debris that littered outside the tavern's entrance. Dark green cargo pants. A high‑neck, fitted sweater that reached up toward the face. And the face itself, there was something there — a faint reflection of moonlight glinting off it, ghostly and cold in the tender dusk.
A glass mask.
The sight of it sparked a single, unshakable thought in her weary mind.
'Master Boom Boom…'
With that, her body finally surrendered to exhaustion. She drifted into a deep sleep, her last conscious thought reassuring her that everything was going to be all right.
The boy beside her — the other captive — had been quietly watching. His broken glasses barely clung to his face. He had been doing his best to shield the girl and the other boy during their abduction. He noticed it too: the quiet, almost imperceptible relief that washed over his classmate's shoulders. Though he couldn't quite see through the jagged remains of the doorframe, he recognized the silhouette. That coat. That presence. Something inside him telling him that their safety was no longer just a fragile hope.
One of the mercenaries by the entrance narrowed his eyes, spotting movement outside.
"Boss… looks like we've got another lost wanderer."
With one last swallow, he drained his drink and slammed the glass down on the counter.
"One guy?"
The new mercenary hesitated.
"Y‑Yes."
A slow smirk crept across the boss's scarred face.
"Then what are you waiting for? Kill him — we'll sell his organs."
The newly hired mercenary stared at him, unsure if he was serious.
"Do I have to repeat myself?"
The newly recruited mercenary hesitated at the threshold, his eyes fixed on the figure framed in moonlight. His grip tightened around the handle of a short, worn knife. Uncertainty and fear flickered across his face.
With a hard swallow, he lunged forward, swinging the blade toward the stranger's throat in a desperate bid to end it quickly.
What happened next was a blur.
The man in the black coat stepped back with effortless precision, letting the blade cut through nothing but air. The mercenary's momentum carried him forward, leaving his stance wide open. He stumbled, trying to recover, but never had the chance — a sharp, decisive fist slammed into the side of his chin.
The blow sent him sprawling to the floor.
Standing over the crumpled man, the figure — now revealed as Lucid — let his gaze sweep carefully across the tavern, taking in the layout, the positions of the others and most importantly, the state of Yannick's students.
Satisfied that they were unharmed for the moment, he raised his eyes to meet the boss's. The man had already turned toward him, and seven other mercenaries were shifting into position at his back.
Lucid took a single, deliberate step forward. His voice cut through the tense silence, it was calm yet firm carrying a hint that allowed for no negotiations.
"I'm here to talk."