「DEPARTURE — 11:35 P.M」
The temple courtyard lay silent in the cold night air. G6 stood beside Kira, checking the tack with sharp, efficient movements that lacked her usual fluid grace.
"Are you really leaving in the middle of an ungodly hour, Captain?" Archbishop Tolentino asked.
"We are. It is a day away from the capital. Time is our enemy." G6 spoke without turning toward him. Her voice remained flat.
They wore their heavy cloaks again and mounted their horses.
"We appreciate the kind hospitality, Your Holiness," Edmund said.
"Oh please, Sir Eddie. It is the least we can do as we cannot thank you enough for your help," Archbishop Tolentino replied.
"Enough." G6 urged Kira toward the gate. The abrupt movement cut the exchange short.
"Wait up, Captain!" Archbishop Tolentino hurried toward her.
"Please take this, as you are leaving the other parchment with us. We will contact you through this orb." Archbishop Tolentino handed her a small orb. "It is a private communication orb, only two of us can enter this line."
"Alright. Don't hesitate in contacting us when the dead zone reappears." G6 took the orb and slid it into her dimensional vault. Her touch was swift, dismissive.
"We will. Please be careful on your way home," Archbishop Tolentino said.
G6 ended the exchange with a curt nod. The three priests on the side bowed their heads to them.
"Then, I hope our next meeting is not us coming for your heads." G6's words—her usual brand of cruel humor—fell into the night like a stone into deep water. They carried a new and absolute weight. She urged Kira into a run.
Edmund and Lord Zen gave a nod to them and followed their Captain.
As the priests and Archbishop Tolentino watched their backs and the sound of their horses slowly faded, they sighed.
"Looks like she really is going to kill us," Priest Dane muttered.
"Indeed. I didn't expect the rumored spoiled brat of House Worthon to be tangled with us," Archbishop Tolentino replied.
"I don't mind her words," Priestess Kalia said, her voice softer now. "She likes to say mean things sometimes that don't really feel like it."
"They were amazing too. I can't believe they are nobles. They fought like veterans," Priest Felon added.
Archbishop Tolentino watched his retainers, then the empty road. The darkness where she had vanished seemed to swallow sound and light. "Shall we head back inside? We've got a lot of things to search and study. At least that's how we can help them, if not in combat."
The three nodded and smiled, the expression faint in the moonlight, before turning back to the temple. The courtyard was empty again, save for the echo of a threat that no longer felt like a joke.
❈.❈.❈
Whisper of the Gale.
Echo Trace.
Their horses thundered through the canopy of dead silent night, hooves pounding against the forest path. To any outsider, the riders were mere shadows in the dark. But within their ranks, communication flowed as clear as daylight—G6's wind magic weaving their voices together like threads of silk.
"We're being followed," G6 stated, her voice calm, almost bored.
"I sense them as well," Edmund confirmed.
"What should we do, Captain? I count at least five," Lord Zen said, his tone sharp with anticipation.
"Seven," G6 corrected, barely a murmur. Then, quieter still: "Lure them deeper."
As one, they pivoted their horses off the main path and plunged into the forest's black heart. The pace quickened, hooves kicking up dirt and fallen leaves as the trees swallowed them whole.
Behind them, the unseen pursuers surged forward, matching their speed, greedy for the capture.
The trio exchanged a single nod beneath their hoods. As their horses passed under the low branches, each rider rose in the stirrups and caught an overhanging bough. They let the mounts run on beneath them, pulling themselves into the shelter of the canopy before the pursuers rounded the bend. From the path behind, three riders had vanished into the dark without a flash or a sound to betray where they had gone.
The seven pursuers burst into the clearing moments later and reined their horses hard. They circled with weapons drawn, scanning the trees before dismounting to search beneath the canopy.
"Where the hell—" one stammered.
"They were right there!"
The lead henchman—Coen, a grizzled veteran in Viscount Telesco's employ—raised a fist, silencing his men. His eyes narrowed, every instinct screaming trap.
The three horses continued running ahead, then slowed of their own accord, stopping calmly beneath a cluster of ancient oaks. Trained. Waiting.
A cold wind stirred the leaves.
"What's happening, Captain Coen?" a man whispered, his voice cracking. "They just... disappeared. I can't feel anything. No presence, no—"
The words died in his throat.
Murderous intent pressed through the clearing. Men gasped and stumbled, some sinking to their knees as dread caught their breath. Sweat ran down their faces. Their horses stamped and whinnied at the abrupt panic, eyes rolling white.
Coen's hand trembled on his sword hilt. For a moment, he could barely force himself to move or breathe. It felt as if death had settled close enough to touch him and was waiting for him to make a mistake.
G6 crouched on a branch above them, the concentration of her killing intent making the clearing feel smaller with every breath without even using her Aura Dominion. Edmund and Lord Zen remained close enough to feel it too. Even knowing who she was, they had to master the instinct to withdraw from her reach.
"Kill them," G6 muttered, the words dripping with absolute finality.
"We don't even know what they want yet, Captain," Lord Zen managed, his voice strained against the pressure.
"Leave the brown-haired one." Her gaze, invisible beneath her hood, fixed on Coen with the cold precision of a predator's gaze.
She was not pleased. These unknown actors had dared to interfere in her journey, and her patience—always a thin, frayed thread—had snapped entirely. There would be no negotiation tonight. No interrogation of the rabble. Only the brown-haired man would live to speak.
"What are you waiting for?" G6 turned to them fully, and even through the shadow of her hood, they could feel the shift. Her grey eyes remained hidden behind the tinted lenses, but the merciless attention she turned upon them was unmistakable. "Scared?"
The word hung in the air like a challenge.
"If this is your order… very well." Edmund drew his sword and dropped from the branch without another word.
Lord Zen lingered for a single heartbeat, then followed.
The seven mercenaries barely had time to register the two figures descending upon them before steel met steel.
Coen's veterans were not amateurs. They had survived border skirmishes, monster hunts, and back-alley executions. When Edmund landed in their midst, three of them reacted instantly—blades flashing, formations tightening.
—CLANG! Edmund's sword met a mercenary's overhead strike, the impact shuddering through both their arms. The man was strong, trained. He pressed forward, forcing Edmund to pivot. A second mercenary lunged from the side, and Edmund twisted, his cloak billowing as he deflected the thrust at the last possible moment.
Lord Zen crashed into the other flank, his lighter blade a blur of motion. CLANG-CLANG-CLANG! Three rapid exchanges with a scar-faced brute who matched him blow for blow. The man grinned behind his mask—arrogance, confidence.
"You're fast, but—"
Lord Zen's elbow caught him in the throat. The grin vanished.
Coen himself engaged, his longsword a whistling arc of death aimed at Edmund's spine. Edmund felt it coming, spinning just in time to parry. Steel screamed against steel. Coen pressed, driving Edmund back with a series of brutal, experienced strikes. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! Sparks flew in the darkness.
For a moment, it was a true fight: seven trained killers against two hooded figures, exchanging blows, contesting ground and drawing blood. Then Edmund stopped retreating.
Edmund stepped outside Coen's next strike and turned toward the mercenary closing beside him. His blade found the gap between the man's ribs and chest plate before the attacker could bring his guard across. Steel slid home with a wet, final sound. The man gasped once and collapsed.
Before his body hit the ground, Edmund was already moving. His sword took the second mercenary across the hamstrings—a precise, crippling cut that dropped the man screaming. A follow-up thrust to the base of the skull ended the noise.
Two down.
Lord Zen, seeing Edmund's work, abandoned all pretense of defense. He exploded forward, pale Mana Form gathering along his blade. The scar-faced brute raised his sword to block—too slow. Lord Zen's strike sheared through both steel and flesh, opening the man from collarbone to hip.
The second of Lord Zen's targets tried to run. He made it three steps before Lord Zen's sword took him through the back, the tip erupting from his chest in a spray of crimson.
Two more down.
Four bodies in the dirt. Coen and the remaining two mercenaries stumbled back, their courage evaporating like mist in morning sun.
Coen's sword trembled in his grip. His breath came in ragged gasps. The two men beside him—younger, less seasoned—looked at him with wide, desperate eyes.
"Captain Coen!" one of them yelled, his voice cracking. "CAPTAIN COEN!"
But Coen could only stare at the two hooded figures advancing slowly, deliberately. They moved like men with all the time in the world. Like men who had done this a hundred times before. Like men who enjoyed it.
The younger mercenaries broke.
They turned and ran—not at the horses, not toward safety, just away. Anywhere away from the nightmare in the clearing.
They made it perhaps twenty feet. G6 had dropped from the canopy at the edge of the clearing while their attention remained on Edmund and Lord Zen. As the first runner passed her, she stepped in behind him and drove a reaper dagger into his back. The point broke through his chest in a spray of dark blood. He looked down in incomprehension before his legs gave way.
G6 stood behind him, one hand still wrapped around the hilt. She pulled the dagger free with a wet, sucking sound, and the body crumpled.
The second runner froze mid-stride, his feet rooted by pure, animal terror. He turned slowly, hands rising, mouth opening to beg—
G6's hand closed in his hair, yanking his head back. His scream died in his throat as he found himself staring up into the shadow of her hood. Shadow covered half her face. Only her rosy lips were clear, and her expression held neither anger nor satisfaction.
Coen watched, his mind blank with horror. His sword fell from nerveless fingers and clattered on the forest floor. Around him, the night had become a slaughterhouse, and the butchers wore cloaks.
"P-please…" the man begged, his voice a desperate whimper.
G6 did not utter a word.
Her head turned slightly toward Edmund and Lord Zen—a silent command understood without speech. In an instant, they were circling Coen. Edmund's foot swept behind the man's knees with brutal precision, forcing him to the ground with a grunt of pain. Lord Zen's sword, still dripping with the blood of the fallen, found its resting place against Coen's throat.
Still silent, G6 yanked the younger mercenary by the hair and dragged him back toward the kneeling leader. The man thrashed and wiggled, trying desperately to break free from her iron grip, his boots carving furrows in the forest floor. Useless. She might as well have been dragging a child.
She tossed him beside Coen like refuse.
"Why were you following us?" G6's voice—usually a neutral, cold instrument—had dropped to something even more glacial. The temperature around them seemed to dip.
Coen looked away, jaw set. Beside him, the young mercenary shook uncontrollably.
"Hey." Lord Zen's tone was light, almost conversational, but the edge beneath it could shave bone. "When our captain asks a question, it's bad manners not to answer."
"You're getting nothing from me," Coen spat.
Lord Zen's brow twitched with irritation. In one fluid motion, he yanked off Coen's mask. "I'm not going to ask again." The tip of his sword pressed into Coen's cheek—a shallow cut, just enough to draw a thin line of blood.
G6's attention shifted to the trembling younger man. "You. Who sent you to follow us?"
The man's lips quivered. No words came.
"Speak," G6 said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "or forever hold your peace."
Her dagger pierced his shoulder—not deep enough to threaten his life, but precisely enough to light every nerve ending on fire.
"AAARGHH!" His scream tore through the silent forest, raw and agonizing. "P-please! W-we were j-just hired! V-Viscount T-telesco!"
Coen's head snapped toward him, fury replacing fear. "YOU TREACHEROUS COWARD!"
"Viscount Telesco?" G6's brow furrowed behind her hood. "Who the fuck is that?"
"The Mayor of Grain Town," Lord Zen supplied quickly. "We were planning to brief you on him. The greedy bastard must have taken interest in us."
G6 scoffed, a sound devoid of humor. "So a lowly noble sends dogs to chase us?" Her dagger shifted, the tip hovering inches from Coen's eye. "You have such beautiful brown eyes. Answer me properly, or I'll paint your world black."
Coen swallowed, his courage a thin, fraying thread. "I don't know what he wants with you. Only that he wants you alive."
G6 looked up at the canopy, exhaled a long, weary breath, and then kicked Coen square in the face. He crumpled sideways, spitting blood.
She turned to the younger man, pressing him against a tree and stepping on the very shoulder she'd stabbed. He screamed again, the sound cracking with agony.
She's not in the mood, Lord Zen observed, watching his captain's uncharacteristic brutality. But we can't let her kill them both. We need to understand why Telesco—
"If I may offer a suggestion," Lord Zen interjected carefully, "let us take one captive. I know a place where no one—not even that woman—can find him."
Edmund caught Lord Zen's subtle glance, the desperate plea in his eyes. "That would be wise," Edmund agreed smoothly. "We cannot allow Viscount Telesco to reach for things beyond his station without consequence."
What the hell are they saying?! Coen's thoughts raced despite the pain. Did that greedy bastard stumble into something big?
G6 walked back to Coen without a word. Her dagger drove into his thigh—deep, through muscle, scraping bone.
"FUUUCK!" Coen's scream was a primal, animal sound.
"Your thoughts are written on your face," G6 said flatly. "It's annoying."
She looked at her men. A long, weighted pause.
"Very well."
She walked to the younger mercenary and leaned down, her hood casting his terrified face in deeper shadow. "You. Run back to Viscount Telesco. Tell him to watch his neck. I might come collecting payment for this disturbance whenever I please."
Hope flickered in the man's pain-glazed eyes. "Y-yes! I will! I will tell him!"
"But." G6 straightened. "I'm not feeling generous enough for a clean exit. Let's give you a challenge."
Before anyone could react, her blade flashed—once, quick as a snake—and sliced through one of his Achilles tendons.
His scream was the worst yet. He crumpled, clutching his leg as the wound poured blood onto the forest floor, his cries echoing through the trees like the wails of the damned.
"Let's go." G6 sheathed her dagger and walked away without a backward glance. "Deliver my message," she called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the darkness. She didn't look back. She never did.
'Daunt. You know what to do,' she said through their bond.
'Understood,' Daunt replied.
Coen stared after her, then at his companion writhing in agony, then back at the void where the woman had vanished. His face, beneath the blood and dirt, was a mask of horror and dawning comprehension.
We fucked up. We fucked up so badly, Coen thought.
Edmund forced a sleeping potion past his lips. As unconsciousness mercifully claimed him, Coen felt himself being hoisted like a sack of grain, heard the gallop of horses, and knew—with absolute certainty—that his life would never be the same.
The forest fell silent again, save for the sobbing of a crippled man left behind to carry a warning to a mayor who had no idea what he'd just dared to touch.
— To Be Continued… —