(Robotic dimension)
The shop owner's vehicle lifted smoothly from the ground, its engines humming in a low, steady rhythm as it cut through the air. This flying transport was nothing new to him—it was routine, almost boring—but today his mind wasn't fully at ease. Walt's words about a rat in the toy shop echoed faintly in his thoughts as he guided the vehicle toward the shop.
At the same time, far from the shop, Bergail and Sergain reached the shop owner's home.
They didn't use the door.
They never did.
The window slid open silently as Sergain slipped inside first, his movements precise and controlled. Bergail followed closely. The moment their feet touched the floor, Sergain raised his hand sharply.
"Stop," he whispered.
Just inches away from them, near the window frame, lay a pressure-based trap, disguised perfectly within the flooring. A single wrong step would have triggered a silent alarm—or worse.
"And that's not all," Sergain murmured. Thin laser beams crisscrossed the room, almost invisible unless viewed from the right angle. "Every step matters here. One mistake, and this place will scream."
Bergail exhaled slowly and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a compact device—thin, metallic, its surface flickering with faint symbols. He crouched, eyes focused, fingers moving rapidly as he began hacking into the home's security system.
The lasers flickered.
Then stabilized.
Then flickered again.
Bergail clenched his jaw. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
"Careful," Sergain warned softly. "This system adapts."
Bergail adjusted the device, recalculated, and tried again.
A second passed.
Then a third.
The lasers shut down.
The trap disengaged.
Sergain's expression shifted into a rare smile. "You did it," he said quietly. "That was clean. Too clean."
Bergail smirked. "Told you. Just needed time."
They exchanged a brief laugh—short, restrained—and moved deeper into the house.
They worked methodically.
Two bedrooms—nothing unusual.
The kitchen—sterile, overly neat.
The hall—empty, almost lifeless.
A private gym—well maintained, rarely used.
A child's study room—dusty, untouched for years.
"No clues," Bergail muttered.
"Not yet," Sergain replied.
At the far end of the house, they found a storeroom.
The door creaked open.
Inside were relics of another life—an old bicycle, faded and rusted, a basketball, worn-out stuffed toys, stacked boxes filled with memories rather than usefulness. As they stepped further in, something caught Sergain's eye.
A board.
Mounted on the wall.
Covered in photographs.
They froze.
The images were interconnected with thin wires and markings—labs, the moon, scientific diagrams, unfamiliar symbols. At the center was a photo of a child.
Sergain narrowed his eyes.
"This kid…" he murmured. "I've seen him before."
But the memory refused to surface.
The child didn't look like he belonged here. His posture, his expression—everything about him felt out of place. Nearby were photos of scientists, some familiar, some not. And then—
A photo of the shop owner, standing beside a much younger child.
"His son?" Bergail asked.
"Maybe," Sergain replied. "Or something more."
Without hesitation, Bergail snapped multiple pictures of the board. They didn't touch anything else.
Minutes later, they retraced their steps and exited the house exactly the way they entered—silent, clean, untouched.
Back at the toy shop, the shop owner had arrived.
Walt stood beside him, pointing frantically. "Sir—there! I swear it was right there!"
The shop owner frowned. "A rat? In my shop? That makes no sense."
"Sir, it just went under your legs!" Walt shouted suddenly.
The shop owner jumped back instinctively. "Where?! Where?!"
Walt clutched his side dramatically. "It's going to bite me!"
And then—
As if fate itself wanted to confirm the lie—
A real rat scurried into the shop.
Walt's eyes lit up for half a second.
The shop owner shouted, both of them scrambling, knocking things over, panicking until they finally chased the rat outside. Breathless, they collapsed onto nearby chairs, drinking juice from the shop fridge.
"I don't usually fear rats," the shop owner said stiffly, trying to recover his dignity. "Must be… fatigue."
Walt nodded respectfully.
From a distance, Sergain gave Walt a subtle signal.
Mission complete.
"Sir," Walt said calmly, "you should rest. I'll take care of the shop."
The shop owner hesitated, then nodded. "Alright."
He left.
And the trap closed silently behind him.
(Historic dimension)
Alexander sat atop the outer wall of the kingdom, his back resting against cold stone that had stood for centuries. From that height, the entire city lay open before his eyes.
The streets below were alive.
Merchants called out to passing citizens. Children ran through narrow lanes, laughter echoing between houses. Flags fluttered gently in the wind. From a distance, the kingdom looked perfectly peaceful, as if nothing could ever threaten it.
But Alexander didn't feel peace.
He narrowed his eyes, scanning the city slowly.
This calm… he thought. It's only on the surface.
He knew better. Behind closed doors were families who had already lost sons. Soldiers who returned wounded in body or mind. People who smiled in daylight and feared the night. The kingdom wasn't broken—but it was cracking.
"If you look deeper," he whispered to himself, "you'll see the rot."
Inside the palace walls, the air was heavier.
Jaccob stood before Victor, his posture respectful, his voice calm—but deliberate. "My lord," Jaccob said carefully, "do not misunderstand me. Declaring war… it is a powerful move. A decisive one."
Victor listened in silence.
"But consider this," Jaccob continued. "If war breaks out again, the cost will be unbearable. In just one year, we have already lost eighty-seven soldiers. Fathers. Sons. Brothers."
Victor's fingers tightened slightly around the armrest of his throne.
"If we march again," Jaccob said, lowering his voice, "many more will die. And for what? An execution that could still be reconsidered."
He paused, then added, "In my view, it would be wiser to speak with William. To discuss this order. Execution will only pour oil onto a fire that is already burning."
The chamber fell silent.
Victor leaned back slowly, his eyes fixed on the stone floor as his thoughts collided. Jaccob's words were not weak—they were practical. Painfully practical.
After a long moment, Victor raised his head.
"Call a soldier," he said.
A guard stepped forward instantly.
"I want to speak with Alexander," Victor commanded. "At once."
The guard bowed and rushed out.
Victor remained seated, staring ahead, his mind torn between duty and consequence, between the sword and restraint.