The Ledger Opens
The air in the hidden lounge shifted, growing heavy with the scent of expensive tobacco and a cold, underlying metallic tang. Edward stepped in first, his usual bravado replaced by a calculated, subservient grace.
"Boss," he said, his voice dropping into a respectful register, "we've got some… guests."
George barely registered the intrusion, his eyes darting around the room.
Ren, however, froze. The color drained from his face as his gaze locked onto the man lounging on the swinging bed. He took an involuntary step back, his boots scuffing the floor. "Avilden Grey," Ren whispered, the name tasting like ash. "Not good. This is really not good."
Edward's arm slid around Ren's shoulders—a gesture that looked friendly to an outsider but felt like a vice to Ren. "My friend here has a purse full of questions, boss," Edward said, his smile never reaching his eyes.
A sharp, cold sting bit into Ren's side. He went rigid. Looking down, he saw the glint of a narrow dagger pressed firmly between his ribs. When he looked up, Edward was still grinning, but his focus was entirely on the man across the room. Avilden Grey sat with an effortless, ethereal poise. His short dark hair was swept back, revealing a face of striking, almost feminine beauty that masked a terrifying vacancy. He watched the group with a look of bored amusement, as if they were insects trapped in a jar. Before anyone could utter a word, the man beside him—holding a heavy hexagonal staff—lifted a hand.
The staff pulsed with a sickening violet light. A wave of localized gravity slammed into the room. Nana, Kayn, George, and Faust were driven to their knees, the air crushed from their lungs as if the atmosphere itself had turned to lead. Nana's fingers sparked with desperate, instinctive lightning, but the pressure snuffed it out before it could form.
Avilden chuckled, a soft, melodic sound that chilled the blood. He rose smoothly from the swinging bed, plucking a crystal glass from his companion's hand. He took a slow, elegant sip as he crossed the room, his movements fluid and predatory. "Demacy," he said casually, his eyes flicking to the staff-wielder. "Relax. Our young friends are just… curious."
Demacy hesitated, then lowered the staff. The crushing weight vanished instantly. George gasped, catching himself on his hands and knees. Nana pushed herself upright, her breathing ragged, her palms still glowing with a faint, dying amber light. Kayn and Faust remained paralyzed, their eyes wide with the realization of the gap in power.
"George," Kayn whispered, his voice trembling, "these guys aren't Ferrara's thugs. They won't just sell us for a profit." He swallowed hard. "They'll erase us."
George scanned the room—the stone-faced guards, the lack of viable exits, and the terrifying, calm certainty in Avilden's stride. The reality of their situation settled over him like a shroud. His shoulders sagged. He reached out and squeezed Nana's hand, a silent plea. Slowly, the lightning in her veins faded.
Avilden stopped inches from George. "Aww," he said softly, his voice like silk. "He finally understands." His smile sharpened, cold and brilliant. "You're not within the safety of the Academy walls anymore, George. There are no proctors here to save you."
George's heart hammered against his ribs. "H–How do you know my name?"
Avilden leaned closer, his scent a mix of cloves and old parchment. "They don't call me Avilden the Ledger for nothing," he murmured. "It's my job to know the value of every soul that wanders into my city. It's my job to know things."
The Guest of Honor
Without waiting for a response, Avilden wrapped a firm arm around George's shoulders, guiding him forward with an intimacy that felt like a death sentence.
"Now," Avilden continued, steering him toward a plush seat beside Demacy, "you and your friends are my guests. Sit." He pushed George down with a sudden, violent force that rattled George's teeth. "I insist." Avilden straightened and addressed the room. "Kelatu," he said, nodding toward the broad-shouldered man with the braided beard. "Privacy."
Kelatu rose without a word, his massive frame blocking the door, pipe smoke curling around him like a warning barrier.
"Azasaron," Avilden added to the silver-haired elf lounging nearby. "Let our guests sit comfortably."
Azasaron smirked, gesturing lazily toward the others. Nana, Faust, and Kayn were guided forward, the unspoken threat of violence hanging over every step. Avilden reclaimed his place at the center of the room, drink in hand. "Now," he said pleasantly, "let's talk about why you've risked your lives to find me."
George glanced at his friends, his chest tight. He knew the wrong word could end them all. "My… my grandfather, Henry. He's missing. We found a calling card on the wall. A coffin."
Avilden's smile vanished instantly. The warmth in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He set his drink down on the table with a heavy, deliberate thud that signaled the end of the pleasantries. "Man," he said quietly, "you kids have some really shitty luck."
He gestured to a woman lingering in the shadows. She stepped forward, carrying a small, ornate box of dark wood and silver filigree. With a soft click, she opened it to reveal a tele-stone orb. Its surface was smooth as glass, pulsing with a rhythmic, violet glow. Avilden snapped his fingers. The air above the table rippled like heat over stone. Translucent images spilled upward, swirling into a jagged, first-person projection. George stiffened as he saw himself—the orb was pulling from his own psyche. Images flickered: the Academy, the fight with Magnus, the scorched mark above Kayn's eye. Then, it shifted to his grandfather's house, capturing Ren and Faust in the flickering light. Avilden snapped again, and the personal memories shattered like glass.
In their place came scenes that were cleaner, colder, and far more cruel.
Visions of the Coffin
The air above the table rippled like heat over stone. Translucent images spilled upward, swirling into a jagged, first-person projection. George stiffened as he saw himself—the orb was pulling from his own psyche. Images flickered: the Academy, the fight with Magnus, the scorched mark above Kayn's eye. Then, it shifted to his grandfather's house, capturing Ren and Faust in the flickering light.
Avilden snapped again, and the personal memories shattered like glass. In their place came scenes that were cleaner, colder, and far more cruel.
The projection shifted deeper into a bloodied alley. Standing amidst a heap of fallen bodies was a group of assailants. They were dressed in rugged black cladding, each bearing a grim crest of a coffin on their chest. Their uniforms were torn and rough, lacking any finesse. They wore white masks—stark, smooth, and porcelain-like, shaped into narrow, almost human faces with permanent, carved grins. But these masks were decaying; the white paint was peeling at the edges, and the "smiles" were drawn on with jagged, uneven strokes of black.
The image was a nightmare of butchery. Bodies were left scattered everywhere—men, women, and children alike. Their pockets had been torn open, their trinkets stolen, and their forms mutilated with a savage, senseless lack of discipline.
Then, the image flickered once more, transitioning to a scene that was deadlier because of its absolute silence.
The air filled with the image of a narrow, medieval corridor, slick with rain and moonlit silver. Figures moved through the frame with terrifying, inhuman fluidity—the Masked Assailants. These were nightmares clad in complex, gothic leather armor, every inch detailed with silver buckles, heavy straps, and reinforced pouches that remained silent even as they moved. They drifted like ghosts, their own white masks catching the moonlight. Unlike the previous group, these masks were flawless, their frozen, grinning crescent mouths appearing to mock the world. These were the apex predators of the underworld, executing their work with surgical, heartless grace.
The Warning
Avilden signaled for the box to be closed. The violet glow died. His smile returned, though it was now devoid of any warmth. "Don't worry," he said, lifting his drink again. "You're dealing with something far less threatening than the people who did that. However, I must warn you." He signaled the girl to refill his glass. "If you ever see those white masks… run. Don't look back. Don't breathe. Just run."
Avilden scanned the room, his gaze resting on Ren. "Ren, you've heard of the Coffin Gang, correct?"
Ren nodded slowly. "Bottom-feeders. Brutal, but small-time."
"Good," Avilden said. "That's who you're dealing with. They aren't Ferrara's men, but they do business with him. When you ratted him out at the trial, you made life very difficult for them. They probably wanted payback, or perhaps a bargaining chip."
Avilden gestured for Kelatu to step aside. "Well, my young friends, I think it's time for you to go."
George and the others stood up, the tension finally beginning to bleed out. Faust, Ren, and Kayn made it halfway to the door, Nana following closely. But George stopped. He turned back, his jaw set. "How do we find them?"
Avilden laughed—a sharp, genuine sound of disbelief. "Find them? You don't find the Coffin, boy. You avoid them. Don't you get it? They are fanboys—imitators of the masked assailants I showed you. They crave that terror."
The Death Stare
"Who are the masked assassins?" George pressed.
"Now you're entering dangerous waters, my young friend. Life is precious; you'd best not waste it asking stupid questions."
George refused to move. "I have to know. I have to save my grandpa."
Demacy didn't wait for an order. He waved his staff, and a kinetic burst sent George flying backward into the stone wall. Nana instinctively dropped into a defensive stance, her hands roaring with lightning. In a blur of motion, Avilden vanished. He reappeared instantly in front of her, his hand clamped firmly around her throat. He didn't squeeze; he simply held her. Nana's lightning dissipated instantly, her mana neutralized by his mere touch. She stared at him, gripped by a sudden, freezing confusion. Avilden let go gently and turned to dust George off, signaling Demacy to release the pressure.
"My young friend," Avilden said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal silk. "Those assassins aren't part of Ferrara's world, and they aren't like the scum you'll find here in the Den. Forget me. Forget this place. And forget I ever mentioned the Whooping Coffin." Avilden paused, his composure flickering for a fraction of a second as if he'd said too much. He leaned in, giving George a death stare filled with such pure, concentrated malice that George felt his heart skip a beat. "Leave now. Before I decide that keeping you alive is a liability I can no longer afford."
George didn't wait for a second warning. He backed away, stumbling toward the door. He and his friends fled into the night, the image of those grinning, empty masks burned into their minds.