The iron door of Volkar's forge groaned shut behind him.
Revan stood in the narrow alley of the Undergallows, letting the cold night air wash over his face. The heat from the forge still clung to his clothes, mixing with the ever-present smell of coal smoke and rust that defined this forgotten corner of Valorheim.
Volkar's words echoed in his mind.
Threads beginning to weave together with everything else he knew.
[Crimson Tears]—the illegal Mana Catalyst sitting in his Shadow Storage. An item that shouldn't exist in this timeline.
The Old Mage who fled from the train that night, leaving Vargos to die alone.
And now, rumors of a large-scale operation in the Borderlands. Facilities that required prisoners.
Revan started walking, his footsteps echoing against the damp cobblestones.
He navigated the twisting alleys from memory, heading toward the main streets that would lead him back to the Academy. The merchant district was the fastest route—crowded enough to discourage casual attacks, but not so packed that he couldn't move freely.
At least, that was the plan.
The sensation hit him halfway through the merchant district.
Nothing obvious. No killing intent. No spike in Mana pressure. Just... a wrongness. The kind of instinct that fifteen years of serving as Sylvia's blade had hammered into his bones.
Someone was following him.
Revan didn't stop walking. Didn't change his pace. His eyes continued forward while his other senses expanded outward, cataloging every detail.
Footsteps. Three sets, maybe four. Maintaining consistent distance. Too coordinated to be random pedestrians.
'They picked me up somewhere between the Undergallows and here. Which means they were either watching Volkar's place... or they've been tailing me since I left the Academy.'
Neither option was comforting.
'Who knows I went to see Volkar?'
The answer was: almost no one. Revan had been careful. He'd used back routes, avoided main streets, didn't tell anyone where he was going.
But someone had found him anyway.
'Cedric?'
The Ravencrest heir had made his displeasure clear at the Restricted Section yesterday. Revan had stepped out of line—protecting Elara, challenging Cedric's authority. It wouldn't be surprising if the golden prince decided to send a message.
'But this doesn't feel like Cedric's style. He prefers social destruction over physical violence. Too much risk in direct attacks.'
'The Old Mage, then?'
The Archmage who fled from the train knew that Revan had witnessed everything. Knew that evidence of his involvement might still exist. Eliminating loose ends would be logical.
But how would he know where he was? How would he even know he was still alive?
'Unless someone told him.'
The threads in Revan's mind twisted tighter, forming knots he couldn't untangle.
Too many possibilities. Not enough information.
But one thing was certain: whoever was following him, they weren't amateurs. And they weren't going to give up just because he reached a crowded area.
Time to take control of the situation.
Revan turned into a narrow alley between two old buildings. The high stone walls blocked out the moonlight, creating a corridor of darkness perfect for two things—an ambush or a trap.
He chose the latter.
The alley was a dead end.
A three-meter brick wall blocked the far end, covered in moss and old stains. The smell of garbage and stagnant water filled the air. A single broken lantern hung from a rusted bracket, its flame long dead.
Revan stopped in the middle of the alley, his back facing the entrance.
"You can come out now," he said, his voice flat. "I'm tired of pretending."
Silence.
Then, three figures stepped in from the alley's mouth, blocking the only exit.
They wore ordinary clothes—dull brown cloaks like traveling merchants, dark cloth pants, worn leather boots. Their faces were covered with plain black cloth. Not carved assassin masks bearing clan symbols, just cheap fabric anyone could buy at any market.
Their weapons were equally generic. Standard iron swords without ornaments, without identifying marks, without anything that could be traced.
Revan noticed every detail in seconds. And every detail made him more wary.
'No identifying features. No clan symbols. Generic weapons.'
Professional assassins had pride. They carried quality weapons, wore their affiliation symbols—however subtle—as statements of identity. Even the Vespera family's own killers had tells that someone with enough knowledge could recognize.
But these three?
They were ghosts. Existences deliberately erased from every form of tracking.
"Who sent you?" Revan asked, more to buy time than expecting an answer.
No response.
The one in the middle—his build slightly larger than the other two—raised his hand. A signal.
All three moved simultaneously.
Golden-red Aura exploded from their bodies.
The air pressure in the narrow alley spiked instantly, making Revan's skin prickle. Crimson light coated their blades, humming with barely contained violence.
'Fuck'
The first attacked from the left with a sweeping slash. The second thrust from the right.
The third—the largest one—leaped overhead, his sword descending like a guillotine from above.
A perfect triangular formation. No escape routes.
Revan's body moved before his brain finished processing.
He didn't have a proper sword—the weapon at his waist was just a low-quality loaner from the Academy's storage.
'Can't block Aura-enhanced strikes with this garbage. One direct hit and the blade shatters.'
So he didn't bother blocking.
Revan dropped flat to the ground. The slash and thrust passed above him, nearly colliding with each other. The overhead strike buried itself into the stone where his head had been a millisecond ago.
Cobblestones shattered. Debris flew.
In that same instant, Revan's palm touched the ground, and shadow erupted from beneath him. Three kunai shot out in different directions—not at his enemies, but at the walls around them.
The kunai embedded themselves into the stone, thin wires connecting them in a web that the three attackers hadn't noticed.
But they were faster than he anticipated.
The leader ripped his sword from the ground and spun, his crimson Aura flaring brighter. The blade swept toward Revan's prone body with enough force to bisect him cleanly.
Revan rolled. The sword carved a trench in the stone inches from his spine.
He kicked off the ground, launching himself backward, and finally drew his cheap sword. Black Aura—jagged and volatile—flickered along its edge.
Pain immediately shot through his arm. His body wasn't ready for this.
A week of bedrest had healed the worst of his injuries from the Vargos fight, but "healed" was a generous term. His muscles still protested sudden movements.
He spat to the side.
"You know what? My head is splitting right now."
No response. Just three pairs of eyes watching him through their cloth masks.
"Let's finish this quick."
Wasting breath on words would only aggravate his condition. Better to just incapacitate them now... and ask questions later.