The night was quiet, save for the rhythmic thud of Char's fists against the stone wall behind the safehouse.
His knuckles stung. Again.
He cursed under his breath, shaking out his aching fingers before clenching them tight again.
It's not enough.
His Author's Note flared in his mind, but it was like a locked door with no key—his two skills, the ones he had taken from others, had plateaued.
Maybe… maybe it's because they weren't mine to begin with.
The thought gnawed at him.
He had copied these powers—Crystalline Manipulation, Crimson Armor. He had adapted them, made them his, but deep down… was this the limit? Could he only reach so far with something that wasn't his to begin with?
He drew back his fist again. A coating of red glowing armor coalesced around his fist.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud—
Then, a crash from inside the safehouse.
A voice. Frantic. Shaken.
"HELP! SOMEONE, PLEASE!"
Elyan's voice.
Char spun on his heel, already sprinting toward the door.
He slammed inside, breath catching at the sight before him.
Elyan was on the floor, arms wrapped tight around Renna's body.
Blood. Too much blood.
Her tunic was soaked, her face pale. Her breath came shallow and ragged.
"DO SOMETHING!" Elyan's voice broke as she clutched Renna closer, tears streaking down her face. "PLEASE—!"
Char froze—then forced himself to move.
"TESS!" he shouted. "MARIN!"
The others rushed in, eyes widening.
Tess dropped to her knees, hands hovering over Renna's wound, but she was no healer.
"Pressure—!" Marin barked, already ripping cloth from her own sleeve to press against the stab wound.
Char's mind raced.
They had potions, but not enough for something like this. They needed—
He swore under his breath.
A Healing Stone.
"Where—" He snapped his gaze to Ishmael. "The artifact shops. In the center district. They sell Healing Stones, right?"
Ishmael blinked. Then, realizing his plan, nodded sharply.
Char turned back to the others.
"Keep her alive," he said, voice tight. "We'll be back."
Then, he was already running.
Ishmael at his side.
They needed to be fast.
*
The streets of Oryn-Vel were alive with celebration.
Drums pounded. Fireworks streaked across the sky in bursts of gold and silver. The city glowed under countless lanterns, casting warm, flickering light over the revelers.
Yet, just beyond the festivities, outside the hidden Syndicate outpost, three men stood in uneasy silence.
Grendon. Jorem. Harker.
The weight of Varrel's plan settled heavy on their shoulders.
Inside, over seventy Syndicate members were preparing to detonate the city.
The New Year of 269 AE was only two hours away.
And when the final bell struck midnight…
The gates, the Whispers, the city center—three points would erupt in fire and ruin.
Grendon exhaled, running a hand through his unkempt beard. His fingers brushed against the place where Zefaria had slapped him earlier.
He winced.
"Shit," he muttered.
Jorem crossed his arms. "You don't look happy."
Harker scoffed, lighting a cigarette. "Because this is insane." He took a long drag, then gestured toward the city, where cheers and laughter filled the air. "This wasn't what I signed up for."
Jorem tilted his head. "Then what did you sign up for?"
Harker took another pull of smoke before letting it out slowly.
Grendon answered for him.
"To survive."
Jorem looked between them. "That's all?"
"That's everything," Harker muttered. "The only thing."
They had all come from nothing.
Grendon had grown up in the filth of the southern district, raised by a drunk father who spent his last coin on booze instead of bread. Harker had slit his first throat at eleven just to keep his stomach from eating itself. Jorem had clawed his way out of the slavery under a corrupt noble in the past.
The Syndicate had given them a way up.
Not riches. Not power. Just enough.
Enough to breathe. Enough to be more than gutter rats.
But this?
This wasn't smuggling. This wasn't backroom deals or bribing guards.
This was warfare.
Grendon glanced at the outpost, where the others were still inside.
"Do you really think the boss is in his right mind?"
Harker was quiet for a moment. "He's been off since he got that book."
"The Book of Ashes?" Jorem asked, raising a brow.
Harker nodded. "Felix found it for him. But Varrel's been… different. He barely sleeps. Barely eats. Just keeps reading."
Grendon frowned.
That wasn't like their boss.
Varrel had always been calculated. Patient. Even when the Syndicate was burned down by Ardent, he had rebuilt with control.
But now…
Now, he spoke of tearing the city apart.
Of ruin and plunder.
Jorem sighed. "Maybe it's not about money anymore."
"Then what the hell is it about?" Harker snapped.
No one answered.
Because none of them knew.
For a long moment, the three of them stood there, listening to the sounds of the festival.
It would all be gone in two hours.
Gone in fire and screams.
And they were going along with it.
Grendon swallowed hard.
Was this what he wanted?
Before he could say anything, Felix stormed out of the outpost.
His face was tight with frustration. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
The three men turned to him.
"Felix," Grendon called. "What do you think about all this?"
Felix stopped.
Turned.
And then, exploded.
"What do I think?! I think you're all a bunch of gutless, useless, spineless fools!"
Harker blinked. "Whoa, calm dow—"
Felix whirled on him.
"CALM DOWN?! You think I can CALM DOWN when in less than two hours, the city is going to burn and YOU'RE JUST STANDING HERE?!"
Grendon stepped forward, trying to keep his voice even. "Felix, we're just—"
"You're just NOTHING!" Felix snarled. "Do you have ANY IDEA how much we've bled for this? How much we've sacrificed?"
Jorem narrowed his eyes. "Felix—"
Felix shook his head.
"You're all cowards," he hissed. "You don't deserve to be here."
Then, without another word, he turned and sprinted into the streets.
Away from them.
Away from the outpost.
And into the chaos of the festival.
The three men stood there, watching him disappear into the crowd.
Grendon's jaw clenched.
Harker tossed his cigarette aside.
Jorem exhaled sharply.
None of them spoke.
Because, in the end…
None of them knew what the hell they were going to do.
*
The streets of Oryn-Vel were alive with anticipation.
Laughter and music filled the air, lanterns painting the cobblestone roads in hues of gold and red. The scent of roasted meats and spiced cider curled through the crowds as hundreds of people flooded the city's center.
The New Year's Bell was only hours away.
And in the midst of it all, two cloaked figures moved like shadows.
Char and Ishmael.
They hurried through the throng, hoods drawn low to conceal their faces. Despite the festive air, tension laced their every step.
Renna needed that Healing Stone.
Fast.
They reached the accessory shop, a quaint little building nestled between a bakery and an alchemist's stall. The sign above the door read Vellmar's Trinkets & Wares, the painted letters fading with time.
Char pushed inside first.
The shop was small but cluttered, packed with glass cases filled with enchanted rings, pendants, and artifacts. The smell of old parchment and lavender hung in the air.
A frail old man—Vellmar himself—looked up from behind the counter. His milky eyes widened as he took in their hurried stance.
"Ah, travelers in need of something urgent, I presume?" His voice was soft yet sharp, like he missed nothing.
Char didn't waste time. "Healing Stones, if you have them."
Vellmar nodded slowly. He crouched beneath the counter, shuffling through a chest of velvet-lined cases.
"Expensive things, these are," he muttered, then produced a small, opalescent stone, which was a soft green in color. "But potent."
Char slammed gold onto the counter before the old man could name a price. "We'll take it."
Vellmar gave him an amused look, but swept the coins away without protest.
The stones were cool to the touch as Char pocketed them.
"Let's go," Ishmael muttered.
They turned and darted outside—
—only to be met with chaos.
A commotion rippled through the crowd, sharp gasps and panicked whispers spreading like wildfire.
Char and Ishmael stopped cold on the threshold of the shop, their eyes snapping to the source of the disturbance.
A band of figures marched down the street, their presence impossible to ignore.
At least thirty of them.
Dressed in dark coats and armor, moving in unison with the confidence of soldiers. The sigil of a serpent coiling around a dagger was embroidered on their sleeves.
The Syndicate.
And this was no ordinary patrol.
Char's stomach tightened as he took in the state-of-the-art flintlocks strapped to their belts. The gleaming swords in their hands.
Weapons drawn.
This wasn't a parade.
This was a show of force.
A warning.
The crowd parted before them, uneasy murmurs rising. Some festival-goers laughed nervously, thinking it was some staged performance. Others backed away, their instincts screaming at them.
Char's fingers curled into fists.
"They're moving in..." Ishmael muttered under his breath. "They're making a statement."
A statement of what? Char thought grimly.
Then—
One of the Syndicate members suddenly fired his flintlock into the air.
A thunderous crack split the sky.
The crowd screamed.
Panic exploded.
People shoved and scattered, the joyful celebration twisting into chaos. Vendors toppled their stalls as they fled, children wailed, and guards rushed forward—
—only to be met with raised swords and more gunfire.
Char's heart pounded.
"This isn't just a show of force," he whispered. "It's the start."
The start of whatever Varrel had planned.
Ishmael's hand gripped his shoulder.
"Char," he said lowly. "We need to move."
Char's eyes snapped back to the Syndicate members.
One of them—a tall, sharp-eyed man—had just turned his head.
And he was staring straight at them.
Their hoods. Their stance.
Recognition dawned in his expression.
Then, his hand shot up—
Pointing directly at Char and Ishmael.
"There!"
Char's stomach dropped.
Swords were drawn.
Guns were cocked.
The Syndicate charged.
And Char and Ishmael ran.