The air was thick with tension, the scent of blood and sweat mingling with the damp stone walls of the safehouse. The dim glow of lanterns flickered across the room as Elyan knelt beside Renna, pressing a fresh bandage to her wound. She had been losing blood too quickly, her skin paler than usual, and the faint sheen of sweat across her forehead sent dread curling in Elyan's stomach.
"Still not back yet?" she murmured, voice hoarse.
Elyan shook her head, forcing a reassuring smile. "Char and Ishmael will be here soon. Just hang on."
Renna gave a weak chuckle, her breath uneven. "You're terrible at lying."
She wasn't wrong. Elyan's hands were shaking, even as she tied another strip of cloth around her waist to keep the wound stable. She had been stabbed deep—too deep—and without a healing stone, all they could do was keep her from slipping further toward the edge.
Across the room, Marin, Tess, and Callen stood at the window, peering out into the streets beyond. They had been keeping watch since the attack, but the distant sound of marching had changed everything.
Marin turned to the others, her brow furrowed. "Something's happening. A big movement. We need to check it out."
Elyan stiffened, not looking away from Renna. "Are you serious? The Syndicate is out in full force tonight."
"Which is exactly why we need to go," Callen said, arms crossed. His usually calm demeanor was sharpened by focus. "We can't just sit here and wait while the city burns."
Tess adjusted the leather straps on her gauntlets, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off any hesitation. "We'll be careful. If we don't find anything useful, we'll head right back."
Elyan exhaled slowly. She knew there was no stopping them. Tess, Marin, and Callen had already made up their minds, and the truth was, he would have done the same if he weren't pinned down watching over Renna.
She nodded, glancing at them over his shoulder. "Fine. But don't engage unless you have to. Just gather intel and—"
"We know the drill," Marin said with a small grin, but there was no humor in her voice.
With one last glance at Renna, they slipped out into the night.
The city was alive with unrest.
*
As Marin, Tess, and Callen moved swiftly through the darkened streets, they could hear the crackle of distant gunfire, the clash of steel, and the panicked shouts of civilians caught in the rising chaos.
Oryn-Vel was on the brink, teetering between the euphoria of the New Year and the bloodstained reckoning that the Syndicate had planned.
They kept close to the shadows, darting between alleyways, avoiding the roving patrols of Syndicate members. None of them spoke, their instincts honed by years of working together. Every movement was precise, every step measured.
Then—they saw it.
At the edge of a narrow street, just before the wide stone road that led toward the southern gate, they spotted a marching band of Syndicate enforcers.
Ten or more strong, moving in perfect formation, flintlocks at their sides and blades at their belts. Black-and-crimson cloaks fluttered behind them like a tide of approaching darkness.
And at their head, a woman with fire in her stride.
She was tall, clad in black clothes with silver trim, her movements brimming with confidence and purpose. Her face was framed by wild, untamed blonde curls, but it was the look in her golden eyes that made Marin's breath hitch.
Fierce. Commanding. Unyielding.
This woman was no ordinary enforcer.
Marin, Tess, and Callen ducked behind a low stone wall, barely breathing as the procession passed just meters away from them.
"Who the hell is that?" Tess whispered.
"Someone important," Callen muttered. "And someone dangerous."
Marin exhaled, gripping the hilt of her short sword tightly. "We need to figure out where they're going."
Callen's jaw tightened, his gaze never leaving the marching enforcers. "I think we already know."
They all followed his line of sight—to the southern gate.
A pit formed in Marin's stomach. If the Syndicate was focusing that much manpower there, it meant something catastrophic was about to happen.
They couldn't let that happen.
"We need to stop this," Tess murmured.
Marin's breath was unsteady. There were forty Syndicate enforcers. They were only three. This wasn't a fight they could win.
But if they didn't act, the city's southern quarter could be reduced to rubble before the New Year even arrived.
She looked between Tess and Callen, searching their eyes.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
They were ready.
Marin drew her blade, her voice a whisper on the cold night air.
"Then let's move."
*
Char's boots pounded against the stone streets, his breath ragged, his mind racing. The city had descended into pure chaos—civilians screamed and scattered, Syndicate enforcers patrolled the streets in packs, and the distant crackle of gunfire sent shivers down his spine. But none of it mattered.
All that mattered was getting back to the safehouse.
The Healing Stone was tucked safely in his pouch, but it wouldn't do a damn bit of good if they didn't make it back alive.
Ishmael ran beside him, his sword already slick with blood, his sharp gaze flickering across the chaotic battlefield that Oryn-Vel had become. They had been spotted too many times already, forced to cut their way through stray Syndicate members, leaving bodies in their wake.
Then—a shadow moved.
Char barely had time to react before a blade shot out from the darkness. Ishmael twisted, trying to dodge, but the dagger punched straight through his thigh.
"Ishmael!"
A choked grunt of pain escaped his friend's lips, but he didn't collapse. Instead, he thrust his sword forward, catching one of their attackers in the ribs. A second man lunged at Char, his knife flashing, and Char barely managed to stagger backward before the blade could sink into his throat.
The empty ache in his chest was spreading.
His mana was running dangerously low. The copied skills—Crystalline Manipulation and Crimson Armor—had drained him more than he realized. There was nothing left.
A fist slammed into his stomach.
Char gasped, doubling over as pain exploded through him. His mind was fuzzy, his limbs heavy. He saw Ishmael struggling—the wound in his thigh slowing him down, his blade clashing with two more Syndicate members. They were cornered.
And there was nothing Char could do.
No mana. No strength. No options.
He grunted and ground his teeth together hard as a boot lashed into his ribs and he felt something inside him move. Shit, he couldn't focus on Author's Note and try to drag out one of his stolen abilities…
No—there had to be something.
He clenched his fists, forcing his mind to focus. He raised his hands to block another snapping boot aiming right for his face. The main brunt of the attack was dulled, but sharp pain bit through his hands and wrists as a result.
No time. You have to think, Char Greene…
How could be still fight by using his skill? What application could he try with Author's Note?
His copied abilities had limits—three slots, each holding a skill he had borrowed. He had used two.
One was still empty.
His gaze snapped to Ishmael.
A crazy thought slammed into his head, and he didn't hesitate.
Skills were drawn from people. Stolen, copied, imitated.
Char didn't have to take from an enemy.
He could take from Ishmael.
Something clicked in his mind, like an invisible thread weaving between them. His breath hitched as his body recognized something foreign, something dark and powerful. It felt like a slippery rope that dangled limply between them. Char had to force every ounce of himself into grabbing onto that connection and forcing a link between his skill and Ishmael's skill.
Darkness Cut.
The moment it flooded into him, he felt it—a cold, shadowed energy, curling in his fingertips, weightless yet sharp as a dagger. It was like being submerged into arctic waters, his whole body freezing and shutting down like an robot without its energy.
The Syndicate thug rushed him, a wicked grin on his scarred face. He didn't see the black aura crackling in Char's palm until it was too late.
Char moved.
His hand sliced through the air—and the man's fingers vanished in an instant.
A guttural scream tore through the street as the Syndicate enforcer staggered backward, clutching his bloody, ruined hand.
Ishmael took the opening, gritting his teeth through the pain. His sword flashed once—twice—and his attackers fell, their blood staining the cobblestones beneath them. He turned with a dangerous gleam in his eyes as he set upon the last man who had been assaulting Char. He took his life with a single stroke of his blood-stained sword.
For a moment, everything was silent.
Then Char felt his knees buckle.
He nearly collapsed, the rush of using Darkness Cut leaving him breathless, shaking. His body wasn't ready for it—it wasn't his ability, not truly, and forcing it into his system felt like trying to drink ink instead of water.
Ishmael grabbed him, pulling him forward, his voice sharp.
"Come on—no time to rest."
Char forced himself upright.
His vision blurred, his body ached, but the Healing Stone was still in his grasp.
They weren't done yet.