In one of the private offices of the Inquisitorial Vanguard, a young woman sat at a wide, oaken desk, her figure half-illuminated by the soft glow of a hanging lantern. Around her, the room was a quiet monument to order and obsession—towering shelves packed with grimoires, investigative reports, coded ledgers, and hand-bound dossiers filled with secrets most dared not read.
She wore the signature uniform of a Truth Seeker—a deep blue uniform with gold trim so fine it caught the light with every movement. On her chest gleamed a golden badge shaped like an open eye, its center set with a faintly glowing sigil that shimmered as if aware of her thoughts. Crisp white trousers and knee-high boots, polished to an immaculate sheen, completed her appearance—clean, precise, and composed.
It was Laura—The Truth Seeker, one of the youngest ever appointed to the elite rank. In the Inquisitorial Vanguard, where one's place was earned by intelligence, skill, and the scars of hard-earned experience, her position was a rare one. And she bore it like a blade—quiet, honed, and ready.
At the moment, her focus was locked onto a stack of smuggling reports, her gloved fingers flipping through the pages with mechanical precision. Her eyes moved quickly—sharp, unblinking—as if tracing invisible lines that no one else could see.
The Inquisitorial Vanguard was not governed by politics or bloodlines—it was ruled by intellect, discipline, and strength. Ranks were earned.
At the base were the Pursuants , initiates tasked with low-level assignments and training exercises. Above them stood the Inquisitors, responsible for executing investigations and fieldwork under strict orders. Guiding them were the Marshalls, seasoned leaders and strategists, commanding Inquisitors and managing operations.
Then came the Truth Seekers—elite operatives entrusted with cases of exceptional sensitivity and danger. Their role demanded discretion, insight, and a will tempered in conflict.
Above even them were the Veil Wardens, commanding officers who held both military and arcane authority. Each was at minimum a Grade 6 spell-user, capable of devastating magic and complex enchantments.
At the pinnacle sat the Eye of the Imperium—an enigmatic, rarely seen rank. Those few who held the title answered directly to the Council of the Imperium and the Imperial Family itself. Their word carried the weight of law, and their eyes, it was said, missed nothing.
At that moment, Marshall Harold knocked on the door.
Come in, she said while analysing some documents.
The marshall walked in while holding some documents. Good evening mam Laura.
I have the reports on the investigation , he said while handing over the documents.
She took the file from his hands and flipped it open. "Any leads?"
Harold nodded. "Yeah. We followed up on the smuggling report. It checks out—Ferno and his men were behind it. They used a train to move the goods."
"Where are they now?" she asked.
"Gone," he said. "All of them. No bodies, no signs, nothing. Just disappeared."
He hesitated before continuing. "There's something else. Some of the operatives have been hearing rumors—commoners talking about a possible uprising. Supposedly against the nobility."
Laura's brow furrowed. "How serious?"
"Hard to say. There's no real proof, just talk. Nothing solid. But the rumors are spreading, and the tone's getting bolder."
After some thought she frowned. None of it fit. The facts conflicted with her instincts.
"Did you find out where they were headed with the goods?"
Harold shook his head. "No leads on that. Nothing concrete."
Laura fell into a brief silence, eyes narrowing as she sifted through the facts in her mind. The smuggling operation—something about it doesn't fit. The volume of drugs moved was small, barely enough to turn a profit. If profit wasn't the goal, then what was?
Sacrifice. That has to be it. But where is the altar? The ritual site? There's no sign of any ceremonial medium—nothing to bind or channel magic. And the deaths... they didn't happen all at once. They were spread out, disconnected in time and place. That's unusual for a sacrifice.
If the smuggling was a cover, did they transport the items when they thought the risk was low? But what were those items, and where did they come from?
Her fingers tapped the edge of the report. This isn't a simple case of contraband. There's a deeper design here—something hidden beneath layers of deception. I need to find the missing piece.
After several moments of silence, Laura rose from her chair, her expression resolute.
"I'll inspect the site myself," she said quietly. "There's something we've missed—and I intend to find it."
....
In the Slums
Laura walked through the narrow, broken streets of the slums, She was flanked by four operatives—one Marshall and three Inquisitors, all handpicked for discretion and loyalty .
Each of them wore the standard field uniform of the Inquisitorial Vanguard: a dark blue coat, tightly fitted and reinforced with hidden plating beneath the fabric, built for both mobility and defense. Buckled belts secured small sidearms—sleek, handguns—and combat knives, their hilts wrapped in dark leather. Every piece of equipment had a purpose. There were no ornaments here, only tools for survival and precision.
The slums were a patchwork of decay and desperation. The stone buildings stood crooked and stained, patched with mismatched planks and rusted tin sheets—stubbornly upright, but weathered and worn like old beggars. Smoke drifted from makeshift chimneys, mixing with the sour stench of rot, burning refuse, and unwashed bodies. Narrow alleys wound between the dwellings, lined with piles of broken crates, discarded clothes, and muddy runoff.
Beggars huddled in doorways, wrapped in burlap and rags, their hands outstretched to anyone passing by. A few shady figures lingered in the shadows—thieves watching with narrow eyes for easy targets. Small taverns leaned against each other like drunken men, their dim lanterns flickering over cracked signs and worn thresholds.
Children with gaunt faces and dirt-smudged skin loitered in the alleys, dressed in tattered shirts too thin for the weather. They stared in silence as Laura passed, curiosity and caution dancing behind their eyes.
Her eyes drifted past the sagging rooftops and curling smoke, rising toward the distant silhouette of the High Quarter. There, beyond the grime and ruin, grand manors and a colossal castle loomed—home to the empire's highest nobility. The castle's spires pierced the sky like spears of polished ivory, its domes and walls gleaming gold beneath the setting sun. From where she stood, among the decay and disease.
"They build their monuments higher each year," she thought, her jaw tight. "Not to inspire—but to forget. To bury the streets they've abandoned beneath stone and silence.The Council sees numbers, not people. They speak of order while the gutters drown in disease. Even the Church turns a blind eye, wrapped in its prayers and sermons while the city decays. I can't change any of it… I'm too powerless to do anything…"she thought grimly.
She held an object Cradled in her gloved hands was a device unlike the others: an oval-shaped object, no larger than a palm, forged in gold and etched with fine runic engravings so delicate they shimmered in the slum's fading light. At its center gleamed a smooth emerald stone, embedded like an unblinking eye. The artifact pulsed faintly, resonating in rhythm with something unseen—a Mana Resonance Detector, capable of sensing traces of active or lingering magical influence within a fifty-meter range.
Then, in Laura's hand, the mana detector gave a subtle pulse—a faint vibration that resonated through her glove like a second heartbeat. The emerald at its center began to glow softly, casting a pale green hue across her knuckles.
She slowed, raising the artifact slightly.
"This way," she murmured.
Guided by the detector's response, they turned down a narrower alley, where the buildings leaned in tighter and the smell of mildew thickened. The pulse grew stronger—steadier—until finally, they stopped before a rusted sewer grate half-buried beneath layers of debris, filth, and moss.
They had arrived.
"Here," she said.
They pried it open and descended into the dark.
The sewers were narrow, the walls damp and close. Rats scurried over bricks, and clouds of buzzing insects swarmed near stagnant pools. The air was thick, humid, and stank of decay. They moved carefully, the lantern casting long, twitching shadows against the slick stones.
Then the artifact's light glowed brighter—intense, urgent.
They stopped.
But around them was nothing. Just stone, moss, and water.
"It's here," Harold muttered, confused. "But I don't see anything—"
Laura's eyes lifted slowly. A sense of pressure tickled the back of her skull—intuition or something deeper.
She looked up.
To be continued.