The Arcane officials had no choice but to work from beyond Ouroboros, tracking the mountain's movements while staying clear of its Lure. Officials constantly embarked and disembarked to relay information in bursts. It wasn't as neat as a mystica-stream, but at least it kept their memories mostly intact.
Still, in moments like this, Hem cursed the lack of something faster.
He recorded a set of rapid-fire instructions onto a whisper leaf and thrust it into the twins' hands. "Relay this to every official you find. Record it. Repeat it. Make it spread." He orders.
The web of communication began to spin faster.
The final phase of the case—the mad manhunt for the child—had begun.
"No Sentinel. No Oracle," Kance mumbled, shivering in recollection.
"What?" Orin perked up.
"Jefferson's boast," Hem realized, a dangerous smile creeping across his face. "He's challenging us. Saying no one can solve his mystery."
Orin grinned back, sharp and ready. "With Ouroboros messing everyone's memories, sure, he thinks he's untouchable. But he didn't plan for a mystic detective to get on his case."
Tendra stared blankly. "The kid's got me lost again."
"Don't look at me." Hem instructs. "I've never heard of that title either."
"If you two don't know, we definitely don't." The twins sighed in a breath of pure relief.
"Then why are you still here?" Hem asked, raising a brow.
"To find out what the kid meant." The twins blinked at each other, confirming the obvious.
"It is obvious," Tendra snorted, spinning into another mad fit of laughter.
"Don't you have a shop to run?" Hem asked dryly.
"Not since some dumb Sentinels decided I might know something." Tendra winked. "'Except for one, of course." She shot Hem a look.
"Ahem!" Orin cleared his throat pointedly, dragging the spotlight back onto him. "What's the word you wanted to ask?"
"Such a show-off," Tendra muttered, already walking away.
All of a sudden, she paused, casting a sharp glance over her shoulder. "Let me know when you find that poor kid. Ouroboros is the best place to be lost in sorrow… but the kid's got only a day for that to turn gruesome. Soon, the mountain will have the child forever."
Hem stiffened. "Wait! I thought we had three more days!"
Tendra stopped, disappointed in their collective intelligence. "Boy, for a couple of smart-pants, you're all dumb," she said, shaking her head. "Three days is for people near the exits. The farthest folks—the ones deep inside—have to evacuate first. Mass evacuation. Tomorrow. Multiple slots, one signal. Clock's ticking, geniuses. All the best."
With a flippant wave, she turned, snapping her fingers.
Tenshu heard the sound and snapped upright, blocking off the officers' escape routes like a wall of living stone.
"One Joul, and I'll sing like a Resonix! Tell you whatever it is that Hem had deduced." Tendra called, already bargaining for information as the officers groaned.
"A new one," Orin blurted out, unable to bear the ground avoiding him anymore. "Mystward is getting way too many definitions, so I made a new one."
"We got it, kid." Hem ruffled Orin's hair.
"It combines your mysticism knowledge and my study of Wanderer behavior."
"Ew, no!"
"Oh, good." Hem shuddered. "That felt weird saying."
On their way back up to the crime scene, a few Enforcers intercepted them and introduced a stranger—Nostaw. Hem barely spared the man a glance… until Nostaw handed over a whisper leaf containing a strange, wrinkled-out scream on a whisper leaf.
"Hem Lock, is it?" Nostaw said through clenched teeth, barely containing his fury. "Thanks to this piece of leaf, my suppressed memories came rushing back. I wasn't sure at first—but that scream... Aurochs, I almost lost it forever." He jabbed a trembling finger toward Hem.
"And you-you discarded it. That scream. My reputation. My—say-what? Noise-proof gator floor!" He cut off an officer about to interrupt.
"Sir, do you know how hard it was to get that suite? Yes, partly because of my reputation—"
"Got the suite last minute thanks to luck, didn't you?" Hem said flatly.
The whole corridor went quiet.
"How can you possibly know that?" Nostaw recoiled. "No Sentinel asked. I didn't even think it was worth mentioning for the case—"
"Because anyone with half a brain would've taken it the wrong way and arrested you." Hem's frown cut through the tension, halting the Enforcers about to do the deed.
"Understandable." Hem continued, rolling his eyes at the officers.
Nostaw swallowed hard. "Is that… prominent to the case?" he asked, nervously twiddling his thumbs.
He'd heard about Hem, of course—everyone had. But being scrutinized under Hem's lens? That was something else entirely.
"Your luck became Jefferson's bad luck. So yes, I'd say very prominent." Said Hem.
Nostaw had no words.
Once Hem was done with him, he blocked Orin from entering the crime scene. "We don't need vomit over the evidence."
When Nostaw gagged from the smell drifting out, Hem threw him out—right back downstairs with Orin.
"Was hoping to get some juicy insights for my next novel," Nostaw said, trying to make conversation. "But the juices were… too real." He shuddered. "They confiscated all my notes, too. Guess they don't want a blockbuster script coming out anytime soon."
Orin squinted, asking with a frown. "Who are you talking to?"
Nostaw blinked. "…You?"
"If it's important, write it down." Orin waved him off like a clingy baby mystica. "I'll get to it if I'm bored. Or when I have time. Which—haha—let's be honest, means probably never."
Nostaw felt betrayed by Hem, who had, on multiple occasions, declined to be interviewed, and now had thrown dirt over his reputation by claiming the whisper leaf he recorded was false.
After all Nostaw's efforts to reclaim his honor—and one forceful encounter later—Hem had simply taken the leaf and left him with… this kid!
Yet another Wanderer who thought little of him.
Nostaw believed himself to be one of the most famous, influential figures on Wanderlust. Was it too much to ask that everyone should love him?
He studied Orin, who seemed lost deep in thought, before finally deciding to break the silence. "Come on, kid. Give me a hint, anything. I've got nothing for my next big script."
When his pleas fell on deaf ears, Nostaw switched tactics, trying to play along.
"People love to brag about their achievements. One just has to listen, and even the most secretive will spill their deepest, darkest secrets…"
—one of Nostaw's hidden quotes, unpublished. For if Wanderers knew, they might stop bragging in front of him.
"What's got you in a knot?" Nostaw asked.
Orin, stuck in a frustrating loop of thought, hesitated. He needed someone smart to bounce ideas off—not Nostaw by any measure—but maybe he could use him as a distraction, so he decided to engage.
"I need one more look at that suite. Be my distraction."
Kid never heard of subtlety, Nostaw thought. "Why such a noble sacrifice?" he asked, boosting Orin's ego.
Orin tilted his head, eyeing him skeptically. "Nostaw... I don't recall any of my pen pals mentioning your work. What kind of scripts do you focus on?"
Orin's tone was already flat, making Nostaw think anything he said would only lead to belittling.
How self-centered can one kid be? Nostaw forces a nervous chuckle, trying to spin it to his advantage. "Fiction—"
"Rubbish," Orin cut him off. "We have real wonder and mysteries around us. Why anyone would waste time on such drivel is beyond me. I don't think you'll be worth much as a distraction either."
Nostaw's jaw twitched, rage bubbling beneath his forced smile. "Why, you little—" he bit back the insult, grinding his teeth.
"For someone who thinks scholars are the only ones who matter, you sure forget every scholar—no, everyone-is a Wanderer first. A dreamer."
Orin gave him a mocking look. "Done stating the obvious?"
Nostaw leaned in, voice low and sharp, hands aiming for Orin's neck.. "Tell me. You've read and memorized the first-year scruner of Wanderlust History. What is a Wanderer?"
Orin smirked. "A person who explores. Simple."
Nostaw shook his head, his disappointment palpable, sharp. "Is that it?" he said, watching Orin's expression flicker— frustration, confusion, defensiveness— cycling through emotions without answers. "You read, but you never understood." He smiled darkly, enjoying the rare sight of Orin silenced. "We dream about the unthinkable," he continued. "Fiction, in its purest form. And we claim that fiction—to make it our new reality. Everyone is a dreamer first. Only after that, a Wanderer. Scholar comes last."
"Not bad," Orin admitted, conceding the point. "Tell me more," he said, a smile tugging at his lips, heartbeat quickening, and overpowering every other emotion.
Since stepping out of that crappy zone they called a village, Orin had found three exceptional individuals who broadened his horizons—none of them came close to his mastery of mystica, but each offering a lesson, a path, an opportunity to exploit.
A Wanderer-reader who could solve all his Wanderer-related blockages: Hem.
A trusted Mystkeeper to sneak him forbidden knowledge: Tendra.
And now, a self-obsessed dreamer who could untangle Hem's riddles—or be pushed to solve other mysteries clogging up Wandererity: Nostaw.
Who said Orin couldn't weave a decent web of deceit and manipulate the crap out of his fellow Wanderers?
"Learning one's weakness and using it as bait to lure the target in—that's manipulation 101," Orin never said aloud.
He just followed the principle.
Nostaw, forgetting his maxims, fell right into the trap—rambling, bragging, spilling hidden nuggets of knowledge he'd carefully hoarded.
But as Orin listened, another hurdle came into view: Sales.
His first letter—back when he wrote under the penname "O.M.," had cost him a mini fortune. Lucky for him, other scholars—mostly the scatterbrained but generous Dr. Quack—had covered the back-and-forth costs after realizing Orin's insights were uniquely valuable.
They assumed "O.M." was some eccentric, cranky scholar from the early Third Era. No one wasted time worrying about age, appearance, or petty factors a little Quincil could fix. Anonymity was working beautifully in Orin's favor.
He stayed out of the limelight, hinted at being broke, and let the scholars fork over Jouls to keep the precious debates alive—until they were about to lose the debate, then they mysteriously ran out of funding.
But Tendra's publications were a different beast.
No patrons knew her to back her. No network would fund a new, unknown scholar. And worse—if Orin signed his real name to her books, it would come with both perks and disasters.
Millions might read his work—more reach, faster advancement. But also: disbelief, threats (which Tendra could mostly handle), annoying debates, and worst of all: slow growth.
Unlike his lucky break with Dr. Quack, the odds of another miracle patron swooping in were statistically impossible.
Orin steered the conversation, watching Nostaw babble without realizing he was being cornered. "How much does it take to sell a Scruner?" He asked, fiddling with his nails. "Or a binder full of whisper papers?"
"Well..." Nostaw tapped his chin. "Unlike letters, one mistake wastes the entire whisper leaf. And a longer manuscript? Plot holes galore... so around—"
The number he quoted made Orin's eyes widen. With that much, he could send letters for a decade without needing a single sponsor.
"...Then there's the chance no one reads it. Or buys it. Or cares..." Nostaw droned on. "And if it does blow up, which takes at least ten years, mind you—the government swoops in and takes most of the profit anyway. In the form of taxes." He airquoted the last part.
"Hold up." Orin shot to his feet. "Why does anyone follow this madness of a dream?"
"Because we're the first Wanderers," Nostaw said, a dramatic hand to his chest. "It's kind of a duty—when the calling comes—"
Orin ignored the rest, mentally calculating what it would cost to make Tendra useful in the long term. "You know what a Wanderer's one true trait is?" he interrupted Nostaw's infodump.
"Well, yes! Each individual has—"
"No!" Orin stretched, popping his shoulders. "There's supposed to be one, common to all of you... Greater than that of a Phe—" He caught himself.
He wasn't about to say the full word and risk Nostaw freezing up or, worse, going full-on mystical rant. "P, the uber powerful one who created the suns!"
Nostaw fumbled, "Umm...", stalling for time.
"I'll take that as a no," Orin muttered, already walking away.
Trying one last lure, Nostaw called after him: "There is a way to splinter your soul. Connect it to another's. Without ever meeting them..."
But Orin was done. He tossed a final brain teaser over his shoulder as he reached the exit: "Dream and Explore," he said with a forced grin. "Neither of which can be done on Ouroboros."
He halts, leaving Nostaw with a strange little compliment: "Your idea to change the name 'Wanderer' into 'Human'? Might work... here. Only here, though!"
What went unsaid: Because outside, being a Wanderer isn't some senseless title you get by simply being born... It's the only way of life.
Orin's terrible acting gave him away, but his words puzzled Nostaw enough to leave him speechless. "This kid..." he muttered, blinking at the exit, then shook his head. "If he survives those goons following him, I have to see him again."
A thought struck, and Nostaw sprinted upstairs. "The kid might be in trouble," he blurted to Hem, explaining what little he knew.
Hem's eyes sharpened. "Not if he cooperates." He said, already halfway down the hall.
Nostaw followed, muttering to himself. "Well... I've only known him for a short while. But... I'm pretty sure they're gonna pummel him to death."
"Guessing you two talked..." Hem stepped out of the building, scanning the empty street. "...for five minutes?"
"Lesser," Nostaw huffed, panting as he caught up. "Can we please... move slower?"
"No. I can see how you pissed him off, though."
"Common! Whose side are- never mind, don't answer that."
"Tried to lure him in with your superior intellect," Hem told him what happened, instead of asking.
"Well..."
Hem ignored him and signaled to the Pyxen perched nearby. They move across the street, Hem yelling, "Tendra. Orin's in trouble."
Her eyes narrowed. "Who'd he piss off this time?"
"About to. Some goons. Bring the big guy." Hem says, pointing at Tenshu.
Tendra didn't hesitate, grabbing a toolkit from underneath the counter. "You heard him. Keep up, slowpoke!" She called, already rushing ahead with Hem.
"Where to?" their Pyxen guide asked.
Hem glanced at the gatekeeper, Kance, who pointed into the distance, in the wrong direction.
"Follow the kid?"
"Directions don't work in Ouroboros," the Pyxen reminded them, same as she'd told Orin earlier.
A few turns ago...
"Follow me," Orin had said, confidently walking into the mist. "Enjoy the backseat for once."
Too bad the others didn't share his confidence... or the goons' stupidity.
"Follow the kid!" barked one of the seven. The Pyxen complied—not out of fear or for the pile of worthless quincil they promised—but to see how long it took their tiny brains to realize the blunder of the order.
"This kid's gonna lead us straight into the Lure," Greg muttered.
"Not now, Greg," another hissed. "Distract after a minute."
"This isn't a distraction topic."
While the goons had a pointless conversation of their own, Orin assured his Pyxen guide with nonchalant shrugs, assuring him he was in safe hands.
"Right, right... right," Orin repeated with faux absent-mindedness, strolling right for exactly a minute and a half, then swerving left. "Left, left..." he continued without breaking pace.
Orin never understood why people called Ouroboros impossible to traverse. To him, it's distractions weren't obstacles—they were rules. The minute-and-a-half pattern was a certainty, not a curse. Government efforts to reclaim the path had only created chaotic patches of roads, concrete, and fast-growing structures. Beyond them lay the real wonder.
The mist swallowed the chaos, as wilds of the Lure waited.
Grass swayed like smoke—phantoms rising from the earth to greet their distant kin, forming an ethereal arc of welcome.
Every step sent whispers curling around Orin's ankles, mist wrapping like ribbons as he stepped onto the ancient stone trail. The ground was cool, unnaturally smooth, polished by centuries of silence.
Trees lined the path like sentinels. Their bark was textured like worn parchment, and their trunks twisted skyward, forming vaulted canopies above—branches locked like fingers in prayer. The fractured moonlight filtered through, casting dancing beams across the damp earth.
A cathedral of the forgotten.
And in it, Orin walked like a prince through his domain. Unaware, still brimming with confidence.
The air thrummed with an unnatural stillness—not lifeless, but watched.
Within the hollows of the trees, soft glows pulsed—luminous fungi spiraled upward like delicate lanterns tucked in forgotten alcoves.
Every step brought the scent of damp earth, a faint tang of metal, and something sweet... like the last breath of a long-dead flower.
Then came a sound.
Distant chimes.
Yet no wind stirred, so Orin turned.
The mist behind him had thickened, swallowing the path he came from. It nudged him forward like a gentle, unrelenting hand.
Shadows flickered at the edge of his vision—not menacing, but playful.
A trick of Ouroboros, perhaps. Or a greeting.
Whatever it was, he encouraged it, pressing on...
A river emerged—black as ink, yet crystalline in clarity. It cut through the trail, reflecting the sky above in ways that were impossible. Stars shimmered beneath the surface, as though the heavens themselves had fallen and drowned.
A bridge spanned it, skeletal, arched from the interlocked bones of some forgotten colossus. The bones were bleached white and hummed faintly under Orin's fingertips as he passed.
Beyond, the path spiraled in several directions—each one bending into unseen destinations, each one calling.
The trees no longer loomed.
They bowed.
Their canopies formed tunnels of shimmering blue leaves, glowing from within like stained glass. Beneath them, haze pooled in soft hues. Motes of light drifted lazily between trunks—embers with no fire, whispering silent invitations.
Orin exhaled. It wasn't fear that gripped him—it was awe.
Ouroboros was alive. Breathing. Shifting. A labyrinth of forgotten wonder, daring him to press on.
And he did.
"All of us are about to die," Greg muttered through gritted teeth.
"Is he serious?" asked another.
"How should I know? Is he?" The third turned to their guide.
"Doesn't apply to me." The Pyxen smiled and kept walking.
Back on a winding loop of the false market, a tourist jolted when Orin reappeared beside her, reconnecting through impossible means.
"Ah, Wanderers," Orin groaned, stretching.
"How?!" The Pyxen stared, baffled. "How did we return?!"
"Simple," Orin said, brushing off mist from his sleeves. "Expanded the stepping method to a macro-scale and executed the minute transitions across pattern fractures." He sighed. "Honestly thought we were lost there for a second... As you kept hesitating."
"We were crossing out of my territory," the Pyxen said, casually sitting on the floor.
"What happens if we cross?"
"We do what we're doing now—wait for someone to find us."
"You all are crazier than I!" Orin laughed.
"I humbly disagree," He laughed along.
After a while, Orin waved goodbye and apologized to his bewildered former guide before hopping alongside a new Pyxen.
He grinned. "So, where we at?"
"Long way from that tainted hotel," said the new Pyxen, a woman with smoke-gray braids and a stone pendant swaying at her throat.
"How long?"
"Couple of hours. Why? Didn't your precious stepping method work the way you wanted?"
"How... when did you two communicate?" Orin asked, glancing back—only to find his first guide gone.
"Words get fewer the better you know someone," she said with a shrug. "A simple nod is all you need."
Orin squinted. "Wait! Are you the same Pyxen woman who taught me this technique?"
She smiled, soft and knowing. "See? Fewer words."
"I was about to claim telepathy," Orin muttered, scratching his head. "Now I'm confused again."
"Enjoy the process. The end point might not live up to its hype."
"Not for me," Orin said, spinning around to scan the mist. "Are we near the exit?"
"Couple of hours that way." She pointed. "Right now, we're in the middle."
"How many times have I asked you this?" Orin asks, frowning.
"Couple!" She chuckles. "It happens when you suddenly stop using the stepping method for a while."
"The Lure gets stronger." Orin realises. "Ah, that's a troublesome backlash."
Orin's brow furrowed—but then his eyes caught something: Seven figures. Shady. Slipping behind her pointing arm, pretending not to notice.
His voice dropped. "Quick. Listen and follow. No follow-up questions."
The Pyxen nodded.
"Some shady fellows—"
"I'll fetch the nearest Enforcers," she interrupted.
"Little words," Orin smiled.
"Come with."
"No—" Orin started, but stopped when she nodded again, understanding without needing a word.
"Use the stepping method. Stay here."
"Didn't have to say," Orin said, cracking his knuckles as he chuckled.
The Pyxen woman tilted her head, nodding toward the nearby Pyxen tribe. Quietly, the others moved.
In a blink, the Pyxen guide leading the goons stranded them with a false step, vanishing into thin air—while the other guides herded civilians safely out of sight.
Orin turned back to the stranded goons, flashing a mischievous grin. "Powerful nod... wanty, want!" he jeered, daring them to attack.
The seven men didn't hesitate. They lunged—instinct overtaking reason: He was just a kid. Alone. Easy prey.
A few steps away... They didn't even realize they'd lost before they moved.
Orin started his dance: A calm, deliberate, almost lazy step. Each motion, a fragment of Pyxen art.
His heart hammered in his chest—yes, he was scared. Seven fully grown men, trained in mystic warfare, bearing down on him like a collapsing sky. But fear was nothing when compared to the constant presence of the Lure.
And the Lure was yet to make a serious move.
The distance stretched—expanded between them. Ouroboros bent space, bent thought, until the attackers' strikes felt like they were swimming through tar.
To Orin, time stretched luxuriously, thanks to the Pyxen step. He moved like flowing water—casual, precise, fast beyond reason.
Each heartbeat granted him minutes to judge, dodge, and predict.
To the goons, it was as if Orin vanished, reappearing between them as if mocking their every move.
Orin pivoted on the ball of his foot, sliding through the first goon's stance.
In a breath, he spun, catching a second goon's clumsy punch—and redirecting it straight into the first man's gut.
Before they could react, Orin had slipped through, facing two more waiting behind.
Not an ounce of wasted motion, nor brute force. Just steps, spins, pivots—the movement of the Pyxen made real.
The Lure lingered around them. Its concentration increasing with every passing moment, and it's playfulness, that of a child with seven new toys.
The third and fourth goons stepped closer, shoulder to shoulder, fists swinging to trap Orin between them. He slipped through the narrowing gap with a dancer's grace—and watched as they knocked each other out cold.
The last three, smarter than the rest, adapted fast.
They fanned out, tightening a triangle around Orin, limbs weaving a moving cage.
Any step to escape meant catching a punch to the gut. Any attempt to counter meant eating a kick straight to the face.
Three roundhouse kicks struck—not flesh—but the fading image of Orin flipping them off.
In shock at striking nothing, they stumble and tangle their legs.
"All of you need prescriptions for Bubblepede," Orin's voice taunted from behind them. "Come to the farm—we got discounts for doofuses!"
Six of the goons grunted, ignoring the Zappence Loop Ornyx's stinging retaliation against their nerves.
They locked their rage onto Orin, the Lure fanning their anger like dry leaves in a storm.
Only Greg, the seventh, kept a shred of sense.
He hurled tiny flares at his companions—searing, brilliant sparks that snapped them out of their bloodlust.
"Don't forget the Lure," Greg warned through gritted teeth.
"Shut up, Greg," the boss snapped. "Do your damn job—and find a less painful way to snap us out next time."
"The smart one ain't the one in charge," Orin quipped, casually reclaiming his stance. He repeated the mocking gesture, daring them to lunge again.
But this time, the boss moved first.
His boots scraped across the cracked stone, laced with threads of the 'Magnatrix' ornyx—each step leaving behind sparks that sizzled in the mist.
In his hand, he held a fist-sized Pyronyx—a living ember that pulsed with a slow, dying heartbeat. The stuff of Phoenix's wrath, rare and barely legal even by corrupted standards.
Without a word, he crushed it in his fist.
The stone didn't break. It dissolved.
A surge of molten embers exploded outward, ghostly fingers licking across his gang, seeping into their skin, crawling through their veins.
Their breathing deepened. Their muscles twitched with unnatural energy. Their eyes gleamed—something bright, something wrong.
Something always present in Orin's eyes, Greg realises.
Slow and deliberate, the boss reached inside his coat. He pulled out a relic—a simple circular piece of glass, clear and still, bound to a thin silver chain. Older than the war. Older than most of them.
The gang stiffened. They knew what that meant.
The boss raised it to his eye as the glass caught the dying light of the Pyronyx's embers—and twisted the world around him.
Reality bent. Sharpened. And the mist itself seemed to recoil.
He smirked, flexing his fingers like a man rolling a new power through his knuckles.
"Now…" he said, voice low and smoldering. "Let's begin."
"Took that joke to heart, huh?" Orin scratched his head, nervous. "Don't forget, I am a kid, still!" he distracted them, tapping on his back.
From the hollow of his neck, a tail-like mystica unfurled, slithering down his spine, brushing near his tailbone. "Ain't no Pyronyx," he muttered, crushing a rough-cut purple ore in his palm, "but it'll do."
A faint pulse raced around his body, his eyes glowing a deeper hue as the Mystica for tail latched to his tailbone, rooting deep.
Orin felt it immediately—the boost. Strength. Reflexes. Confidence. And the Lure amplified all of it, like a war drum inside his skull.
He grinned and repeated the taunting gesture without hesitation.
"Break him. Don't kill him," the boss barked.
"Brutorus!" he chanted, slamming his Magnatrix boots against the cracked stone.
His feet swelled grotesquely, shaped by the Magnatrix ornyx, the ground cratering under each stomp.
The goons followed, their own feet enlarging with heavy, thunderous steps, and washed down shots of pure Co'He without hesitation. The substance was barely referred to as the pure essence of Mystica anymore. It was Speed boiled to its dirtiest form.
"Drugs, wrong use of Ornyx, mystica abuse, threatening a kid." Orin counted on his fingers as he stepped—and reappeared right in the center of them. "Y'all are begging to get locked up."
Panic cracked Greg's composure, and he shot off a tiny flare.
Orin caught it mid-air with a flicker of weird telekinetic force, spun it once like a toy, and hurled it back—
transformed into a roaring fireball.
"Brains first," Orin said, smirking as he aimed for Greg.
"He's after the Zappence Loop!" One of the goons shouted.
"What?! No! Did you not hear me just now?" Orin barked, annoyed.
Greg dodged the fireball with ease. The timing was perfect—the Zappence Loop zapped him back into full reality, short-circuiting the Lure's tricks for a second.
Orin's eye twitched.
Maybe I do need to break that Ornyx first.
While Orin recalculated, the boss moved fast. He tossed a thick black rope into the sky, chanting.
"Scatterfang!"
From the rope unraveled, Voidreavers—ancient, brutal mystics, older cousins to the Ekanze, used as common belts. They burst apart in midair, scattering into dozens of black fangs, each hovering in place.
"Fanghold!"
At his chant, the Voidreavers sank their fangs deep into the fabric of space itself, anchoring footholds in midair.
The battlefield exploded into verticality.
The gang didn't charge in straight lines anymore—they zipped and leapt from invisible platforms in every direction.
Each shot of Speed turned them into blurs. Their enlarged soles were soaking up the crushing force of their launches.
They dove, kicked, and spun from impossible angles.
Orin pivoted with the Pyxen stepping method, always barely ahead—but each zap of the Zappence Loop shaved his safety thinner and thinner.
Near-misses began grazing past his sleeves, his hair.
Keep them stupid, Orin told himself. Keep them angry.
He hurled insult after insult, weaving words sharper than any blade.
Most of the gang fell for it—their fury re-entangled them into the Lure's distortions.
All except for Greg.
Greg stayed cold. Focused.
Each flare, each movement snapped him closer and closer to reality—And he started landing hits during the golden minute windows when the Lure's veil thinned because of the ornyx around his wrist.
"I figured out his trick," said Greg during the third exchange. "He's using the Lure—and our chants—to his advantage."
"Smart one, indeed." Orin flashed a grin.
"Guess Bob gets to use his Ornyx after all," the boss muttered, gesturing.
Bob smiles at Orin. His face twisted into something Orin could only describe as an upset stomach. Bob wrapped his ankles with 'Shengdai'—an Ornyx spun from the vocal cords of the mystica: Resonix.
"Dumb one, indeed," Orin muttered, frowning at their boss.
Every step Bob took unleashed a soft, crisp, rhythmic cascade, like dozens of tiny bells chiming underwater.
The battlefield's sounds twisted, melted, and bent out of sync, and sight became the only sense left to trust.
Orin gritted his teeth. He didn't have time to rant about the stupidity of trying to fake a Resonix—a creature that transcended sound itself.
Instead, he pivoted. Out of control. Out of plan.
He launched upward, tapping into the footholds the boss had created, turning enemy mystica into his playground.
He dodged the blur of enhanced strikes, spiraling higher, crashing down on Bob from above with an enormous thud. But the impact barely rocked Bob—his Magnatrix-boostered soles absorbed most of it.
Orin didn't need it to hurt. He used the momentum to flip behind him and sweep Bob's legs from under him.
The pursuing goons, still mindlessly chasing Orin's every step, collided into Bob like meteors.
The brutal impact of four speed-shot men knocked Bob clean out.
Orin plucked the Shengdai from Bob's body in a single fluid motion. The years of pickpocketing keys from his zone guard, to enter the local whiskeep, came in handy.
"Cheap imitation," Orin spat, yanking a single bell-shaped 'chord-link' free from the Ornyx.
He didn't get long to admire it as Greg was already rushing him, signaling their boss at the same time.
Orin caught the signal and threw the chord-link, not at Greg, but at the boss.
As Greg predicted, Orin leapt to the air footholds to dodge—yet the boss's chant, the one that should've shattered the footholds mid-jump, never came.
Orin landed safely outside the goon's reach.
The boss roared: "Why didn't the foothold fall?!"
Greg ignored the outburst, watching Orin with sharp, calculating eyes. "Nice to know they can be used that way," he said, smiling.
Orin smiled back, mocking. Then pulled the stolen Zappence Loop from his sleeve.
"What's knowledge to a dead man?"
Greg didn't take the bait. Instead of charging at Orin, he pivoted, moving back toward Bob's unconscious body—
and kicked him savagely into the side of a crumbling hotel, stealing Bob's Zappence Loop for himself.
Orin clicked his tongue."This guy's calm attitude is starting to get on my nerves," he muttered, settling into the pyxen stance again. "Oh, what, oh what, shall you do if that's your boss?" he called out loud, trying to turn them against each other.
The boss glared. "I won't tolerate insubordination," he warned Greg.
Greg didn't blink. He didn't even glance at his boss. His focus stayed razor-locked on Orin. "Don't get tricked by a kid," he lets out a low growl at his boss.
A single backflip, distorted by the Lure, flung Orin far from the center of conflict.
Two distant goons gave chase, dragging behind them a long, vertebrae-shaped whip that kept unfurling from the gaping stomach of a Gastric–Brooder mystica, pinned down by two other goons.
The 'Bone Whip' was no ordinary weapon. The farther it extended from the beast's gut, the more the slender spine split into columns—each one jointed and swaying with a life of its own.
At a point midway across the battlefield, the boss and Greg stood patiently, each resting a hand on a separate floating column—calm, calculating, waiting for the perfect opportunity.
Orin had no prior access to this kind of mystica. Not that it mattered.
The structure reminded him enough of a Magnatrix to guess its function: a force router—and a trap.
He changes directions, dashing forward instead of fleeing.
The pursuing squad hesitated at the instant shift, and in their surprise, they dropped the whip's tip into the stone floor, where it morphed into an anchor, locking them in place.
Orin blurred past them, tagging two goons with stolen bell-links as he passed.
The bells chimed sharply, disrupting their follow-up chants and cutting off their ability to retaliate from behind.
Problem solved. Orin allowed himself a smirk—Only for it to freeze.
The boss and Greg shot forward.
Their speed tripled in an instant.
Each man calculated the distance between themselves and Orin by counting the number of columns, then triggered an Ornyx that reshaped their arms into jagged, bone-carved sickles.
They whispered a number and moved.
A flicker of motion faster than sight, air splitting as the twin sickles slashed toward Orin.
But the sickle design was wrong. It wasn't a simple sharp curve. It was wavy, carved with thin air-holes, purposely built to slice with minimal drag, and leave behind something worse than a cut: An invisible line of death.
Orin dived, twisting midair, narrowly slipping between the twin strikes. But even then, his coat grazed one of the lines—And the cloth shredded instantly, dissolving into confetti.
The sickles scraped together behind him, emitting a soft metallic moan.
He couldn't see the lines, only hear and feel the pressure hum across his skin, resembling a low whisper.
Out of options and in grave desperation, Orin jerks his Mystica tail, redirects himself. Not waiting to test how long those lines might linger.
He flips clear of the invisible trap, bolting to safety.
Behind him, the boss and Greg dropped their sickles, freeing themselves from the parallel cerebral trap they'd created.
Greg veered a sharp turn, recalculating, while the boss lunged forward, pursuing Orin head-on.
"Practiced strategy," Orin muttered, recording every motion, chant, and strange markings under each column.
He repeated his earlier maneuver—but this time, instead of slipping beside the boss, Orin shot between his legs.
Confusion flashed across the boss's face, giving Orin a closer look at the strange runework beneath the Ornyx—or whatever abomination this battlefield trap was.
Meanwhile, Greg dropped a fresh anchor and dashed back toward Orin, not realising the kid anticipated this unconventional move.
Orin placed a hand on a nearby column and whispered, "Setuzoku!"
A bony torn burst from the structure, impaling itself into Orin's palm, leaving behind a burning, star-shaped sigil.
Pain exploded through his body. Yet with it came a flood of instinct. Somehow, Orin now knew how to control the structure. Knew how to move, grow, and retract it. As if the Ornyx was whispering commands straight into his soul.
It felt familiar—dangerously natural.
Grimacing against the pain, Orin shifted focus away from the boss and onto the real problem: the goons near the Gastric–Brooder.
"Xeo'uno!" Orin chanted.
In a blinding flash, he jumped across the field, appearing right behind the squad that was trying to fuse the Gastric–Brooder's chains together, completely distracted from the battle.
Idiots.
He caught a glimpse of their marks and realized: They weren't building footholds. They were about to link the entire trap into a death maze.
Greg reappeared in a flash beside his boss, clearly expecting to intercept Orin.
Too late.
"Misjudged?" Orin snickers.
No—the chains weren't joined yet. They couldn't use the maze. That's why the idiots let their guard down, allowing Orin to take advantage of the situation.
Orin gathered energy from his Tail-mystica to finish it quickly—but the flash transfer drained more from his reserves than he'd guessed, leaving him little for a finishing blow.
"No time for anything fancy."
He dropped a crushing heel onto one goon's wrist, shattering the zappence loop's center ring.
"One more down," Orin said, kicking the stunned man's pouch of energy stones straight into the second goon's face.
Panic-stricken, the second goon punched the bag back, scattering the precious stones like a storm of fiery embers.
"Thanks," Orin grinned, absorbing the chaotic blast of energy.
By the time Greg recovered and tried recalculating his return angle, Orin had already moved—
—This time flashing toward the boss.
"Angular calculations are hard," Orin teased, materializing behind the boss in a burst of light.
"Nighty night."
He drove a kick straight through the man's half-formed guard, folding him like a chair.
The boss hit the ground with a thud.
"Not bad reflexes," Orin said, stepping over him toward the next idiot, who was still, still foolishly trying to extend the labyrinth.
"You get an 'A' for effort," Orin quipped, kicking the man clean into a wall. "And an 'F' for intellect."
Boss staggered to his feet, a broken Zappence Loop snapping him back to shaky awareness.
"No, stay here!" he grabbed Greg's leg, stopping him from pursuing Orin. "My Zappence Loop..." His eyes darted around, as if expecting the Lure itself to appear with a scythe. "You have to stay close," he pleaded.
Greg kicked him away without ceremony, tossing the last Zappence Loop he'd taken from their downed team. "Stay alert," he barked—and in a flash, he was gone.
An instant later, Greg appeared near the fallen goons, methodically kicking them into nearby buildings one by one.
Orin watched the comical scene unfold with a crooked smile. "Can't beat years of experience with last-minute tactics," he taunts, casually strolling away from the broken labyrinth. "Round three... better make it my last."
In the distorted time caused by the Lure, nine minutes compressed into three, forcing the goons to rely on another storm of energy.
Greg, with battle-honed instincts, calculated the creeping fatigue perfectly, sidestepping the last blast pouring energy before it tipped him over the edge.
The boss, relying on outdated, slow calculations, stayed too long, greedily absorbing and arrogantly glaring at Greg for moving ahead of him.
Orin, meanwhile, had earned his instincts the hard way: brutal self-experimentation.
He clocked his limits and set a mental timer for another minute. Win or escape.
A shockwave rippled through the field.
With a roar, the boss crushed the entire bonny labyrinth, slamming it back into the Gastric–Brooder and grinding everything unlucky enough to still be inside.
Orin faltered—a single misstep born from creeping fatigue—and found himself far closer to the duo than he'd planned.
The boss seized the moment, dragging out twin bone-chains and lashing them across the field, crossing Orin's path multiple times before reweaving the labyrinth around him.
"There's no way I'm letting this end in one simple punch," the boss sneered.
"And here I thought I'd see brilliance from a Dumb-Dumb," Orin sneered right back. "Dumb do as dumb be. Expecting more only makes thee dumber."
Greg smothered a snort of laughter—but the tiny lapse was all Orin needed.
Among the wreckage of crumbling buildings stood a single pristine boulder. Unharmed. Unmoved. Unbreakable.
Perfect.
Orin mirrored the boss's earlier move, throwing the stolen mystica 'Voidreavers' to craft a temporary air foothold, springing up to perch atop the boulder.
"Cambio!" the boss chanted.
The entire bone maze shifted, reshaping into a crushing prison around Orin.
The paths were fewer now, with less complexity and more deathtraps.
There wasn't an easy escape.
"Mine!" the boss howled triumphantly.
"You oughta know your rocks," Orin said, planting his hands on the boulder with a grin.
The boss, blinded by greed, charged headlong, slamming face-first into the immovable stone.
Crunch.
The impact shattered his front teeth and snapped his sickle weapon in half.
"Speeding into a Gyroclaw's shell is a dumb move," Orin chuckled, springing back onto his air foothold.
"Anchor!" he commanded, and his tail whipped out, wrapping around the rope-like mystica still dangling from the collapsing labyrinth—and together they free-fell back to the ground.
Greg found the best point to intercept and blurred to that column. Yet Orin cast two chants simultaneously—one that reformed the foothold, and another that loosened space, making it bouncy.
"I am the bigger monkey," Orin said, swinging around the foothold with the help of his tail.
The elastic nature of space around the mystica's hold gave Orin another boost to shoot into a four-story hotel.
He made sure to take his belt—the stolen ancient mystica—along, which made Greg suspect he aimed to move higher. After all, who expects someone to focus on reclaiming their mystica during a life-threatening fight? Who assumes they are fighting a Mystward?
"Ten seconds," Greg and Orin both calculated—the boss's rampage would soon come to an abrupt, gruesome stop.
The sudden surge of energy typically occurs at the end, when the body craves all the power it can muster to repair itself. The goon's boss exploited this absorption rate to gain more strength, a strength that was about to reach its limit.
Greg pointed and pushed his boss to exhaust the kid before his time ran out, while Orin created a mini-mirage to buy himself more time.
The boss leapt straight to the fourth floor, only to find Orin lounging on a plush cloud.
The kid monologued on, but the boss moved to finish the job, undeterred by his limited time. He had no comprehension of such limitations; the boss simply didn't have any comebacks to throw against the kid's superior hold over language. And like every other bully, he leaned on brute force to try and win the argument.
At the speed the boss moved, everything blurred. Yet Orin escaped a shattering fate, which the cloud received in his place. Now he sat at a desk, sipping some exotic Vi'ney.
"Heaven in a glass..." the kid said, appreciating the drink, dodging the second, third, and fourth insane strikes.
When Greg arrived, he found a hulking fist caught in Orin's hand—the monstrous fight ending with Orin stopping their senseless boss with a single finger.
The boss collapsed to the floor, his massive form shrinking into tiny bones held together by elastic skin.
"Ewh, gross!" Orin wiped his finger on a couch. "Final fight," he smirked, provoking Greg to charge.
"Talent is scarce, kid," Greg said, reforming his entire personality. His voice deepened into something more authoritative, his demeanor flipping one-eighty—from timid and cautious to brave and intellectual.
"Boss fight it is..." Orin said, stepping closer. "What've you got to offer?"
"Freedom," Greg smiled.
"From a boss who hides behind his cronies? By the way—too obvious."
"What can I say? There's a limit to the stupidity I can tolerate."
"Does that mean I get to be your boss in whatever it is you're proposing?"
"Don't push your luck too thin."
"This is all skill, kiddo," Orin said with a wink. "Come see my progress after puberty."
"So sad," Greg said, shaking his head. "Boss would've loved your blooming talent. Oh well, no one's left to report my findings."
"Boss under a boss. Must be a big, dumb organization. Doubt they'll miss one stupid mini-boss, though," Orin smirked.
Greg shifted wider, hands slicing the air—faster now, aiming for Orin's neck.
One clean chop, he thought. And then a bubble popped—Reality twisted.
Reflections of Orin blinked into existence all around him, dozens of them.
Greg struck out. Yet each punch, each swipe, only popped another illusion.
Tiny, miraculous bubbles projected Orin everywhere, creating a dazzling chain reaction across the ruined suite.
"What kind of mysticism is this?" Greg snarled, whirling around as the luxurious suite flickered, revealing its true battered form.
A soft chime echoed—a tiny bell swinging by Greg's ear, Orin's voice drifting from it: "I too had your internal Ore clock. And my calculations are much more advanced."
Greg barely had time to curse as the floor shuddered, rippling like silk. It buckled and smashed Greg skyward like a trebuchet.
"Mimes, my ass," Orin muttered from the shadows, watching Greg vanish into the sky. "I ain't anyone's anything... Say hi to the Lure for me."
Greg roared midair, and bone fragments burst from nearby structures, snapping onto his body.
In moments, skeletal armor encased him. His form stretched, twisted—his Magnatrix Ornyx activating.
A monstrous figure loomed, his body growing several times larger. A conglomeration of distorted muscles and stretched skin. Bones creaking with every grotesque move.
The hilarious part Orin focused on: His head stayed small. Greg didn't want his cognitive functions to slow down, so this simple yet effective use of the ornyx made sense.
"Smart," Orin admitted, tilting his head. "But you still look dumber than a Whimzle."
He laughed until Greg landed, flattening part of the hotel and shooting back up in a single fluid motion.
Greg charged through the wreckage, yet Orin wasn't retreating. Still believing a little redirecting was enough.
'Come on, Ouroboros… whose side are you on here?' Orin cursed under his breath. "Strategic withdrawal," he muttered, dodging debris as the giant tore the hotel apart in a few lazy swings.
"Couldn't even let me enjoy my brief victory, huh?" he complained to the slumbering spirit of Ouroboros Zee.
Nothing but slow, thunderous steps now stood between Greg and his target.
Orin's chant spun through the air, the solid 'Gator-scaled' floor shifting into soft, sucking quicksand. He hoped this would slow the giant down, but Greg simply ripped the sinking ground away with brute strength, reducing the distance between them slowly but surely.
A single swipe of his massive hand sent a gust of wind powerful enough to shred any lingering mirage bubbles, rendering another trick useless.
No bells saved Orin's pounding heart this time. The erratic, irregular beats of approaching footsteps crashing against his ribs like drums of instant doom.
Step after step, the fatigue climbed to dangerous levels, Orin still pushing himself past the single minute he had promised for a safe recovery.
Greg tackled him to the floor, raising a massive fist to pulverize what little presence was left.
"G...ot..." Greg gurgled out the words. "Y–o...u!"
Orin chuckled at the ridiculous voice, slowly turning his back on Greg and coughing up blood.
"Sti...ll s...o arro–gant!"
"Shut up and finish the job. I'd rather die than listen to another stupid villainous speech. Bad guys need a school for taunts. Seriously, I know kids who come up with better comebacks than you lot."
Greg struck with everything he had, tearing down the entire building in a single blow.
As the dust settled, he searched for the kid's remains among the rubble, but there wasn't even a speck of blood.
"Ho–w!" Greg growled, staring at the settling dust, shaping itself into a ghostly figure. A kid.
"Who's got whom?" Orin smirked, crouching low.
Gred didn't think. He moved. The ground trembled beneath his thunderous charge, his massive fist swinging like a falling boulder.
Orin ducked in time, skidding through the dust, breath catching as the wind howled past his ears.
"Alright, big guy," Orin muttered, sliding back to his feet. "Let's try something... legendary."
He whipped a Zephyra's cloud scarf around his neck, tucking the long, trailing ends under his armpits.
The scarf, light as vapor, hissed as it unraveled, catching the wind. A soft whistle rose as the air spun around him, shimmering with flickers of pale Mystica sparks. The orbs circled tighter, drawn into his palms, which he held steady, back arched, stance wide.
Greg slowed, towering over him. "What're you—?"
"Kaaaaaaah..." Orin's voice deepened with focus. The sparks condensed between his hands, pulsing. "Meeeeee... Haaaaaaa... MEEEEEEE..."
The tiny lights roared into a brilliant ball of wind and spark as Orin thrust his hands forward.
A blinding beam of light exploded from his palms — not heat, not destruction, just pure flash and gale, crashing into Greg's chest.
The giant stumbled backward, shielding his eyes as dust spiraled in a golden cyclone. For one breathless moment, he looked ready to fall.
Yet... nothing.
No pain.
No real impact.
Just a shimmer of glitter settling across his tunic.
Greg blinked. 'Wait—was that... a light show?'
Orin grinned. "Took you long enough. Guess the transformation did affect your brain, ha!"
Greg's face twisted—equal parts fury and amusement. Hard to tell which would win.
"Lit—tle ra—t. Ma... flin—ch!"
"I made you blink. That counts," Orin called, already sprinting for higher ground.
"Run... Co...ward."
"Strategic withdrawal," Orin countered.
Greg lumbered after him, unaware—unaware the kid was two steps away, barely holding on to life.
"Even if you're not on my side..." Orin whispered, pressing his hand to the ground, speaking to the Wonder's soul. "...I'll use you in ways Aurochs will start thinking you are," he claims—just as the 'Lure' claimed him.
———<>||<>——— End of Chapter fifteen. ———<>||<>———