Outside District 2, the West Gate
The wind was restless over the open plains, carrying with it a sharp chill as evening slowly smothered the remnants of day. Shadows stretched long across the cracked earth, and the skies above Mediva were bathed in a crimson glow. Red flares still flickered above each district, every district except for the cursed ashes of District 5. The Red Signal was an ancient symbol: trouble, war, and blood. The skies themselves bore witness to the chaos stirring beneath them.
Vice Commander Lamsjaw sat atop his horse at the edge of District 2's western gate, a lopsided smirk on his face, though his eyes were sharp with impatience. He had a dozen men behind him, he kept his gaze fixed on the narrow passage between the outer Great Wall and the inner district wall. The field between them was wide and open, no cover, no excuses.
"Where is that damn rat?" he muttered, eyes narrowing. "He should've broken into the plains by now…"
A beat later, a rider approached at a gallop, the sound of hooves clapping hard against dry ground. It was Alvoz, the sharp-eyed captain of Commander Elvric's main squad, his silver armor catching the red light like flame.
"Vice Commander," Alvoz called as he drew close. "Elvric just reached District 4's North Gate—he's in position. Any sign of the messenger?"
Lamsjaw let out a frustrated grunt. "Not yet. He should've been out already. He knows this land better than most."
Alvoz frowned. "Then perhaps he's circled back to District 2?"
"Maybe," Lamsjaw replied, rubbing his jaw. "Or maybe he's being clever."
"Then we should check—send a squad—"
Lamsjaw lifted a hand and pointed lazily at the gap between the walls. "Be my guest."
Alvoz narrowed his eyes, unimpressed. "The General and Commander Violet are on their way here."
The mention of her name snapped Lamsjaw to attention. His face twisted into a grin, lustful and unashamed.
"My princess is coming to see me," he said, chuckling perversely. "I can't wait to see that beautiful face again."
Alvoz fought the urge to spit. He wasn't here for Lamsjaw's theatrics. Commander Elvric had sent him to handle this mess personally, knowing how hopelessly incompetent his vice was. Lamsjaw had failed to capture the messenger within the city. How would he manage it now, in open land?
Before he could voice his thoughts, a cry rang out.
"It's the messenger! It's Mark!"
All heads turned. From the shadows of the stone corridor between the walls, a black horse burst forth like a thunderbolt, its rider hunched low, cloaked in tattered grey. The stallion's hooves thundered across the plains, kicking up dust in its wake. Mark, the elusive messenger of the revolutionaries, had emerged at last.
"Move!" Lamsjaw barked, yanking his horse's reins and spurring it into motion. "Pursue him! Shoot him down if you must!"
"But they want him alive!" Alvoz shouted, riding beside him.
"I don't care!" Lamsjaw bellowed, determination and fury flaring in his eyes.
The chase ignited across the plains. Behind them, a storm of dust rose as riders surged forward, their steeds pounding against the earth in relentless pursuit. But Mark's horse was swift, unnaturally swift and every second he widened the gap between himself and his hunters.
At that moment, from the west gate of District 1, another group emerged. Leading them was none other than General Boyce, towering and cold-eyed, his black cloak snapping in the wind. At his side rode Commander Violet, her eyes sharp beneath her silver helm, and behind them came eight elite riders, silent and swift.
Boyce surged ahead of them all, angling his path to intersect with the chase. He moved like a predator, relentless and calculated. He knew this land, and he knew how to cut a prey off before it reached safe ground.
"Damn," Violet muttered, noticing the speed at which Mark was riding. "Something's off."
Boyce glanced at her briefly before leaning forward and whipping his reins, pushing his horse even harder.
Meanwhile, Lamsjaw, seeing Violet from behind felt a surge of ego and pride. If there was ever a time to impress her, it was now. He struck his horse hard, forcing it forward into the lead of the chase. He would be the one to stop the messenger.
He reached over his shoulder and pulled free his crossbow, balancing it one-handed as his horse galloped beneath him. He took aim at the rider ahead, Mark was only meters away now and fired.
The bolt flew true... but missed, whistling over Mark's head.
"Tsk. That idiot," Boyce hissed under his breath.
Somewhere Far ahead the chase
Past the commotion and chaos, the massive iron gates of Mediva loomed like a fortress against the sky. Towering and impenetrable, the Great Gate had withstood the rage of demons for generations. Before it stood Commander Izen and his squad, battle-ready.
A scout sprinted toward them.
"Commander Izen! The messenger—he's heading toward District 4!"
Izen took a drag from his cigarette, his voice gravelly.
"That goddamn revolutionary… Let him come."
Back to the chase
On the plains, District 4 came into view. Commander Elvric and his men were stationed just beyond the gate, prepared, blocking every possible exit.
Mark was trapped.
Lamsjaw grinned wickedly. This was it, this time, he would not miss. He loaded his crossbow again, his heart pounding, and fired.
The bolt struck Mark's shoulder. The messenger cried out, clutching his arm as the arrow buried itself deep. He nearly lost balance, but his horse continued to gallop.
And then—everything shifted.
General Boyce surged forward, rising from his horse in a fluid leap. He passed over Lamsjaw with incredible speed, twisting in midair. His foot connected with the messenger's chest, launching him from his saddle with bone-crushing force.
Time slowed.
The messenger tumbled, limbs flailing, his cloak spinning in the wind. His horse crashed beside him, and for a breathless moment, both man and beast lay still.
Silence fell over the plain.
Dust swirled around them like smoke after a fire. Riders pulled up their reins, stunned by the sheer precision of Boyce's assault. Violet arrived seconds later, her expression unreadable.
Lamsjaw, who had dreamed of this moment, now sat still in his saddle, mouth slightly open.
The messenger groaned beneath the weight of his horse. Broken, bleeding, and crushed—he knew the mission had failed.
And now… everything would change.