The town of Zarethun bore its wounds like a soldier after battle, upright, functional, but marked by violence that would take months to fully heal.
Near the northern district, where the last explosion had torn through a residential street, a group of watchmen struggled with a collapsed wall. The structure had given way during the chaos, trapping an elderly woman's belongings and blocking the entrance to what remained of her home. The Provost, a bald middle-aged man whose uniform had seen better days, gripped the edge of the rubble with both hands, his face reddening with effort.
"On three," he grunted, his voice strained. "One... two..."
The wall shifted slightly, then settled back with a sound like grinding teeth.
"Damn it all," one of the other watchmen muttered, releasing his grip to shake out his hands. "This thing weighs more than a bloody cart."
The Provost was preparing for another attempt when a new pair of hands appeared on the rubble, younger hands, attached to a tall figure with curly brown hair who'd approached so quietly that none of them had noticed his arrival.
"Let me help," Elrik said simply.
"On three, then," the Provost said, too exhausted to question the assistance. "One... two... three!"
This time, the wall lifted. Not easily, but it rose, and the watchmen were able to drag it aside enough to clear the entrance. When they finally released it and stepped back, gasping for breath, the Provost turned to look at their unexpected helper.
Elrik stood there, barely any sign of fatigue or effort, his expression suggesting he'd just completed a mildly daily task rather than shifted several hundred pounds of stone and timber.
"So..." the Provost said between breaths, one hand pressed against his lower back where the strain had settled like hot iron. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I saw that explosion and I thought—"
The Provost raised his hand, cutting him off with the gesture of a man who'd heard too many well-intentioned explanations today. "No. You ain't going anywhere near that. Go where the rest of the citizens are. Back to the central square."
Elrik's expression shifted, his jaw setting with a stubbornness that the Provost recognised immediately; he'd seen that look on young men before, the ones who thought they were invincible and desperately wanted to prove it.
"I can help," Elrik insisted.
"You already did. Now go—"
"But—"
The Provost studied him for a long moment, weighing options with the tired pragmatism of someone who'd been managing crises since before this kid was born. The truth was, they were stretched thin. Every able-bodied person was either fighting fires, moving rubble, or tending to the injured. And this boy had just lifted a wall that had taken three men to budge.
"Fine," the Provost said at last, his tone carrying the weight of a man making a decision he'd probably regret. "From now until all this shit ends, you're a town watchman. Don't expect any payment."
Elrik's face lit up with an enthusiasm so genuine it almost hurt to look at. "Really?"
"Really. Now get moving before I change my mind."
Elrik didn't wait for a second invitation. He turned and began jogging toward the northern edge of town, toward the source of that last, massive explosion, his movements carrying the energy of someone who'd finally been permitted to act rather than observe.
The Provost watched him go, then turned back to the rubble with a sigh. "Kids," he muttered to no one in particular, already bending to grip the next section of wall.
...
The path to the battlefield wasn't short. Elrik had been running, helping where he could, lifting debris, guiding confused citizens toward safety, for what felt like hours. But as the buildings thinned and the forest edge came into view, he realised he wasn't arriving late. The smoke still hung thick in the air, and the scent of burnt wood and something darker, more organic, carried on the wind.
When he finally broke through the tree line into the clearing, the devastation stole his breath.
Bodies. So many bodies.
They were scattered across the scorched earth like discarded toys, some still recognisable as human, others reduced to charred shapes that his mind refused to fully process. The ground was torn apart, massive craters where explosions had struck, deep trenches carved by impossible force, sections of earth that had been liquefied and then rehardened into strange, glass-like formations.
And in the centre of it all, a single figure lay motionless.
Elrik approached slowly, his earlier enthusiasm draining away with each step. The man was huge, easily one of the largest people Elrik had ever seen, his frame built like a fortress. Blood covered him, dried and fresh both, and his clothes were torn beyond recognition. Burns marked his face and arms. His chest was still, with no visible rise and fall of breath.
Dead, Elrik thought, the word hollow in his mind. He's dead.
"HIII~~!"
Elrik jumped, his head whipping around to search for the source of the voice. It was bright, cheerful, utterly inappropriate for the scene of carnage surrounding them.
"Oh, come on! That's me! You forgot me that fast?" The voice carried a note of theatrical disappointment that was somehow familiar.
Then Elrik remembered the contract, the magician, the Guide.
"Oh, you are, um..." He looked down at his right palm, where the contract mark had returned, glowing faintly with a crimson light that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. The symbols were clearer now than they'd been before, more defined, as if they'd settled deeper into his skin.
A sigh echoed in his ear, carrying the weight of infinite patience stretched thin. "We'll talk about that later. For now, extend your hand toward that guy in front of you."
Elrik hesitated for only a moment. Not that he didn't trust him, well, trust wasn't quite the right word to begin with, but he had no better options.
He reached out, his palm facing the fallen soldier's body.
The mark on his hand flared.
What followed was subtle, almost imperceptible at first. There was no dramatic burst of light, no thunderous sound or visible energy. Instead, the air around Paul's body seemed to... shift. It was like watching heat waves rise from sun-baked stone, except the distortion moved with purpose, flowing from Elrik's palm toward the wounds.
Paul's chest, which had been still as stone, suddenly rose with a shallow breath.
The burns on his face didn't heal in reverse or fade away; they simply became less severe, as if time had jumped forward through weeks of natural recovery in the span of seconds. The blood stopped seeping from his cuts. The bruising that had painted his skin in shades of purple and black lightened to yellow and green, the colours of healing rather than fresh trauma.
It was wrong in a way Elrik couldn't articulate. Not evil, exactly, but unnatural. As if the world's rules had been gently bent without breaking, reality politely asked to look the other way while something impossible occurred.
Within moments, Paul's breathing stabilised. His chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm. The immediate threat of death had simply... vanished.
"Well, that's all you need," the Guide's voice said, already fading like smoke on the wind. "See ya later!"
"Wait!" Elrik shouted, staring at his palm where the mark was dimming back to its dormant state. "What did I just—how did—"
But there was no response. The Guide's presence had withdrawn as quickly as it had arrived, leaving only questions and the faint warmth in Elrik's palm as evidence it had been there at all.
Before Elrik could process what had just happened, he felt it, a subtle shift in the air pressure, a faint whisper of wind that carried no natural source. He turned, and his eyes widened.
The wind was intensifying. Not violently, but with clear purpose, currents of air began to spiral and converge on a single point about fifty meters away. And within that convergence, a figure was taking shape.
Arthur descended like a hawk dropping from the sky, his landing sending a small shockwave across the scorched earth. His uniform was dishevelled, soot-stained, and his face carried the exhaustion of a man who'd been fighting fires, literal and metaphorical, for hours. But his eyes were sharp, immediately cataloguing the scene: the bodies, the devastation, Elrik standing over Paul's form, and Paul himself, somehow breathing despite the carnage around him.
Elrik's mind went blank. Military. Officer. Authority figure. His body reacted before his brain caught up, snapping to attention with the rigid posture of someone desperately trying to look like they belonged.
"Hi—I mean—SORRY SIR!" The words tumbled out in a confused rush, his attempt at a proper salute somehow managing to be both enthusiastic and completely wrong.
Arthur's gaze fixed on him, and his next question was delivered with the flat efficiency of someone too tired for preamble. "Are you involved in this?"
"No," Elrik said immediately.
The answer was simple, direct, and apparently sufficient. Arthur's expression didn't change, but something in his posture relaxed fractionally, the subtle shift of someone whose sense had just confirmed the truth. He moved past Elrik without another word and knelt beside Paul's body.
His hand went to Paul's neck, checking for a pulse. Finding it, Arthur closed his eyes for a long moment, his shoulders sagging slightly. Not relief, exactly. More like the easing of one terrible possibility among many.
"Still breathing," Arthur murmured, more to himself than to Elrik. "Stabilised. How the hell..."
He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he looked up as more soldiers emerged from the forest behind him, six of them, moving with the careful efficiency of people who'd been through combat recently and weren't eager to repeat the experience. They fanned out across the battlefield, checking bodies, extinguishing small fires with water magic, and beginning the grim work of cataloguing the dead.
Arthur remained kneeling beside Paul for another moment, then pushed himself to his feet with visible effort. He turned back to Elrik, his expression unreadable.
"So," Arthur said, his tone carrying a hint of annoyance rather than anger. "Why are you still here?"
Elrik glanced around at the soldiers working, at the devastation, at Paul's unconscious form. "I just... I wanted to see if anyone needed help after the explosion. But since you're here, I should probably—"
"Wait." Arthur's hand shot out, gripping Elrik's shoulder firmly enough to make it clear this wasn't a request. "I'm not finished."
A spike of worry shot through Elrik's chest. Had he done something wrong? Was being near a battlefield suspicious?
Arthur's eyes scanned him from head to toe, taking in his civilian clothes, his lack of any official insignia. "You don't look like a watchman. Why didn't you evacuate?"
"Well, I'm no—I mean I AM!" Elrik corrected himself quickly, puffing out his chest despite his nerves. "I am a watchman!"
Arthur's expression flickered, confusion, then scepticism, then something that might have been grudging acceptance as his blessing confirmed the truth of the statement. Technically true was still true, apparently. He released Elrik's shoulder.
"Fine. Then answer this: have you seen anyone around your age, shorter, with black hair?"
The description was vague, but something about Arthur's tone, the carefully controlled urgency beneath the exhaustion, suggested this wasn't a casual question.
"Hmm..." Elrik shook his head. "That could describe a lot of people..."
"He wore a torn brown coat," Arthur added, as if that detail would narrow it down significantly.
"Still, I can't think of—"
An image flashed through Elrik's mind. A young man with black hair and a brown coat. Alan.
Arthur must have seen something change in his expression because he leaned forward slightly, his voice sharpening. "What?"
"Well... I did meet someone like that this," Elrik said carefully, suddenly very aware that his answer mattered more than he understood. "But I don't know where he is now—"
"When?" Arthur's grip returned to his shoulder, tighter this time.
"T—This morning! Just this morning!" The pressure was uncomfortable, Arthur's exhaustion apparently not affecting his physical strength.
"I see..." Arthur released him, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face before he could suppress it. His shoulders sagged slightly. "That's all right. We'll manage things on our own."
Elrik wanted to ask why Arthur was looking for this person, what made someone who'd been on a rooftop hours ago important enough to search for amid all this chaos. But something in Arthur's expression discouraged questions.
Instead, Elrik's attention was drawn to movement in the distance. A figure, standing perhaps a hundred meters away near a half-collapsed building, leaning casually against the damaged wall as if surveying the aftermath of a storm they'd weathered successfully.
Yellow hair. Familiar posture. Isn't that Julian over there?.
Elrik's eyes widened. What is Julian doing here? And why is he just... standing there, watching?
He stared, trying to catch Julian's attention, perhaps waving him over or signalling somehow. But Julian seemed frozen, staring back at him with what appeared to be growing panic.
Julian's hands moved in quick, jerky gestures, patting his clothes, his face, checking to make sure he was still invisible. He glanced down at a nearby puddle. Elrik could just barely make out the movement from this distance, then seemed to relax slightly, turning back to lean against the wall.
Multiple exclamation marks might as well have appeared above Elrik's head. Why was Julian ignoring him? Could he not see Elrik waving? Was something wrong?
Calm down, Julian thought desperately, pressing his back against the half-standing house and willing his heart to stop hammering. He's probably just staring into space. His eyes just happened to fall in my direction. That's all. That has to be all.
He'd come to investigate the source of the explosions, a purely practical decision. If someone had discovered the cause, if there was evidence or witnesses, he needed to know about it. Information was survival. But now Elrik was here, and that military officer was here, and Julian's invisibility was his only shield.
Am I seeing things? Elrik thought, turning his gaze to where Arthur had been standing moments before. But he had already moved away, now helping soldiers administer first aid to the few survivors they'd found. Arthur's skill with wind magic might have been useless for fighting fires, but he could at least help stabilise the wounded.
Elrik looked back to where Julian had been standing.
Space. Julian had vanished.
How was he able to see through my invisibility? Julian wondered as he moved quickly through the empty streets, putting distance between himself and that inexplicable moment. The night was dark, the fires having consumed most of the artificial light sources, but the stars and moon provided enough illumination to navigate by.
His mind raced through possibilities. Had his ｢Photographer｣ skill malfunctioned? No, the puddle had shown nothing; his reflection had been absent, confirming the invisibility was active. Had Elrik developed some kind of detection ability? That seemed unlikely for someone so... straightforward.
Whatever the explanation, it was a problem for another time. Right now, he needed to—
A voice.
Julian stopped mid-step, his body going rigid. The sound had come from inside a building he was passing, a house that looked relatively intact compared to its neighbours, its structure having survived the fires and chaos.
Is someone still inside? The thought carried both concern and suspicion. Most citizens had evacuated hours ago. Anyone still here was either trapped, injured, or hiding.
Or they were involved.
Julian created a picture of himself, a perfect duplicate, visible and solid, and sent it walking casually toward the house's entrance while his true body remained invisible outside. The picture moved with easy confidence, as if it had every right to be there, and pushed the door open.
The interior was a mess, barrels lay scattered across the floor, their contents long since spilt. Broken pottery crunched under the picture's feet. Furniture had been overturned, drawers pulled open and emptied, the signs of people who'd left in a desperate hurry.
The floorboards creaked.
The picture's head snapped toward the sound, another room, to the left. It moved quickly, pushing through a half-open door into what had once been a bedroom. The space was empty save for an overturned bed and an open window, its shutters hanging loose.
The picture moved to the window and looked out into the darkness beyond. If someone had been here moments ago, if they'd fled through this window, they would have headed straight into the forest. The trees were barely visible in the moonlight, a dark mass that could hide anything.
Well, it's not like that's any of my business, Julian thought, already beginning to dispel the picture. Whoever had been here was gone. Probably just a looter taking advantage of the chaos, or a straggler who'd hidden during the evacuation.
The picture dissolved, its memories flowing back to Julian like water returning to a stream. He stood outside the house for another moment, processing what he'd seen, then turned away.
Looks like their allies are all dead or captured already, he thought, mentally cataloguing what he knew. That explosion destroyed most of them, and the military cleaned up the rest. Whoever they were working with won't be able to mount another attack anytime soon.
Which meant, for now, the immediate threat had passed. The military would be focused on recovery, on interrogating prisoners, on piecing together what had happened. They wouldn't be searching for Julian Volkov, a name they didn't even know.
His personal safety, for the moment, was as secure as it could be in this situation.
And that meant it was time to leave. Luthern was still out there somewhere, and staying in Zarethun any longer was asking to run into him again. No amount of invisibility would save him if that monster decided to finish what he'd started.
...
Phew, that was a close call, Alan thought as he stepped away from the house, his movements carefully measured to avoid making more noise than necessary. What is he even doing here?
He'd been examining his recent acquisitions when he'd heard footsteps approaching, too deliberate, too cautious to be a civilian. The picture that had entered the building had confirmed his suspicion.
Alan had slipped out through the window moments before Julian's duplicate had entered that bedroom, using the cover of darkness. He'd waited, crouched in the shadows, until the picture had dissolved and Julian had walked away. What a cheat skill he has
Now, satisfied that he hadn't been discovered, Alan made his way back to where his last "scene" had ended, the location where he'd secured his most important acquisition.
He emerged from the tree line into a small clearing, perhaps two hundred meters from the main battlefield. The sounds of Arthur's soldiers working were distant here, muffled by the forest and the lingering smoke.
Two soldiers stood guard in this clearing, their attention focused on a group of bound prisoners sitting against a fallen log. Six men in total, their hands tied behind their backs, their expressions ranging from defiant to terrified. Mercenaries, from the look of them. The ones Arthur's group had captured on the town's outskirts, the ones who'd been preparing to set off another explosion.
But Alan's attention wasn't on the living prisoners.
He stood near a tree, just beyond the reach of the guards' torchlight, his eyes fixed on what lay before him: a corpse.
One of the mercenaries who hadn't survived the initial capture. A man roughly Alan's height, with a similar build, though the face was different, broader features, a scar across the left cheek, and darker hair. But that was fine. That was manageable.
Alan's hand moved to the torn brown coat he still wore, his fingers tracing the dried blood that stained the fabric.
A smile, small and cunning, touched Alan's lips.
｢Surgeon｣ whispered at the edges of his consciousness, ready to be called upon.
Here we go