Light strode into the village, his steps soft against the cobblestone path as he entered the brighter part of town. Neon signs glowed faintly through the mist, their lights reflecting off damp walls and rusted metal. The night hummed with distant chatter and the clinking of cups.
Then he noticed something that made his pulse slow, a movement pattern too deliberate to be random.
Five men were heading straight toward him.
They wore leather armor stitched in white and black across the chest, the lower sections shaded in deep black with a sharp V pattern running down the front, sides, and back. Their heads were completely covered with brown scarves that left only their eyes visible, cold, watchful, and void of emotion. Their boots were heavy; each step struck the ground with a dull thud that made the wooden walkways tremble.
Light observed quietly. Every group of five carried a single leader, marked by a white scarf instead of brown. They moved with precision like predators trained to corner their prey.
He scanned their armor, searching for insignias or clan marks, but there were none. No symbols. No identity. Only purpose.
They cut through the narrow streets, flipping aside crates and pushing through passersby until they stopped before a large warehouse bathed in yellow light. Around it, people drank and laughed in small circles, seated at round tables outside. The glow of the street lamps cast a low, bluish haze across their faces, while long bulbs hanging above the warehouse door buzzed faintly in the night air.
Beside the building, small shops pressed shoulder to shoulder—tiny stalls selling trinkets and food. Directly across the street, a takeaway stand steamed with the scent of grilled meat and sweet spice, the aroma drifting through the cool wind.
From inside the warehouse, men carried wooden boxes, stacking them neatly across the road near the food stand. The old vendor behind the counter noticed the masked soldiers first.
"Oh, you don't see their kind every day," he muttered, half-amused, half-nervous. "What could they be doing in a place like this?"
The men unloading the boxes paused mid-tease, their laughter dying.
They followed the old man's gaze to the five masked figures approaching from the left and immidiately their expressions darkened.
The street fell quiet. Only the hum of neon light and the sound of approaching boots remained.
"Not again…" one of the men muttered, casually slipping a hand into his pocket. He bowed slightly as if greeting an old annoyance, one eyebrow rising. "This has to be the hundredth time. Can't they give it a rest already?"
"Oh, have they been here before?" the old man behind the food stand asked, curiosity mixing with unease.
The masked men stopped at the warehouse entrance and surveyed the area. Two more workers came out from inside, each carrying heavy wooden boxes. One of them accidentally collided with one of the masked men, though by some miracle the crates didn't fall.
"More like they've been here every day," a slimmer worker grumbled before raising his voice at the men across the street.
"You guys gotta be careful! Carry them properly. If you drop any, we're finished!"
The third worker, broader and louder added with a smirk, "Those cost a fortune. If you break one, the boss'll come for your head or your wife." Completely ignoring the masked men as though they didn't scare him one bit.
The man holding the boxes squinted through the weight. "Hey, watch where you're standing!" he snapped, unaware of who he was yelling at. "I just married my wife, and I paid a lot too, no way I'm letting another man take her!"
He shifted the boxes slightly to get a better look and froze.
The face behind the scarf stared back at him, eyes sharp and unblinking. His grip faltered, knees trembling as a cold sweat broke across his neck.
The masked men said nothing. They simply gestured for the workers to lower the crates. As soon as they did, the soldiers began inspecting them, slow, methodical, and deliberate.
The two workers stood stiffly, watching as gloved hands tapped the boxes and traced invisible symbols over the wood. Across the street, the three men who'd been shouting moments ago clenched their jaws, trying not to intervene.
If I were the boss, one thought bitterly, his hand still buried in his pocket, I'd make these bastards pay for every second they waste pretending to look for an invisible stamp.
His gaze lingered on them, hard enough to burn through their armor.
Light stood still for a moment, unsure who these men were or what they were searching for. Their presence carried weight, discipline without identity and curiosity pulled him closer. He stepped toward the group standing beside the takeaway stand, his glow faint against the bright lamps.
The masked men pried open the crates one by one. Inside were neat rows of glass bottles with refined wine, the scent rich and sharp, spilling softly into the night air.
After a quick inspection, they closed the lids and moved on, their boots striking the stone path in perfect rhythm.
Light's eyes followed them until a voice resonated in his mind.
[Light, aren't you forgetting the task I gave you?] The tone was calm, cold. [Don't dwell on them. They're searching for someone who possesses something they want, but he's far better at hiding than they realize.]
Light's head turned, scanning every shadow. Master Isolde? he thought, searching for any trace of me. But no matter where he looked, I was nowhere in sight.
He exhaled softly, frustration leaking into his thoughts. How does Master Isolde know what these men are even after?
[Master Isolde!] he called out mentally. [Where do you want me to start? Anywhere specific?]
I was already deep within the heart of the village. My presence drew quiet suspicion, an unfamiliar figure cloaked in black, hood drawn low. Faces turned, eyes narrowing as I passed, yet none dared to stare too long. Perhaps such shadows were common here.
Noise guided me, laughter, metal clinking, arguments carried on the wind. Somewhere within that chaos, I listened closely.
[Listen to me carefully, Light.] My voice came again, low but distinct. [This place follows a certain order, its people are divided by three colors of power: white, red, and black. White marks the locals at the bottom, red belongs to those with political standing in the middle, and black is reserved for the underground lords above them. It's a food chain disguised as civility. If you look closely, beyond the obvious signs on buildings, you'll find others—hidden marks painted in these three colors.]
Light's eyes shifted, sweeping over the shops and houses as he began to move, looking for any strange trace of white, red, or black.
[Don't bother.] My voice came again, faint but firm. [From where you're standing, you won't see any of them.]
He frowned and floated upward, hoping for a clearer view. From above, the rooftops glowed under lantern light, smoke rising like a silver veil that blurred the stars. The lights below spilled softly into the sky, painting a dim aura above the clustered buildings.
[Then what are these signs and where are they hidden?]
Light's pupils narrowed, glowing a sharp green as he focused beyond the surface, beyond the walls, the roofs, the shadows. His sight pierced through layers of illusion until finally—he saw them.
[No way… are those the signs you meant, Master Isolde?]
Each building pulsed from within. In the heart of every home, a small fire the size of a candle burned, some black, some white, some red. The colors flickered faintly, invisible to ordinary eyes yet alive like souls bound to the living.
[So you finally saw them,] I said, my tone carrying a hint of amusement. [Only eyes different from the normal can perceive them. They exist in every house, marking each by its place in the order. It doesn't matter how many properties you own, your status burns in all of them.]
Light's lips parted slightly, but no words came. The revelation sank in like a heavy stone.
[Now listen carefully,] I continued, my voice growing colder. [I want you to start a silent fire on the red signs. And not just any ordinary fire.]
After my last words, Light could almost see the grin curling at my lips, a smile that said more than I ever would. But he accepted his task without question.
I turned away, veering into the darker parts of town. The noise there was relentless, laughter, clattering metal, muffled shouts echoing through narrow streets.
Then into a corridor, narrow, smoky, barely wide enough for two people to stand side by side. The floor was slick with oil and blood, the air thick with the choking stench of old cigarettes. My boots made faint, wet sounds as I walked.
Suddenly, frantic footsteps erupted from the other end — uneven, and desperate.
Two grown men burst through the smoke, faces pale and eyes wild. A young boy followed close behind, his breath ragged. They shoved past me without a word, forcing me back against the wall. My cloak scraped against the stone as they fled, vanishing into the noise behind me.
Then came another set of footsteps, slower, measured, and softer again the ground.
The boy's running stopped just behind me, and then all sound seemed to fold inward.
From the haze ahead, a figure emerged, tall, steady, his boots striking the oil-slick floor with a dull rhythm. When he spotted me, he halted.
He wore the same black-and-white leather armor the men Light had seen earlier, a white scarf wrapped tightly across his face.
We stood there in silence, facing each other in the narrow choke of the corridor, unmoving, both of us locked in the stillness before something inevitable.
"Have you seen any people running through here?" he asked, his voice low but edged.
I said nothing. His gaze drifted to my lips, waiting for them to move. When they didn't, I saw the irritation in his eyes, the way he mistook my silence for mockery beneath the shadow of my hood.
After a beat, he closed the gap until he was a single step away.
"Are you looking for trouble? I asked a simple question, have you seen people running this way?"
If anything, he was the one looking for trouble. He didn't even know who hewas chasing; he couldn't describe them. What did he expect? If I had actually seen anyone in this corridor, would I just tell him? Next he'd ask who they were, wasting my time.
Without warning he yanked my hood back. For a moment, he just stared in surprise, then his face twisted.
"You're blind?" he spat, voice sharp. Then his tone dropped colder still, ice creeping into his words. "Are you deaf as well? Beats me what a blind man is doing standing here like this."
Anger rose hot and fast in my chest. One more word from that masked mouth and I'd crush every one of his teeth. The thought tasted easy and savage I could almost fulfil it.
He had no reason to push me around. He could search the corridor himself or forced his way through the crowd to find them, but instead he chose to show power to someone who didn't care.
His accent marked him as an outsider, he didn't speak like the locals.
Before he could annoy me with more questions, a voice from within interrupted him. He pressed a hand to his ear, as if someone was speaking through an earpiece, listened for a moment, then turned and ran back the way he came.
Behind me, the boy was still standing. He hadn't followed the other two men; instead, he hid behind me, clutching my cape so tightly I thought he might tear it off any second.
With a trembling voice, he whispered, "Thank you, sir," then quickly ran off.