Zane did not resist. He understood what was expected of him and stepped into the role like an actor taking the stage. With just enough trembling in his fingers to seem convincing, he extended his wrists toward the soldier. The man grunted and snapped the shackles on without even looking at him. Zane's ale mug slipped from his hand and hit the wooden floor, tumbling and rolling until it came to rest beneath a nearby chair, forgotten in the wake of fear and steel. However, at this time no one cared about ale.
The soldiers moved fast, with precision and focus. Shouting orders, and shoving townsfolk toward the exit while making it a goal to be extra rough. Some of them resisted, but most did not. Chairs scraped. Boots pounded. Voices rose in confusion. Panic fluttered like caged birds through the smoky air. Zane kept his head down but never stopped watching. He noted the mage's robe, dark crimson lined with gold thread, the pattern unfamiliar and too ornate for someone pretending to serve the people. The mage's accent was a strange mix of noble elegance and northern roughness, a blend that suggested foreign training. But more importantly, Zane saw the twitch. The mage's left hand hesitated just a moment each time he reached for magic, a subtle delay in his spellcasting that pointed to some lingering damage, possibly nerve-related. Not enough to make him weak, but enough to be useful. Zane filed it away.
He memorized every face, every movement, every exit. This was not something he did intentionally. His brain just did that sometimes. It just spun into action, collecting and storing data that seemed useless.
The man named Rogar, who had lost his leg from the spell the mage had cast, was being carried out by two guards like a broken object that couldn'tbe fixed. His pants were soaked in blood. His lips were pale resembling his future without a leg. The mage barely glanced his way, eyes fixed forward as if blood meant nothing anymore. Zane noticed that this was was not justice. This was entertainment for them. Fear, being used as a spectacle.
They were pushed out into the open, cold air slapping against their skin like punishment. Chains clanked. Boots stumbled. No one spoke. The streets were quiet, the sunlight casting flickering shadows as the group was marched down the main path and through the gates of Bluridge. The soldiers' camp lay just beyond the town, a spiked fortress lit with fire and filled with iron and menacing looking guards. Sharp stakes surrounded the perimeter, and grim-eyed soldiers watched their every step.
Inside the largest tent, the air was thick and hot. Sweat clung to the canvas walls. The arrested townsfolk were forced to sit on the packed dirt floor, their chains clinking as they settled in. Their Shoulders sagged and their eyes stared at nothing. They reeked of fear and defeat. One by one, names were called. One by one, the broken were dragged forward. At the center of it all sat a man with a soldier's build and a killer's eyes. He was a knight, scarred and iron-hearted. His armor was clean but dented in places that spoke of old battles. Two silver stars gleamed on his cloak, marking him as a Two-Star Knight, an elite well above the regular footmen who flanked the room. He sat behind a simple desk made from crates and a plank of wood. His fingers rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, but even that loose grip seemed to whisper danger. Zane had seen men like him before. Men trained to kill quickly and ask questions only when the blood had dried up. Zane sat near the back of the group, his wrists were bound, and his head bowed low. He kept his expression blank and his posture slouched, the image of a drunk who had stumbled into something larger than himself. But his eyes missed nothing. He watched the knight. He watched the mage, who stood beside him like a shadow with a twisted smile. And he watched the villagers as they were dragged forward, terrified and trembling. He knew this world. He had been born into it. His father had been a knight too. A commoner raised with impressive skills with the blade, given armor and a title, and once respected by the entire town.
Zane could still remember the way the townspeople had stepped aside when his father walked through the streets. Merchants would lower their heads with a quiet respect, and children would stare with wide eyes, pointing as if they had seen a hero. His father had been more than just a man back then. He had stood for something. Discipline, power, and a sense of order that people either admired or feared. But that was before the whispers. A nobleman, proud, corrupt, and well-connected, had whispered poison into the right ears. Then came the accusation, absurd and baseless, from a maid whose name was never spoken again. There was no trial and no investigation. Just a cold declaration of guilt and a cruel display meant to silence any dissent. Zane had stood there, too young to intervene, too old to ever forget, and watched as his father was crucified beneath the fluttering red banners of the High Council.
The only things left of his father now were memories and a legacy buried in skill. A sword technique, simple in form but devastating in motion, crafted entirely by his father. It wasn't the kind of style that could be taught by fools. It required brilliance. And his father had it. That much was clear. Zane had learned every motion, every principle, then built upon it in secret. While others drank and boasted, he trained. Sharpened his timing. Focused his movements. He turned that inherited swordsmanship into something leaner, faster, deadlier. Something no soldier was ever meant to wield.
His father had also left him a curious piece of metal. It was small, steel, and worn with age. There was a strange symbol etched onto it. At first glance it looked like a ghost or a shadow in motion, something hard to define but impossible to ignore. It reminded Zane of a phantom. He had hoped it was a clue to some hidden treasure or long-lost inheritance, but the truth was far simpler. The metal could generate a small, flickering shield, enough to block a powerful blow. His father had used it in battle, found it during a dungeon raid, and worn it like a badge. To others, it might not have meant much. But to Zane, it was priceless. He kept it fastened to the edge of his hood. It wasn't just a relic. It was protection, both physical and personal.
He dressed like a vagrant, hunched his shoulders like a man carrying nothing of value, but under those loose clothes was a body built for war. His mind was even sharper than his blade. Every breath he took, every step he made, was part of something greater, vengeance, wrapped in patience.
Now, standing in the crowd, he watched the spectacle unfold.
The first person to be dragged forward was Elric, a gentle old potter with hands more used to shaping clay than wielding anything close to a weapon. The man was trembling as he was shoved into the center of the square. Zane saw the fear in his eyes. It wasn't just fear of punishment. It was the kind of fear that comes when you know no one will believe the truth.
"I swear I do not know anything about this Phantom," Elric cried out, his voice fragile, on the edge of breaking. "I'm just a potter. I make plates and cups. That's all I've ever done. I toasted like everyone else. We were just happy someone was standing up to them. That's all it was. Just foolish talk."
The mage who stood beside the armored knight smiled slowly, revealing bright white teeth that made the expression more unsettling than friendly. "So you admit it," he said smoothly. "You raised a toast in honor of a criminal. That's not mere foolishness, Mr. Elric. That's treason."
Elric stumbled back a step, the shackles on his wrists clinking loudly. "Please. That's not what I meant. You don't understand—"
But he never got to finish. Guards grabbed him roughly and yanked him out of sight.
Then came Cobalt, the carpenter. He walked forward with stiff legs, clearly still drunk from the night before. His shirt was stained with sawdust, and his voice cracked as he tried to explain.
"We were drinking. It was late. We weren't thinking clearly. It was just a moment. A mistake," he said quickly. "The ale, it made us stupid."
The knight didn't say a word. He didn't need to. He just stared, as calm and merciless as a blade resting in its sheath. After a short pause, he raised one hand. The guards obeyed, and Cobalt was dragged away like the others.
Another person stepped forward. A man named Zeeke, lean and twitchy, with desperation leaking from every word.
"Where were you the night of the treasury raid?" the mage asked.
"At home!" Zeeke blurted out, his voice fast and shaky. "My wife was with me. We went to bed early. She'll tell you. Please, she knows—she'll say the same!"
The mage tilted his head. "Your wife is not here. No one seems able to confirm your story. How convenient. Funny how every criminal has a witness, but the witness always disappears when it matters most."
Zeeke started to protest, but the guards had already begun to move. They seized him, silencing his words with a hard shove.
The routine continued. One by one, they were hauled in. A baker with flour still clinging to his sleeves. A tanner whose hands were stained a permanent brown. A weaver who could barely stand. A mother who clutched her teenage daughter, shielding her even as she was questioned. Each one humiliated. Accused. Tossed aside. The mage led the interrogations, weaving their smallest actions into crimes. A raised mug became an act of rebellion. A laugh during dinner turned into collusion. Nothing was safe from his twisting tongue.
The knight said almost nothing throughout. His approval or disapproval was silent, given only through subtle gestures—a nod here, a shift in stance there. But his silence was louder than any command. People feared it. Zane understood that kind of power. It was the same quiet intensity his father once carried.
Zane waited. He stood still and silent, watching it all. Listening to every word. These people weren't warriors or rebels. They were villagers. Neighbors. Craftsmen. And now they were being torn apart for showing the smallest bit of hope. For daring to believe that someone, anyone, might fight back.
He could feel the heat in his chest rising. It wasn't rage, not entirely. It was purpose. Every cry for mercy, every voice cracking under pressure, hammered that purpose into something clearer.
Zane would not let this continue, he had to find a way to resolve this issue.