The morning sun filtered weakly through the curtains, casting a pale light across the clinic room.
Marcus stirred, his eyelids heavy. The faint smell of herbs and sterilized linen filled his nose.
He tried to move, but a sharp pain tore through his right side.
Instinctively, he reached for his missing arm.
Only air.
He froze. His breath caught in his throat.
Slowly, he looked down at the space where his right arm should have been. The sleeve of his bandaged shoulder hung empty, a hollow memory of strength.
For a long time, he said nothing. Only the steady rhythm of the clock filled the silence.
A faint exhale escaped his lips.
He sat back, letting the silk pajamas rustle against the sheets. The room around him came into focus, rows of bunk beds, the faint groans of other injured soldiers, and the faint white glow of the Vitalis wards healing them.
His comrades, his men, the same faces from that night.
They were alive.
Because he stayed.
Because he chose to.
And yet, the thought didn't bring him comfort.
It brought guilt.
'They're here because of me.
Because I led them into hell.'
He closed his eyes, forcing a deep breath through trembling lips.
"Fuhhh…"
The door creaked open.
Nathaniel stepped in, carrying a basket of fruit that looked painfully out of place in the somber air. His expression softened when he saw Marcus awake.
"You're finally up, Lea— …Marcus."
He set the basket down on the nightstand and sat beside him, giving a small, uncertain smile.
"How many days?"
"Three,"
Nathaniel replied quietly.
"The Vitalis worked around the clock to heal you. They did their best, but…"
He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes flickered toward Marcus's right side.
"Your arm…"
"I know."
The words came out low, almost tired.
Nathaniel's jaw tightened.
"The acid… it spread too fast. There was no way to reattach it."
Marcus stared at the floor, silent. His expression unreadable, neither grief nor anger, only a heavy stillness.
"I'm 29 years old,"
he muttered after a moment.
"And now I've already lost the thing that made me who I am."
He forced a weak laugh.
"Guess it's time to write a retirement plan."
Nathaniel didn't smile. He could hear the pain buried beneath that hollow humor.
So he said the only thing he could.
"It's not your fault, Marcus."
Marcus turned to him, eyes distant.
"I know. But that doesn't make it easier to breathe."
There was a long silence.
Finally, Nathaniel spoke again.
"The boy… Frederick Wilhelm."
Marcus's eyes flickered.
"The kid who ran for help."
"Yeah. He didn't make it."
Nathaniel's voice softened.
"We held the funeral yesterday. His mother came. She… she said she was proud that her son died saving others."
Marcus's hand clenched weakly over his knee.
"Pride doesn't bring her son back."
Nathaniel placed a hand on his shoulder, firm, reassuring.
"She knows you did everything you could."
Marcus said nothing. The silence between them was heavier than before, filled with unspoken grief and the echo of things lost.
After a few moments, Marcus broke the silence himself.
"So… how bad's the aftermath?"
Nathaniel blinked.
"You're still thinking about the mission?"
"Of course I am."
Marcus took the glass of water Nathaniel offered and sipped it slowly.
"We caused explosions strong enough to shake the entire city. Don't tell me nobody noticed."
"Actually…"
Nathaniel hesitated, then sighed.
"The Children of the Tower created a mana domain inside the Sewer Canal. It suppressed all sound and distortion from leaving the area. That's why no civilians were harmed. To the public, it was just… an earthquake."
Marcus frowned.
"So they hid the evidence themselves."
"Exactly."
"And yet someone still sent reinforcements."
Nathaniel nodded.
"Yeah. That's the strange part."
Marcus raised an eyebrow.
"There's this… person. Calls himself Cicero Winston. Apparently, he warned the Knight Guards using some kind of telepathic magic. Not the usual one either, and it was...untraceable."
Marcus froze mid-breath.
"…Untraceable?"
"Yes. The Knight Commanders confirmed it. The Magisters in the capital are losing their minds over it. They say even the High Arcanum failed to make something like that."
Marcus's gaze darkened.
"Then whoever this Cicero is… he's either a genius, or a threat."
Nathaniel nodded grimly.
"Exactly my thoughts. The empire is already investigating. But no trace. Nothing."
After a moment, Marcus muttered under his breath,
"…He's dangerous."
Nathaniel looked uneasy.
"Maybe. But that danger saved us."
Marcus fell silent again, the gears in his mind turning. He let the thought sink, then finally changed the subject.
"The man who saved us, the one with the trident."
Nathaniel's face brightened faintly.
"Ah, yes. The Unyielding Sun.
Regalus Winstar Cael Bellator."
Marcus looked up sharply.
"He's real?"
"More than real. A Grade III Knight, one of the strongest alive."
Marcus leaned back, exhaling slowly.
"So the legends walk among us now."
Nathaniel smiled.
"Seems so."
Marcus closed his eyes for a moment, the exhaustion finally catching up to him.
"And my family? Do they know?"
"Selene does. She's on her way here."
A soft smile tugged at Marcus's lips, tired but genuine.
"She's probably going to scold me again."
Nathaniel chuckled.
"Wouldn't be the first time."
Marcus's smile faded.
"I just hope Caelus doesn't see me like this."
Nathaniel hesitated, then replied softly.
"He'll see a man who stood his ground, Marcus. A man who didn't run."
Marcus turned his head toward the window. The morning light bathed the room in gold, and for the first time in three days, he let himself breathe freely.
"If that's what he sees…"
"Then maybe losing one arm isn't losing everything."
***
Deep beneath the Knight Guards Headquarters, past the reinforced corridors and the sealed steel doors, lay a chamber untouched by sunlight.
A circular room carved from black stone, cold, immaculate, and silent.
At the center stood a round table engraved with twelve sigils, though only five of them glowed faintly blue that night.
Five figures sat around it, cloaked not in anonymity, but in authority.
First...
Regalus Winstar Cael Bellator, The Unyielding Sun,
bearer of the Water Soul Note, Grade III.
The light from the mana crystals shimmered faintly against his silver hair, his gaze steady yet weary, like a man who had seen the end of a thousand battles and still refused to yield.
Beside him sat...
Catherine Joan Eleanor, 'The Blooming Red',
Grade III Fire Mage.
Her crimson cloak flickered in the dim light, and the faint scent of burnt incense followed her every breath.
To her right was...
Hannibal Nelson, 'The Brain of The Smartest',
Grade V Lightning Sorblade.
The only one among them who wore spectacles, though everyone knew his mind was sharper than any blade.
Across from him lounged...
Cyrus Wellington, 'The Wind of Madness', Grade IV, The Brute Wind
His expression unreadable, a restless breeze trapped in a man's body.
And finally...
Victoria Tomyris, 'The Messenger of the God',
Grade IV Light Mage.
Sat with her hands clasped in prayer, her golden eyes reflecting the faint glow of her Soul Note.
The silence stretched for a moment, then Hannibal broke it.
His tone was calm, but the spark of tension in his words was unmistakable.
"The Children of the Tower…"
"I'm shocked they still had the courage to crawl out of their pit."
Catherine leaned back, her fingers tapping the table's edge.
"They didn't just crawl, Hannibal. They resurfaced. And they didn't come quietly this time."
Cyrus smirked.
"Eschatopolis, of all places. The edge of the Empire, convenient for an ambush, but suicide for a siege"
Victoria's voice was calm and soft, but heavy with concern.
"Not if they never meant to win."
Her words hung in the air.
Even Regalus, who rarely spoke, finally lifted his gaze.
"They were finishing a ritual,"
he said flatly.
"I felt the residual mana. It was deliberate, methodical, and centuries old."
Hannibal frowned.
"That matches the pattern we've seen. Every incident in the last decade shows an identical mana fluctuation gradual, precise, and growing stronger."
He spread a few documents across the table, sketches, notes, and maps of the Empire.
Ten years ago, the first anomalies were minor
, beasts behaving erratically, occasional disappearances in border towns. But now…"
He pointed to a section on the map glowing red.
"They're evolving. Monsters appearing where mana concentration is thin, places that shouldn't even sustain them."
Catherine crossed her arms.
"And the cults."
Hannibal nodded.
"Yes. Not just the Children of the Tower. There's 'the Sons of the Eclipse' in the western provinces, 'the Serpents of Dawn' near the frontier, and 'the Black Choir' operating somewhere in the capital. All of them surfaced within the same decade."
Regalus's tone deepened.
"Coordinated."
Victoria exhaled, the faint radiance from her Light Soul Note brightening slightly.
"It's as if something beneath the world has awakened… something that's calling to them."
Silence followed her words.
The weight of dread filled the room.
Finally, Cyrus chuckled under his breath, a low, humorless sound.
"So, what's the plan? Hunt the cults one by one and hope the others don't grow while we sleep?"
Hannibal smirked faintly.
"No. We will prepare."
Catherine glanced at Regalus.
"You felt it too, didn't you? That mana distortion near the sewer site. It wasn't natural."
Regalus nodded.
"Someone interfered, not with brute force, but precision."
"A transmission unlike anything recorded. The Magisters can't even trace it."
Victoria looked up.
"You mean…"
Regalus's eyes narrowed.
"Yes. Someone out there used an Aether. Untraceable. Clean. Almost... surgical."
Catherine leaned forward.
"Do you know who?"
"No."
A pause.
Then a faint smile ghosted Regalus's lips.
"But whoever they are… they think like a scholar and act like a soldier. Dangerous combination."
The table fell silent again.
Then Hannibal closed the folder before him and said firmly,
"Regardless of what we think, the Children of the Tower have moved their pieces. We can't stay still. We'll reinforce Eschatopolis discreetly and start tracing the mana distortions across the border towns."
Catherine nodded.
"I'll dispatch a team from the Northern Pyre Division."
"I'll monitor the eastern trade routes," Victoria added.
"If the cult spreads through faith, it will start there."
Cyrus cracked his neck lazily.
"Guess that means I'm stuck dealing with the beasts again."
Finally, Regalus stood, his shadow cast long by the table's light.
"Do what you must. But remember, we move unseen. The empire must not know how close it already stands to the edge."
He turned toward the sigil at the center of the table, the symbol of...
'The Hidden Order of the Crown.'
The others rose with him.
Each of them placed their right hand over their heart, the sigils on their wrists glowing faintly.
And together, in unison, they spoke the vow that bound them in secrecy:
In the ancient tongue of the Empire, Vocemantica, The voice echoing with solemn resonance:
"Sub tenebris laboramus et luci servimus.
Promissi sumus, custodes sub velamento."
"Under darkness we labor, and to the light we serve.
We are the promised ones, the guardians beneath the veil."
The sigils dimmed one by one.
And as silence reclaimed the chamber, the five figures vanished, leaving behind only their lingering oath and the faint hum of mana beneath the stone.