"Did you hear?"
"Yeah. Seems someone really went for the old house."
"What? Seriously—who was it?"
"No idea. But I heard we're gonna witness a red robe today."
"Damn… that's messed up."
Whispers ran through the streets like wildfire.
Seems someone had been busy last night.
Sigh.
These idiots would never learn. Breaking into a noble's house for spare change—desperation mixed with stupidity.
Still… today was bound to be interesting.
All praise to him.
In a dilapidated shack, a figure sat slumped, fingers brushing over clothes and chains that belonged to a world far removed from his own. Outside, the sky began to pale—the weak breath of dawn creeping in.
A young man in a red robe strode through the dusty roads, eyes ahead, back straight, shoulders squared. He sniffed the air and scrunched his nose in distaste.
"These plebeians really never learn," he murmured. "And now I have to suffer because of him. Woe to him if he lands in my hands."
He tucked his arms into his robe. Glyphs flickered into existence, whole and elegant, dancing around him like obedient spirits—nothing like the jittering, broken glyphs of rogues.
"Swiiiiih…" a meat hawker whistled. "And that, fellas, is what sets mages and rogues apart."
The young mage's face twitched.
"They consider party tricks spells now?" he scoffed. "Tch. Idiots."
Dust gathered beneath his feet.
Boom.
He vanished, leaving only a shimmering mirage in his wake.
Across the city, Eylin opened his eyes.
Books sprawled everywhere. Plastic cans and bottles formed heaps on the floor, bags clung to walls like decorations in a shrine to neglect.
"Sigh… looks like cleanup day," he muttered. "Can't have the house wrecked while I'm still alive and kicking."
He swung his feet off the bed and tied his dreads into a ponytail.
A hexagonal sigil flickered in and out of existence, glowing vivid green.
Eylin stared at it.
"A crack, huh… but something's missing. What is it?"
No answer.
He stood, waved his hands like a maestro.
"Bind… bind… bind… bind!"
He yelled it like a fool, grinning wide.
The glyph on the ground opened and closed like portals, spewing green spectral vines that latched onto garbage, responding to Eylin's gestures. When the waste was finally heaped together, he stuffed it into two bags and slung them over his shoulders.
On his way to the disposal site, he overheard the rumors.
He laughed.
"Hehehe… idiots. Ain't no way a mage's coming here—"
BOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!
The street exploded.
Fire and dust swallowed the world.
A figure in ragged robes burst from the blast, glyphs flickering violently around his arms. Behind him strode the red-robed mage, laughing like a madman.
"Ahahahahaha! Is this all you amount to, Code Eight?" he jeered. "Pathetic! Keep holding back and I'll claim your head today!"
The dust settled.
A middle-aged man—Eight—coughed violently, blood spilling from his mouth. His glyphs sparked weakly.
"Cough… cough… Spire, brat…" he growled. "Can't you see we're surrounded? You'll burn them down too!"
Then he turned.
Locked eyes with Eylin, frozen in fear.
"Hehehe… Glitch," Eight rasped. "Better find a safe place to hide. It's gonna get messy."
The air shuddered.
Glyph sigils formed across his shoulders and hands, jagged and unstable, bathing him in an eerie glow. He rolled his shoulders, blood trailing down his lips, giving him a manic edge.
"Better hide, kid."
His gaze snapped to the mage.
"You mages place yourselves so high," Spire said calmly, "yet you lack human empathy."
He hunched slightly, feet shifting into an ancient boxing stance.
"Come, kid. Let your elder teach you some manners."
The mage snickered.
"You teach me, rogue?" He raised his hands. A glyph formed—clean, elegant, whole. Power folded inward, compressed, then flashed red.
Flames roared.
Spire exhaled slowly.
"Watch closely, kid," he murmured. "Don't blink."
He vanished.
The flames consumed empty air.
"Coward," the mage sneered—
The left side of space rippled.
A fist smashed into his shoulder, spinning him violently.
"You dare—!!!"
The mage slammed his hands into the ground.
Reality screamed.
The entire alley ceased to exist—stone shredded, air howled, heat flayed the walls raw.
When the light faded—
The rogue was gone.
"No… it can't be…" the mage stammered.
A whisper curled into his ear.
"YUN… GRAAV… VESTA."
"The kid's specialty."
Vines erupted, wrapping around the mage like chains.
"Burn!" he roared, flames engulfing them. "You can't bind me, rogue!"
"Yeah," Eight's voice chuckled. "Not enough to bind… but enough to stall."
A whisper of wind.
"Wind Slash."
Two blades tore through the air.
Blood sprayed.
A scream ripped free.
"I'll take your hand as a souvenir," Spire said softly. "And next time, kid—don't bite more than you can chew."
A pause.
"Oh—and the creep you were after?"
"In the slums."
"Well… byeeee."
He flickered away, eyes locking briefly with Eylin's trembling figure.
"Stay strong, Amos, kid. Keep clinging to hope—though it's such a fickle thing."
Silence.
Eylin stared at the space where the rogue had vanished.
The glyphs hadn't faded cleanly. Cracks shimmered, like broken glass suspended in air.
He pulled a shard of bone from his pouch and scratched a spiral into it with shaking hands. The lines pulsed, glowing faintly.
A trail appeared.
A tracking glyph… hacked. Unstable. But mine.
For the first time—
The cracks obeyed him.
"Lords above…" Eylin whispered. "What have I stumbled upon today?"
His gaze shifted from the bone shard to the glowing trail.
"…Seems like my cracks finally found their plaster."
"And the hell did I end up way over here…..graaaaah this is all messed up."