Andreas burst through the door, heart hammering, just in time to see a dark-coated man carrying his crying mother down the stairs.
No hesitation. No time to think.
In a blink, Andreas stood in front of the masked man—feet planted on the lower landing before the kidnapper could take another step.
Startled, the man dropped the mother. His hand darted into his coat, drawing a pistol in one swift motion. But before his finger touched the trigger, a blur of movement slammed into his gut.
Andreas's fist plunged deep into the man's stomach, folding him in half.
A sickening crack echoed as the man flew backward into the staircase, crashing into the railing before slumping, motionless, to the floor.
Andreas knelt beside his mother, gently untying her with his clean hand, keeping his bloodied one away from her trembling form. She was sobbing too hard to speak, her hands shaking.
Then came the sound—the distant clatter of hooves and wheels.
Andreas froze.
"Shit... Clara!"
He leapt to his feet and bolted outside, the already open door flinging mist into his face. Down the street, the carriage had gained a sizable lead, its lanterns bobbing like will-o'-the-wisps in the fog.
Not for long.
He caught up easily, his inhuman speed bridging the gap in seconds. As the carriage turned a corner, Andreas leapt and landed silently atop the roof. He slid forward and peered through the window.
Empty.
"What? They didn't take her?"
Lying flat on his stomach, Andreas let the wind whip past as the carriage rattled through mist-veiled streets. He frowned.
The driver must be retreating. Mission failed?. Maybe I should let him go.
Then he looked up. In the distance, orange and crimson flickered along the horizon. Dozens—no, hundreds—of rooftops were burning. Smoke coiled like serpents into the cloudy night.
A diversion.
Was his mother really the target? Or was there something far worse happening?
Andreas exhaled a bitter laugh.
The scenery reminded Andreas that this world was not like the one he came from, this stank of religious zealotry. The Everest Church might be involved. Or worse—whatever that thing was from before. It might have been their so-called god.
His muscles tensed.
No. Focus.
The carriage began weaving through tighter streets, turning deliberately. Not a random flight—it had a destination.
....Fine. I'll follow. I'll Call it detective work...
He smirked.
"Not like there's an actual police force in this empire anyway."
Finally, the carriage rolled to a stop behind a crumbling warehouse. Torchlight flickered behind stained-glass windows and cracked concrete walls. Andreas vaulted from the roof, landing silently beside another parked carriage.
A man in a military coat stepped forward, looping the reins through a rusted ring on the gate. Three chevrons marked his sleeve—sergeant. The horses stilled.
The sergeant yanked the carriage door open, peered inside, then slammed it shut with a scowl. "Where is the package?" he barked. His voice echoed off the stone.
"Sir, there was... a miscalculation in our endeavor." The driver dipped his head with a grimace. "I've returned to acquaint Priest Tobias with the particulars—unless, of course, you'd rather share in the consequences?"
As they argued, Andreas slipped into the shadows. A glint of steel—bayonet. One sentry by the door. One close to the carriage. The driver made three.
He struck in a single breath.
The first guard's head slammed against the warehouse door. The other two crashed into the side of the carriage with dull thuds. None of them stirred.
Andreas knelt by the nearest one, pressed two fingers to his throat.
Alive.
He rifled through the man's coat and found a silver pendant etched with the Everest Church's symbol. He pocketed it.
Figures.
Either the Church was behind something truly vile... or this was the most organized misunderstanding in history.
Probably not.
The driver groaned nearby. Andreas checked his breathing, then slipped a brass-bodied revolver from the third man's belt.
Revolvers. Cults. Religion.
All the makings of a great night.
He rose, stepped over the unconscious sentry, and pushed open the warehouse door. It groaned like a coffin lid. Lantern light spilled into a narrow backstage corridor, cluttered with crates and broken props. Dust choked the air.
Andreas crept forward.
The corridor opened into a cavernous chamber—a crude stage beneath a swinging lamp. A portly man in a blood-red waistcoat slammed a gavel on a podium.
"Lot Twenty-Three! A healthy girl! Untouched!"
Beside him stood a chained girl—no older than sixteen. Her red eyes welled with silent tears.
Dozens more captives knelt at the far end of the room, chained, heads bowed.
Andreas's breath hitched.
He climbed the scaffolding silently and perched in the rafters above the stage.
Below, round tables stretched across the warehouse floor, each set with crimson cloth, polished silverware, and untouched plates. Goblets brimmed with dark red wine.
Nearly five hundred figures sat cloaked in black, watching in silence.
At the front, five stood in white robes, the Everest Church's crest on their backs. A girl in a pale gown stood beside them, shaking.
Near her, a man lay sprawled in blood—his arm crudely sewn back to his shoulder.
Andreas narrowed his eyes.
What do I do? Risk or caution?
If I try to gather proof, I'll have to leave. And I might never see these victims again.
Obviously, I'm choosing risk.
But... can I pull it off?
There might be Awakened among them.
One versus hundreds...
...and I might have to kill someone.
Andreas watched from the rafters, perched like a gargoyle in the gloom. One leg dangled, the other rested casually.
Below, laughter echoed. One of the white-robed figures raised a hand. The girl onstage trembled, her knees buckling.
Andreas smiled.
I'll regret this later. For now... I'll be reckless.
He laughed—softly, bitterly.
A masked auction. Slavery in God's name. Five hundred cloaked freaks sipping wine like it's a damn opera?
This is where heroes fight...
With a murmur, he added, "...and die."
He leaned back, one leg up, as if watching a play. Then, calmly, he raised the revolver—
CRACK.
A goblet exploded in a puff of red.
Stunned silence.
Heads turned. Eyes scanned the rafters.
A second shot—CRACK—splintered a chair beside a robed figure.
Panic erupted.
All eyes turned upward.
He wore a smooth, light-grey mask. Two black slits where eyes should be. In his other hand, a grey sword shimmered with a soft, unnatural hum.
And beside him, something crouched.
It hadn't been there a second ago.
A pitch-black creature, all sinew and smoke, its ember eyes watching.
It leapt.
CRASH.
It slammed into a table—and vanished in a burst of grey mist.
Screams erupted.
Chairs scraped back.
Some ran. Others froze.
But near the front, a stocky man with a white beard didn't move. A scar ran down from his temple through his beard. Wine splashed across his coat, but he barely blinked.
He turned to the pale, purple-haired woman beside him.
"Now," he said coldly, "do it."
She reached into her robe.
Too slow.
BOOM.
The masked figure dropped from the rafters, slamming into the table. It exploded beneath him, crushing the bearded man. Wood shattered, goblets spilled.
Before the woman could react, a fist crashed into her chest, hurling her backward. She struck a pillar with a gasp.
Black-coated men drew revolvers.
Andreas rose slowly from the wreckage, dust and smoke curling around him.
Hundreds of eyes locked onto him.
The masked figure.
The one they hadn't planned for.
The one no one could recognize.
And he had just declared war on an organisation he knew nothing about.