"So this is Stanbright. I didn't come here often with my parents. A shame—I might've known every corner of the city by now, enough to track down that idiot."
Marc sat once again on a rooftop, scanning the city and its surroundings for any trace of a clue.
The city was quiet, the rain tapping softly against the windows.
Stanbright was not an ordinary city. Everything about it carried a regal, ancient weight. Even though technology and modernity had reshaped parts of it, the city remained solemn, upright, noble—as though the king himself refused to let it be tainted by the new generations.
The buildings were low but wide, spaced apart by vast gardens and reinforced fences. The gardens themselves looked like carefully sculpted parcels, each one arranged to resemble a flower or at least something beautiful.
The houses resembled chalets more than simple four-walled villas. And under the rain, the sight was melancholic, even haunted. As though the nobility and age of this old city, beneath a pounding dark sky, only made it darker still.
Stanbright surely hid stories Marc didn't care to know. It had once been one of Garida's capitals, after all—and Marc knew well that the history of those in power never promised anything good.
So the possibility that the books were here wasn't small. The Emperor never visited in his capacity as sovereign, but he often stayed here to rest. The media had often caught him here, accompanied by some mistress.
Marc frowned as the rain slid down his black hood and across his white mask.
"It's always raining. I wonder if this isn't Astra's doing."
Since the confirmed arrival of the first rider, the rain had been relentless, battering whole regions of the world—perhaps even the world entire.
The sky was gray, the night pitch-black. It was impossible to feel joy without sunlight, and war only deepened the gloom.
Marc checked his phone to see if Nathanaël or Chris had called, but no notification appeared.
Yet, behind his white mask, he raised an eyebrow at what he did see.
"They're still here, huh?"
The only alerts were reports of countless deaths across the world. Marc no longer even glanced at them. He skimmed them with the same dull stare.
He hadn't spoken the forbidden word in ages, knowing its harmful effects. But lately, the notifications poured into his phone as though it were still all Marc's fault.
He feared the device would overload from the flood, yet strangely, it never seemed to register the staggering number of death notices arriving daily.
It was a mystery Marc didn't care to solve—at least, not now.
He had other things to do.
"I need to find those riders, fast."
He had tried calling the Emperor, but no one answered.
To be precise, every line connecting Garida to Zvenne had been cut. A high-grade jammer had been deployed, preventing anyone from calling in or out.
Marc didn't know how such a thing was possible, but in these days, technology could do almost anything.
"They must know where the calls are coming from. I'll have to keep moving or..."
Suddenly, Marc froze.
In the distance, something tore through the air at high speed, heading straight toward him.
A chill ran down his spine.
"A....42?"
The Emperor Garid had gone that far. A missile was flying directly toward Marc.
"No matter the casualties. Eliminate him."
Marc's rage flared, and he hurled himself toward the missile, the building beneath him losing a floor to the force of his propulsion.
It seemed Garid had chosen to bombard the Death of War directly with missiles and bombs, determined to wipe him out as quickly as possible. He showed no mercy even to his own people.
No—as long as the Black Knight was destroyed, he would be satisfied.
Marc gritted his teeth.
"Bastard."
He roared, charging straight into the missile's path. In midair, he twisted aside at the last second, then caught it with both hands and hurled it upward.
But as he saw it more clearly, Marc realized its small size—and that it was not the dreaded weapon Garid had reserved for Turcan.
"This isn't A-42."
Back at the Jerkov military base, the cameras broadcast Marc's feats across every screen.
The soldiers trembled, knowing that no matter what they threw at him, the Death of War could not be defeated.
The Black Knight in the white mask only added to his legend, surviving every lethal trick and trap they sent his way.
"We'll never beat him…"
The thought took root in their minds. If the Black Rider ever turned his gaze on them, they were finished. Everyone knew he was searching for something, and for now that kept them safe. But the day he found it, he would come for them.
Still, Garid was not finished.
Driven by Aeros's bloody aura, he had not lost even a shred of hope in destroying the monster.
With a calm yet venomous voice, he gave the next order.
"Deploy the thrusters."
Marc landed back on the ground and looked up. He knew the missile would come back down thanks to its thrusters, and the thought already made his blood boil.
He scanned his surroundings, searching for a suitable projectile—something not too expensive, not too precious or not too useful. His eyes fell on a phone booth, a manhole cover, a billboard, and several other objects he could throw without much remorse.
But suddenly, his mind settled on another target. Marc lowered his head and pulled his phone from his pocket. The small, everyday device had probably caused all his current problems.
Garid had likely intercepted the signals from his phone and, over time, pinpointed its destination. With their level of security on high alert, it hadn't taken them long to launch a camera-equipped missile to confirm the presence of the Death of War.
If Marc had been targeted from that distance, it was because of his calls. And now, they probably knew the source.
He had to get rid of it.
Marc looked at his precious phone, the one he had shared so many good moments with, his gaze a mix of sadness and bitterness.
"Sorry, old friend."
Then, taking careful aim, he hurled it with all his strength at the missile and ducked. By luck, he hit his target. The moment the thrusters activated, the phone pierced the missile, causing it to explode high above Stanbright.
A brief, beautiful explosion lit up the city sky for a few seconds.
Garid saw the contacts with the missile and phone go dead and slammed his fist firmly on the table.
"Damn that bastard!!"
One of his men turned to face him.
"Your Majesty, that was extremely risky. If he hadn't stopped the missile, the people in Stanbright…"
Suddenly, Garid grabbed the man by the collar, towering over him with his golden eyes.
"You think I care? We are at war, soldier, not in a tea room. You dare question my orders? Your impertinence will be your undoing."
With that, the man was dropped to the floor, and soldiers from outside the room moved in to seize him.
The man's face paled, realizing what was about to happen. He turned to his sovereign, pleading for mercy and forgiveness.
"No, wait..."
But Garid didn't even look at him.
"I don't recall asking the dead to speak."
"Wait, Your Majesty. Please, wait.."
The screams echoed throughout the building, but no one dared investigate what had happened.
The atmosphere in the area had turned cold; beads of sweat appeared on the foreheads of the other scientists and soldiers.
Then Garid calmly walked toward a restricted room. His footsteps in the corridors were the only sound heard.
When the door opened, Garid retrieved two books stacked neatly on a bedside table.
"So this is what you're looking for, Zeymond. They teach me a lot right now. I think I'll keep them. I wouldn't want them falling into your hands—that would be a real waste."
**
"He's here."
Marc had reached another conclusion.
"It's him. Bring out the rocket launcher."
If he didn't know where to go…
"Get ready."
"The enemy is moving toward our position."
He didn't even have to ask nicely…
**
On the other side of the world, in the capital of the greatest Empire in history, Turcan was discussing the unfolding events with his loyal butler.
In his cold, authoritative voice, most people would have trembled.
"How are things going, Exorian?"
Fortunately, his butler was used to it by now; maintaining composure was no longer a challenge for him.
"Roll Reinard requests to cross the border."
"I refuse. Tell the soldiers they are authorized to fire."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Exorian prepared to place the call.
Turcan took the opportunity to glance out the window. His reflection on the glass betrayed no warmth or sympathy. The risk of contamination was far too high, and if it meant killing people, he would allow no one to enter.
It might have been a difficult decision for some, but Turcan saw no difficulty at all. If he had to save his people by killing others, he would do it without hesitation. He was capable, and more than that—he would come out alive.
Being emperor of half the world was not easy, and such choices only made it harder—but Arva could not pass, and he would see to it personally.
However, his thoughts were interrupted by Exorian's anxious voice.
"Your Majesty, we have a problem."
Turcan calmly turned his head to fix his panicked butler with a steely gaze.
"What's happening?"
"They are going on the offensive. They are forcing their way in. Arva is attacking."
The Emperor's face tightened slightly. It had been expected, but now he would have to eliminate them himself.
"Bastards."