The city bustled with life, but in this quiet corner, the air felt strangely muted. Rows of polished shops stretched on either side: to the left, boutiques draped with silks and velvet gowns swaying like whispers; to the right, armories gleaming with steel, where blades and shields shimmered like frozen lightning.
Michael and Niha stood apart. Unlike the others, they carried no weapons. Louis strutted with his sword polished to perfection, Lily's dagger gleamed at her hip, Catherine held a modest staff, and Chris's blade hung by his side. Only Niha stood empty-handed, arms folded tightly, her expression sharp and dismissive.
To her, all of this was meaningless. Once branded the queen of the night for nobles and royals, she had escaped one cage only to step into another. This new life was freer, yes—but no less dangerous.
Chris shifted uneasily. Each time his eyes fell on Michael, a strange pain twisted inside him, faint yet undeniable, as if something unseen tethered their souls together.
Louis, meanwhile, wasted no time in his desperate theater. He hovered near Lily, pointing at weapons, gesturing with grand flair, cracking jokes that fell flat. Lily smiled politely, her attention never fully on him. Her beauty radiated softly, her grace effortless. And then there was Catherine—ordinary, simple Catherine—who somehow carried a presence that drew eyes even without trying. The contrast gnawed at Louis.
Michael lingered at a stall, fingers brushing over the polished grain of a staff. Survival here was no certainty. He had Alex's body, yes. He could mimic Alex's fighting stances, yes. But he was still Michael. And without training, how long could he last?
Finally, he chose something simple—a modest weapon for self-defense. His magic remained clumsy, little more than instinct. He could learn from Lily, but Louis's jealousy was an obstacle Michael wasn't eager to provoke.
Then it hit him.
Wait… who's paying for this?
His face paled. He cursed under his breath, muttering insults at himself. The shopkeeper's eyes narrowed. Time was running out.
In desperation, Michael turned to Catherine. He tugged her aside a little too roughly, startling her. She gasped, eyes wide, as his breath brushed her ear.
"Baby," he whispered playfully but with panic beneath, "I think I messed up. I came to the market… but forgot the money."
Catherine stiffened at the word baby, her cheeks flushing. She shot him a glare, but when she caught the seriousness in his eyes, a smile tugged at her lips.
"Uncle… and what will you do now? Do you expect me to—"
Michael cut her off, whispering harshly, "I'm serious. Please. Just help me out."
Her sigh was soft, her eyes amused despite herself. She shook her head, a quiet spark of laughter in her gaze, even as she agreed.
---
Scene Two: The Execution at Besec Kingdom
Elsewhere, the capital shook with anticipation. Before the towering gates of the Besec Royal Palace, crowds gathered, their voices rising in waves of excitement. The square was packed, the air heavy with the scent of sweat, steel, and judgment.
At the center stood Manuel Sai Ito. Bound to a stake, his wrists and ankles tied, his eyes and mouth covered, he was the man whose name had haunted the continent. Rows of knights formed a wall around him, their armor glinting beneath the noon sun.
The judge's voice rang out, commanding and merciless.
"By decree, Manuel Sai Ito is sentenced to death. For crimes most heinous and vile, he shall be executed before the people he betrayed!"
The crowd erupted. Cheers thundered like a storm, shaking the very stones of the square. Justice, at last.
But Ito did not flinch. Beneath the blindfold, his soul burned not with fear but with defiance. Pride scarred into his heart refused to bow, even at the edge of death.
And then—everything shattered.
The cheers broke. The air thickened. Time slowed to a crawl.
Ito felt the cloth slip from his eyes. When it fell, the sight before him froze his blood.
The knights were gone—every last one of them. Their severed heads littered the ground, blood soaking the earth into a crimson sea. The judge's body hung suspended midair, torn limb from limb, grotesque and still, as though the very world had torn him apart and paused in cruel display.
Ito's knees shook. His soul trembled. Then came the voice.
Cold. Sharp. Inhuman.
"Do not thank me."
From the shadows, a figure stepped forth. Cloaked in black, his face hidden by a broken half-mask. Only his eyes showed—violet, glowing, unnatural.
He walked calmly, deliberately, the world bending with each step.
"I did this for you," he said softly. "Do not thank me."
Ito's voice cracked. "W-who are you? Why… why would you do this?"
The figure tilted his head, violet eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.
"Your goal and mine… are not so different. Work with me."
Ito's breath caught, his heart hammering. "Work with you? What do you mean?"
The figure stepped closer, shadows clinging to him like armor. His presence crushed the air, leaving Ito gasping.
"Join me," he whispered. "Join my group—The Black Eye