(Chapter 10)
The march to Seiran was long, but silence weighed heavier than the road itself. The Purge Knights, armored and weary, finally crested the last ridge as the coast unfurled before them, glittering under the midday sun.
The port city of Seiran sprawled along the shoreline, its walls weathered from centuries of wind and salt. Beyond the walls, crooked houses stacked close together rose against the sea breeze, their slate rooftops reflecting bright patches of light. The harbor bustled with ships—merchant cogs, fishing boats, and trade galleys rocking gently in the tide. Yet despite the daylight, an unease lingered. Market stalls were half-empty, children did not run in the streets, and workers moved about with hushed voices, as if some unseen eye watched from every corner.
The Purge Knights entered through the northern gate, banners snapping against the salty wind. At the head rode Eldhar, his expression grave as stone. Behind him, Azre walked with her hood drawn low, fatigue still clinging to her features though she masked it well.
By her side was Rowan, who nudged his horse impatiently, his grin a stark contrast to the city's heavy air.
"Finally! Seiran. About time we see some real action. All that marching was going to make me lose my edge."
Thalia, riding just behind him, smiled faintly—soft, but with that familiarity of a lifelong friend. "You say that every time we enter a city. You'll complain of action soon enough, Rowan."
"Bah," Rowan shot back, his grin widening. "I'll never complain about a good fight. I was born for it."
Azre allowed herself a small smile at their exchange. For a moment, Rowan's reckless cheer cut through the heaviness pressing on her chest.
At the rear, Nilda rode with perfect posture, her eyes fixed ahead, hands never straying from her reins. "Rowan," she said sharply, her voice clipped and firm, "if you want to 'find a fight,' I suggest you do so when Eldhar orders it. Not before. Discipline is the line between survival and death in a city like this."
Rowan rolled his eyes dramatically. "Yes, yes, Captain Nilda. You'll have me polishing armor next."
"Better polished armor than a polished gravestone," Nilda replied without missing a beat.
Thalia's laughter was soft, barely above the clatter of hooves. "She has you there, Rowan."
---
As the company descended toward the docks, the city seemed to retreat from them. Merchants paused mid-trade to watch the Purge Knights pass, whispers trailing in their wake. Mothers pulled their children closer, as though even the sun overhead couldn't keep the shadows at bay.
In the square near the harbor, Eldhar drew rein and raised a hand. His gaze swept the market stalls, the shuttered taverns, the fishermen too wary to meet his eyes.
"This is Seiran," he said at last, voice steady, commanding. "But not the Seiran we knew. Something festers here, even under the light of day."
Azre lifted her eyes to the horizon. The gulls circled endlessly over the docks, their cries sharp against the stillness. And though the sea glittered in the sun, she could not shake the chill beneath her skin—an unshakable sense that Seiran was breathing, waiting, and watching.
---As rumors spread like wildfire, the harbor city of Seiran thrived under the harsh glare of daylight. The tang of salt and fish hung thick in the air, mingling with merchants' calls, the clang of ship bells, and the raucous laughter spilling from crowded taverns. On the surface, the city pulsed with life—but beneath its streets, whispers slithered like shadows through the alleys, carrying secrets best left unspoken.
Strange disappearances. Ships swallowed by calm seas. A shadow seen walking the docks.
At one tavern near the waterfront, he was simply another man—short black hair, weathered smile, a cloak drawn loosely around his shoulders. He laughed easily, tankard in hand, blending seamlessly with the drunkards and wanderers. Too seamlessly. His eyes, sharp and calculating, gave him away to anyone who bothered to look closely.
Across the room, Brooke Arick leaned casually at a card table, boots kicked up, her green eyes sharp as she laid down a winning hand. Coins scraped across the wood into her palm.
"Beginner's luck, lads. Care to double?" she teased, smirking.
The cloaked man approached, setting his drink down with a casual grin.
"Mind if I join? Always had a taste for games that test fate."
Brooke's smirk lingered, but her hand hovered near the grips of her twin revolvers.
"You can sit. But here's your warning—you smell like trouble."
He chuckled softly, his tone smooth yet hollow.
"Trouble follows me like a shadow."
The dice rolled, curses and cheers filled the smoky air, but Brooke's eyes never left him. Something about the way he moved, the carefulness in his voice—it didn't belong to the usual riffraff of Seiran.
Leaning closer, his voice dropped low, just enough for her to hear.
"The Trinity of the Abyss. You've heard the name, haven't you?"
Her smirk faltered.
"They've stirred near the eastern reef," he went on, tapping the table with a long finger. "An old catacomb, drowned by the tides. A ruin hiding something greater than gold. A tome—power enough to make kings crawl and seas kneel."
Brooke's eyes narrowed. His words weren't idle. He was leading her somewhere—dangling bait on a silver hook.
"You talk too much for a drifter," she muttered. "And you're a little too eager for me to chase your story."
His grin sharpened. "Perhaps. But you're Brooke Arick. A predator. And predators always hunt what's worth the blood."
Brooke stared at him, trying to read the currents beneath his words. He wasn't lying—at least not entirely. But his eagerness wasn't for her gain.
"You're leading me," she said quietly, "like bait on a hook."
Before she could snap back, the tavern door slammed open.
A figure entered, tall and armored in black, a greatsword strapped across his back. His mere presence silenced the room—Zeer, the rumored Diamond plate one of the highest Rank adventurer in Serian. His aura pressed down like a storm before thunder.
Brooke didn't move, but she felt the man beside her tense.
Gigaleon's smile faltered for the first time. His eyes flicked toward Zeer, then back to Brooke. She saw it—the calculation, the sharp shift from predator to cautious fox.
"Well," he said smoothly, rising from his chair, "the night grows dull. I'll leave you with that little secret, Huntress. Perhaps you'll prove entertaining after all."
He tipped his head, cloak swirling as he walked toward the door. Not rushed, but not relaxed either. And then he was gone, swallowed by the mist of Serian's streets.
Brooke exhaled, hand resting near her revolvers.
"Bad news,"
she muttered.
"That one doesn't bleed like normal men."
Her crew looked uneasy, but no one dared ask further. Across the tavern, Zeer said nothing, his back to the room as he ordered only water. But Brooke noticed his eyes—watchful, sharp, as though he too had sensed the shadow that had just slipped away.
The tavern grew emptier as Brooke pushed her winnings into a pouch, rising to her feet. Her crew—Bruce, Bob, and the rest—trailed after her like shadows, laughing and muttering among themselves.
As she passed the bar, she felt a presence. Zeer, still seated, his armored frame unmoving. His voice came like iron scraping stone.
"You were talking to something dangerous earlier."
Brooke arched a brow. "I talk to dangerous things all the time. Comes with the job."
Zeer turned slightly, one cold eye catching hers. "This one was different. If you chase what he dangled before you, you'll walk into a trap. Be ready—or don't walk at all."
For a moment, silence hung between them. Then Brooke smirked. "Noted. I'll keep my revolvers loaded."
Outside, the misty night wrapped around the docks. The following morning, Brooke and her crew bustled about the harbor, buying salted meat, barrels of fresh water, and ropes patched more times than they were worth. Bruce and Bob followed their captain, grumbling as usual.
"So, Cap'n," Bruce asked, balancing a sack over his shoulder, "what's the plan? Are we hunting this so-called Trinity? Chasing after that cloaked rat from last night?"
Bob nodded eagerly. "Or maybe go after the tome? That's what he meant, right?"
Brooke smirked, tossing an apple from one hand to the other. "Nah. We'll just do pirate things for now. Raid some pompous noble's ship, drink too much rum, share the spoils. The usual."
Bruce blinked. "That's… your plan?"
"Best plan I've ever had," Brooke said, laughing as she bit into the apple. Her crew chuckled nervously, though a flicker of unease lingered in their eyes.
-----
And then somewhere in the Streets
Azre, Rowan, Thalia, and Enix walked the cobbled lanes of Serian. The city was alive with salt and smoke: merchants hawked exotic fish, sailors brawled in alleys, children chased gulls between crates, and the distant toll of ship bells rang over the roar of the sea.
"This place reeks," Enix muttered, pinching his nose.
"It's called life," Azre replied dryly. "Try breathing it in."
They pushed open the door to a familiar tavern—the same where Brooke and Gigaleon had crossed paths hours earlier. Inside, the air was thick with stale beer and brine. Rowan leaned toward Thalia. "We should rent a room. Easier to gather word if we don't stand out like paladins in a brothel."
Thalia smirked faintly. "Agreed."
As they moved toward the counter, the room fell oddly still. Seated at a shadowed table was Zeer, his armored form unmistakable. His gaze lifted, landing squarely on the Purge Knights.
Azre froze mid-step, hand unconsciously shifting toward his blade. Rowan narrowed his eyes, tension sparking instantly in the air.
The black-clad adventurer leaned forward, resting one gauntleted hand on the table. The silence was thick enough to smother.
"Purge Knights," Zeer said slowly. "So the rumors are true. You've come to my city."
The air grew heavy. The tavern's chatter died. Every sailor and drunkard glanced nervously between the strangers and the armored titan.
For the first time in years, the fate of Serian trembled on a knife's edge.