Chapter 12 – The Man in the Shadows
Night in Shinya was not quiet—it breathed. Beneath the pale glow of the moons, the city's marble towers seemed to lean inward, whispering secrets only the desperate could hear. The rich districts, cloaked in silver light, slumbered beneath the watch of the Sanctuary's bells, while the slums boiled with noise—coughing, laughter, the clatter of dice, and muffled cries that never reached the priests.
Moro and Kaya moved like shadows, cutting through the labyrinth of crooked alleys where torchlight barely touched. Here, the city revealed its rot: walls stained with dried blood, alley corners where corpses were left to decay because burial taxes were too high, and children with hollow stares selling scraps for bread.
"This isn't a city," Kaya muttered, voice low. "It's a graveyard waiting to be filled."
Moro's jaw tightened. "Graveyards don't chant prayers. This one sings while it kills."
He remembered the Festival—the chants, the blessings, the execution. And the hooded figure who had interfered. That figure had risked much, which meant he had purpose. Moro intended to find him.
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They found themselves before a tavern at the edge of the quarter. Its sign swung lazily on rusted chains: The Broken Chain. Fitting.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and sour ale. Lanterns burned weakly, casting just enough light to reveal broken faces—dock workers, beggars, a few mercenaries. But Moro noticed something else: the way eyes lingered too long, conversations dropped to murmurs, and glances passed like coded messages. This place wasn't simply a tavern. It was a net, and he had just stepped into it.
He and Kaya settled in the far corner. Moro ordered a drink but didn't touch it. He was waiting. Testing.
The man appeared minutes later. He slid into the chair across from Moro, his cloak heavy, hood drawn low. He didn't ask permission—he didn't need to. His voice was measured, calm, but laced with steel.
"You're far from home, stranger. People who wander into Shinya's teeth don't usually crawl back out."
Moro met his gaze without flinching. "Maybe I'm not here to crawl."
The hooded man studied him, then let out a quiet laugh. "Dangerous answer. But I've heard whispers of you already—the foreigner who defied the wolf hunter. Some call you reckless. Some call you cursed."
Kaya leaned forward, eyes sharp. "And what do you call us?"
The man's lips curved beneath the hood. "Potential. Or bait. Depending on the night." He paused, then tapped his chest lightly. "Call me Herbet. Nothing more."
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Herbet's tone shifted, dropping lower. "The Sanctuary bleeds this city dry. The people worship their jailors because they've forgotten what freedom tastes like. Hope is smothered here, stamped out with sermons and chains. But there are a few who still remember."
His hand curled into a fist. "We don't shout our cause. Not yet. But we breathe. We watch. We wait."
Moro's gaze didn't waver. "And when the time comes, you'll need more than whispers. You'll need a blade."
Herbet leaned closer, and though the tavern noise grew louder, their table was wrapped in tension. "And what are you? A mercenary hunting coin? A dreamer drunk on ideals? Or something else entirely?"
Moro's voice was iron. "I don't dream. I fight. And when I fight—chains break."
The silence that followed was heavy. Then Herbet chuckled darkly. "Careful. Words like that draw fire. But maybe fire is what we need."
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The tavern door exploded open. Guards stormed in, armored boots striking the floor like a drumbeat. Their leader's voice cut through the air:
"By order of the Sanctuary, all patrons will be searched! Rebellion sympathizers have been seen in this sector!"
Panic rippled instantly. A woman dropped her cup, a man bolted for the back only to be slammed down with a spear-butt. Soldiers yanked patrons from their chairs, dragging them out one by one.
Moro's eyes flicked to Herbet. The man hadn't moved. His hand, however, slid casually under the table. Preparing.
One soldier grabbed Kaya by the hood, tugging hard. "Let's see what you're hiding—"
Before he could finish, Moro's hand clamped around his wrist. The soldier's face twisted in pain as Moro's grip crushed bone.
"Touch her again," Moro said coldly, "and you won't have a hand to pull back."
The tavern froze. Fear thickened the air. The captain drew his sword, but before he could speak, a glass shattered. Then another. Smoke erupted from the back, filling the room in a choking haze.
Herbet hissed one word: "Move."
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They slipped through the chaos. The hidden door behind the counter creaked open, and the three of them vanished into the dark. Guards shouted, blades clanged against wood, but by the time they breached the smoke, the rebels were gone.
The tunnel was narrow, damp, and stinking of earth. Torches flickered against moss-streaked walls, their flames sputtering in the underground draft.
Herbet finally lowered his hood. His face was lean, scarred, and hardened by years of struggle. His eyes, though, burned alive—sharp, calculating, unyielding.
"Welcome," he said, voice echoing in the dark, "to the veins of Shinya. The Sanctuary controls the sky, the streets, the temples. But down here? Down here is where we breathe. Where rebellion waits for its hour."
Kaya's eyes widened. "So the tales were true…"
Herbet smirked faintly. "Tales don't save lives. People do. And people die easily when they forget to fear. That's what the Highs count on—fear and faith shackled together. Break one, and the other crumbles."
Moro's gaze was unyielding. "Then show me the chains. I'll shatter them all."
Herbet's stare lingered on him, measuring, weighing. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Maybe you will. Or maybe you'll burn before you touch the first link. Either way, welcome to the shadow war, Moro."
And in the silence of the underground, an alliance neither side fully trusted was forged—an alliance that would shake Shinya to its core.
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