The Academy City of Dunsleight had always been little more than a distant myth to Cirino. Yet now that he was here—standing amidst one of the Empire's proudest jewels—he wasn't sure what to feel.
A lot of my siblings dreamed of being here…
Of course they did. Admission into one of Dunsleight's three great universities guaranteed a future—whether as a civil servant, a scholar, or, if fortune smiled, a prodigy discovered by some noble house.
Even the station itself radiated grandeur. Its platforms spread beneath the shadow of the Grand Cathedral of Saint Irithya, its marble ceilings painted with saints and halos of light. Cirino barely remembered the name.
She must have been quite the character if they built her a cathedral…
He thought dryly. Religion had never been his strong suit.
The only thing I remember about her was that she healed a few people…
He shook the thought away. There was a schedule to keep, and the clock hanging above the station gates told him he was already flirting with lateness.
Winter had died out around these parts. Though the air was still cool, it wasn't as unbearable as the lands he had just passed through by train. The winter would give way to spring, soon enough. The snow had already melted; only vestiges remained in the corners and on the rooftops.
For now, however, winter would keep its hold. Its dying embers would remain until the springtime time properly set in.
Gripping his worn luggage, red hair tousled by the steam and the rush of departing trams, Cirino fished a crumpled note from his pocket—a scribbled address written in his captain's handwriting.
132 Statengard Street.
He smiled faintly.
Thank you, Sister Marietta, for teaching the orphans to read.
He clasped his hands together for a brief, silent prayer for her good health, then pressed forward.
Past stone arches carved with sigils of the Immortal High-Crown, beneath banners of the Khayon Dynasty, he stepped out into Dunsleight proper—a city of knowledge and ambition, where even the cobblestones seemed to hum with the pulse of the Empire.
But gods—
The moment he stepped onto the street, a wave of stench smacked him in the face. He gagged before he could stop himself. Carriages and cabs thundered over the cobbles, horses doing what horses did best. The poor street cleaners were already at work, scooping the mess into wagons like it was just another Tuesday.
So this was civilization.
Was it this bad back home? He couldn't recall ever stepping outside and nearly losing his lunch. Cirino didn't even eat today! His quiet little town might've been poor, but at least it didn't reek of progress.
He'd visited cities before, of course—but never long enough to truly appreciate them.
Now he was getting the full experience.
Lucky him.
He let out a mirthless, humorless grin—then immediately covered his mouth with his hand. A stupid habit, and an embarrassing one at that. It always happened when he found a thought funnier than it should've been. It had gotten him into trouble more than once.
They care too much—all I did was grin!
He sighed heavily. The smell was worse now, mixing with the smog and soot belching from chimneys above. How anyone could live in this was beyond him.
Maybe I underestimated the upper class. Imagine waking up to this every day—haha…
The laugh died before it ever reached his lips. Right. He'd be waking up to this, too.
Except I don't have any servants to do all my work for me…
Poor him.
Clearing his throat, he pushed the thought aside and adjusted his bag. The young soldier straightened his back, took one last breath of the foul air, and began to walk.
At the very least, the streets looked clean. The stench might've been awful, but the city did its damnedest to keep itself presentable. The gray stones gleamed faintly under the sun, reflecting light like polished steel, and the constant murmur of the crowd was a kind of ambience he wasn't used to.
He didn't hate it—not at all.
The chatter washed over him. Students bragging or lamenting over grades. Parents guiding their children, speaking of futures bright and certain. Kids laughing as they clashed with wooden swords and toy rifles, their voices cutting through the noise.
Nice to know people have things to worry about that aren't demons or rebels…
He thought, half-sarcastic, half envious.
Why he had to be the one sent out there, he'd never really understand. These kids—laughing now—would be conscripted soon enough. Three years of service before they were even grown.
As he walked, a carriage slowed to a stop by the curb—painted black, with a yellow stripe looping neatly around the sides. Cirino blinked, taking a moment to recognize it.
A cab. Right.
Usually, these things were owned by some big transport company or one of those flashy cab firms with crests plastered on every door. He leaned a little, trying to spot a logo, a sigil—anything.
Nothing.
An independent driver, then. Bold choice.
Hey, I had free time!
Cirino mentally protested.
And I spent it reading the papers. Not like I had anything better to do.
Honestly, the amount of cab ads he'd seen lately was absurd. They made it sound like everyone was supposed to take one to work, to dinner—maybe the army could've just used a cab to head straight into an exarch stronghold.
…
Why am I actually thinking about doing that? Am I stupid?
He shook his head, a faint, embarrassed grin tugging at his lips as he picked up his pace again.
But before he could take another step, a voice called out from the cab.
"Hey! Need a lift?"
The cab driver's voice was light, cheerful—almost too cheerful for this smog-choked street. Cirino stopped mid-step, exhaled a long sigh through his nose, and turned.
The driver was a woman, hair a dusky orange-brown that caught the weak sunlight, eyes a curious shade of gold. Her face carried the kind of rough prettiness born from long days and longer nights. She wore the standard cab uniform—gray overcoat, belt cinched tight, white shirt, riding boots, and a tilted tophat that gave her a rakish charm.
She grinned at him, expectant, bright-eyed — like she was already sure he'd say yes.
Sorry to disappoint…
He raised a hand, awkward and apologetic. "Sorry. I'm, uh, really low on marks at the moment."
"Oh, that's fine!" she chirped. "Fare's only ten Suns a ride!"
Lady, I'm broke.
He grimaced.
Ten Suns was cheap, at least by city standards. In the Empire's system, twenty-five Suns made one Crownmark, and a hundred Crownmarks equaled an Aureal note—the kind of money nobles framed, not spent. Two Crownmarks could buy you a decent meal, maybe, if the cook didn't spit in it first for being so cheap.
So yes, Ten Suns was cheap.
Except…
"Yeah… I don't exactly have that much on me," he admitted.
The woman blinked, staring at his luggage, then crossed her arms with mock offense. "Sir, if I may ask—did you seriously come to Dunsleight with less than one mark?"
Aha, well, when you put it that way…
Technically, he had two Crownmarks and five Suns. Except—he only had two Crownmarks and five Suns. Meaning if he wanted to last in this city, he needed to save as much as he could.
Practically, this means he had little in terms of actual assets.
He couldn't help but smirk, dragging a hand down his face. "Yeah. Guess I did."
There was silence.
The golden-eyed girl regarded the blue-eyed boy for a long moment, arms crossed. Her gaze flicked from his rumpled uniform to the scuffed luggage at his side.
He looked young—too young, really. The kind of young who hadn't yet learned to hide exhaustion behind pride. Red hair hung over his brow, softening the hardened look he tried to put on.
Despite having seen multiple battlefields and having taken a few lives himself—
Cirino is still a seventeen-year-old boy.
He can't be older than me.
And she was only twenty-one.
"Alright, kid. Get in." She jerked a thumb toward the cab.
Cirino blinked. "I just said I don't have money—"
"I know what you said!" she cut him off, one hand on her hip, the other tapping her chin in mock thought. "Think of it as… charity."
Cirino raised a brow.
"Lady, if you're trying to run a business, you usually have to charge your customers."
"So you don't want a free ride?" she fired back, a brow arched.
He paused, sighed, then muttered, "Yes, I do."
"Thought so."
Cirino climbed into the carriage.
It wasn't exactly luxury, but it was better than what he was used to. The cushions were torn, bits of splintered wood jutted from the interior frame, and the paint peeled in tired flakes.
The window was broken too, so the only view outside came with a spiderweb crack cutting through it.
"Where to, Red?"
…Red again?
If he had a Sun coin every time someone used that specific color as a nickname—
I'd have two. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.
"132 Statengard Street," Cirino replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "The local army station."
The woman nodded and took the reins. The cab lurched forward, wheels rattling and bumping across uneven cobblestones. Cirino leaned against the window, resting his head in one hand as the city blurred by.
"So," the driver called out, her voice carrying over the noise, "what's a soldier like you doing here instead of the frontlines?"
Cirino blinked, turning toward the front.
"Well…" He hesitated, weighing what he could actually say. "I've been transferred here. Captain's orders. Something about the local garrison needing reinforcement."
"Local?" she snorted. "What for? The only threats around here are drunk students harassing vendors. Thought they'd have every able-bodied soul out east by now—especially after that city got pacified…"
She snapped her fingers, squinting. "What was it… uh… Karinthol? Karnevale? Carteval?"
"Karvethal," Cirino corrected softly.
"Right, that one. The whole place went up in flames, didn't it?"
Cirino didn't respond at first. His eyes followed the passing storefronts, the way sunlight cut through the soot. For a moment, he almost convinced himself he hadn't heard her.
The driver glanced at him through the side mirror, her voice softer this time. "You were there, weren't you?"
He leaned back, exhaling through his nose. "Yeah."
A pause. The kind that says there's more, but he had no intention of offering it.
"Was it bad?" she asked carefully.
Cirino almost laughed. Almost.
"Depends on what you call bad," he muttered, eyes still fixed outside. "Some people would call it liberation. Others would call it a massacre. I just call it…"
Cirino glanced upwards. He tried to think of a euphemism, anything at all—
"…a mess."
That was the best he could come up with. Cirino was never good with words.
The driver frowned but didn't press. The reins creaked softly as the horses trotted onward.
"Sorry," she said after a moment, quieter now. "Didn't mean to pry."
He waved it off. "You didn't. Everyone asks eventually."
"Do you answer everyone like that?"
"Only the ones who don't charge extra for the emotional damage."
That earned a short, genuine laugh from her—one that almost managed to lighten the weight in the carriage.
Cirino didn't join her, but the corner of his mouth twitched just enough to count.
"Well, if it's any consolation," the driver went on, "your stay here'll be a well-deserved break. The worst you'll run into are a few students making fools of themselves, maybe a bar brawl or two. We're so deep in Imperial territory that no demon or monster from Chthonis would even think about showing up."
Don't jinx it…
Cirino kept that thought to himself. With his luck, he wasn't so sure. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the torn cushions. They creaked but offered a hint of comfort all the same.
As the carriage rattled along the cobbled street, the driver's voice rose again.
"Isn't she a beauty?"
Cirino blinked and turned toward the window.
Beyond the glass stood sweeping stone arches—an entrance framed by banners and iron gates that glinted faintly in the afternoon light. Dunsleight National University loomed behind them, its towers and domes catching the sun like polished ivory.
Even from here, he could see students drifting through the archways, their dark academic gowns flaring in the wind.
"Built and raised by the old mortal royal family," the driver said, pride and irony mingling in her tone, "back before Alric Khayon toppled the Tudorren dynasty nearly a century ago. They didn't waste a single Sun on the place. These days it's mostly the nobles keeping her upright—funny how they kept the name, isn't it?"
His lips quivered.
He glanced toward the students filtering in and out beyond the gate. Only a handful—winter session, probably—but each one looked as though they'd stepped out of a painting. Black academic gowns embroidered with gold thread, pressed shirts, polished vests, dresses trimmed with lace and jewels that caught the sun.
Are you a school or an advertisement for my misery?
A sigh slipped out before he could stop it. These kids were his age, maybe even younger, and most of them had likely never so much as lifted a rifle in their lives.
Not Scions, not soldiers—just rich heirs and prodigal scholars with soft hands and bright futures.
That life could've been his… once.
Stop deluding yourself.
Neither Sister Marietta nor the orphanage could've ever afforded the tuition, let alone the travel.
Dunsleight National University might as well have been a dream painted on the horizon—he can reach out and fantasize all he likes, but he'd never have the chance.
The rest of the ride passed in silence. They rattled through markets, crossed wide squares filled with statues of long-dead heroes, and rolled past rows of leafless trees that blurred together in the haze. Cirino didn't bother to take much in; he was too tired to care.
Eventually, the cab slowed to a stop.
His destination wasn't exactly what he imagined. A small, gated garrison squatted at the end of the street—its iron fence rusted, its gate hanging slightly ajar.
The building behind it looked less like a barracks and more like a relic that had simply been forgotten. Snow-covered vines crawled up the stone walls, moss stained the corners green even under the cold, and the windows were clouded with both dust and the chill frost.
There weren't any guards posted. No barked orders. Not even the clang of training drills. Just silence.
A lump formed in his throat.
If the captain ever saw this, she'd kill whoever's running the place…
He grimaced inwardly. It wasn't ruined, not quite, but it definitely wasn't up to Imperial standards either. Then again, what threats would Dunsleight possibly have?
The Soldiery is the backbone of the Empire, sure…
He looked at the crooked gate and cracked stone.
The Empire's back problems must be horrifically severe.
Stepping down from the carriage, Cirino turned just as the cabbie tugged on the reins. Before trotting off, she blinked and fished something from her pocket—a small business card, which she handed to him.
"Here. In case you need my services again."
Cirino raised a brow, glancing at the card.
Rena's Cab and Goods Service!
Rena, huh? And goods?
"What do you mean by goods?" he asked.
Rena looked left, then right, before leaning forward with a cheeky grin. "Goods…" She tugged on her coat's hem, revealing the iron holstered at her hip. "In case you ever need some extra firepower, Red. Never hurts."
Cirino blinked. "Is that something you should really be telling me?"
"Call it an investment," she said with a shrug. "You're not gonna snitch—right?"
He stared at her for a beat, then at the carriage. She had, after all, given him a free ride. If she'd been running this little side hustle for a while, she probably had him figured out already.
He exhaled through his nose and shrugged. Not his problem.
He was just a regular soldier.
"Good! Sorry, we didn't get to introduce each other, Red. Name's Rena, if the card didn't already tell—"
Cirino considered whether he should return the courtesy. He opened his mouth—
—The cab rolled off before he could even let out a syllable.
He watched her go, lips pursing into a faint scowl.
"…Cirino," he muttered anyway.
No response came.
He sighed and turned toward the garrison. Dilapidated or not, this was his new post. A nice change of pace, he supposed—quiet, not too crowded, almost peaceful.
…
How much is the rent in this city?
Like hell I'd live here.
[…]
Cirino stepped into the garrison, blue eyes sweeping across the empty hall. His brain, trained by habit and the endless drills of military discipline, immediately began ticking boxes on an imaginary checklist.
Unhygienic station…
The floorboards creaked under his boots—half-rotted and splintered. The walls were a patchwork of moss and peeling paint, and the smell of mildew hung thick in the air. Dust blanketed everything like a funeral shroud.
Check.
Lack of manpower to garrison the station…
He glanced around. Silence. No sentries, no clerks, no sound but the faint hum of the city outside. Not even a lazy guard pretending to sweep.
Check.
He sighed and made his way deeper inside. The air got heavier, the quiet more oppressive. He stopped by a door labeled Armory, the lettering nearly worn away. When he pushed it open, the hinges groaned like a dying man.
Inside, rows of racks lined the walls—each one filled with neglected rifles. Cirino picked one up, brushing off a layer of dust with his sleeve. The runes etched into the barrel were faint, barely glowing when he held them. The mechanism jammed when he pulled the bolt.
He clicked his tongue.
Faded runes. Rusted barrels. Rounds too corroded to fire straight.
He checked the storage crates. No V-Types. Not even standard rounds, unless you counted the ones half-eaten by rust.
Insufficient arms and poorly maintained rifles…
He let out a long breath, shaking his head.
Check.
Forget his captain—by all rights, it was a miracle a Shardbearer hadn't descended to obliterate this poor excuse for a garrison.
Cirino was fighting a losing battle against his own fatigue, his body screaming to just collapse and join whatever invisible soldiers were clearly asleep on the job.
At least get to bed first…
Slap.
His palm met his own cheek with a sharp smack. He winced, exhaled, and muttered under his breath, "Alright, soldier—focus."
Shaking off the haze, he trudged on. The barracks smelled like damp paper and regret. He passed through the sleeping quarters—empty. The training grounds—deserted. Offices—dusty and silent.
Nothing. Not even a lazy recruit pretending to polish boots.
What the hell is going on?
A garrison couldn't not have people. Even the most neglected stations had a few warm bodies playing cards or sneaking a smoke behind the walls.
Just as he turned toward the exit, a voice called out behind him.
"What are you doing here?"
Cirino froze, turning to find an older man standing in the corridor. His hair was mostly silver, his posture slightly hunched, a broom in one hand and a worn file in the other.
"Oh, uh—hi," Cirino started, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm supposed to be transferred here."
The janitor—or whatever he was—raised an eyebrow.
"What do you mean, transfer?"
Cirino blinked. "Transfer? As in, I was assigned here by the army. You know—official paperwork, chain of command, all that fun stuff?"
He fished through his coat and handed the man a folded letter, stamped with an imperial seal. The old man squinted, scanning the paper, clicking his tongue every few seconds.
Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes back to Cirino. His tone carried no disbelief—just the kind of tired certainty that made Cirino's stomach twist.
"…I don't know what you've been told, boy," the old man said, "but the garrison here doesn't exist anymore."
Cirino blinked. Once. Twice.
"What?"
The old man squinted at him, eyes narrowed. He stared as if he could peel the layers of Cirino's intentions with his sight alone.
"You haven't heard?"
The old man began, disbelief clear in his voice. But a look of resignation crossed him soon after. He shook his head.
"No, no—I guess that makes sense."
Cirino blinked, one brow raised. "Heard what?"
The man ignored the question; his gaze slipped to the half-rotted doorway. His gaze hardened, as if ensuring no one was hiding behind it. Turning back to Cirino, he spoke.
"When did you get your transfer order?"
"Around two months ago, sir. Right at the tail end of the Karvethal rebellion." Cirino informed.
Sir?
He internally grimaced.
Did I just refer to him as a superior?
The man caught the slip—eyes narrowing somewhat—but he said nothing else. Rather, his pale silver eyes studied the boy for another moment before exhaling through his nose. Whatever happened here, it was best left unsaid. The weight wasn't Cirino's to bear.
The man handed back the letter. Cirino took it, folding it carefully before slipping it back into his pockets.
"Word of advice, kid." The old man lowered his voice. "You should get out of here before they see you."
Cirino furrowed his brow. "Who'd… see me?"
There was hesitation—a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. He looked out through the vine-covered windows. Cirino wasn't sure if it was paranoia or something else—
He'd get his answer soon enough.
"Choir," He finally said. "They've had eyes on this place ever since the incident."
He paused again, voice dropping further into a whisper.
"Probably why you never heard."
Cirino was about to open his mouth—to ask—but the old man waved him off.
"Trust me, kid. If you don't want to lose your head, you're better off not knowing."
The words landed heavier than he expected. Cirino shut his mouth tight, practically clenching his teeth together as if uttering even a word was heresy.
Where did that leave him?
If the Choir was here to watch over this place, then he could see why the man had to look over his shoulder. Everyone in the Empire knew not to mess with the Choir. Serving directly under the orders of the Immortal High-Crown, the Choir was his personal band of judge, jury, and executioner.
You didn't question them. You didn't see them. The best thing to do in their presence was to turn your cheek and pray that they'd do the same.
But, still…
Blue eyes turned to the ruins of his garrison. Cracked walls, peeling banners—there was a story here, one he wasn't exactly willing to hear.
Where was he supposed to stay? Cirino joked that he wouldn't live here—but he was mostly joking. He didn't exactly have the funds for a room. Cirino couldn't even afford a cheap cab fare.
He felt an exhale escape his lungs, hand running through his red hair.
"Of course…" He always had horrid luck. The one time he was transferred to somewhere relatively peaceful, this had to happen.
Wait, he remembered.
He reached into his pockets, feeling the cold press of the emerald the stranger left him on the train.
It looked expensive, it felt expensive.
If he sold this, would he be able to have enough for a comfortable place to stay? Maybe he'd have a bed that didn't creak, or food that didn't taste like worm-infested bread.
He continued to feel the gem, thumb pressing on it.
Then he remembered. He recalled the note that the phantom man left him. Cirino could practically hear his whisper from the thought alone.
Do not sell the gem.
But it was tempting—so, so tempting. Cirino gritted his teeth.
It's not like he'd know…
The thought crossed him as soon as it left. But the message lingered, the temptation persisted every time he felt the cool surface of the gem.
He cursed quietly, internally…
Cirino turned to thank the old man. Pulling his hand away from his pockets—
Cirino froze.
He was gone
The old man was gone…
He didn't hear the door creak, nor did he hear the shuffle of boots—only silence followed the man's disappearance.
Maybe Cirino should've been scared, maybe he was, but he didn't show it on his face.
He only blinked, a wry smile forcing its way to his face.
"Right…" Cirino sharply exhaled. "Sure. Why wouldn't he just vanish? Perfectly natural thing to do…"
At least tell me your name…
Without another word, Cirino turned and swiftly left. Phantom or not, he'd rather not risk drawing the Choir's attention.