The city of Son of York was unlike any other. Its skyline pressed against colossal grey walls, a cage of stone that dated back centuries. During the age of kings and nobles, one man—King York—had ordered their construction. He wanted protection for his people, a promise that no foreign harm could breach his kingdom.
The plan had worked, but at a cost. The walls never allowed the city to expand. Every generation that followed had to build closer and closer, until streets twisted like veins, and houses clung to each other as though afraid of being swallowed whole.
From above, the city was a labyrinth. Cafés, schools, shops, even a lonely orphanage—all crammed into hidden corners, impossible to find without flawless memory or a guide. Even landmarks of power—the City Hall, the museum, police departments, banks—were buried within the maze, concealed by the weight of crowded stone.
John had lived long enough in this place to see how its people survived it. Day after day, policemen and Cyntera Corp workers would pull out slim, tablet-like devices, tapping the glowing screens before heading anywhere at all. Maps. The one thing John lacked.
"I really need to get myself one of those maps… a fully functioning one." His eyes narrowed on the towering structure at the city's heart—the Central Cyntera Corp building.
Should he steal one?
The thought carried its own answer. His lips curled. If I disguise myself as a normal citizen, they won't notice. After all… they're the ones disguising themselves—posing as a normal, friendly, totally-not-evil advertising company.
The bitter humor in the thought made his decision easier. He exhaled sharply. "Settled. I'll get inside that central building, find a map tablet, and run. Since every Templar carries one, it shouldn't be too difficult…"
With that, John began his descent. He moved down from the rooftop the same way he had climbed up—careful, deliberate, silent.
When his boots finally touched the cobblestones below, he adjusted himself for the role he had chosen. The hood came down. His swords vanished beneath the folds of his waist cloak. Then, with the confidence of an ordinary man on an ordinary day, John stepped into the flow of people—walking straight toward the central Templar base.
The headquarters loomed ahead, its perimeter walled off with barriers nearly three meters high. Guards patrolled the top and circled the grounds below, their presence constant and unyielding. At the main entrance, twin doors swung endlessly, opening for the flood of people who poured in and out without pause.
Those entering veered left. Those leaving shuffled out to the right.
John moved between them without hesitation. His hood was down now, his face exposed to the cold glances of men and women in immaculate suits. Their polished shoes clicked across the marble path as their eyes swept over him—his grey, rough-spun clothes, the scar that cut across his cheek, and the unkempt hair that refused to be tamed.
What kind of degenerate dresses like that? their looks seemed to say.
But John didn't flinch. He had no desire to obey the rules written by Templars. He was different—proudly so.
When his turn came, he slipped left with the stream and entered the building.
The main hall opened up before him: vast, echoing, alive with the hum of footsteps and murmured conversations. Suited workers of Cyntera Corp hurried past, briefcases in hand, their gazes fixed on unseen deadlines. Among them, a handful of ordinary citizens lingered for personal business, blending seamlessly with the tide.
John scanned the hall with quick, assessing eyes. There—tucked against the far corner, a reception area. Several women in Cyntera uniforms manned the desks, smiles practiced and polite as they guided newcomers through forms and queries.
John chose a chair just beyond their reach, sitting with the casual air of someone waiting, though his gaze never stopped roving. He was searching for a target—a Templar carrying one of the map tablets he so badly needed. For now, he saw none.
"Hello, sir. Can I help you with something?"
The voice was light, polite. A young receptionist had leaned forward over her desk, addressing him directly. Her eyes were bright, too bright, her smile almost disarming.
John forced a shake of his head. "No, thanks. I'm just… waiting for someone."
But as he looked at her, he couldn't help but think: Even angelic faces like hers belong to Templars. What a pity.
She tilted her head, unconvinced. "No sir, you can't simply sit here. You need to have a proper reason for being in this building."
John's jaw tightened. Persistent girl. Can't she leave me be?
He gave her a quick, practiced lie. "I'm waiting for my cousin. Name's… Marcus."
The name slipped from him like instinct, though it left a strange heaviness in his chest.
Her expression softened immediately. "Oh, one of our employees? That's fine, then. I haven't received any reports from him since yesterday. He may turn up soon. Did he tell you to wait here?"
"Yes," John answered quickly.
"Alright then. You may stay." With that, she returned to her work.
Relieved, John leaned back into the chair. Yet his thoughts churned. Marcus… cousin? The man he had fought, the man who had fought his father, the man he himself had slain in cold blood—and now he had called him kin. A weight pressed hard on his heart, a feeling heavy and unfamiliar.
A strange feeling indeed.
Movement caught his eye. A Cyntera worker approached the reception desk, a tablet in hand.
"Yo, Clara! Where'd you put that charger I gave you?" he asked one of the women.
"On my desk, around the corner," she replied.
The man stepped toward the small wooden partition that divided the reception space. He bent to unlock the tiny gate that would allow him through.
"What do you think you're doing?" the woman snapped, rushing over. "You're not allowed past this blockade. That's the whole point of it!"
The man smirked. "Come on. It's not like the boss is watching."
Their bickering began.
John saw his chance. He filled a cup of hot water from a nearby dispenser and strolled casually toward them. As he passed, he "accidentally" spilled the water down the man's leg.
"Hey, uh—do you know where worker Marcus is?" John asked the woman smoothly, his face lit with a practiced smile.
The man cursed, hopping back to clean his shoes, too flustered to react. The receptionist turned immediately to her computer, typing Marcus's name into the database.
And in that moment, John's hand shot forward. The tablet was gone from the desk, hidden beneath his cloak as he vanished into the crowd.
By the time he reached the right-hand exit, the shout came from behind—the man finally realizing what had been taken. John smirked, slipping into the flood of departing workers, victory coursing hot through his veins. His first success in this new city.
But as he passed through the doors, his heart skipped.
Two figures entered from the other side: Mark and Luke.
Mark's eyes lingered on John, suspicion prickling. There was something oddly familiar about the man in grey, his scarred cheek, his unkempt hair. But then he shook his head.
No. He was just a drifter. A nobody.
And the Templars walked past him, unaware of just how close their prey had been.