White pillars rose before Sora — smooth, seamless, unnaturally perfect in symmetry. They supported a stone arch above the road, carved with strange symbols that shimmered faintly against the deepening blue light.
The market behind him dissolved into haste. Vendors packed their goods hurriedly. Wooden shutters slammed shut. Lamps flickered and died. Conversations shortened. Movements sharpened. People did not linger when the sun began to sink.
Sora knew night. He had survived it before, beneath broken stairwells and hollow skies, listening to shapes move where no shapes should move. Night was not a story. It was a fact.
He adjusted his grip on the bag. His shoulders burned. His palms were raw. Sweat traced cold lines down his back. He could not speed up. He could not.
A man stepping away from a stall nearly planted his boot on it. He jerked back at the last moment, weight shifting fast and practiced. He stumbled — one foot struck the sack while the other shot outward to balance him before he fell. The impact was solid. His boot pressed into the coarse fabric and felt something beneath it that did not behave like grain, cloth, or scrap. It was structured. Dense. The resistance was uneven — firm at one end, narrower at the other.
The man's hair was black, his eyes orange, skin rough and weathered. A healed cut ran across his forehead, a memory of violence. His movements were careful, precise, practiced — a survivor of many streets and darker dealings. "Careful where you pull that!!!" he muttered in a hoarse, rough voice, stepping back to avoid further contact with the sack.
The blue sun lowered slowly, its glow hardening as it sank — a diamond slipping beneath unseen depths. The city deepened into darker shades of azure.
Sora passed the market and stepped onto a narrow bridge. Below, a river mirrored the last light of the sky, reflecting Sora's blue hair, hollow eyes, and the massive leather sack dragging behind him. The water moved gently, carrying the distorted shapes of buildings, people, and flags as he crossed.
The bridge led to an open space before the city's massive walls. The area stretched wide, unbroken, empty enough that the walls rose before him in full view. Mist curled near the ground, hazing the space between the river and the black iron that encircled the city. Between each crimson banner, there was enough distance to see the iron behind, tall, unyielding, ancient.
Sora walked closer, muscles aching, dragging the heavy bag. Its size dwarfed him, stretching from shoulder to calves. The coarse leather bit into his palms as he clutched the straps. Sweat ran down his spine. He was too tired to act, too tired to think beyond immediate survival.
Step.
Step.
Step.
The outer wall loomed ahead. Black iron stretched upward, absorbing light more than reflecting it. Its surface bore scars — long vertical scratches, shallow dents, old marks whose origins were unclear. From base to battlements, crimson banners hung thickly, layered so numerous that the wind pressed against them like a red tide. Each banner was as tall as the wall itself. Around the sun in the center of the symbol, a fire burned in a perfect circle — it did not burn the fabric, nor did it produce smoke. Instead, it glowed bright and clear, a sentinel of light that would pierce the coming darkness. Between folds of fabric, slivers of iron showed through. On every banner burned the symbol of a red sun crowned with black horns — the mark of Apis, the Solar Bull. Its presence was royal, glorious, and threatening.
Sora knew the wall. There was no visible entrance. There never was. Every part of it could be a gate, but the wall revealed itself only when its authority demanded.
"I have a delivery," Sora called, voice strained but steady. "From Vincent. The number is—"
He paused, realizing immediately. There was no number on the bag. No seal. No stitched marking. Only bare leather. His jaw tightened.
The iron groaned softly, a low metallic sound that vibrated through the stone beneath him. A vertical seam appeared, widening slowly as though the wall itself sensed the authority of its own guard. From within it stepped a knight.
Black and red armor covered him entirely. His helmet bore curved bull horns sweeping upward, concealing his face. Across his chest gleamed the red sun crowned with horns. A Sun-Bull Knight. He carried a massive war axe in one hand as if its weight were nothing.
"What is the number?" the knight asked, voice steady, calm, and emotionless.
"I believe my master forgot to attach it," Sora said, voice calm but panicked inside.
The knight remained still. Perfectly still. Calm. Waiting.
"Then I will inspect the contents," the knight said finally.
Sora nodded once. Exhausted, he dragged the sack in front of him, placing it between himself and the knight.
The knight lifted his axe in a single, controlled motion, slicing through leather and rope.
The smell struck instantly. Heavy. Sweet. Rotten. It poured into the air, forced out from within the bag as if insects had feasted on the body from the inside.
Sora recognized it immediately.
Johanna.
Golden hair spilled first, catching the last blue light of the sinking sun. Her skin had faded into a grey pallor, lips slightly parted.
And where her eyes should have been — only hollow cavities. Empty. Dark. Cleanly carved.
Sora stared. Not in horror. Not in disbelief. But in calculation. His thoughts moved sluggishly through exhaustion. Her eyes were missing. That was wrong. Vincent valued control, presentation, precision. If he had killed her, he would not have mutilated her without reason. So who removed them? And why?
Irritation rose first. He had pulled her across half the city, through streets crowded with eyes, through sweat and burning muscle, for this. Something incomplete. Something altered.
The blue sun slipped beneath the horizon. The world deepened into black. The last azure light was swallowed. Nightfall had begun. Shadows spread across the walls, the river, and the empty space before him. The fire surrounding the sun on each banner flared brightly, illuminating the open area with its unearthly glow, piercing the darkness and lighting the scene with a solemn, fiery light.
The knight did not move. Did not speak. Did not react. He waited. Sora's heart pounded against his ribs. The banners shifted as wind pressed against them. Red against black.
Sora stood there, breathing hard, watching. The world had changed. Light was gone. The azure glow erased, replaced by the black of nightfall.