Back in the town, now placed under full lockdown and descending into controlled disarray, Nemesio moved through the environment at extreme speed. He crossed rooftops in rapid succession, his presence cutting through the air as he closed the distance without hesitation. His gaze remained sharp and methodical, scanning both sides of the town as he tracked the lingering presence he had already confirmed earlier.
Far below, the Banjo Division had been left behind entirely. Even with their enhanced capabilities, the gap in physical performance was not marginal — it was overwhelming to the point of irrelevance. They could not match his pace, nor could they meaningfully contribute to the pursuit.
Nemesio's attention then locked forward.
At the far edge of the town, a grey-haired figure was retreating. He had been searching for some time, and it was clear now that the individual had intended to be seen from the beginning — deliberately staying just within reach, neither fully escaping nor fully engaging.
The figure slowed, then turned his head slightly.
His eyes met Nemesio's.
A faint, knowing smile formed.
He had a distinct marking running from beneath one eye down to his chin. His eyes carried a worn, exhausted quality, as though sleep had been absent for a very long time. His clothing was heavily tattered, layered in a way that gave it a rough, improvised thickness, while the sleeves hung torn and frayed like rags.
He did not flee further.
He simply waited.
A simple, warping sound, like the deep echo of a struck drum — expanded outward from Nemesio as he accelerated the pursuit. The resonance did not remain confined to his immediate movement; it spread across the ground in a widening field, like faint, almost invisible smoke threaded with a subtle red tint that lingered in its wake.
At the same time, an oppressive shift formed overhead. The sky seemed to tighten, as though something unseen was drawing the air and surrounding dust inward toward a single point. It carried the same familiar pressure as the attack witnessed at the ridge. This time, however, there was no restraint in it. Nemesio intended to end it here.
But in the same breath, the grey-haired figure began to disappear.
Pure red flames ignited at his fingertips first, quiet and controlled, then rapidly spread across his body. The fire did not consume him in a destructive sense — it marked the process of his vanishing, as though his form was being erased through combustion rather than burned away. Layer by layer, he faded, the fire consuming what remained of his presence until only fragments of him lingered in motion.
Nemesio's expression tightened.
A sharp frustration surfaced, breaking through his usual composure. A low, strained sound left him, less a shout and more a contained, pressured release of anger. Without hesitation, he pushed forward again, forcefully accelerating. The air responded violently to his movement, producing a heavy, concussive burst that rippled outward in his wake.
He was not willing to accept the escape.
If he could not stop it through range, then he would close the distance himself and end it with his own hands.
He strained as he forced himself forward, compressing the distance in a single, decisive burst. For a brief moment, it seemed within reach.
But his hand met nothing.
Only the lingering heat of the flame remained, dispersing where the figure had just been. The motion carried through empty space, his effort collapsing into nothing as the last trace of the man burned away completely.
Nemesio exhaled sharply, a low growl slipping through as frustration surfaced. His expression tightened, then fell still, shadow settling over it as he restrained the reaction. The energy gathering above dissipated at once, its purpose lost the moment the target vanished.
The figure had escaped.
Without a trace.
The town had already been sealed. Every exit accounted for, every path monitored. There should have been no way out.
And yet…
Nemesio's gaze lowered slightly as the realization settled into place.
The method of infiltration was no longer unclear.
***
Jurgen finally found the massive structure of the Banjo division that stood in solemn silence, its height so imposing that from where he lingered, the roof vanished beyond his line of sight, as though it refused to be measured by something as simple as a glance.
The courtyard unfolded before it in a broad, unbroken expanse, stretching wide and deep behind the building's looming frame. The metal gate, left ajar, swayed faintly on its hinges as if stirred by a memory of motion rather than wind, and in that quiet invitation he stepped through into the open grounds.
Life stirred within despite the stillness of the structure itself; figures of his own age moved across the courtyard in scattered clusters, their presence filling the space with a subdued energy.
Some were engaged in training, their movements deliberate and disciplined, while others carried themselves with quiet purpose, occupied in ways that suggested routine rather than urgency, as though this place, vast and unyielding as it appeared, had long since become a world unto itself.
It was somewhat surprising to see the number of recruits gathered within the area. The scale alone made it clear that the trials were not confined to a single day. With this many participants, the process would inevitably stretch across multiple stages.
Jurgen had barely taken a few steps forward when a voice, faint at first, called out from behind him.
He turned slightly, just enough to catch sight of the approaching figure.
It was Bubbles.
The boy looked as though the effort of running alone might be enough to end him. His movements were uneven, his breathing already strained beyond comfort.
Jurgen's brow tightened in a brief frown. There was something persistently irritating about the way the boy gravitated toward him.
"Jurgen—!" the boy called, forcing the name out between breaths as he finally reached him.
He bent forward immediately, exhaling heavily, both hands dropping to his knees for support.
Jurgen turned away again before responding.
"What is it now, fatty."
"I saw you and Lord Nemesio from afar," Bubbles managed, still trying to recover. "I was calling, but you guys didn't seem to hear me…"
Before he could continue, his strength gave out. He dropped to the ground with a heavy, almost comical thud, breathing hard as he lay there.
Jurgen paid him little attention, his focus already shifting forward again.
"I was also transferred to this division," Bubbles added from the ground. "I was surprised when I saw you and Lord Nemesio together…"
"Is that so?" Jurgen replied flatly, stepping ahead without slowing.
The boy's voice, his mannerisms, everything about him grated. Jurgen had no real interest in continuing the interaction.
As he moved further in, his attention shifted.
A young girl walked past not far ahead.
Her appearance drew notice immediately. Long black hair, sleek and well-kept, was tied neatly behind her, catching light with a faint sheen. Her eyes, a deep shade of brown, gave her an understated but distinct elegance.
Jurgen paused for a fraction of a moment, then composed himself and approached.
"Hey, I'm Jurgen—Jurgen Einzelberht," he said, correcting himself as he spoke.
It was not interest that brought him over. His intention was straightforward.
"I need directions," he added, referring to the name he had been given earlier.
Her gaze dropped briefly to his attire.
"Your uniform… you're a new recruit," she noted, adjusting the books held against her chest.
Then she began.
"Alright, go straight down this path, then take a right, then a left, then continue straight…"
Jurgen's expression tightened slightly as he listened.
The directions felt unnecessarily drawn out. For a place that did not appear particularly large, the route seemed overly complicated for something as simple as retrieving a uniform.
Behind him, Bubbles had managed to get back on his feet. He pushed his way through the gate and came to a stop just behind Jurgen, still catching his breath but unwilling to be left behind.