The room smelled faintly of dust and old wood. It was quiet, almost reverential, as though the walls themselves demanded attention. No screens were mounted on the walls. No digital hum filled the air. Instead, lamps cast warm, focused light over long tables crowded with folded maps, handwritten notes, and photographs annotated in red ink. Every sound—footsteps, the scrape of fabric against chairs, even the subtle shift of a pen across paper—was sharply amplified in the tense stillness.
The white-haired man sat at the head of the table. His posture was straight, hands folded neatly before him, eyes sharp but calm. No one dared speak while he remained silent.
Karl noticed it immediately. Even Roof, usually a figure of audacious confidence, leaned back with crossed arms but kept his posture restrained, almost cautious. The seasoned men and women around the room stood instead of sitting, eyes forward, their expressions neutral. It wasn't fear—something subtler, something akin to reverence, filled the space.
The man finally spoke, his voice calm and even, carrying authority without force. "Police presence drops significantly after sunset," he said. "Especially on weekends. That is when we scan."
Jaz nodded once, her expression measured but alert. Boss stood beside her, hands in his hoodie pockets, his eyes sharp, analyzing every corner of the room.
"We observe tonight," the man continued. "No entry. No disruption. Sunday evening is when we move."
Skinn shifted slightly. "Move how?" he asked, trying to keep his curiosity under control.
The man's gaze flicked to him—not cold, not warm—simply assessing. "In," he answered, plain and decisive.
Silence followed.
Karl cleared his throat. "And what exactly are we looking for?" His voice carried a trace of impatience.
The man folded his hands neatly. "Anything," he said.
A few exchanged glances, unsure if that was a joke.
"Even a flicker," he added after a pause. "Even a mistake. Magic leaves scars before it leaves evidence. You find anything—you report it immediately. No exceptions."
Not a single person interrupted. Not Roof, not Karl, not even Skinn, who always had a question ready.
The meeting ended as quietly as it began. Chairs slid back softly; papers were gathered; instructions flowed through the room without being repeated, as though obedience were instinctive.
John lingered near the doorway, absorbing fragments of conversation. "…south stairwell—" "…no open casting—" "…if it's artificial—" He frowned, trying to piece together what these fragments implied.
Outside the room, Skinn leaned toward Karl. "Do you get the feeling we just walked into something way bigger than we thought?"
Karl scoffed, but it lacked conviction. "That guy? Whoever he is—he's for sure not just some organizer."
Boss passed them without comment, his attention elsewhere. Jaz followed, her expression tight, scanning the room as if reading the air itself.
Roof appeared beside John, silent as a shadow. "You're quiet," he murmured, predator-like eyes glinting. "That usually means you're thinking too much."
John startled. "Do you ever announce yourself?"
"Sometimes," Roof said cheerfully, "when I feel polite."
They moved through the building, weaving between the maps and notes, the constant hum of silent anticipation hanging in the air. John noticed people touching their foreheads briefly when the white-haired man passed. Maybe ritual, maybe habit, but the respect was unmistakable.
"Who is he?" John asked under his breath.
Roof smiled faintly. "The President," he replied, almost teasingly.
Fragments of a Bigger World
Later that evening, John found himself sitting on a concrete ledge outside, legs dangling over a drop that overlooked the street. The world below continued its ordinary rhythm: vendors shouting, scooters buzzing, music spilling from a distant café.
Boss leaned against the wall beside him, silent for a long moment before speaking. "You're trying to piece it together," he said.
John didn't deny it. "I feel like I'm missing context."
Boss nodded slowly. "You are."
"Are you going to explain?"
Boss glanced toward the street, eyes cold and calculating. "Not yet."
John frowned but stayed quiet, realizing that the answer wouldn't come easily. He watched shadows stretch across the uneven pavement, wondering how this quiet, ordered chaos could hide something so dangerous.
Inside the building, Jaz spoke quietly with a group of hardened-looking men. Words drifted to John's ears in fragments. "…four major powers here…" "…biggest one keeps the balance…" "…the tricksters—mostly S-types…"
Four? Biggest? He hadn't expected anything like this.
Roof reappeared behind him, stretching with feline grace. "You heard Kard's name, didn't you?"
John hesitated. "Is that… a person?"
Roof chuckled, a low, almost menacing sound. "Sometimes."
Before John could ask more, Roof faded—then reappeared a few steps away, fully visible this time. "Stopped casting," he said casually. "Gets tiring after a while."
"You can't stay invisible forever?" John asked, watching him carefully.
Roof shrugged. "Power isn't free. It just hides its cost better."
The thought settled uneasily in John's mind. Magic—strong, dangerous, invisible—wasn't effortless. And even the most capable had limits.
From a balcony above, someone called out: "Recall's open!"
Several figures emerged, with metal tokens held in their hands, and shimmered briefly before went down the platform.
John blinked. "Where did they—?"
Boss appeared behind him. "Probably from the dungeon," he said.
"Like… teleportation?"
Boss shook his head slightly. "Only certain groups can do that. Approved ones."
John's stomach tightened. "Approved by who?"
Boss's gaze met his, sharp and deliberate. "The Academy," he said.
Unspoken Truths
That night, the white-haired man spoke again, this time to a smaller, inner circle. John, Karl, and Skinn weren't meant to be there. They stood near the doorway, half-listening, careful not to be noticed.
"Kard has been active again," someone said.
The man nodded slowly. "Elemis doesn't move without purpose."
Karl leaned toward Skinn. "Did he just say a name?"
Skinn whispered back, "Sounded like one."
"The fire doesn't match his usual methods," Jaz added quietly. "Too clean."
"Which means he didn't do it directly," the white-haired man replied. "Or he wanted it to look that way."
Boss crossed his arms, considering. "There's another possibility." Silence fell.
"The fire mage," Boss continued, "If I recall, you told me that Chord Group lost one recently."
John frowned. Chord? Another name. Another faction in this unseen, layered world.
"If Kard has them," Boss went on, "they could be using delayed triggers. Forced casting."
The room absorbed the implication like a cold weight.
"Yes," the white-haired man said gently, cutting through the murmurs. "No motive yet. Which is what worries me."
Karl swallowed audibly. "Why not just… shut them all down?"
The room went still.
The white-haired man finally looked at Karl directly, his smile faint, knowing, unsettling. "Because pressure creates unity," he said. "And unity creates rebellion."
No one elaborated. The explanation was enough—and terrifying.
Later, John walked alone, mind churning. Why would the Academy allow this?
The answer came in a whisper—not directed at him, but close enough to hear. "Strong mages gather when allowed to exist," the white-haired man said. "They fracture when forced underground. Monitoring chaos is easier than controlling silence."
John understood just enough to feel uneasy.
The Jog
The next afternoon, Skinn found himself stretching beside a man named Lash.
"You ever jog blind?" Lash asked, cracking his neck.
Skinn blinked. "I—what?"
Before Lash could explain, the world tilted.
"I can't see," Lash said calmly. "But I can see."
Skinn frowned. "That doesn't help."
Lash swallowed. "I'm seeing… a room. Not the street. Let's run."
The President's voice echoed faintly—from Skinn's memory. "If Lash says so, run."
Skinn grabbed his water bottle and shook it. Slosh. Slosh.
"Follow the sound," Skinn said, guiding them both.
They ran. To Skinn, cracked pavement and sunlit alleys stretched endlessly. To Lash, wooden floors and paper walls of the President's perspective overlapped, disorienting but strangely navigable. Sweat dripped; hearts pounded.
After several blocks, Lash slowed. "There's a note," he said, reading aloud: "Keep jogging. I am positive that Chord is checking the area as well. I'll communicate with them."
The world snapped back.
Lash exhaled hard. "You're good. Keep pace."
Skinn nodded, shaken but steady.
Temporary Calm
By evening, the announcement came. The area was under Spartacus's control. Chord Group clan would join the infiltration. Others would assist, watch, and trade information. Trust was implied—but not given.
That night, "Do Not Cross" signs fluttered around the abandoned building. Police kept their distance, unaware of the invisible chessboard of surveillance and planning. Cafés filled with civilians who never drank; grocery clerks watched reflections rather than customers. The city slept under unseen eyes.
Sun and Sand
The next morning, it felt unreal. The sun, warm and high, danced across the water. Karl kicked sand at Skinn.
"You run like an old man," Karl teased.
Skinn snorted. "Says the guy who nearly got stabbed yesterday."
Jaz sat under an umbrella, sunglasses on, tension eased but not gone. Laughter and salt filled the air.
John wandered into a nearby bookstore. His fingers traced spines until one title caught his eye: Foundations of Incantation Logic. He hesitated, then bought it. Another, Marionette World: Illusions & Tricks, followed. Something about the timing felt significant, though he didn't yet understand why.
The Break
Night fell. John and Skinn returned home. Elsewhere, Boss stood beneath frozen cameras. Jaz was beside him. Spartacus members moved at impossible speed through the streets.
Nothing. No Chord Group support appeared.
Boss's eyes narrowed. "Three minutes," he murmured, scanning the building. They infiltrated, searched for clues, and regrouped swiftly.
He checked his phone. A message glowed:
4 minutes ago.I predicted you'd retreat after a brief scan of the place.Found a major lead. Acting now is optimal.A Chord Group traitor will feed the dungeon tonight.Please take care of my people for a couple more minutes.—Thanks.
Boss closed the phone slowly, a measured exhale escaping him.
The quiet returned.
And somewhere beneath Indorussi, something began to stir.