In the suffocating, mana-laden Court of Sultan Mohammed al Farouk, Pasha Musa lay prostrate, having just exposed the entire truth about Daemon and Angel Corp. The Sultan absorbed the information—the commoner's genius, the flying machines, the M-1 secrets—not with blind rage, but with cold, strategic calculation. He was aware of the German Empire's magical flying units, but the very notion of magicless flight was utterly foreign to the Ottoman court, and indeed, to almost everyone in the region. Pasha Musa's initial tale of the airship landing was only believed because it was framed as an "ancient magical artifact," which was the only acceptable explanation for defying gravity. Now, knowing the truth of a mechanical genius, the Sultan recognized Daemon as a unique, essential asset far too valuable to be wasted or controlled by a mere provincial governor.
The Sultan did not order an attack or a military takeover of the Angel Corp facility. Instead, he issued a decree that simultaneously dismantled Pasha Musa's autonomy and cemented the Sultanate's direct control over the emerging technological advantage. "Pasha Musa," the Sultan's voice boomed, stripped now of all jocularity and authority. "You displayed negligence in attempting to conceal a strategic asset of the Empire. Your reward for securing the initial exchange will be your life, but your authority ends with this court." The Sultan immediately stripped Musa of his title and responsibility over Angel Corp. He summoned his highest-ranking Vizier, Hassan al-Gazi, a man known for his ruthless administrative efficiency and total loyalty, and a contingent of Janissaries—the Empire's elite, magically-gifted guard. Their orders were precise and absolute: Vizier Hassan was to proceed immediately to the Romanian mining town and assume the governorship, effectively replacing Pasha Musa. Hassan was to act as the Sultan's direct, unmediated link to Angel Corp, with all products—every canister of M-1, every barrel of synthesized fuel, and any future technological prototypes—to be sold straight to the Sultanate's central command, bypassing all provincial bureaucracy. Hassan was strictly ordered to treat the Order's remaining members, particularly Helga, with extreme caution and respect, ensuring the continued, unfettered operation of the labs. Their primary directive was to await Daemon's return. The Sultan's focus was clear: secure the product now, secure the inventor later. Pasha Musa was swiftly escorted from the court, his immense fortune and political influence evaporated. Helga and the Order were about to face a far more intelligent and centralized authority than the vain Pasha—a man who represented the absolute, centralized power of the Ottoman Empire. The sanctuary was still technically secure, but the walls had just been raised, and the keys now belonged to the Sultan.
Meanwhile, over a thousand kilometers away in the German capital, five students—Elsa, Marcus, Julian, Peter, and Anna—prepared for their desperate flight from the Imperial Academy. They gathered in the dead of night, their plan honed by days of whispered meetings and driven by the intensifying cruelty of the noble students. Unlike Daemon's well-trained team, these commoners possessed no mechanical knowledge of engines or advanced engineering; their strengths lay in observation, physical labor, and intimate knowledge of the Academy's ancient, flawed architecture. "The Aetheric perimeter is strongest on the main gates and the air wards," Julian whispered, tightening the strap on a sack containing stale bread and water. "They're only looking for magic or airships. They won't look in the pipes."
Their plan hinged entirely on exploiting the Academy's medieval construction, which had been haphazardly fitted with modern magical defenses. Elsa, who had spent years as an apprentice cleaner, knew the labyrinthine network of un-warded service tunnels and old maintenance chutes that ran beneath the entire facility.
First, Marcus, using his brute physical strength and a simple, salvaged copper wedge, cracked the rusted lock on a disused coal chute in the laundry wing, allowing them entry into the forgotten infrastructure. Next, for nearly an hour, the five students crawled through the freezing, filthy, narrow stone tunnels intended for waste disposal and water runoff. Peter, still traumatized by the nobles' Illusions, had to be coaxed forward inch by inch by Anna, who provided quiet, constant encouragement. As they neared the outer defenses, Julian created the necessary diversion: he triggered a small, pre-set fire in an old incinerator flue far from their escape route, which immediately created a plume of smoke and triggered a low-level, localized Water Magic response from the internal wards designed to extinguish it. The commotion drew the attention of the night patrol toward the central courtyard, away from the perimeter. Finally, Anna guided them through the long, poorly maintained drainage pipe that led directly outside the outer Aetheric ward into the city's municipal sewers. The Imperial mages, arrogant in their reliance on high-level power, had neglected to ward the areas contaminated with common waste, believing no one would willingly use them. They emerged into the rank, humid darkness of the city's sewage system, coughing and covered in sludge, but miraculously free. They immediately abandoned the city sewers for the cover of the wooded outskirts, heading east on foot. Their plan was simple, reckless, and based entirely on hope: avoid major roads, steal whatever they needed to survive, and walk toward the Ottoman border, trusting the desperate rumors that a commoner inventor had found sanctuary there. They risked capture, slavery, or death with every step, but the Academy had already proven to be a fate worse than any journey. Their only question now was whether Daemon, their mythical hero, would accept the five dirty, magicless runaways.