The street was too narrow for comfort.
Stone walls pressed in from both sides, trapping sound, trapping breath, trapping choices.
Aim ran.
Not fast enough.
Behind them, boots struck the stone, closing distance.
"Stop!"
The voice came from ahead.
A man emerged from the group of blackcoat chasing them, adjusting his glasses in a rushed motion, as if he had not expected to be here this quickly.
Redcoat ranked Officer. Renfield.
His uniform was slightly disordered—coat half-buttoned, hair not fully set. He had arrived in a hurry.
His eyes locked onto Aim.
For a brief second—
He froze.
"Aim…?" Renfield muttered, clearly caught off guard.
The pursuit behind slowed just enough for tension to snap into place.
"Tsk.." Renfield drop his gaze down.
Renfield raised a hand sharply.
"Hold position!"
The group of blackcoat behind him stopped immediately.
Silence fell.
Not calm silence. The kind that waits for something to break.
Aim stepped forward, breathing hard but steady.
"Ren," he said. "We don't need to do this."
Renfield's expression tightened. His hand adjusted his glasses again, slower this time.
"It's order. Remember what i told you? Knowing too much kill us more than Omen and Terrorist ever did!" Renfield replied, his tone was full of worry and anger toward his friend.
He strike his boot forward
"First you want to know too much, now you killed palace affair assassin." Renfield grab Aim's collar "It's no return now!"
Aim slip off "Just don't comply them..?"
Renfield's gaze harden then softened down with a sigh.
For a moment, something human showed.
A bond.
"Ren—" Aim continued, trying to hold that moment. "You know me. Does this look like something I'd be involved in without reason?"
Renfield inhaled slowly.
"I know you," he said.
A pause.
"An absolute dumbass.."
He pulled away from Aim.
"If you turn yourself in right now, i might be able ask to lower your punishment from death to restraint in your home or something.. but you won't right?"
He shifted his gaze toward Isolde with a look of someone recognizing acquaintance but can't seem to reminisce of properly then back at Aim.
Renfield raised his hand again.
"I'm trying to save you, Aim." he said, voice now colder. "But you need to know my limit too."
Aim frowned. "What does that even mean—"
"You are interfering with secret need to be hidden of Her Majesty's authority and RMO."
The words cut clean.
Official. Final.
"Renfield, listen—" Aim tried again.
"No."
Renfield didn't raise his voice.
But it ended everything.
"I am already breaking protocol by speaking to you this long," he continued. "Do not force me to break more."
A beat.
Then quieter—
"Turn yourself, Aim."
Aim didn't move.
Behind him, Isolde's grip on her rapier tightened slightly.
Const said nothing.
Renfield watched them.
Then—very subtly—his jaw clenched.
That was the moment he made the decision.
"Proceed."
The word fell like a blade.
RMO soldiers moved instantly.
No hesitation.
"I will hold them here," Const said. "You two run."
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
He step forward, letting Aim and Isolde run while group of blackcoat charging at him while Renfield remain his gaze down."
He extended his hand, pointing at them, readying something—
Then reality trembled in his head.
Just slightly.
Like a surface about to crack.
Then—
Pain.
A sharp, violent spike behind his eyes.
Const's breath hitched.
"…not now," he whispered.
The world tilted for a fraction of a second.
Too much.
Too fast.
His vision flickered.
If he forced it—
He knew what would happen.
And this time—
It might not ignore him.
He summon puppet from thin air again. It help ease his pain. A little. Even though he know it just temporal ease.
He then use the coat trick again.
He order his coat to extend a tentacle to pull him onto the nearby building's roof.
Not a tall building, just a small one.
He know what would happen to him if he do otherwise.
--------------
Aim and Isolde turned into a side alley just as a burst of magic struck the wall behind them—stone cracking, dust filling the air.
Const and the RMO officers catching them up.
Footsteps followed immediately.
No delay.
No mistake.
"They're not holding back," Aim said between breaths.
"They can't," Isolde replied sharply. "Not with an order like that."
Const stayed silent.
His head still throbbed.
Each step felt slightly off—like his body was lagging behind his intent.
They turned again.
Another alley.
Then another.
The city became a maze of stone and shadow.
But the distance between them and the RMO did not grow.
--------------
Far from the chase, in the slum districts where the lamps burned dimmer and the air felt heavier—
People gathered.
Not in a formal hall.
Not in a golden sanctuary.
But in a wide, abandoned church build of wood and rusty material, reinforced by belief more than design.
The Sanctuary of the Turning Wheel.
At its center stood the Prophet.
A thin man, wrapped in layered cloth, eyes half-lidded as if he were always looking at something just beyond the present.
Before him, a line of people waited.
Poor.
Tired.
Hungry.
And hopeful.
The Prophet raised his hand.
A faint shimmer passed through the air.
Not magic in the traditional sense.
Something softer.
Something… different.
"You will find work within three days and if you want to cure your son, go to the pharmacy at Tanners street. There someone will help you." he said to a woman in front of him.
Her hands trembled. "R-really? I haven't even told you about my sick son.."
"Yes," the Prophet replied gently. "A man with a red coat. Near the eastern road."
The woman collapsed to her knees.
"Thank you… thank you…"
People behind her whispered.
Hope spread faster than logic ever could.
"Agares sees," someone murmured.
"Agares guides."
"Not like Flaure!"
The name passed from mouth to mouth like prayer.
Not everyone believe.
At the edge of the gathering, a man spoke quietly—
"But Goddess Flaure… she is real. We've seen her. The palace, the miracles—"
The reaction was immediate.
Sharp looks.
Cold silence.
Then anger.
"And where was she when your family starved?" someone snapped.
"Where was she when the Omens took our homeland? And make drive us here?!"
The man hesitated. "That's not—"
A shove.
He stumbled.
"You speak like someone who have much choices," another voice said.
More feets.
More force.
The crowd closed in.
"Enough."
The Prophet's voice was calm—but it carried.
The movement stopped.
The man was left on the ground, breathing hard.
The Prophet looked at him.
"You are allowed to question," he said softly.
A pause.
"But understand this."
His gaze swept across the crowd.
"When the world turned away from you—"
He raised his hand slightly.
"Who answered?"
Silence.
Then, slowly—
"Agares…" someone whispered.
The word spread again.
Stronger this time.
--------------
The alley opened into a wider street.
Const slowed first.
"Wait," he said.
They stopped behind a stack of crates, hidden in shadow.
For a moment—
Only breathing.
Heavy. Uneven.
"They're still close," Isolde said quietly.
Aim nodded. "But not right on us anymore."
A small window.
Not safety.
But time.
Const leaned against the wall, pressing his fingers to his temple.
The pain was fading.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
"I can't use it again," he said.
"Not right now."
Aim looked at him. "What happens if you do?"
Const didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
Isolde glanced down the street.
Then froze.
"…there," she said.
At the far end—
A building.
Solid.
Orderly.
Guarded.
Military Police Office.
They moved quickly.
Not running.
Not drawing attention.
But not slow either.
At the entrance, two MP officers stepped forward.
"Halt. State your—"
"We need entry," Isolde said immediately.
The officers frowned.
"You're moving too fast for a normal request," one said. "Explain—"
"No time," Aim added.
Suspicion sharpened instantly.
"Then you're not coming in," the officer replied flatly.
Isolde stepped forward.
Without hesitation, she reached into her coat and revealed her insignia.
Not RMO.
Something else.
A family crest.
The officer's eyes widened.
Recognition.
Immediate.
He straightened.
"…Understood," he said quickly. "You may enter."
The other officer blinked. "Wait—"
"Stand down."
The door opened.
They were let inside.
The atmosphere changed instantly.
Order.
Structure.
Control.
And—
No awareness.
No urgency.
No sign that anyone knew what had just happened outside.
"We need to speak with the commander of this district," Isolde said.
A clerk shook his head. "Commander is not present. And who are you to asked them for a meet up so sudden actually?" He raised his eye brow in a skeptic and annoyed look.
"Isolde Lethward." She replied sharply.
The clerk's eye widen
"Y-Your father is—"
"Then the deputy."
A pause.
"…this way."
--------------
They walked through a long corridor.
MP officers moved around them, focused on routine tasks.
No tension.
No alarm.
Aim leaned slightly toward Isolde.
"…your family's important, eh?" he asked quietly.
Isolde sighed.
"My father is Deputy Commander of the Southern District."
Aim blinked. "That's not just important, that's—"
"Yeah," she cut in. "And he wasn't happy when I joined the RMO instead."
"Why didn't you just use that to rank up faster?" Aim asked.
Isolde shook her head.
"I don't like that kind of system."
A pause.
"And MP and RMO…" she added, glancing ahead, "don't exactly get along."
"Why?"
"Different authority. Different interests. Different level of skill."
Aim frowned. "That sounds like a problem."
"It is."
--------------
At the entrance—
Renfield arrived.
He stopped a short distance away, watching the MP building.
His expression was… tired.
Not angry.
Not eager.
Just—
Reluctant.
Behind him, RMO officers stepped forward aggressively.
"We request immediate entry," one of them said.
MP guards stood firm.
"State your reason."
One of the MP emerged from the building
"Ooh these sick RMO thinking they own the world again."
"Just deny their request." One of the MP said
Tension snapped.
"You think you can deny RMO?" one RMO officer scoffed.
"We enforce law here," an MP replied. "Not status."
Another RMO soldier laughed under his breath.
"Law? From people who can't even use magic?"
The insult landed.
Hard.
MP guards stiffened.
Hands moved—toward weapons, not spells.
Renfield said nothing.
He stood back.
Watching.
"We're not asking again," the RMO soldier said.
"Then don't," the MP replied.
A beat.
Then—
Someone shoved.
Not hard.
But enough.
That was all it took.
Steel met steel.
Magic flared.
The first clash rang out in the narrow street—
Sharp.
Violent.
Unavoidable.
Renfield closed his eyes for a brief second.
"…stupid subor" he muttered.
They did not stop it.