THE COUNCIL OF WARFARE.
The air in the Luciana Military Headquarters' main briefing room was thick with tension. Inside the conference and briefing room, several high-ranking officers were deep in discussion, voices overlapping as arguments over national security flew freely across the table.
Maps were spread, markers scribbled over terrain features, and the low hum of disagreement filled the space. Questions snapped back and forth like live rounds.
The tension was thick—until the doors opened.
All fell silent the moment the double doors swung open.
Princess Diana, younger sister to Crown Princess Victoria, entered with a presence that stilled the room. At nineteen, she carried the quiet thunder of an entire battalion and the effortless grace of old royalty.
Her uniform was immaculate, the captain's insignia gleaming, but it was the crown she represented that drew every eye.
The murmurs died instantly. Conversations evaporated mid-sentence.
"Gentlemen, attention," General Hoffman ordered, his voice cutting through the hush.
Chairs scraped. Boots shifted. Even those already standing straightened. As a courtesy to the Crown she embodied, the room rendered honors—in unified respect for the crown. All except the highest-ranking generals offered the royal salute: right hand to the chest, palm flat over the heart, a pledge of loyalty.
General Hoffman offered a slight bow. "Greetings, Your Royal Highness. On behalf of the general staff, you are most welcome."
"Thank you," Diana replied, her voice calm and clear. "Please, be seated."
Chairs scraped softly as the room settled back into silence.
Hoffman cleared his throat. "To what do we owe this noble visit, Ma'am? We were not expecting you—or any member of the royal family—for this briefing."
"I overheard my father's conversation over the telephone concerning my—"
She did not finish.
She was interrupted by a thick, authoritative voice approaching from behind the doorway, growing closer with each step.
"She's here thanks to her obstinance, curiosity, persistence, and peculiarity," the voice said dryly. "Did you truly expect her to take no for an answer when her sister's life is at risk?"
Every head turned. Recognition struck the room like a drumbeat. Admiral Sir Dominik Ortega, (O'Tega - for abbreviation) Chief of the Defence Staff, entered the room. Recognition rippled through the officers. Chairs scraped again as the entire room—including Diana—came to attention and saluted.
"They're sisters cut from the same cloth," he continued. "Would you truly sit idle if you were in her position, Hoffman?"
A unified salute followed.
"Good evening, Admiral O'Tega!" the room chorused.
"Evening to you all." He returned the salute with easy precision, then moved to his reserved chair. "At ease."
"Please, you may have your seats."
O'Tega remained unfailingly polite, humble even, despite commanding the entire armed forces.
As the others sat, Hoffman could not suppress his concern. Hoffman interjected, tension edging his tone.
"Admiral, this meeting was classified—strictly for senior officers and Silver Hawk operatives. I must question the breach of protocol." he said. "I fail to see why Her Royal Highness is present."
The admiral gave a warm, rumbling laugh. "Put yourself at ease, my friend. She isn't the rebellious kind, nor the sort of soldier who throws royal privilege over the chain of command."
He gestured; an aide hurried forward with a cigar. Another lit it for him. O'Tega drew once, exhaled thoughtfully, then flicked ash into a tray.
"I apologise for the short notice," he said to Hoffman. "She pleaded for my permission. I granted it. Besides—this is the first time she has ever asked anything of me."
Hoffman's jaw tightened, but he had no standing to overrule the CDS. He exhaled, conceding.
"With your permission, Admiral—shall we proceed?"
O'Tega waved a hand.
"Carry on."
Hoffman signaled his lieutenant, who hurried forward with stacks of files and wheeled in a large tactical board already dense with annotations—it resembled the working map of a detective hunting a cartel.
Files were distributed—grainy surveillance photos, intercepted communications, casualty reports.
"What are we looking at, Lieutenant?" Hoffman asked.
"These are battlefield reports from the last fortnight," the lieutenant replied confidently. "Recon and intelligence managed to retrieve actionable data."
His partner stepped forward. "The pattern is clear. The enemy funnels reinforcements through the eastern approach. That's why their numbers never seem to drop, no matter how many we eliminate."
"Our advance is stalled by auto-tracking machine guns guarding their first defensive line," he continued, tapping the board with his cane. Tap. Tap.
"They rely heavily on sensory Gifters," the partner added. "Any attempt at stealth is compromised—their rear guard will detect our pneuma instantly."
Admiral O'Tega grunted softly, displeasure etching his features. "What is your proposed course of action, Lieutenant?"
"We have devised a two-pronged simultaneous operation, sir. Both must be executed to achieve a decisive victory."
"Let's hear it," said Hoffman.
"We're listening," O'Tega echoed, leaning forward.
THE ARISTOCRATIC BARGAIN.
Fifteen minutes later, the basement door creaked open. Klause and the aristocratic gentleman emerged from the basement stairs, still deep in conversation. This time, his face was not concealed with a folded napkin but with a pristine medical mask that obscured everything but his calculating eyes.
He adjusted his hat with deliberate grace, settled it upon his head, and stepped out of the butcher shop with a composure bordering on regal.
From their vantage point across the customer section, the two survivors of the afternoon's torment—Nyx and Razor.
The two were battered and bandaged but alive—Nyx wrapped like a partial mummy, Razor nursing bruised ribs. Seeing the two emerge laughing together—like politicians sealing a mutually profitable deal—was the clearest sign yet that their heads would remain attached to their shoulders for another day.
Razor glanced sideways at Nyx, who resembled a partially mummified Egyptian relic.
"Aha! It just came back to me," Razor said. "The aristocratic gentleman called you 'Nyx.' I believe I heard him correctly."
Nyx gave a dry, satirical sniff. "It took you long enough, genius." He gestured weakly. "I thought I was gonna have to put it on my tombstone for you to find out."
Razor swallowed the insult. He had no room for a comeback. Nyx, irritating as he was, had just ensured they both remained among the living.
Still, Razor could not resist. With a disdainful look, he fired back anyway. "I believed in evolution until I met you. Must be nice to never use your brain."
The gentleman overheard the exchange and burst into amused laughter.
Klause, however, scoffed. "Eggheads."
"What?" the gentleman asked playfully. "You don't appreciate the wit?"
Klause stiffened, catching the subtle shade thrown his way. With exaggerated politeness, he waved a dismissive hand. "Forgive me, your lordship, for not attaining such academic excellence."
"Oh, c'mon, you're such a spoilsport," the gentleman replied.
He then turned toward the boys.
"Ahem." He cleared his throat. He gestured for them to stand.
"It seems you two are getting along rather well," he observed. "My apologies for interrupting your reunion."
Klause added with a crooked grin, "You're some lucky bastards. Luckiest pricks I've seen make it out alive — and still in one piece."
The gentleman shook his head in mock disbelief.
"Oh please, don't give me that look. Weren't you the one who called me a spoilsport earlier?" Klause snapped.
He leaned in. "I don't get to have fun when these fuckers do leave—"
"Enough, Klause," the gentleman interrupted smoothly. "I don't have time for circular arguments. I am not built for such confabulation."
His attention shifted back to the boys.
The gentleman's voice shifted, becoming crisp and businesslike. He faced Razor. "I took the liberty of looking into your records. Mr. Ryker Church— also known as Razor. Only the heavens know why you prefer that alias. According to your records, you possess a natural aptitude for flying aircraft."
Razor gave a humorless laugh.
"Yeah. My 'talent.' Basically toilet paper in the face of bloodline privilege. Congratulations to nepotism — undefeated champion of ruining dreams since forever."
Nyx added lazily, "Who needs competence when all you gotta do is have a famous last name and ties with powerful families?"
The gentleman groaned theatrically. "Fascinating. What a beautiful system, truly remarkable."
His tone darkened. "Nevertheless, you will both play vital roles in an upcoming operation. So vital, in fact, that failure will ensure a dog corpse will have a better burial than you."
The threat landed like ice water. No subtext. Crystal clear. The meaning was unmistakable.
"But," the gentleman continued, brightening slightly, "as a gesture of goodwill, I will grant each of you one request. Here and now." His tone darkened again. "Choose wisely. Do not test me."
Nyx eyed him carefully. "Anything? And you'll… genie it? Just like that?"
The gentleman paused at the slang but deciphered it quickly. "Yes," he replied evenly. "I will 'genie' it. Think carefully. A poor choice may hasten the demise you just avoided."
Nyx rolled his shoulders slowly, wincing at the stiffness.
"I made it past twenty," he muttered. "The streets didn't kill me. Today was supposed to be the day I met my maker. If there even is one." He let out a low laugh. "But… as you can see, I'm still here."
Razor groaned in frustration.
"Will you skip the damn monologue and get to the point?" he snapped, exhaustion sharpening his tone. "You're turning this into an epistle, you ballsack."
Without further theatrics, Nyx spoke.
He requested that Gunter and his band of extortionists be removed from Benzo's bar — and that several struggling business owners in the neighborhood be freed from their harassment.
Razor followed.
He asked for a scholarship for his niece, who was preparing to enter university.
The gentleman listened without interruption. When they finished, he inclined his head.
"It shall be done."
And just like that, their necks remained intact. The gentleman agreed — not out of mercy, but to prove that his word carried weight.
He made a subtle gesture to Klause, then turned to leave. "You will receive your instructions soon. Carry out your mission flawlessly. Your lives are the wages."
With that, he exited, the bell above the butcher shop door jingling behind him.
They had survived—but now they worked on borrowed time.
A KIND GESTUREREJECTED.
Stepping out of the butcher shop and paused beneath the dim streetlamp. Nyx stretched his legs and went through a few warm-ups to ease the aches the torture had left in his muscles. He drew in the fresh air of freedom, ready at last to head home.
For the first time in hours, the air did not taste of iron and blood.
He had barely lifted one foot toward the street when a smooth, cultured voice cut through the quiet.
"If you don't mind, I can offer you a ride home," the voice chimed politely. "I believe it's quite a distance from here to Benzo's residence—especially at this ungodly hour."
Nyx turned. There stood the aristocratic gentleman, immaculate even after everything. His aide was quietly adjusting the fall of his heavy overcoat and settling the brim of his hat with practiced care. Even in the low light, the man carried himself with theatrical refinement, like a nobleman displaced into the wrong century.
"That's really generous of you, Mr. Sir Unknown," Nyx replied playfully. "I think I'll pass."
The gentleman let out a restrained chuckle.
"I'm afraid I cannot accept your refusal." He retrieved his exotic cane from his aide and tapped it lightly against the pavement—tok… tok. "Besides, you look like a casualty of a riot. It's dreadfully suspicious."
Nyx blinked, confusion flickering across his face. The gentleman, noting this, rephrased himself to match Nyx's level of understanding.
"Your appearance," he clarified, "will arouse the suspicion and questioning of men in uniforms."
"Um… tsk. Never mind, Mr. Incognito," Nyx muttered, hesitating.
"What?" the gentleman pressed. "Say it, boy. I believe Klause left your tongue intact."
Nyx exhaled sharply. "Fine. You do know the air in Front Marina isn't that bad. You can breathe just fine without a face mask."
The gentleman began walking toward his car. The driver promptly opened the rear door with ceremonial precision. Before stepping in, the gentleman turned back to Nyx.
"Such a pedestrian milieu is hardly suitable for a personage of my consequence."
Nyx stared at him again—lost.
The gentleman massaged his temple and tried once more.
"A man of my status isn't supposed to be here," he said slowly, a hint of disgust creeping into his voice. "In such an environment. My goodness—you're dumber than I thought."
"Oh!" Nyx's face lit up with understanding. "I see what you mean now." A soft laugh escaped him. "Aw. You're ashamed to row with us peasants." He burst into full laughter.
"Hmm… if you wish to put it that way, for the sake of your mediocre understanding," the gentleman conceded. He added, "The face mask and hat are to conceal my identity from the public."
With that, he entered the vehicle. Before the door shut, he gestured with his cane toward the opposite side.
"Kindly use the other door. I prefer this position."
Nyx shrugged and walked around the polished body of the car. He slid inside and pulled the door shut with a firm thud.
Up front, the driver received a silent signal. Engines ignited in unison—vrrrmmm. The convoy rolled forward, headlights slicing through the busy streets of Front Marina as they disappeared into the night.
TOUCHDOWN BEFORE DUSK.
Balogun's squad touched down without incident, slipping through enemy territory like a whisper in tall grass. Not a single alarm was raised; not a single shot pursued them. Luciana's scouts intercepted the team at the edge of the perimeter and swiftly escorted them back to camp.
The camp itself bore the weary face of prolonged war. As Balogun walked among the tents, he took in the sight before him: soldiers in uniform, yes, but their faces told a different story.
These were men with the hollow look whose hopes had been siphoned away, yet who still refused to fall. Twilight had already begun its quiet descent. The sun was bleeding orange and red across the horizon, twilight settling in like a held breath. Soon, darkness would claim the sky entirely.
Balogun and his squad made straight for the commanding officer's tent.
At the entrance, the lieutenant spotted him first. Arm crossing his chest, palm flat against his heart, he snapped a salute.
"Welcome to camp."
The men in the camp visibly brightened at Balogun's arrival; his presence infused the air with a spark of renewed optimism. His reputation for unmatched accomplishments and flawless mission executions preceded him, a legend whispered among the ranks. His presence alone seemed to rekindle something in their eyes.
Moments later, the flap of the tent lifted and the commanding officer entered—a major. Every soldier in the room came to attention, saluting as one.
"At ease," he commanded, releasing them from the rigid posture. "You must be the famous grand-nephew of the late General Flagman. Well, well. What else would one expect from his blood, I suppose."
"Balogun Flagman, sir," he reintroduced himself with another salute.
The Major circled him with a scrutinizing gaze.
Then shook his head slowly. "You don't look anything like him. Or like his brother, the late Brigadier General, your grandfather, for that matter."
"That's due to me being a mixed child, sir," Balogun replied calmly.
The Major let out a short laugh.
"I'm not talking about your skin color, you genius." He waved a hand as if brushing aside the very thought. "I served under both brothers. Trust me when I tell you—you don't carry their presence. That look they had. The aura that made men fall silent when they walked into a room." He paused. "That's what I mean."
He clarified, dispelling the misunderstanding.
Balogun absorbed the words without reaction. "I understand, sir."
The major moved to his field desk and picked up a folder thick with papers. He held it out. "I believe my lieutenant has already briefed you on our situation."
"He did, sir."
"Good. Then you know why we sent for you." The major tapped the folder against his palm before handing it over. "This contains everything. Battle assessments, enemy positions, supply lines. Maybe you'll see something we've missed."
Balogun opened the folder and began reading. The tent fell quiet except for the rustle of pages and the distant murmur of the camp settling in for the night.
By the time he closed the file, something certain had settled in his eyes.
The major raised an eyebrow. "Already?"
"I believe so, sir." Balogun closed the folder. "I have a plan in mind."
The major studied him, something like cautious hope flickering behind his eyes. But another question surfaced first, one that had clearly been gnawing at him.
"If I may ask," the major said, leaning against the edge of his desk, "how did you get past the barrier? When all living things—especially humans—are denied entry."
Balogun nodded, understanding the curiosity. He explained it step by step: the gamble of sending the bag through first, the luck that the enemy hadn't simply shot it down, and the crucial detail that had made it all possible.
"I assessed the barrier's resistance to pneuma beforehand, sir," Balogun continued. "One of my men has an ability that allows him to command insects. We sent a few through first. "His insects were detected, but they were dismissed as ordinary life forms. Every living being carries pneuma. The system didn't distinguish them as a threat."
"Interesting, I must say," the major complimented, nodding in approval at their ingenuity. "So… what's your next line of approach?"
Balogun allowed himself a small, confident smile. "That we already planned for, sir. All that's needed is your order and a few men to create some distractions—"
"Permission granted," the major cut in, waving a hand as if shooing away the need for formalities. "Whatever you need. Just tell me."
Balogun proceeded to outline his plan in full, assigning tasks to each member of the group—everyone except Sasha, who remained in the infirmary. She was still recuperating from the exhaustion of their dramatic entrance earlier, though she had regained consciousness, and her strength was slowly returning.
She wasn't there to receive one.
SASHA'S BRIEF SLUMBER.
Sasha woke to the smell of antiseptic and the low, pained groans of wounded men. The infirmary tent was dim, lit only by a few lanterns that cast long, wavering shadows across rows of cots. She blinked, trying to piece together where she was, how she had gotten here.
She was still recuperating from the exhaustion of their dramatic entrance earlier, though she had regained consciousness, and her strength was slowly returning.
"You're awake, thank goodness," a nurse said with relief. "I'll inform the captain right away."
Sasha sat up slowly, her body heavy as if she'd been asleep for days. Around her were soldiers groaning softly, some unconscious, others wrapped in bandages. The air smelled of antiseptic and exhaustion.
Ignoring the nurse's suggestion, she pushed herself up and slipped out, determined to find her captain.
"I'll find him myself," she muttered.
Back near the command tent, the squad was preparing. Gear was being checked, weapons cleaned, straps tightened. The major had provided the soldiers Balogun requested, and they moved among the squad, integrating into the plan with quiet professionalism. Everyone had a role. Everyone was getting ready.
Sasha entered the preparation area looking haggard, like a soldier who had been robbed of a full night's rest.
Baker spotted her immediately. "Aren't you supposed to be resting, Penelope?"
She shot him a tired glare. "Oh, give it a rest. I'm not a weakling." She stepped forward, chin lifting. "I can hold my own end."
Baker looked her up and down, then shook his head slowly. "Only a few swaps, and you already look like shit. For someone with pretty cool abilities, you're literally puny."
"Talk shit again and I'll swap your sorry rump to the great unknown." She threatened.
He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, then chuckled. "And here I am thinking I'm the dumbest one in the group." He tilted his head, enjoying himself far too much. "You do know my ability lets me open time-space portals, right? Move through them. Reappear wherever I want. You try swapping me anywhere, and I'll just step right back."
Before she could fire back, a voice cut through from close range.
"Are you two done fighting like babies?" A voice interrupted from nearby. It was their captain.
They both snapped to attention, saluting as Balogun approached. He stopped in front of Sasha, taking in her pallid complexion, the dark circles under her eyes, the way she swayed slightly on her feet.
"Aren't you supposed to be recovering?" His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "Why are you here instead of the infirmary?"
"Same thing I asked her, Cap," Baker muttered from the side.
Sasha straightened, forcing steel into her spine. "I want to help out, Captain Logun. A soldier never shows any signs of weakness."
"Oh really?" Balogun replied, feigning surprise. "Alright," he said, drawing a KA-BAR knife from his sheath.
"Sasha, do you mind swapping in my hand the knife in place of the cup over that table?" he demanded.
Confidence flickered across her face. She locked onto the knife in his hand, then the cup on the table. Focused. Drew on her pneuma.
"Tan," she intoned.
The knife emitted a faint crackling sound, but nothing happened. Undeterred, she tried again.
"Tan."
Another crackle. The knife stayed in Balogun's hand. The cup stayed on the table.
Baker's face went through an entire journey—from anticipation to confusion to a kind of disappointed realization that seemed to physically hit him. He turned to Sasha.
"Have you done your remuneration ritual?" he asked slowly. "You know, right after you woke up from your brief pneuma coma?"
Sasha blinked at him. "Re…Remun…what?"
Baker enunciated carefully, as if speaking to a child. "Re-mu-ne-ra-tion ri-tu-al. For reactivating and repairing your drained pneuma."
The words hit her like a bucket of cold water. The words jolted her memory, sparking a recollection from basic pneuma training.
"Uh-oh! It absolutely skipped my mind."
Her shoulders dropped. The brief confidence she had clung to evaporated, leaving her looking smaller than before. Her spirit sank like a stone dropped into deep water. She stared at the ground, feeling like the weakest link. The most useless member of the squad. Unique ability or not, her pneuma reserves were barely above average on a good day. Today was not a good day.
Noticing her crestfallen expression, the captain approached and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"Chin up, soldier." He said.
She looked up at him, eyes glassy.
"Immediately we return back home; I promise multiple training sessions with you," Balogun promised, vowing to dedicate time to her pneuma meditation and drills.
"You'll get there," he assured her.
Her eyes welled up. Tears spilled over before she could stop them, trailing down her cheeks. She couldn't believe it—the captain, promising to train her personally.
Without thinking, she flung her arms around him in a tight hug, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Balogun stood still for a heartbeat, then slowly raised a hand and patted her on the head. "There, there, there. You're a soldier, and a big girl." His voice was soft. "Wipe that face now. And start your remuneration."
She pulled back, sniffling, and snapped a wobbly salute. "Aye aye, captain."
He almost smiled. "Alright then. Off we go."
Sasha stood there, emotions still thick in her throat, but something else was growing too. Confidence. Real this time.
This time, her confidence did not feel forced. It felt earned.
GRAND ENTRANCE FOR GUILDMASTER.
Back at Upper Crownpoint, the streets in front of the hotel where Princess Victoria was staying buzzed with uncontrollable media frenzy. Reporters stood on hoods, cameramen craned their lenses over barricades, and microphones stretched forward like spears. Every network wanted the first exclusive.
The News House was at its peak, fueled by the whirlwind of recent events: the chaotic banquet incident, the high-stakes indoor tournament, and the impending Hell's Kitchen campaign. Reporters jostled for position, microphones at the ready, hoping to snatch any morsel of information from the unfolding situation.
To make amends for the previous debacle, another banquet had been hastily re-hosted in her honor—a gesture to compensate for the disaster of the first.
This time, security was impenetrable, as if the king himself were in attendance. Reinforced barriers lined the perimeter, and elite Gifters—those with unparalleled sensory perception and combat prowess—were stationed at every corner and strategic vantage point. Unauthorized approach could cost an intruder dearly; a limb, perhaps, or worse.
That was the nature of the security now in place.
Yet these measures, impressive as they were, remained child's play to one person: the most powerful Gifter in the entire kingdom of Luciana.
Victoria's wine glass sat empty, needing replenishment. She glanced around, about to signal for service, when a shadow-like figure slipped through her heavy security with effortless grace as if it were morning mist.
No alarms rang—yet every guard felt it. A disturbance. A presence.
Every guard simultaneously detected the intrusion—a collective spike of alarm that shot through their enhanced senses. In a blink, a man materialized before her, extending a bottle with a courteous offer to refill her drink with casual elegance.
Her two Kingsguards reacted in the span of a heartbeat.
They lunged without a flicker of hesitation, threat assessment and lethal response collapsing into the same fractured instant. Blades gleamed, propelled by pneuma-charged speed.
A heartbeat behind them, the six Enforcers launched themselves forward, unbidden and unflinching, driven by the same unspoken command wired into their bones: protect the Princess at all costs.
But the man did not flinch.
Matching the mecha-speed of the royal soldiers and the elite Enforcers, an impossible defense materialized—a humanoid figure composed of swirling, cloudy energy, manifesting countless hands like some mythical deity.
It bore numerous elongated arms that moved independently. The six Enforcers were caught mid-flight, suspended in air like insects trapped in amber.
The Kingsguards, propelled by their blistering speed, were swiftly subdued to prevent any collateral harm to the princess. One was pinned flat against the ground to Victoria's left, inches from her feet. The other was caught mid-strike behind the stranger, blade humming with pneuma as he struggled against the invisible defensive construct.
The soldiers' attacks had been so heavy that the resulting shockwave rippled through the hall, sending guests into perpetual panic. Another attack? some wondered, their minds flashing back to the previous banquet's violence.
Security reinforcements stormed forward, but the shockwave had already knocked the stranger's hood from his head revealing his face.
To everyone's astonishment, the princess remained utterly calm, interacting with the intruder as if he were an invited guest. She regarded him not as an intruder, but as a familiar guest.
The man smiled broadly and gestured toward her glass.
"Hope you're a wine drinker that loves harsh, citric, stony, and dry but gentle tastes? People say the wine is aggressive, but I call it unapologetic."
With elegant swagger, she responded, "If it leaves me wanting more, I don't mind entertaining the discipline beneath the bravado with which it's offered."
He nodded approvingly.
"This wine has survived heat, drought, pressure and every unpleasant condition imaginable." He poured for her, then for himself. "Wine is proof that time itself can be gentle."
Victoria glanced at the soldiers still struggling against their invisible bonds. Still holding her wine glass, she made a small gesture with her free hand.
"Would you mind… Master?" she asked softly.
His eyes widened.
"Ah." He blinked, momentarily forgetting that he had eight elite soldiers pinned and suspended like screws in a wall. With a thought, he released them. They dropped to the floor like plastic balls scattering from a bin.
He turned to the two Kingsguards, genuine admiration in his voice. "I'm impressed, soldiers. You guys are one heck of speedsters." He erupted into uncontrollable laughter.
One of the Kingsguards replied, "For an old man, your reflexes and perception are incredible."
He shot back with mock offense, "I'm not old! I'm still young and sexy. Full of energy and ready to wiggle, wiggle." He laughed again, shaking his waist like a mischievous toddler.
"For heaven's sake, you're 53," the other Kingsguard chimed in.
"54, to be precise, you sucker," he corrected sharply.
The first Kingsguard smacked his hand against his face in mock disappointment. "That's a difference of 29 years in age for me, Guildmaster."
The crowd began to settle, the earlier panic dissipating as they watched the princess, her elite guards, and this advanced-looking man with a wine bottle bickering amiably about age.
The Guildmaster pointed accusingly at the guard who had done the math.
"Don't you dare age-shame me, you brat. I'm young and fresh inside."
One Enforcer, wobbling as he tried to steady himself after the fall, raised a finger weakly. "Sir, I believe… it's called… ageism. Not age-shaming."
"Zip it, Frankie," the Guildmaster shot back. "Nobody asked you, Roosevelt. Try walking first before you correct me."
"I'm not even lame," the Enforcer muttered defensively as he stood upright.
As their banter continued, additional squads burst into the hall, responding to the distress signals triggered by the intrusion. To their bewilderment, the scene was calm—guests resuming their conversations, the atmosphere returning to normal. What caught their eye was the cluster: the princess, her Kingsguards, the stranger, and the Enforcers dusting themselves off.
The leading officer approached one of the on-scene Enforcers. "What happened here, soldier?" he demanded.
"Pitiful. You're five minutes late for an elite team," the Guildmaster interrupted casually.
The officer's tone turned antagonistic. "And who are you supposed to be?"
"That's an E for effort and an F for failure wrapped in nori wraps," the Guildmaster replied.
That was it. The officer's composure shattered.
"ARREST HIM! TAKE HIS ASS INTO CUSTODY."
As the Royal Police and additional Enforcers advanced, they encountered an invisible force field. Their movements slowed to a crawl; the more they pushed, the more sluggish they became. The officer, mistaking it for insubordination, yelled, "Will you quit messing around and apprehend his ass?!" He repeated himself, fury rising.
His deputy shouted back with grave seriousness, "We can't get to him, sir. The men are serious, sir."
The lead officer noticed the two Kingsguards watching his squad struggle, apparently unaffected. "You don't have any clue who you're ordering arrested, do you?" one Kingsguard asked.
"How come you too aren't affected, including the princess?" the officer retorted, eyeing how the three stood freely beside the man.
Victoria interjected, shaking her head. "Show off. Are you done, Master?" She turned to the officer. "Allow me to introduce the goofy Guildmaster. Guildmaster Norris Shirogane."
The moment his name echoed through the hall, a wave of surprise swept over the crowd. Gasps filled the air, followed by hushed whispers and sidelong glances. It was as if the walls themselves were listening; word of the revelation spread like wildfire to the media horde outside. A massive throng of reporters surged against the barriers, desperate for a glimpse or photo of Luciana's most legendary Gifter. Additional reinforcements were called in to prevent any breaches.
The Guildmaster's presence became instant breaking news, dominating every talking point. The public hadn't seen him in fifteen years. Most had forgotten his face.
MEMORIES; AN OLD FLAME REKINDLED.
Back at Benzo's, the bar hummed with an energy that could power the entire neighborhood. Laughter clinked against glasses, conversations wove through the air like smoke, and the jukebox fought to be heard above the cheerful chaos. Life, excitement, and busyness thrived within those walls—the chatter of patrons who had long made the place their refuge. It was lively—alive.
Yet behind the counter, Benzo wore a gloom that did not belong in such a setting. His eyes kept drifting to the door, then back to the glasses he was mechanically polishing. He had not heard from Nyx since the boy left, and the silence gnawed at him. Heaven only knew what trouble he had walked into this time.
Just as the worry tightened its grip on his chest, the unthinkable happened.
Five heavily armed convoys rolled to a halt directly in front of the bar.
The sudden scene froze the patrons mid-sentence. Glasses hovered halfway to lips. The laughter died. Benzo's hands stilled on the bar towel. Locals stepped out of nearby shops. For a neighborhood like Gearbox Street, this wasn't something you saw every day. Locals exchanged uneasy glances, the same unspoken questions passing between them: Is this another unofficial search without a warrant?Is someone being arrested this time?
Then the impossible walked through the door.
Nyx stepped out from one of the convoy trucks.
Benzo's jaw dropped. Everyone in the neighborhood who knew Nyx and his troubles sat thunderstruck, their eyes refusing to believe what they were witnessing. The same kid who'd left with nothing but trouble on his heels now emerged from a military-grade vehicle like he owned the damn thing.
He looked like he'd been dragged through hell and stitched back together—bandages wrapped his ribs, gauze taped across his cheekbone, one eye half-swollen, dried blood still crusting at the corner of his lip. Yet he walked with that same loose, careless stride, as though the pain were someone else's problem.
Five heavily armed mercenaries followed him inside, escorting him like he was cargo worth dying for. Nyx limped toward the bar stand, and Benzo's heart clenched at the sight—his boy was beat all to hell, wrapped up in bandages and gauze like a mummy that'd been through a war.
"Hi Pops, what's good?" Nyx asked, that familiar grin somehow finding its way through the swelling on his face.
Benzo's eyes narrowed. "You tell me, son."
Before Nyx could answer, the lead commander stepped forward and delivered a firm tap to his shoulder—gentle in appearance, vicious in intent.
"Be quick," the man ordered coldly. "We don't have all day."
Nyx winced. "Ouch, men. That hurts." He turned back to Benzo. "Help me with a pen and paper, will you?"
Without a word, Benzo signaled to one of the staff. A pen and paper were placed before him.
Nyx began writing. When he finished, he'd listed six neighborhood businesses—all being extorted by Gunter for protection money. Benzo's Bar was number six on the list.
Nyx tore out the page and handed it to the mercenary leader.
The man snatched it from his fingers, scanned it once, then turned to Benzo. His voice carried the weight of a message delivered verbatim: "Message from his lordship: 'Good to see you've made something good outta yourself, Blue Lynx. Good day.'"
The words landed like a slap. Benzo's face went still.
Without another word, he pivoted toward the exit. His men followed in formation.
The door swung shut behind them.
Benzo stood rooted in place, trying to make sense of what had just occurred. Why would Nyx write down the names of friendly businesses—and his bar—for strangers? And more importantly, how in heaven's name did that mercenary know his codename?
Nyx leaned against the counter, smirking despite his injuries. Then he snorted, wincing as the motion pulled at his ribs.
"Blue Lynx?" he said, eyebrows raised. "You don't even have whiskers, Benzo." He chuckled. "Why's their aristocratic asshole boss calling you Blue Lynx?"
Benzo's eyes widened. The name—Blue Lynx—hadn't been spoken to him in almost twenty years. Not since the old days.
The name hit Benzo like a freight train.
Blue Lynx.
His memory jolted back decades, to a different life, different people. Only one group of persons had ever known him by that name.
He ran. He shoved away from the counter and bolted for the door.
Barreling out the door like a man chasing salvation, Benzo hit the street running.
But the convoy engines roared to life. Through a side mirror—and then the rearview mirror—someone inside caught sight of him. A hand emerged from the window and waved gracefully as the vehicles drifted away down the road.
Benzo stopped in the middle of the street.
The only word that could escape Benzo's crushed spirit was a whisper: "Charles."
As if on cue, the sky cracked open. Thunder roared—KRA-BOOM!—and rain poured down in sheets.
Benzo did not move. He stood rooted to the spot, rain soaking through his clothes, memories flooding back with every drop.
He stood in the rain, drenched, staring at the space where the convoy had vanished. The past he had buried was clawing its way back. Destiny, it seemed, had an unforgiving sense of humor—and Nyx had just reopened a door Benzo had spent years trying to seal shut.
Minutes later, soaked to the bone, he trudged back inside. Dripping water across the floor.
Skyler, his daughter, rushed to him with a towel. His longtime friend approached the counter, concern etched across his face. They stood before him as he dried himself in silence.
"Is everything alright, Benzzino?" his friend asked carefully. "You look like you saw a ghost."
Benzo didn't answer. He stared at the bar top for a long second. Benzo's jaw tightened. Frustration surged through him. He slammed his fist against the bar-top—THUD!—hard enough to rattle glasses.
The patrons froze. The sound silenced the room more effectively than any shout could have.
This wasn't the easygoing Benzo they knew. Minutes ago he had been relaxed, smiling. Now he looked gutted.
The patrons did what patrons do. Then, as if on instinct, the patrons began chanting.
They started slow, a few voices at first, then more joining in until the chant filled the room:
"BENZO! BENZO! BENZO! BENZO! BENZO!"
The rhythm filled the bar, warm and loyal.
Despite himself, Benzo let out a small smile—just enough to reassure them, just enough to acknowledge their support.
Nyx watched it all, then snapped his fingers once.
"Alright," he said, pushing himself upright with a grimace. "Looks like we're good here. Guess I should call it a night."
He started backing toward the door, then paused, throwing out one last announcement like it was good news. He turned toward Benzo, tone shifting to something almost gentle.
"You and a few of the neighbors won't have to worry about Gunter and his goons anymore," he said. "No more monthly 'protection' fees."
Benzo's eyes narrowed. "You nitwit. I'd rather deal with lowlife Gunter than deal with the Prince of Hell's Kitchen."
The disappointment in his voice could have flooded the room.
Nyx gave a tired shrug. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Suit yourself, gramps. I'm heading down to my bunker for a good night's sleep."
He limped toward the back stairs, one hand pressed to his side.
Benzo watched him go.
Benzo remained behind the counter, caught between relief and dread. Nyx was alive—injured, but alive. For that, he was grateful.
But he'd also dragged something far darker back to Gearbox Street—someone Benzo had spent half a lifetime trying to leave behind.
Outside, the rain kept falling, drumming hard against the windows like it had something to say and no intention of stopping.