"No—better not to talk about that duke at all."
The captain added the warning almost as an afterthought.
His words left the team stunned. Cromwell, a figure from three centuries ago—a man condemned as an ambitious tyrant for just as long—was suddenly off-limits?
One of the members, closer to the captain, hesitated before asking,
"Captain… is there a reason?"
The captain shook his head.
"I don't know the details. Just that the higher-ups seem to be rethinking their stance on him."
That only deepened the confusion.
The "higher-ups" meant the great nobles—and Cromwell had made a habit of executing nobles. The higher their rank, the harsher their end. After his fall, the surviving aristocracy had spent three centuries tearing down his name, sparing no effort to vilify him.
And yet, strangely enough, those same nobles still sent their children to Cromwell University, even though it meant entering the inconvenient Special District.
Historically, opinions on the duke had always been divided—but for the aristocracy to soften their stance? Enough to influence public discourse?
It made no sense.
Before the murmurs could grow, the captain lit a cigar and cut them off.
"That's enough. What happens above us isn't our concern. Do your job."
He exhaled slowly, then continued:
"Stick to the plan. We move in and explore the site."
At once, the team straightened and acknowledged the order.
The captain took a deep drag. When he exhaled again, the smoke didn't disperse like normal—it twisted and gathered, forming words in the air:
The Great One is about to return.
Silence fell.
A suffocating, absolute silence.
The captain stared at the fading message, disbelief etched across his face. One of the team suddenly noticed something wrong—
"Captain! Your face!"
Fine cracks had begun spreading across his skin, racing toward his forehead.
He snapped back to himself, quickly pulling out a vial of emerald liquid and downing it. The fractures slowed—but didn't stop. He swallowed several more potions in rapid succession before the damage finally stabilized.
Even then, his face remained pale, his breath unsteady.
Waving off his team's concern, he gave a sharp order:
"Seal the area. Notify the Inspectorate immediately."
Black carriages soon rolled in from the New City.
Within the hour, patrol officers flooded the streets of the Old District, announcing a curfew through loudspeakers.
Panic spread among the residents. Some tried to ask what was happening—only to be driven back by force.
Near the main roads, fully armed imperial soldiers began appearing, gradually replacing the patrols.
All of this—had taken less than an hour.
Back at the breach, a new group had arrived.
The captain who had led earlier now stood off to the side, reduced to a supporting role.
In his place stood three figures.
Sequence Five.
Just one step below demigods.
In the Special District, they were the nightmare of rogue transcendents and foreign spies alike. Under normal circumstances, even if a gathering like Audrey's had been exposed, at most a captain-level operative would be dispatched.
People like these three… were rarely mobilized.
Unless the situation involved unstable followers of evil gods—cases that risked exposing the supernatural to the public.
But now, all three had come.
And yet—
None of them moved.
They stood at the breach, expressions grim, not daring to enter.
All because of that single prophecy:
The Great One is about to return.
"The Great One"… even at its lowest interpretation, meant a Sequence Four demigod.
At the higher end?
Angels. Gods.
Or worse—something akin to a King.
And they?
Just Sequence Five.
Not even close.
Charging in blindly could mean total annihilation—and that would still be the lesser concern. The real danger was triggering something far worse.
After all… the prophecy said return.
That word carried far too many possibilities.
So instead, they sealed the entire Old District and waited.
For reinforcements.
For the Special District's overseer—
A Sequence Three demigod.
Only someone at that level might be able to hold the line.
And where was Mozo?
Nowhere near Hawk Street.
He had chosen a different route—the sewers beneath Moore Street, far from the main site.
Because of that, he had neatly avoided the authorities' lockdown.
And because of that—
He had no idea that directly above him stood an entire force of soldiers on high alert.
If he had known, he would've fled immediately.
He wasn't built for something like this.
But ignorance, this time, worked in his favor.
Because it was precisely that ignorance—
that allowed everything that followed tonight to unfold.