Zane didn't put up a fight. He knew what they wanted, so he played along. His fingers trembled, just enough to look real, as he extended his wrists toward the soldier. The man grunted, snapped the shackles on, and didn't even look at him. The ale mug slid from his hand and clattered to the floor, coming to rest beneath a nearby chair, forgotten while everyone focused on the soldiers. However, at this time no one cared about ale.
The soldiers moved quickly, focused and sharp. They barked orders and shoved people toward the exit, going out of their way to be rough. Some of them resisted, but most did not. Chairs scraped. Boots pounded. Voices rose in confusion. Panic spread fast in the smoky air. Zane kept his head low but kept watching. He noted the mage's robe, dark crimson lined with gold thread, the pattern unfamiliar and too ornate for someone pretending to serve the people. The mage's accent was a strange mix of noble elegance and northern roughness, a blend that suggested foreign training. But more importantly, Zane saw the twitch. The mage's left hand hesitated just a moment each time he reached for magic, a subtle delay in his spellcasting that pointed to some lingering damage, possibly nerve-related. Not enough to make him weak, but enough to be useful. Zane filed it away.
He memorized every face, every movement, every exit. This wasn't something he tried to do, his brain just kicked in, collecting details without asking permission. Like he was some sort of genius freak.
The man named Rogar, who had lost his leg from the spell the mage had cast, was being carried out by two guards like something broken that couldn't be fixed. His pants were soaked in blood. His lips were pale, a shadow of his life to come without a leg. The mage barely glanced his way, eyes fixed forward as if blood meant nothing anymore. Zane noticed that this wasn't justice. This was entertainment for them. Fear, being used as a spectacle.
They were pushed out into the open, cold air hitting their skin like a slap. Chains clanked. Boots stumbled. No one spoke. The streets were quiet, the sunlight casting flickering shadows as the group was marched down the main path and through the gates of Bluridge. The soldiers' camp lay just beyond the town, a spiked fortress lit with fire and filled with iron and menacing-looking guards. Sharp stakes surrounded the perimeter, and grim-eyed soldiers watched their every step.
Inside the largest tent, the air was thick and hot. Sweat clung to the canvas walls. The arrested townsfolk were forced to sit on the packed dirt floor, their chains clinking as they settled in. Their shoulders sagged and their eyes stared at nothing. They reeked of fear and defeat. One by one, names were called. One by one, the broken were dragged forward. At the center of it all sat a man with a soldier's build and a killer's eyes. He was a knight, scarred and iron-hearted. His armor was clean but dented in places that spoke of old battles. Two silver stars gleamed on his cloak, marking him as a Two-Star Knight, an elite well above the regular footmen who flanked the room. He sat behind a simple desk made from crates and a plank of wood. His fingers rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, but even that loose grip carried quiet danger. Zane had seen men like him before, men trained to kill quickly and ask questions only when the blood had dried. Zane sat near the back of the group, his wrists bound, and his head bowed low. He kept his expression blank and his posture slouched, the image of a drunk who had stumbled into something larger than himself. But his eyes missed nothing. He watched the knight. He watched the mage, who stood beside him like a shadow with a twisted smile. And he watched the villagers as they were dragged forward, terrified and trembling. He knew this world. He had been born into it. His father had been a knight too. He was a commoner raised with impressive skills with the blade, given armor and a title, and once respected by the entire town.
Zane could still remember how the townspeople had stepped aside when his father walked through the streets. Merchants would lower their heads quietly, and children would stare with wide eyes, pointing as if they had seen a hero. His father had been more than just a man back then. He had stood for something. Discipline, power, and a sense of order that people either admired or feared. But that was before the whispers. A nobleman, proud, corrupt, and well-connected, had whispered poison into the right ears. Then came the accusation, absurd and baseless, from a maid whose name was never spoken again. There was no trial and no investigation. Only a cold declaration of guilt and a cruel display meant to silence anyone who might speak out. Zane had stood there, too young to intervene, too old to ever forget, and watched as his father was crucified beneath the red banners of the High Council, swaying in the wind.
The only things left of his father now were memories and a legacy buried in skill. A sword style that looked simple but hit hard, crafted entirely by his father. Fools could not have taught it. It required brilliance. And his father had it. That much was clear. Zane had learned every motion, every principle, and then built upon it in secret. While others drank and boasted, he trained. He honed his timing and tightened his movements. He turned that inherited swordsmanship into something leaner, faster, deadlier. Something a soldier was not supposed to know.
His father had also left him a curious piece of metal. It was small, made of steel, worn from years of use. There was a strange symbol etched onto it. At first glance it looked like a ghost, or maybe a moving shadow, something hard to define but impossible to ignore. It made Zane think of a phantom. He had hoped it was a clue to some hidden treasure or long-lost inheritance, but the truth was far simpler. The metal could generate a small, flickering shield, enough to take a heavy hit. His father had used it in battle, found it during a dungeon raid, and worn it like a badge. To others, it might not have meant much. But to Zane, it was priceless. He kept it fastened to the edge of his hood. It was not just a relic. It protected him in more ways than one.
He dressed like a vagrant, hunched his shoulders as if carrying nothing of value, but under those loose clothes was a body built for war. His mind was even sharper than his blade. Every breath he took, every step he made, was part of something bigger, vengeance with patience behind it.
Now, standing in the crowd, he watched it play out.
The first person to be dragged forward was Elric, a gentle old potter with hands meant for clay, not weapons. The man was trembling as he was shoved into the center of the square. Zane saw the fear in his eyes. It was not just fear of punishment. It was the fear you get when you know nobody will believe the truth.
"I swear I do not know anything about this Phantom," Elric cried, his voice fragile, on the edge of breaking. "I'm just a potter. I make plates and cups. That is all I have ever done. I toasted like everyone else. We were just happy someone was standing up to them. That is all it was. Just foolish talk."
The mage who stood beside the armored knight smiled slowly, showing teeth, the kind of smile that felt more wrong than friendly. "So you admit it," he said smoothly. "You raised a toast in honor of a criminal. That is not mere foolishness, Mr. Elric. That is treason."
Elric stumbled back a step, the shackles rattling on his wrists. "Please. That is not what I meant. You do not understand..."
But he never got to finish. Guards grabbed him roughly and yanked him out of sight.
Then came Cobalt, the carpenter. He walked forward with stiff legs, clearly still drunk from the night before. His shirt was stained with sawdust, and his voice cracked as he tried to explain.
"We were drinking. It was late. We were not thinking clearly. It was just a moment. A mistake," he said quickly. "The ale made us stupid."
The knight did not say a word. He did not need to. He just stared, calm and merciless, like a blade waiting in its sheath. After a short pause, he raised one hand. The guards obeyed, and Cobalt was dragged away like the others.
Another person stepped forward. A man named Zeeke was lean, twitchy, and desperate in every word he spoke.
"Where were you the night of the treasury raid?" the mage asked.
"At home!" Zeeke blurted out, his voice fast and shaky. "My wife was with me. We went to bed early. She will tell you. Please, she knows, she will say the same!"
The mage tilted his head. "Your wife is not here. No one is here to back your story. How convenient. Funny, every crook swears they have a witness, but the witness disappears when it matters most."
Zeeke started to protest, but the guards had already begun to move. They seized him, cutting him off with a hard shove.
The routine continued. One by one, they were hauled in. A baker with flour dust still on his sleeves. A tanner whose hands were stained brown for life. A weaver who could barely stand. A mother holding her teenage daughter close while they questioned her. Each one humiliated. Accused. Tossed aside. The mage led the interrogations, turning even the smallest actions into crimes. A raised mug became proof of rebellion. A laugh at dinner became proof of plotting. Nothing was safe from his twisting tongue.
The knight said almost nothing throughout. His approval or disapproval was silent, speaking only through small gestures, a nod here, a shift there. But his silence was louder than any command. People feared that silence. Zane understood that kind of power. It was the same quiet force his father had carried.
Zane waited. He stood still and silent, watching it all. Listening to every word. These were not warriors or rebels. These were villagers, neighbors, craftsmen. And now they were being punished for showing even a little hope. For daring to believe that someone, anyone, might stand up to them.
He could feel the heat in his chest rising. It was not all rage. It was purpose. Every cry for mercy, every voice cracking under pressure, made that purpose sharper in his mind.
Zane would not let this continue. He needed to find a way to stop it.