Salma was cornered, her arm wrenched roughly, her face pale and streaked with tears.
"My husband will not forgive you!" she gasped, her voice trembling.
Shouts and jeers pressed down on the air.
"Ugh… al‑Fadl's wife is quite beautiful," one growled, his gaze leering.
"Ha! And her daughter must be just as beautiful," another shouted.
"Damn… these pretty faces will rot tonight," a third added, full of malice.
A sword lifted, glinting in the torchlight, aimed close to Salma's neck.
Without thinking, Ruqayyah ran through the crowd.
No! she screamed inside.
She collided with one person, then another. She stumbled, pushed herself upright, and pressed on. Every touch from the bodies around her made her control falter, as if the world itself resisted keeping her hidden. Her vision shook, her pulse raced.
"Host, warning. Time remaining: ten minutes," the system's voice rang coldly in her mind.
She did not stop. Her face was ashen, tears streaming freely. She heard her mother's cries. That was enough. The world around her narrowed—Salma alone remained in her sight.
"Host, cease. Time remaining: five minutes. Ability not designed for rescue," the system warned again.
The sword descended—
And Salma lost consciousness just as the blade neared her neck. She crumpled to the ground, trembling. The rebels, busy with the chaos around them, no longer paid attention. Salma had survived—unconscious, but alive.
Ruqayyah drew in a shaky breath. Her concealment weakened. She tried to push further through the throng, but too many bodies blocked her way. She stumbled and fell, and now the world could no longer hide her.
Rough hands seized her wrists, pulling her back.
"There she is!" someone shouted. "The daughter of Wazir al‑Fadl!"
The crowd erupted. Swords lifted, then faltered. Anger mingled with a dangerous thrill.
"Kill her—"
"No! Wait!"
Ibrahim ibn al‑Mahdi's voice boomed, sharp and commanding.
Heavy footsteps cut through the turmoil. Al‑Mu'tasim stepped forward. His gaze fixed on Ruqayyah—pale, eyes red, hair loose and whipped by the night wind. The scarf that had covered her head had fallen, revealing her face, still streaked with tears and grime, yet radiant with natural beauty. Her sharp jawline, defined brows, and deep, intelligent eyes betrayed courage and quick thinking, even in panic.
For a brief moment, a memory flickered in Al‑Mu'tasim's mind: a girl in the majlis of learning, questions precise, answers calm, intelligence shining clearly.
She…
Recognition struck.
The Wazir's daughter.
He stiffened. This girl was too valuable to die in the streets.
He stepped forward.
"Uncle," he said evenly, emotionless. "Do not kill her."
Ibrahim narrowed his eyes at his nephew.
"Heh?" He smirked. "Why? Do you wish to make her your concubine?"
Ruqayyah froze. Her breath caught. That word was more terrifying than the sword. Given the choice, she would rather die.
Al‑Mu'tasim gave a soft, disapproving click of his tongue.
"No."
He met Ibrahim's gaze without flinching.
"I think further. This girl is not just the Wazir's daughter. She is educated, known in the majlis of learning, and brave enough to push through a crowd to reach her mother."
He paused.
"She is an asset."
The crowd quieted.
"We can use her," he continued coldly. "To pressure al‑Fadl. To force decisions. People like her are more valuable alive than dead."
Ibrahim laughed softly.
"You always see people as pieces on a board, my nephew."
"And that is why we are still standing tonight," Al‑Mu'tasim replied tersely.
The swords lowered.
A tense silence hung over the square. Ruqayyah's hands trembled as they were held firmly. Her eyes never left her mother, lying unconscious, while her mind raced in a thousand directions.
[Ding!] A cold, mechanical voice rang in her head.
[Host! You may use the anti-misfortune power. Emergency function activated. This may give you a chance to escape if they falter. Use wisely.]
Ruqayyah's heart pounded. Escape? The thought seemed impossible. Armed men surrounded her, the rebel crowd teetered between fury and fear, and Al‑Mu'tasim's gaze remained fixed on her. Yet the system promised a sliver of opportunity—a brief moment to act if they wavered.
She swallowed hard. Her throat was dry, her hands aching from the bonds. If I take it… maybe I can slip away. Maybe I can keep myself alive long enough to help Mother.
Al‑Mu'tasim's voice cut through her thoughts, calm but firm.
"Secure her carefully. She must not be harmed, but she is not free. Keep watch."
The rebels obeyed, tightening the ropes around her wrists and shoulders. Pain lanced through her, testing the limits of her restraints. Every movement reminded her how fragile the line between life and death had become.
[Host! Decision pending. Time-sensitive. Use the anti-misfortune power.] the system urged again.
Ruqayyah clenched her fingers into fists. She had always relied on quick thinking, on seizing even the smallest advantage. This skill—whatever its effects—might give her the edge she desperately needed. She felt her pulse in her temples as she weighed the risk. Her eyes flicked back to her mother. Salma was alive, unconscious, vulnerable. Instinct screamed that she could not help her mother if she herself fell first.
"Yes," she whispered to herself.
The system confirmed in her mind.
[Function activated. Temporary boost: reaction speed and subtle camouflage. Duration uncertain.]
Suddenly, the ropes binding her wrists snapped on their own, as if obeying some unseen will. Ruqayyah's hands were free, and almost immediately, the rebels' eyes seemed unable to find her—her body blurred, slipping through their line of sight like a shadow. The anti-misfortune power worked perfectly: subtle, disorienting camouflage and heightened reflexes gave her the chance she had prayed for.
Without a second thought, she darted forward, weaving between panicked rebels, each stride fueled by raw adrenaline. Her senses were sharp—every footfall, every brush of fabric against a body seemed magnified. She felt lighter, faster, almost untouchable.
Ruqayyah ran with all the speed her legs could muster. Adrenaline made each step heavy yet fast. The anti-misfortune skill still aided her—slightly quicker, slightly more agile—but pushing through the crowd remained treacherous.
Yet her advantage was fleeting. The warmth of the pill faded, the subtle distortion in her presence vanishing almost as quickly as it had appeared. She had already run some distance when she sensed him before she saw him.
Al‑Mu'tasim, having mounted his horse amidst the chaos, scanned the square with unerring precision. Even as the rebels remained oblivious to her, he spotted her—a glint of movement, a shape among shadows—and reacted instantly. Before Ruqayyah could register it, a strong hand gripped her wrist. She froze, startled. Her heart lurched: the anti-misfortune effect had ended, and she was suddenly fully visible, fully vulnerable.
"Stay with me," Al‑Mu'tasim whispered, his voice low and husky, reaching her ear. There was no hesitation—only decisive command.
Ruqayyah swallowed, trembling. She wanted to pull her hand away, yet something in his gaze held her fast. Gently but firmly, he guided her forward, leading her through a narrow alley overlooked by the rebels.
Each step was in sync, each shove through the crowd stretched and elongated, as if time itself had slowed to match the racing of their hearts. Panic and tension intertwined with a strange, unexplainable feeling—adrenaline and the warmth of his hand making Ruqayyah realize: shouldn't he have captured me?