—Tap!
A pair of dust-covered leather boots landed atop a black stone monument—a towering pillar marking the edge of the abyss leading into the Shilanian Empire. His dark crimson cloak snapped violently under the damp mountain wind.
"Their trail ends here," Rhea Saschie murmured.
His sharp gaze pierced the thick fog swallowing the city of Nauha below. The foul stench of magic he had pursued for three long years now hung heavy in the air, concealed beneath the distant splendor of tiered pyramids barely visible through the mist.
"Hey! Outsider! Get down from there if you don't want the guards throwing spears at you!" a middle-aged merchant shouted from a caravan below.
Rhea merely offered a thin, cold smile before leaping down with effortless agility.
His steps eventually carried him across a massive wooden bridge, its planks groaning beneath the weight of hundreds of trade wagons. Once he reached the other side, Nauha unfolded before his eyes—a city that looked as if it had been carved directly from the bones of the earth.
Shilania knew no softness.
Its streets were paved with rough black basalt stones, flanked by rows of stone houses with flat roofs layered in thick straw. There were no elegant curves here—only sharp edges and unyielding strength.
Far at the city's heart stood a colossal temple that challenged the sky itself. Its structure resembled a crouching god, mouth agape as it poured clear water into a vast pool below—a fountain that served as the lifeblood of the frontier city.
"So then, what are you selling, young man?" the same middle-aged merchant asked, wiping sweat from his brow. His eyes flicked toward Rhea's heavy-looking cloak.
Rhea straightened his back, letting the morning sun wash over his confident face. With deliberate volume, he replied, "Nothing at all, sir!" and flashed a wide grin.
The man halted his wagon, staring at Rhea in disbelief. "That's a death wish. In imperial lands, wanderers without trade permits are considered infiltrators. Soldiers won't hesitate to throw you in prison if you're caught."
Rhea chuckled, as if the warning were nothing more than passing wind. "Heh. Then all I need to do is make sure they never see me, right? Hahaha!"
His carefree laughter echoed between the stone walls, causing nearby merchants to pause and glance over in annoyance. Rhea flinched slightly, realizing the attention he'd drawn.
"Oops… guess I got a little too excited," he muttered, pulling his hood lower.
Without waiting for further advice from the still-stunned merchant, Rhea waved briefly and disappeared into the dense crowd flooding Nauha's market.
"Tch! Always acting on impulse. Besides, terrorists must have their reasons, right? What's so wrong about giving them a chance to talk?"
Underground, two men were chatting about the empire's newly enforced policies. The Emperor had imposed stricter regulations on merchant entry times—rules that clearly disadvantaged consumers.
"Hey, gentlemen. Do you know anything about the Voices?" A third man suddenly joined the conversation. It was Rhea.
The interruption startled them both—they hadn't even noticed his presence, nor how he had gotten there.
"This guy!? Who are you?" one of them demanded.
Rhea leaned forward slightly. "Just a traveler passing through," he said quietly.
"So?" he continued. "Do you know?"
"Well, well. An outsider who managed to slip in," the other man said with a proud grin. He poured a drink into a cup and slid it toward Rhea.
"The Voices you're talking about… you mean the terrorists surrounding Shilania, right?"
Rhea listened intently. "Maybe. All I know is that what they're using is taboo," he replied with a crooked smile.
Taboo—something forbidden, something that corrupts.
Magic.
The two men exchanged puzzled glances. Before one of them could respond—"If that's the case, then it's true."
"Oh?" Rhea rested his elbow on the table, chin propped against his hand. "Then where—and who—should I ask for more specifics?"
"Well, about that…" The man trailed off, his eyes shifting toward the shadow behind Rhea.
"Maybe those gentlemen behind you have the answer."
—SWIING!
The air behind Rhea's head split apart.
Without turning, his honed instincts—tempered in the plains of Sanhara—screamed. Rhea dropped low, chest nearly brushing the wooden table.
A massive stone mace tore through the space where his head had been a heartbeat earlier.
He wasted no time.
Still crouched, Rhea snapped his leg out, kicking the heavy wooden chair toward his attacker.
—CRASH!
The chair shattered against the shin of an Enforcement Soldier. The man groaned as his balance faltered. Rhea slid across the dusty floor, swept the soldier's legs out from under him, then sprang up in one fluid motion—driving his elbow straight into the man's throat.
One soldier down, gasping for air.
The underground tavern door was suddenly kicked open. Pale morning light flooded in, illuminating clouds of dust. Six more soldiers stormed down, stone spears leveled directly at Rhea's chest.
"Oops, sorry. My hand slipped," Rhea said casually, raising both hands. His eyes, however, remained sharp—searching for an opening among the forest of spearheads.
"Capture the infiltrator! Dead or alive!" the sergeant barked.
As the soldiers closed in, Rhea moved.
He spun, his dark crimson cloak blooming like the petals of a poisonous flower, obscuring their vision. Before they could thrust, his hand was already reaching behind his back.
—CLANG!!
Metal met stone. A gracefully curved silver blade—a Khopesh—was drawn and held back three spear tips at once. Rhea twisted his wrist, using the blade's curve to lock the shafts, then wrenched hard.
The wooden poles snapped.
"You'll need more than wood to catch me," he hissed.
Rhea reached into a hidden pocket within his cloak and tossed a small leather pouch into the air. With a precise swing of the Khopesh, he sliced it open.
—PUFF!
Fine sand mixed with crushed dried chili exploded outward, filling the cramped underground space.
"My eyes! Argh—my eyes!"
Amid the cloud of sand and the soldiers' screams, Rhea moved like a shadow. He didn't kill—but every strike of his blade's hilt shattered ribs or knocked opponents unconscious in an instant.
Just as he prepared to leap for the exit stairs, the floor trembled.
Terrified civilians—stirred into a frenzy by shouts of terrorist—surged forward. They weren't fighters, but there were dozens of them. Five large men rushed from behind, grabbing Rhea's waist and legs, dragging him down onto the cold stone floor.
Rhea struggled, but a spear—wielded by a soldier whose vision had partially returned—pressed against his throat.
"Give it up, you damn rat!" the soldier snarled, eyes bloodshot and watering.
Rhea exhaled slowly, his cheek pressed against Shilania's cold stone floor.
"Ah… what an exhausting morning."