The spacious receiving room of the trade house was a hive of controlled, opulent activity. The environment was meticulously designed for high-end logistics and management, though the efficient movements of the staff suggested a much deeper, more organized purpose than simple trade. Terry Adams, a very handsome man in his early thirties, moved with the effortless air of a man accustomed to seamless command. His golden beard and mustache were perfectly groomed, framing a face that was both shrewd and strikingly charming. His attire—a custom-tailored tunic in deep sapphire and emerald tones, styled reminiscent of the high fashion of the 1960s elite, paired with fitted trousers—spoke volumes of his wealth and confidence.

  He was focused intently on manifest documents and inventory management, running a final check on his complex schedule.

  "Ensure this is registered under the Antoine manifest," Terry instructed, his voice low and precise, as he handed a maid an antique lamp—a supposed expensive artifact intended as a gift for a business partner. The maid received it graciously, blending back into the dozens of workers bustling through the hall. The sheer number of maids and personnel suggested an organization with endless resources and needs.

  "We are right on schedule," Terry confirmed to himself, checking his pocket chronometer.

  A man who looked like an overtaxed accountant quickly approached him and whispered rapidly into his ear, delivering a succinct report. Terry listened, his expression remaining perfectly calm, though his jaw tightened subtly. "Thank you. Maintain normal operations."

  Terry then walked toward a grand, polished railing near a quiet alcove, his hand resting thoughtfully on the cool, dark metal. He was wearing a simple, heavy silver signet ring on his right hand, etched with the stark anvil icon.

  "Should I be worried?" Terry asked quietly.

  Behind him stood Seeri, a woman whose face was obscured by the deep shadow of an elegant, voluminous cowl. Her dress was entirely black, the fabric designed to absorb ambient light rather than reflect it, making her appear like a void. The only visible light came from the heavy, obsidian ring she wore on her finger, also marked with the anvil icon.

  "External factors we didn't expect," Seeri replied, her voice smooth and distant. "It seems your name caught their attention."

  Terry held his chin, considering the implication of external scrutiny. "Will there be changes to the schedule?"

  "No," Seeri replied, her tone firm. "We will take care of it. Just proceed. Don’t worry about the cargo; I can guarantee their safety."

  Seeri’s eyes glazed over, fixed on a scene only she could perceive. She was in a state of deep, trance-like observation—an Oracle focusing her gift—momentarily unaware of the movements surrounding them.

  Terry sighed softly, a familiar weariness in his expression. "Ah, there she goes again."

  Seeri continued, her voice gaining a formal, ritualistic tone, citing orders from the higher hierarchy. "Master has said he will take over your role in the ball due to these uncertainties, so you need not worry. Your safety is a priority, Terry."

  Terry straightened, his hand touching the anvil ring. "No, I’m not worried about that, Seeri. I'd gladly offer my life to the cause." He looked at the entranced Oracle. "Well, as long as she is on my side, things will go smoother, so whatever you’re observing now, I hope it’s not some bad news."

  (Seeri's Internal POV - The Premonition)

  In her trance, Seeri's consciousness surveyed a sprawling warehouse—one of Terry’s logistics hubs. The concrete floor was slick with blood, littered with the bodies of dead agents, none of them belonging to their own organization. She saw a woman running for her life, wounded, chased not by the noble mercenaries, but by a large, hulking figure she couldn't fully place.

  Then, her vision sharpened on the one person who survived the initial onslaught: a man of slim build, heavily bandaged, observing the carnage from the shadows.

  It is like what Gale said, Seeri thought, pulling back to analyze the scene. A third party is involved. Someone else is pulling the strings. Not the Empire. Not the Unwoven.

  Meanwhile, in a vast, echoing warehouse adjacent to the main city, two powerfully built men in dark, functional suits were overseeing the meticulous stacking of crates. These were Tedore and Jagan, large-handed men built like concrete supports, their suits stretching taut across their powerful shoulders.

  "Hey, be careful with that one, Jagan!" Tedore snapped. "Boss specifically said to take extra care for the goods."

  "Oh, sorry about that," Jagan replied easily. He was wearing a curious metallic glove on his left hand, which shimmered faintly as he effortlessly solo-carried a crate much larger than his own torso. "This new strength needs a bit of adopting, Tedore." Jagan, like many of the other workers methodically arranging items, wore a simple black ring on his other hand.

  "New batch of cleansed ones are here," Jagan murmured, nodding toward the far end of the warehouse.

  A queue of people began to file through. They looked scared and untidy, like refugees recently rescued from a disaster, gathering and waiting. These were the "cleansed ones"—the destined victims for the Founder's Ball ritual, escorted by other dedicated employees, all wearing the black ring.

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  "Well, Boss said there's going to be some kind of commotion happening soon," Tedore said, rubbing his hands together. "So we need to double time, and also secure these cleansed ones to safety."

  The captives were being given relief goods and clothing as they passed a triage station, before being sent to different secure rooms within the compound. A man who looked like a healer, dressed in black but marked by a silver necklace bearing the symbol of a half-moon, meticulously checked the medical and physical health of the children and women, ensuring they were in good condition. Others, wearing the same black attire and amulet, assisted, escorting the captives with clinical care.

  A huge, silent figure sat in the corner, behind Tedore and Jagan. He was clad in heavy, dark leather, his face obscured by a menacing skull mask. A tremendous sword, its hilt and guard appearing to be carved from bleached bone, rested across his knees.

  "Tell the men to double time," the Skull-Masked Man commanded, his voice deep and gravelly. "It seems something is brewing outside. I got a message from the Master. Request more people from the main group. We shouldn’t delay."

  "Right away, Boss," Tedore said, and Jagan and Tedore hurriedly walked away.

  "Say, do you think they can communicate with their Master telepathically?" Jagan asked Tedore as they walked.

  "You mean you didn’t know? He is part of the Unwoven," Tedore whispered, slightly awed. "He is said to be their strongest member. With him here, our security is assured. He is like a man who can beat a whole army of soldiers, even of the Red Class."

  "He is that strong?" Jagan breathed.

  "You won't believe me, but I saw that guy in action once," Tedore confirmed. "His red aura is powerful, and his sword... he killed eight demons in one slash. Well, let's get going. We don’t want to see that guy's bad side just by not doing our job properly."

  "I wouldn’t dare," Jagan agreed.

  The Skull-Masked Man—the Unwoven warrior—breathed deeply, meditating in the corner. A girl with short gray hair, whose eyes were deliberately covered with a black cloth, silently appeared beside him.

  "Oh, it's you, Echo," the Skull-Masked Man said. "Did you receive a message from the Master?"

  "Yes, Big Brother," Echo replied, her voice muted by the cloth over her eyes. "It seems we will be needed in this next mission."

  "What about Corvin?" the warrior asked, the bone hilt of his sword clicking faintly as he shifted his grip.

  Echo’s voice hardened slightly. "Master said to let him be for a while. That bandaged guy is causing so much trouble for us, he and that puppet of his."

  The Skull-Masked Man let out a harsh, rasping sigh. "Well, if that guy appears in the Ball, I will personally chop off his head for giving Master so much trouble."

  "Now, now, Brother," Echo admonished. "You know he is off-limits for us, for now. I'm still baby-sitting him until that other guy comes out. We are not to touch him."

  "I know, I know," the warrior conceded, his annoyance palpable.

  Meanwhile, somewhere undisclosed in the city, the covert surveillance team Unit 7 was gathered for a briefing. The setting was a stark, minimalist safe house—a deliberate contrast to the extravagance of the approaching mission.

  "Alright," Aaron, the commander, stated, leaning over a small holographic projection displaying a map of the Henreich Estate. "We received new intel. Everything is now lining up and linking to the Grand Ball. Person X, the Unwoven, the cult, the nobles—all will be centered on the Grand Ball. Our target acquisition has become critical."

  Brent frowned, the veteran agent crossing his arms. "What of the Iron Club unit? Only the Captain survived the last massacre. Does it have to do with Terry Adams and the Unwoven?"

  Aaron shook his head firmly, tapping a point on the holographic map. "No. Definitely not. That incident—the destruction of the Iron Club—points to an external player. A third party we didn't anticipate. The bandaged man known as Corvin is not ours to deal with. We focus on the ball."

  Joan spoke up, her voice sharp with professional frustration, though her expression was tightly controlled. "So it was him and his monstrous associate who got rid of the Iron Club unit?" Joan’s hands were clenched, a clear sign of a deeper, personal history with the subject.

  "I understand your concern, Joan," Aaron said, meeting her eyes directly. "Your personal conflict with him should not hinder our current mission. We will leave him and his associate, Medina, to the other units. That was the Chief's decision."

  Joan drew a deep breath, her tension easing under the commander's steady gaze. "I understand that, Aaron. Don’t worry. All my hands are in deck. Corvin and Medina—I leave that to Captain Reno."

  High above the Redwave City, shimmering in the thin, cold air, a man with vibrant blue hair floated effortlessly, held aloft by an unseen field of energy. He surveyed the sprawl of the city below—a tapestry of neon and shadow—while checking his task inventory on a sleek, transparent datapad.

  

  
• 
  
    Dark Unit Group successfully escorted Cleansed Ones? [Check]
  
    


  
• 
  
    Artifacts carefully distributed to different parts of the city? [Check]
  
    


  
• 
  
    Master's beef order for dinner? [Check]
  
    


  
• 
  
    Skull's sweet fruit juice replaced with finest Imperial grain alcohol? [Minor X] We're going for alcohol, he mentally giggled.
  
    


  

  "The information I received from Lysarra made this mission smoother," he muttered to the vast empty sky. "Master's Rend Harvest seems to have taken a lot of detours lately. Geez, this Empire sucks. I hope we get this over soon." He stretched luxuriously. "Well, I do admit, the view of this city is the best so far."

  His attention was caught by a bulky shadow moving against the cityscape: a massive blimp—an airship powered by silent, low-heat balloon engines—bearing the logo of the Red Empire. He raised a small, cylindrical device—an artifact known as a Monoscope—to his eye, instantly bringing the airship into sharp focus.

  "Well, well, well, what do we have here?" he murmured, a cold smile forming. "It seems the main players are adding up, and they are bringing the big guns."

  He suddenly froze, his jaw slackening in genuine shock. A man inside the blimp, peering out of a reinforced viewport, seemed to be looking directly back at him. The man inside was waving.

  Did he see me? the blue-haired observer thought, completely off-guard.

  (Scene shifts inside the Red Empire Blimp)

  Inside the airship’s bridge, a young woman with a sharp, determined face walked up to the viewport, where a casually dressed man was still waving enthusiastically at the distant, empty sky.

  "Leto, who are you waving at?" she asked, exasperated.

  "Some blue-haired bird," Leto replied, dropping his hand and turning to her with a wide, careless grin.

  "Geez, let's go. We don't want to waste more time in this city," she sighed. "I can't believe we were sent here instead of joining the war outside."

  "Come now, little girl," Leto said, leaning against the viewport. "A moment of peace is good. Besides, I promise we will enjoy it here."

  Leto let a very creepy, anticipatory smile spread across his face, his eyes distant as if speaking to the air itself. "Ah, Corvin. You made a wonderful chaos this time. Too bad you are not taking part in any of it..."