Lucien stood once again before a blank canvas he had just set up in his room. He stared at the pristine surface, still unsure of what to draw.

  Yet, the uncertainty didn't feel unpleasant. If anything, it was a sensation he had missed—the quiet contemplation of infinite possibility.

  He would visualize an image in his mind, but instead of transferring it to the canvas, he would often lose himself in the thought itself, the act of creation happening entirely within.

  Finally, he picked up a paintbrush. He began to paint what came to his mind at that moment, his movements guided by focus and a smooth, preternatural calm. Each stroke was deliberate, considered.

  The end result was deceptively common, he had painted himself painting on a canvas. It wasn't extreme realism or technical virtuosity, but it was rendered in a detailed, distinctive style Lucien was capable of—a style that was simple yet invoked a profound sense of calm and introspection, quite the opposite of the man who had created it.

  As he finished, he set the painting aside to dry. A knock sounded at the door.

  "It is open," Lucien said, not turning.

  Ultimare entered, his eyes scanning the minor chaos of paints and brushes. He let out a soft, amused laugh. "So, that's what you have been busy with."

  Lucien, still not looking at him, asked, "How is the work going on?"

  "Finn is going all out," Ultimare reported casually. "A major part of the structure will be finished tonight. He did mention there could be some minor earth tremors as a side effect, so don't be alarmed. Other than that, I’ve set up the rooms for everyone, so feel free to use this one. You’ve already left your mark here anyway." He paused, his tone shifting slightly. "Are we about to make any move?"

  "No," Lucien stated. "The first priority is to acquire the base. After that, we will take any action. Though I am thinking of laying some groundwork prior to it."

  "Another night stroll?" Ultimare inferred. "From what I've gathered, tonight will be pretty busy, more than usual, on all fronts."

  "That just makes it better," Lucien replied, a faint, cold interest in his voice. "I will get to see a good show, maybe."

  "See a show," Ultimare mused, a knowing smirk on his lips, "or show a show? Last time's fireworks were not enough, it seems."

  Lucien didn't reply, letting the silence serve as his answer. Ultimare's eyes drifted back to the newly finished painting.

  "Oh, nice. Can I take it to show around the house?" Before Lucien could grant or refuse permission, Ultimare had already scooped the painting up and was walking out with it, leaving Lucien alone once more with his thoughts and the lingering scent of paint.

  As Lucien stood there, a thought flickered in his eyes when he noticed the painting materials.

  Hmm… I haven’t tried sketching yet, have I? He mused.

  All one really needs is a pencil and some paper, a simple notebook would do the job. Things can be drawn quickly on the go.

  And for color… perhaps pastels. Interesting.

  The idea sounded genuinely fun to him.

  Night had fallen over Pipra, and with it came a palpable, electric tension. The city was holding its breath.

  Movement and action could be sensed throughout the town, a stark contrast to the usual evening quiet.

  Guards and officers moved in coordinated patrols, taking up fortified positions. Troops, their armor and insignia marking them as the Duke's men, spread through the main thoroughfares with disciplined purpose.

  But they weren’t the only ones on the streets. Gangs and their goons had also come out, spreading across the town, waiting for things to settle down before starting their hunt.

  The civilians, sensing the storm in the air, had fled the streets early. Veteran shopkeepers and business owners, wise to the signs, knew precisely what the night promised. They shuttered their stores, grabbed their ledgers and most precious goods, and locked themselves in their homes.

  They knew that when these forces the official law and the underworld power mobilized on such a scale, a clash was inevitable, even if they were supposedly hunting the same target. The fragile, unspoken truce between the guards and the gangs was bound to shatter.

  Taverns and bars closed their doors, keeping their employees inside for safety. Major business battened down their hatches. In the poorer districts, the situation was even more dire. Surrounded by the very goons who terrorized them, the residents had little to take and nowhere to run.

  They huddled together in cramped houses, sought sanctuary in the local church, or gathered in the most deserted alleys on the city's outskirts. Nobody wanted to be outside tonight, save for the truly desperate, the hopelessly drunk, and those who were directly involved in the coming chaos.

  Even the Entertainment District, was shut down and barricaded. Guards were posted, a desperate attempt at protection. Promises had been extracted from the gangs to leave the district untouched, but no one was foolish enough to trust them.

  In an atmosphere this volatile, an alliance between gangs could turn into an all-out war in the space of a single minute.

  In this suffocating tension, a single café's lights still glowed, a lone, defiant beacon. It was on the verge of closing, its open door an anomaly in the locked-down town.

  A figure slipped inside, the door whispering shut behind her. The Knight codename K2 scanned the interior. Her polished armor and anonymous helm were starkly out of place among the cozy tables and chairs.

  The only other person in the room was a man wiping down glasses behind the counter. He looked up at her, and a wide, booming laugh escaped him. "That get-up looks good on you! For a moment, I had thought you were the real deal."

  K2 did not pause her stride. "What do you mean, 'real deal'? For now, I am the real deal." Her voice was flat, devoid of offense, a simple statement of fact. She moved past him towards a door marked 'Staff Only', ascending the stairs to the second floor.

  She opened the door at the top.

  The scene that greeted her was a study in grotesque contrast. A woman with long, flowing hair, dressed in a neat bartender's apron, sat primly on a chair, reading a book. Behind her, the room was a carnage of crimson. Blood was spattered across the walls and floor, darker in some areas where it had pooled.

  Piles of heads were stacked neatly in one corner, alongside other, less identifiable body parts. Three naked captives were tied to the walls with thick ropes and iron nails. Their mouths had been sealed shut with crude, black stitches.

  The woman, Renda, looked up from her book. Her expression was one of mild curiosity.

  K2 immediately dropped to one knee, bowing her head.

  "And how was the job?" Renda's voice was light, almost melodic. "Did you succeed?"

  K2 kept her head lowered. "Yes, my liege, Renda. We have successfully infiltrated them as planned."

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  "Wonderful." Renda closed her book with a soft snap. "That is what I expect from you."

  K2's helm tilted slightly, taking in the mess and the three remaining, trembling captives. "Should I dispose of these three who are left?"

  Renda's cheerful laugh filled the abattoir. "That won't be needed. I am actually getting into cooking quite a lot ever since I took over this café. I'm loving creating this new form of art. They will work as good material for it." She smiled, a genuine, warm expression that was more terrifying than any scowl. "Don't you love when you feed your cooking, which you made with care, to someone? Huh? Watching them enjoy it feels so good."

  "Yes, my liege," K2 replied, her tone unchanged.

  "So, what orders are for any of us?"

  "None, for now. Just find that imposter and bring him to me. So I can pass my judgment. Yellow will leave in a moment as well."

  "Understood. In that case, I will tell you all the information I have gained."

  A brief, quiet exchange followed. Information was passed between them, the clinical report starkly at odds with the room's horrific backdrop.

  Within a few hours, the streets of Pipra became a stage set for a play of violence.

  The only inhabitants now were two kinds of people: the guards and troops holding their disciplined lines, and the gangs lurking in the shadows.

  Both forces watched each other, a silent, tense standoff where neither side was willing to make the first proper contact.

  It was in this stalemate that Red Cape made the first move.

  A flash of red and black descended from the rooftops, landing on the street with a soft thud. Liam, encased in his knightly disguise, immediately scanned the area.

  His destination was Anna's home, a place he knew would become the strike zone.

  "Am I the first one to show up to the party?" he muttered to himself, his voice muffled by the helmet. "Now that is embarrassing, isn't it?"

  He approached the door and knocked, a part of him wondering if he was already too late.

  A moment passed before a voice, high and feminine, came from the other side. "Yes? Who is it?"

  Red Cape adjusted his grip on his spear. "I am just a city guard. Wanted to know if everything is fine in there. Are you and your family okay?" He braced himself, the point of his spear aiming at the lock.

  The voice replied, "Yes, it is. Thanks for asking. What is going on outside?"

  "Has your daughter arrived home safely?" Red Cape pressed, the logic feeling flimsy even to him.

  "Daughter? I don't have any daughter. I do have a younger sister. Who has not come back from her job yet, who are you? Do you know anything? What is going on outside?."

  "I am a guard, don't worry," Red Cape said smoothly. "Just wanted to tell ya you shouldn't—" His sentence ended as he drove his spear forward with a bang, splintering the lock and forcing the door open. "—leave the door unlocked."

  He stepped across the threshold and was immediately met with a concussive force. An explosive fire orb slammed into his chest, throwing him back out into the street.

  He hit the ground hard, rolling to his feet as the flames licked him harmlessly.

  Standing in the now-open doorway was the figure in the green-and-black tuxedo, the yellow weaver, his bird mask gleaming in the dim light.

  “Yo, Red Cape! You actually made it through yesterday—in one piece, no less. Truly commendable.” The Yellow Weaver adopted a deadly stance, his metal-clad hands curling. The smile was audible in his voice, radiating pure hostility.

  Red Cape forward his spear, ready to retaliate. "Did you make that feminine voice? Now that's creepy."

  The Yellow Weaver laughed. "Hahaha! Where have you hidden the girl, huh?"

  Just as the words were uttered. A circle of flame erupted on the ground beneath Red Cape's feet. He lunged sideways, the searing heat missing him by inches.

  More attacks came—precise, cutting slashes of fire. Red Cape retaliated, swinging his spear in a wide arc.

  A wave of thunderous energy erupted from it, meeting the flames and creating a chain of small, concussive explosions that lit up the street.

  He landed perfectly, only for the Yellow Weaver to launch a physical assault, closing the distance with a brutal kick aimed at his head. Red Cape shifted, using the shaft of his spear to block the blow, the impact ringing out. He pushed back, dodging the follow-up by a hair's breadth.

  A loud, piercing whistle vibrated through the town, a signal that shattered the tense silence. The noise and light show had drawn the attention of both the organized guards and the waiting gangs.

  The Yellow Weaver’s head tilted, listening to the sounds of shouting and converging footsteps. “Hey, what do you think? We’ve got a lot of trouble heading our way—how about we team up for a bit to deal with it?”

  Red Cape’s helmet shifted slightly. “Let me think about it.”

  In the same breath, he moved with lightning speed, throwing a savage jab at the yellow mask.

  The Yellow Weaver caught the fist, but that was the distraction Red Cape wanted. He tried shoving his spear into his opponent’s stomach.

  He was a fraction too slow. The Yellow Weaver kicked him in the side, sending him sprawling in that direction.

  Suddenly, the street filled with a new threat. Goons, emboldened by numbers and the chaos, poured into the area. Without a thought for the civilian homes around them, they unleashed what little magic they knew, crude and volatile fireballs aimed straight at the two central figures.

  Red Cape acted instantly. He couldn’t dodge, the stray spells would obliterate the surrounding buildings. He swung his spear in a wide, fluid motion. “Fifth Circle: Water Pyramid!” A shimmering, geometric wave of water formed before him, intercepting the fireballs. The wave struck the spells with a violent hiss, erupting into plumes of steam that neutralized their destructive force.

  On the other hand, the Yellow Weaver saw only an opportunity. While Red Cape was focused on protecting the street, he closed the distance. He grabbed Red Cape by the back of his neck, his metal-clad fist glowing with concentrated heat.

  “Take this!”

  An explosive fist connected with Red Cape’s spine, a brutal, point-blank detonation. Then his attacker grabbed him and hurled him away with an enhanced fire-charged kick, sending him flying two blocks down the street before crashing into a wall in a heap of shattered stone.

  The Yellow Weaver didn’t even watch him land. “Get the fuck out of here! I will come after you later!” He had removed Red cape with the understanding that the vigilante would never cooperate, and he was now a complication he didn’t need amidst the arriving horde.

  The Yellow Weaver walked toward the encircling goons, his posture relaxed, almost bored. The thugs prepared another volley of fire spells, their hands trembling with a mix of fear and rage.

  One of the goons, who carried himself with the authority of a high-ranking member, stepped forward. "I will ask you once," he snarled, his voice tight. "Were you the one who killed our boss's daughters?"

  The Yellow Weaver knew full well he was not. He hadn’t killed them, nor had anyone he knew. It was most likely the work of that copycat, the Scholar. But it wasn’t his job to explain. He looked down at them, the blank eyes of his bird mask conveying utter disdain.

  "I don't really remember," he said, his voice a flat, taunting drawl. "I have killed many. Too many to remember."

  The gangster’s face contorted. "Yesterday! They died yesterday! Brutally murdered. Their eyes were taken out of their faces. Ears cut. Both hands gone, and they were roped together to a ceiling of a watch tower. Their faces, even after death... showing the horror they were put through. Ring any bell?"

  The Yellow Weaver laughed, a raw, maniacal sound that cut through the nervous air. "Still doesn't ring a bell. How about this? You describe to me their inner wounds. Was their liver detached? Or was their windpipe taken out, the bone showing? How about the spine? Normally, I take the spine out of my target. Was it like that?"

  The man was stunned into silence for a moment. "How can you do it?" he finally whispered, aghast.

  "You are asking me this as a gangster?" The Yellow Weaver's voice dripped with mockery.

  "We don't do it this openly! We have a code—"

  The Yellow Weaver cut him off, his voice losing its playful edge and turning sharp, venomous. "Don't give me that honorable thief bullshit. You are behaving as if I am, and those like me, are nutcases. While you, who also belong to the same world, are different. Because you have a reason. You follow a code. You do this, you do that. But in all reality, you are just like us. If anything, worse. I kill people out of fun. I get turned on when I see their terrified looks filled with horror. My feeling is genuine and I stand by it. It is pure. While yours is just for materialist things. You kill for it. You threaten for it. You smuggle women and kids for it. And still, you pretend you have a code. That you are better. What foolishness is this? You are like me. A freak. But in denial."

  The man’s face, pale with shock moments before, flushed a deep, violent red. Hearing his entire world laid bare and ridiculed shattered his composure.

  "Fuck you, bitch!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips. "Roast him to death!"

  The order was a spark to tinder. Every goon unleashed their magic at once, a storm of fireballs screaming toward the solitary figure in the yellow mask.

  What followed was not a fight. It was an exhibition.

  In less than a minute, the street was transformed. A bloody pool spread across the cobblestones, reflecting the pale moon.

  The walls were adorned with a macabre fresco of crushed heads and splintered body parts. Arms and legs were thrown about with utter disregard, creating a grotesque spectacle of gore.

  The lead gangster was the last one left. He lay on the ground, unable to move. His own legs were a pulped, unrecognizable mess, crushed in the initial blur of motion. He could only watch, his mind broken by the horror, as the Yellow Weaver walked slowly toward him.

  The Weaver’s bird mask tilted, studying the man’s face. His terrified eyes bulged, sweat pouring down as he made incoherent sounds. The righteous gangster had forgotten all about revenge, the only thing he cared about now was his own survival. . He made a soft, considering sound.

  "Hmm. Good, keep showing me this expression, until I am satisfied."