Cyrus fled the battlefield as swiftly as he could, his heart pounding in his chest. He burst into Lork's shop, gasping for air as he stumbled inside. The encounter with Nemesis had left him deeply unsettled. Though he'd faced the man before, this was the first time he'd gotten a clear look at him. The realization that Nemesis led the Bureau's executioners sent chills down Cyrus's spine.

"Hey Lork, where are you?" Cyrus called out, his voice echoing through the empty shop. The silence that greeted him was disconcerting. Lork always rushed to greet him whenever he arrived. A pang of guilt struck Cyrus as he wondered if his friend was angry with him. It was true that since joining the Bites, he'd been spending less and less time with his old companions.

But Lork wasn't the type to give him the silent treatment. If he had a problem, he would have called Cyrus directly and cursed him out. Unless... unless he couldn't call. A sense of dread settled over Cyrus as he rushed to Lork's office.

The sight that greeted him confirmed his worst fears. The office was in complete disarray, papers strewn about, drawers half-open. It looked as though someone had left in a great hurry—or been forcibly taken. With his heart racing, Cyrus made his way to Lork's secret drawer, praying he wouldn't find what he feared.

As he pulled the drawer open, Cyrus's face drained of color. "The bastard, he did it," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. The plans for the Bureau headquarters were nowhere to be found. Cyrus frantically searched through the scattered papers, but it was no use.

His mind raced with the implications. Lork was in grave danger—he was going to get himself killed. Cyrus knew he had to help his friend, but doubt gnawed at him. In his current state, weakened from his recent encounter with the Queen, he was little more than a walking target.

Cyrus pulled out his phone, his fingers shaking as he dialed Leora's number. When the call went unanswered, he cursed loudly, kicking a chair out of his way in frustration. He made his way down to the basement, hoping against hope to find some clue, but the human figure he'd seen earlier had vanished without a trace.

The weight of the situation crashed down upon him as Cyrus realized how truly alone he was. The Queen would never take orders from him, Leora was unreachable, the Prophet was blind, and Tirag... Cyrus's hands clenched into fists at the thought of that bastard. But what choice did he have? His best friend's life was on the line. Pride could be regained, but a life lost was gone forever.

Swallowing his anger and wounded pride, Cyrus dialed Tirag's number. "I need your help," he said, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. "My friend has serious problems with the Bureau. Please help me."

Tirag's laughter crackled through the phone. "Are you really that desperate? We are not friends, Cyrus."

"I never said we were," Cyrus retorted, his jaw clenched tight. "I'll pay you whatever you want, as long as it's within my reach."

There was a brief pause before Tirag's voice returned, a dangerous edge to his words. "I can help you. But on one condition."

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Cyrus's stomach churned as he asked the dreaded question. "What condition?"

"A life for a life. Give up to gain—the world has worked this way for centuries. It's a universal truth that even in our modern world we obey. Will you be ready to give up one in order to gain another, Cyrus?"

Cyrus's hand trembled as he held the phone. Was Tirag really forcing him to choose between his best friend and Leora? Lork had been there for him his entire life, protecting him even when the Bureau was hunting Cyrus down. He could have lost his shop or even been decapitated like the old man earlier that day, but Lork had acted without hesitation to keep Cyrus safe.

And yet, Leora had not only saved his life against the karmic monster but had also given him a reason to move forward. How could he possibly choose between his blood brother and the desires of his heart?

"He isn't that important after all," Tirag's voice drawled, deliberately dragging out each word.

Cyrus's heart constricted, his fist clenching so tight his knuckles turned white. "I will give you the coordinates," he said at last, knowing he would likely regret this decision. But some things had to be done a certain way, and he had made his choice.

A short while later, Cyrus met with Tirag at the agreed-upon location. He was dressed in his familiar combat suit, rifle at the ready. There were no unnecessary pleasantries between them—just a simple nod before they set off.

As they approached their destination, a massive structure came into view. The Bureau headquarters was an impressive sight to behold, with tall, slender pillars and a central spire reaching towards the sky. The façade was adorned with a series of geometric shapes, giving it a unique appearance that was both modern and mystical. Its pure white exterior stood in stark contrast to the surrounding brown desert, reflecting the light in a way that made it appear almost like holy ground.

The Bureau feared no one in Arkania, and they made that fact abundantly clear. In every major city, their headquarters were built in open spaces, with nothing for kilometers around. The vast emptiness made it easy to spot potential threats from a great distance.

"We can't get close without getting spotted," Tirag observed, his gaze fixed on the distant building.

"I have eyes too, you know," Cyrus snapped. He pulled out a small object and sealed his arms, feeling his magic being sucked into the magical ties. With his powers effectively sealed, he turned to Tirag. "I am your prisoner, and you wouldn't hand me to anyone but the commander of the Bureau."

Tirag's lips curved into a surprised smile. "Do you really think the Bureau receives orders from anyone? That we can simply walk in since the door is open? We'll get shot before we could even get close." He pointed towards the sky. "Do you see the beast that keeps flying over the building?"

Cyrus squinted, making out a small bird-like machine circling the Bureau. It had the form of an eagle, with sleek, expansive wings and sharp, gleaming talons that reflected the desert sun.

"It's the latest Nightmare Vogel, also called the Eye of God," Tirag explained. "The weapon of choice for long-range targets. It can blast your head off from thousands of meters away with a single, precise shot. And that's not even the worst part." His grip tightened on his rifle as he continued. "The most frightening aspect lies in its eyes. Once you're marked, even if you leave the vicinity of the Headquarters and run a million miles away, it can shoot through space domains and still blast your head off at the other end of the planet. Do you understand now?"

Cyrus swallowed hard as the gravity of the situation sank in. He finally grasped how naïve he had been. He had wondered why such an important place had no visible agents patrolling, no obvious traps—why the door was even wide open, as if inviting any visitor brave enough to enter.

If he had come alone, lured into the building by its deceptive openness, he would have died without even knowing what hit him. The realization of how close he had come to walking into such a deadly trap made his blood run cold.

As they crouched behind their meager cover, Cyrus's mind raced. The question that now loomed before them seemed almost insurmountable: How could they possibly enter the building without getting killed?