A few days had passed since Hanna’s visit to Zeke’s home, yet her presence lingered in the corners of his mind like a shadow that wouldn’t fade. Each moment of their encounter replayed in his thoughts, over and over again—things he could have said, should have said, the actions he wished he had taken. Regret gnawed at him, its sharp teeth digging deeper as he found himself enchanted by the fleeting moments they had shared. Her voice, her laughter, her very presence had wrapped around his mind like a vine slowly tightening its grip, and without even realizing it, a strange obsession began to bloom.

It was subtle at first, like the gentle warmth of the morning sun, but soon it grew stronger—a vivid recollection of Hanna’s features, the way her eyes had sparkled when she joked, the softness of her smile. But with that warmth came the bitter sting of regret, the painful reminder of his own hesitation. Each time he replayed their conversation, he saw new moments, new opportunities where he could have been bolder, where he could have acted differently.

As Zeke’s thoughts of Hanna deepened, they seemed to blur the edges of his past, slowly erasing the sharpness of memories that had once haunted him. The Cradle of Fools, the battles, the faces of those he had once feared and fought—Elaine, Ulmak—became hazy, like distant echoes barely clinging to his consciousness. Elaine, once a constant figure in his mind, seemed to drift away like a ghost lost to time. Ulmak’s face, once a source of anger and determination, only surfaced during his training, a mere flicker in the back of his mind.

It was early morning, and Zeke hadn’t slept. The night had been spent in relentless practice, smashing walls and honing his magic in the dim light of his room. His hands were raw, his body aching from the effort, but still, he pushed himself harder, trying to drown out the thoughts of Hanna, trying to regain control of his own mind.

The faint sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor on the first floor, breaking the silence. The sound was distant at first, but it grew louder, closer, with each passing second. Zeke’s heart leapt in his chest, the familiar thrill of anticipation rushing through him.

“Hanna,” he thought, his heart racing, urging him to go to her. His breath became shallow, his face turning pale as excitement and nerves crashed through him like a wave. Before he could even think, his feet were already moving, carrying him forward without his permission.

He charged down the stairs, leaping the last few steps, his eyes wide with hope. But as his gaze settled on the figure before him, his heart sank.

It wasn’t Hanna.

Standing in the hallway was someone Zeke hadn’t expected to see—someone he would have never imagined entering his building.

“Good morning, Zeke,” Calisto said warmly, her voice as smooth as silk. She stood with perfect posture, her hands clutching a knitted straw picnic basket in front of her. Her smile was soft, the lines beneath her eyes crinkling in a way that made her seem both kind and calculating at the same time.

Zeke’s excitement drained from him, leaving only frustration in its wake. He turned his gaze to the side, scratching his chin as he muttered, “I’m not hungry.”

“That’s fine!” Calisto replied without missing a beat, her tone chipper and undeterred. “After all, we still have somewhere we need to be, so there’s plenty of time for you to get hungry.”

Zeke frowned, the frustration clear on his face. “You want me to go somewhere with you?” he asked, surprise evident in his voice.

“Yes! Quite so. I have an appointment that I’m sure you will find interesting,” Calisto replied, her eyes sparkling with a strange excitement that only made Zeke more wary.

Zeke crossed his arms, trying to find a way out of this interaction. “What about the bar? Are you sure it’s okay to leave it unattended?”

“It’s fine,” Calisto said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I left Isaac in charge while I’m away.”

Zeke raised an eyebrow, incredulous. “Isaac? He can barely take care of himself! You’d better rush back before he burns the place down.”

Calisto smirked, her eyes narrowing slightly as she responded, “Isaac is far more capable than you give him credit for, Zeke. I’m sure you’re aware that one doesn’t become an Invoke without some skill.” She turned and began walking toward the back of the corridor, her heels clicking softly against the stone floor. “Well, get dressed. I’ll be waiting for you by the entrance in ten minutes,” she called over her shoulder.

Zeke groaned in frustration, scratching his head. “Fine!” he shouted after her. “What should I wear?”

Calisto’s voice echoed back from down the hall, “Something casual. This isn’t a formal outing.”

Ten minutes passed, and Zeke stepped outside the building just as Calisto had intended. He wore a pair of sneakers, black cargo pants, a red T-shirt, and a gray plaid shirt. His hair was still disheveled from training, but he didn’t care.

Calisto stood waiting for him, her usual calm smile plastered across her face. “You’re here, and just on time,” she remarked, her eyes scanning him briefly.

“Where are we going?” Zeke asked, ignoring her comment and stepping past her.

“To see Mr. Bertold. It’s been quite a while since I had the pleasure of talking with him,” Calisto said, falling into step beside Zeke.

The two walked in silence for a moment, the streets around them eerily quiet. As they passed under the streetlights, the soft glow of the lamps turned white, signaling the arrival of a new day. The pale light made the city seem even more desolate, the shadows stretching long and thin against the walls of the buildings. Zeke’s chest tightened as he walked, the suffocating weight of the new day pressing down on him like a heavy blanket.

“So, how have things been for you?” Calisto asked, breaking the silence.

Stolen story; please report.

Zeke sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “The same as always. Training, searching for information on the kingpin.”

“Oh?” Calisto’s voice held a note of curiosity. “And how’s that going?”

Zeke frowned, thinking back to the long hours of investigation. “I managed to figure out that whoever they are, they don’t operate out of a set district. They always change their location after making a move. Additionally, whoever it is, they have a great deal of information about the Contractor King’s operation. So I’m thinking it could be one of the guardians or someone close to them.”

Calisto’s expression turned thoughtful, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered his words. “I doubt any of the guardians would dare pull something like that off with the King watching them,” she said. “Despite all his flaws, the King is a leader and a force to be reckoned with. The only reason the kingpin exists is because the Second wills it.”

“The Second?” Zeke repeated, confused. “Who exactly is this Second? I’ve heard about them before, but I haven’t had the chance to meet them.”

“You won’t,” Calisto said, her voice cold and distant. She paused for a moment before continuing. “The Second, also known as the Strategist, is the intellectual force behind the Undercity. If a tactical choice is made or an order is given, it most likely originates from the Second, not the King. The two of them work as a duo—the King is the driving force, the brawn that pushes the organization forward, while the Second is the brain that ensures nothing goes wrong.”

Zeke’s eyes widened slightly as he processed this new information. “So, the Second... is he the guardian of District Two?”

“Yes,” Calisto said, nodding. “Although the King is known as the guardian of District One, and his district is assumed to be the interior of the Chapel, District Two does not exist—or at least, no one knows where it is or who this mysterious guardian might be.” She stopped in front of a large metal door, turning to face Zeke. “We’re here,” she said simply, stepping into the bladesmith’s domain.

“Bertold, I’m here,” Calisto called out, her voice echoing off the cold, metallic walls of the bladesmith’s domain. The sound seemed to travel down the long, dimly lit corridor, disappearing into the shadows. She approached a large circular door, its surface worn and etched with strange symbols that Zeke didn’t recognize. The door immediately hissed open at the sound of her voice, revealing a darkened workshop beyond.

From the shadows, a raspy voice responded through the intercom, crackling with static. “Finally, Lady Calisto, I’ve been waiting patiently for you,” the voice of the old bladesmith, Bertold, reverberated through the room. There was a soft, audible gulp, as if the man had swallowed his nerves.

Zeke followed Calisto inside, his eyes adjusting to the low light of the workshop. The room was cluttered, filled with all manner of tools, metals, and half-forged weapons scattered across every available surface. Sparks flew intermittently from a distant forge, casting flickering light across the walls. The air was thick with the smell of burning metal and oil, mixed with the earthy scent of coal smoldering in the forge. The place was a shrine to craft, but it had an eerie, oppressive weight to it, as though centuries of toil and struggle were embedded in the very walls.

The flickering lights cast long shadows across the floor, and Zeke found himself squinting at the dim figures in the distance. His eyes landed on a security camera perched in the far corner of the room, its red light blinking rhythmically as it watched them enter.

“Hello, Bertold,” Zeke said, waving nonchalantly at the camera, though his voice was tinged with irritation. His frustration from earlier still clung to him, gnawing at his patience.

“Oh, Guardian, you’re here too,” Bertold’s voice responded, more upbeat now, though there was still a nervous edge to it. “Great! I’ve been waiting for you as well. I have something to show you—something I think you’ll find very interesting.”

Zeke’s eyes narrowed, his tone growing sharper. “Did you finish my weapon?” he asked, a hint of frustration slipping through as he crossed his arms, glaring at the camera.

There was a pause on the other end of the intercom, the silence thick enough to cut with a knife. “About that...” Bertold’s voice wavered slightly, betraying his hesitation.

The final set of doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the old weaponsmith standing directly behind them. Bertold was a short, hunched man, his back bent from years of labor over his forge. His face was lined with deep wrinkles, his skin leathery from the heat of the flames, and his eyes were sunken but sharp, gleaming with intelligence behind thick glasses that magnified his gaze. He wore a soot-stained apron, the fabric worn and frayed from countless years of work, and his hands were calloused, blackened with the soot and ash that clung to his skin.

Despite his aged appearance, Bertold moved with surprising agility as he shuffled forward, wiping his hands on his apron. He approached Calisto with a smile, reaching out to take her hand. “Lady Calisto,” he said, leaning over to kiss the back of her hand with an air of reverence, his voice softer now, almost fawning.

“How polite of you,” Calisto responded, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as she smiled warmly down at him. There was something strangely tender in the way she regarded the old man, as if they shared a history that went beyond the superficial.

Zeke cleared his throat loudly, his impatience boiling over. “What about my weapon?” he asked again, this time stomping his foot slightly, the sound reverberating off the metal walls. His frustration was palpable.

Bertold straightened up, turning to face Zeke with an apologetic look on his face. “Yes, yes, Guardian, of course,” he said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I’ve conducted extensive research on that weapon of yours, and I’ve learned a lot about its properties. You see, the dragon you faced... well, it wasn’t just any dragon. Its desire was... unique.”

Zeke crossed his arms, his expression darkening. “And why does that matter? A dragon’s a dragon, isn’t it?” he muttered, his eyes narrowing in frustration.

Bertold shook his head, adjusting his glasses as they slipped down his nose. “No, Guardian, this was no ordinary dragon. Its desire was not what we originally thought. Its desire was to devour souls,” Bertold explained, his voice trembling slightly with the weight of the revelation. “Had you faced that creature as a Contractor, you would have surely died. Its power would have been too much for you to handle, but...” he trailed off for a moment, casting a wary glance at Zeke before continuing. “But since you fought it as a human, without being able to summon your soul, its ability became useless.”

Zeke’s brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of the weaponsmith’s words. “So... why does that matter?” he asked, his tone skeptical, though his curiosity was piqued.

Bertold smiled, a glint of excitement flickering in his old eyes. “Because the weapon you’ve inherited, the Broken Desire, draws its power from the nature of the dragon’s desire. You see, once I finish crafting it, the weapon will inherit the ability to destroy the souls of your enemies.”

A slow, predatory smirk spread across Zeke’s face, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You mean... if you finish it,” he remarked, his voice low and playful.

Bertold bristled at the comment, his face reddening as his hands clenched into fists. “Shut up! I’ll get it done, you rascal!” he snapped, his voice rising with frustration. “If you’re that impatient, why don’t you craft it yourself?”

Before the situation could escalate further, Calisto cleared her throat softly, snapping both men out of their heated exchange. Her gaze was calm, steady, and somehow commanding without a word. She smiled gently, locking eyes with Bertold, and the tension in the room seemed to dissipate instantly.

“Bertold,” she said, her voice like honey, “why don’t we go get some tea in your safe room? It’ll give us a chance to talk in peace.”

Bertold’s expression softened, and he nodded eagerly. “Whatever you wish, Lady Calisto,” he said, bowing his head slightly as he gestured toward the back of his workshop, where a small door led into a more secluded area of the forge.