The nightmare began that night.

A gangly man stumbled into an abandoned building. It was a triple-stories storage house discarded after its previous owner filed for bankruptcy a few years back. The resulting jury — which the public ignored — caused the bank and the nobility to leave the building to dry to cut the demolition cost. Those two factors culminated in a shambling, pest-infested derelict filled with broken windowsills and rotting components. A sad excuse for an Empire once infamous for its knights and valor.

Now, in this fading corpse of an entrepreneurial dream, four people stood in front of a tied and gagged boy in the middle of the room. The lead man in black-robe and dark skull-shaped mask watched the gangly man arrived with disapproval.

“You are late,” the man said. “How is the route?”

“Clear. There is no one around us.”

“Good,” the man replied. “Let us begin.”

Most men in the room felt uncomfortable. They were being paid extremely handsomely to aid this masked man, but no amount of payment made them comfortable with human sacrifice. They were no stranger to bloodshed, but killing children like this repulsed even low-lives like them.

As quickly as it rose, the hesitancy faded from their eyes like it never even existed. The murky blackness filled their mind, and they positioned themselves like they did the previous nights.

The skull-mask checked for any degradation in his compulsion spell. He found none. And like fifty-nights before, he recited.

“Oh, father dark, oh, mother vengeance, take this pure soul-”

Suddenly, a sarcastic voice ruin everything

“-and grant me power over demise. I exchange this offering’s soul for godhood I don’t deserve. Let my enemy — who are skeletons for centuries, btw — know the Deathless’ might. I now sacrifice city of innocent joes to shame my ancestor, resting in eternal glory with the immortal soul of fellow freedom fighters.”

The skull-mask’s shoulder drooped.

“Nigel, you said everything is clear.”

Nigel sweat. He knew the worrying time had arrived. The boss had no problem slaughtering kids to appease an imaginary demon god. The chance of him living past the next minute sound grim. The hoodlum never believed in honest work, but if he survived, he promised to try. Goodbye to answering a request from a sinister man with a penchant for human sacrifice, say hello to modest janitor Nigel.

Luckily for Nigel, the invader was a big proponent for redemption.

“Don’t blame Nigel,” said the disembodied voice. “He is out of his league, Orwell Mehest.”

The skull-mask stopped right in his track. The name rippled through the ranks of men, waking them up from the haze of compulsion by raw shock. The hoodlum and criminal barely believed it. The man hiring them was a 33 Stars—the future big shot of the continent, the 1% amongst the prodigy. Why was someone with such a glorious future committed such atrocities?

“Hal Jordan.”

“Wow, savvy,” the voice of Rem snarked. “The mysterious trash-talker who show up with the only pacifist in the room is investigating a serial murder. How surprising?”

“Why are you here? This is none of your business!”

“An opposite reason to the one that got your ancestor kill,” the voice of Rem spoke. “I care.”

Orwell clenched his fist.

“If you know the story, you know this is justice.”

“No, you are committing an act of vengeance. Justice and vengeance is a nearly identical concept, separate by truth. Vengeance means punishing those who harm you. Justice imply fairness and the right for truth to come to light and judge by fair merit.”

Rem continued.

“The truth is simple. The previous Emperor of Grand Empire launched the invasion on their neighbors. Your clan nobly refused to bend the knee and got crushed for it. The criminal is therefore the previous Emperor who spearheaded the invasion. But he is long dead.”

“His descendants still lived!” Orwell yelled at the disembodied voice.

“The descendants who stopped the expansion policy,” Rem pointed out. “The soldiers who purged your ancestral home are six-feet under. The child is not his father, Orwell. With your logic, if a member of Deathless Clan marry the Grand Empire Princess and produce a child, the newborn child — your own flesh and blood — will carry the sin of killing his ancestor. Sound stupid, isn’t it?”

“Y-you are referencing the impossible,” Mehest walked toward the location of Rem’s voice.

“Today, maybe. Tomorrow, maybe not,” Rem spoke. “It is not too late, Orwell. Stop harming innocent children who got equally screwed by the Grand Empire’s mismanagement as you did. Don’t massacre common people who only want to live free like your ancestor to satiate your grudge. Your people last stand proved your blood are cleaner than the previous Emperors, so don’t ruin it. Stop the ritual, give yourself up, and I promise I will help you the best I can.”

“You! Why should you help me? We are living in a fucking insane asylum where over-privileged bastards in this city live on a mountain of sacrifices — MY PEOPLE’s SACRIFICE. Do you think the only symptoms of this sick system is the 33 Stars? They are just a latest in the line of bitches. Only prying the retribution from those assholes’ cold, dead hand will fix anything.”

“And when will it end? Who do you help? You? Become your enemy. Your enemy? Too dead to make anything right. The bystander? Running from you in fear.”

“You are too late to fix anything!” Orwell unleashed a giant icicle, piercing the location of the voice, penetrating the building and the concrete below.

Boom!

The building shook.

“What is that?” Nigel asked

The ground below them fractured and crumbled away. Orwell and the rest of the Hoodlum fell as the explosive cleverly planted by Rem took out the rotting volume of concrete supporting the third floor. The Orwell and his hired muscles fell down to the second stories with the remains of the third floor. Humans and debris smashed through the unmaintained concrete, sending the criminal plunging down to the ground.

The tied and gagged boy floated above the air, struggling mightily before a wave of Arcane splashed into his face and put him to sleep.

Hikma De Darwin emerged from the [Cloaking] Arcane. His hand held [Conceptual Seal] of [Force] and [Sleep] that made this possible.

Orwell Mehest looked up to the mysterious hero in blue/red cloak, a black mask and bowler hat. The enigmatic figure suspending in the air sent a freezing dread down into his spin. Flight was not a common ability in Phantasia, and when it appeared the opposing side would likely have a terrible time.

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Orwell conjured a mist of froze and ran.

Bang! Bang!

Two rounds of bullet penetrated his leg and shoulder, leaving a messy wound that was gushing out blood. The bullets hit Orwell precisely at the worse moment, as if the shooter knew to the exact second and direction to pull a trigger. Orwell stumbled down the street and scrambling away, leaving trails of blood behind.

…

Hikma floated in the sky and sensed shiver down his spine. He recognized this dread. Something was wrong tonight. The sinister creeping down his spine resembled the day his father died.

Hikma triggered the radio.

“Rem, I think something nasty is coming.”

…

Orwell Mehest’s translucent body phased through a wall and into Water-quarter. He coughed up blood. The injury was too taxing for him to handle. With pain and blood bleeding from his chest, the 33 Stars ran from the crime scene at a desperate pace. He scraped on the rough bricks paving the floor, fought past his pain, and rounded the corner to his manor in Venistalis. If Hal Jordan and Cytortia deduced his plan, then without a doubt Shyme would be after him. He needed to regroup and consider his option.

What he saw made his heart sunk?

The entire squadron of the royal-knight was waiting to greet him.

There was also a surprise guest.

“Hello, Orwell,” Shyme Enma said. “You look horrible.”

“Nothing much, Shyme, just assassination squad,” Orwell feigned confidence as he bled out. “What bring you here?”

“Why don’t you tell him, Captain Hex?”

A muscle-bounded knight with crewcut and a pair of piercing eyes stepped from the rank. The giant of a man wore a silver armor perfectly hiding his scar riddled body. He stood a shoulder taller than any men in his army as a testament to both his authority, training and expectation heaped on him by the Emperor. The Captain of the royal-knight, Stuart Hex, glared disdainfully at Orwell Mehest and announced his indictment.

“Orwell Mehest, you stand accused serial murder, conspiracy, treachery and terrorism against the glorious Grand Empire,” Hex bellowed.

“Captain Hex, you are accusing a diplomatic guest from Elypt,” Orwell tried to play his way out of this mess. “You need evidences.”

“Very well,” Captain Hex shouted. “Chamomile.”

“Yes Captian,” Vice-Captian Chamomile walked out of Orwell’s Manor. “We found all the evidence where the Madam and Lady Enma told us. The secret communication log alone recorded contact with the blacklisted organizations in the Willow Heart Street. The secret chamber bellowed the basement held several artifacts from the Deathless Clan, including the tome from Enma’s clan identify as Achieves of Deathless. We also found several bankbooks issued by the Bank of Willow Heart Street.”

Orwell grimaced. He was in deep trouble. Willow Heart Street was Phantasia’s major ruling body for under-table dealing. It was a secret society for criminal’s service from medical facilities to banking. Just being connected to that society is a tremendous scandal. The bankbook recording his dealing alone was a huge evidence. But how did they find it? Orwell hid those bank books and statement in a secret location that he told no one—a location protected by magic no less.

Whoever tipped Shyme and Madam Marmel off must have an eye sharper than the gods.

…

Rem lifted his head from the scope and sneezed.

Breaker’s CCC moved as predicted. No matter how tonight turned out, no other outcome remained for Orwell Mehest. By now the royal-knight led by the hulking mass of integrity and muscle called Stuart Hex would already find all the evidence needed for conviction.

Rem smirked. He also prepared an extra help.

…

“Sir,” one of knight approached the great Hex vs Orwell standoff with several prisoners wrapped in chain. “We received notice of at fight at Earth-quarter this evening and found several fugitives tied up in a slum. A lead from a man calling himself Detective Hal Jordan led us to a secret location containing the bankbook that recorded transaction connect to the disappearance case.”

Orwell gritted his teeth.

“Ridiculous! Invading my property and planting evidence is low even for you, Shyme. Captain Hex, I am being framed.”

Hex snorted.

“Ok, Mehest,” Hex replied, not buying an inch. “So Shyme Enma secretly built a secret chamber beneath your manor, planted several artifacts worth millions inside, then created multiple fake accounts worth even more with a secret society infamous for upholding their reputation with blood to frame you?”

“Give me time to explain!”

“Let me check this first,” Hex ungracefully received the bankbooks from both the knight and Chamomile. “Hmm, I think the Willow Heart Street’s bankbook can only open by using the owner’s blood. Will you lend me yours?”

Orwell stifled a curse.

“You have a nerve, Orwell,” Shyme frowned. “Sneak into my house and steal a book right from under my nose. Don’t worry we already caught your little collaborator in the royal-mages and he already told us everything?”

Orwell gritted his teeth

“You are lying. He is dea-“

Right then, Orwell realized his screw-up before he finished the sentence

“Royal-mages Roiche’s death is a confidential information,” Captain Hex said, much to Shyme’s outrage. “Yes, we lied to you about that, Enma. Deal with it.”

Shyme cursed at the mysterious bastard pulling the string.

“So, tell me how do you know that mage is dead, Orwell.”

Orwell stood silence as everything he spent a decade building collapsed in a single night

…

“Rem, what will happen after tonight?”

Rem leaned on his back and considered Hikma’s query. It was a good question. Rem activated his [Clairvoyance].

Nothing.

Rem’s eyes widened. He fucked up. He engineered the vision up to the arrest of Orwell Mehest, but nothing beyond. Originally, he thought nothing about it, but there was one obvious explanation he didn’t want to believe.

The current Breaker’s CCC only worked on a being at A-Rank. If a being exceeded that level entered the equation, it would malfunction.

Shit.

“Everyone regroup!” Rem yelled. “Orwell can activate the ritual early. I repeat! This operation is a failure. Tell the royal-knights to retreat immediately!”

…

Shyme felt smug, and she deserved it.

She never liked Orwell Mehest. The middle of the road idiot who tried to get along with everyone. Every time she saw him, she wanted a reason to hate this overly decent person. In Shyme Enma’s reality, a naturally decent soul didn’t exist. Even Cytortia — the nicest person she ever met — were a bit of a coward; not to mention Remus Breaker and the elf punk. Everyone hid a little ugliness inside them; it was a lesson the clan drilled into her foundation.

And again, reality proved her reality right. Mr. Nice-guy was a secret serial killer, a descendant of fugitives, and most important of all, he stole from her collection. Shyme was particularly madder about the book.

Then her communicator rang. She picked it up, and she barely believed what she was hearing.

“Retreat! Are you crazy? We have won.”

Orwell perked up and smiled contently.

“Hal Jordan call, didn’t he?”

Shyme glared back at him.

“It got nothing to do with you. Shut up.”

But Orwell Mehest finally had an opportunity to let a boulder off his chest, and he wouldn’t waste it.

“Truth to be told, I half-regret my decision. My parent scoured the ruin left behind by this cursed country and barely gathered enough kindles to start over. They never cried, but I felt those sadnesses in every single hour of their life spent to honor our family’s legacy and what we stand for.”

Shyme snorted.

Orwell sighed.

“The pain. The hate. As the strongest of this bloodline, I must carry it all. My regret don’t matter — balancing the scale is.”

“The Deathless Clan defied the Empire and lost, boy,” Hex’s gaze softened from titanium to rock. “I understand your anger, but we do not live in a fantasy where right make might.”

“The Deathless clan are just mere humans,” Shyme added. “Wake up. The Grand Empire’s nobility carries bloodlines of the elves, the Leviathan, and many mythological beasts to the point they were on par with the higher species. Spirit masteries won’t give you an edge you need.”

“That is where you both are wrong,” Orwell grimly spoke. “Let me get this off my chest. I don’t hate you, Hex. You care about people of this country. I can sympathize with that goal. Listing what I hate will take forever, but right now I will stick with two. Shyme, Chamomile, even death is too kind of fate for you two.”

“Why me?” Chamomile looked confuse.

“Because you stand for nothing,” Orwell said. “You are just a monkey, closing her ears and mouth, letting disasters happens despite having power to stop them. Just like the gods who let my ancestor suffered without lifting a damn finger. I can’t stomach your cowardice, so I will teach you the price of being a coward.”

“And you, Shyme,” Orwell said. “Your clan are an abomination. Why did those bastards from Enma rose to the top while my ancestors fell? Velnia is naïve, but I can respect her sincere desire for peace. But you! You still dare to mock her despite being equally foolish! You are not worthy to defeat me, Enma! None of you have a right to stop me! I only accept one man in this stupid city as my opponent.”

“Must be quite a man,” Hex commented.

The ground trembled.

“Yes, he is the only one who cares to talk me out of this,” Orwell said as the screamed of the damn rocked the sky. “Sarcastic as he is, I acknowledge his admiration and sincerity. If there are someone worthy enough to face the might of my hatred, it will be a champion of moral and mercy my parents believe in, not those false gods and their lackeys. None of you understand my pain. Only he and his earn the privilege to honor my forefather.”

Suddenly the sky parted and thousand black-eyes peered into the capital, blocking out the moon like a lunar eclipsed.

“I know you can hear me! Hal Jordan! Cytortia!” Orwell Mehest challenged the heroes of justice. “Save them if you can, but tonight, there will be blood.”

The black tears flowed from the eyes, rising the curtain to Horizon Dawn’s greatest siege since Millian.

Began was the Capital of the Dead.