There were two choices.

Either run and get out of reach, or stay and die.

Darcy Raux chose the latter, and the flames engulfed her body until nothing was left, turning everything to charcoal.

Scar didn’t know what she was seeing. Whether it was the destruction of her former sector, or if she was searching for the boss now missing among the rubble.

People in the neighborhood came out of their houses screaming, but everything was muffled for Scar, everything was a false hope. It was all happening slowly as she searched through the smoke and the fire still burning in the scattered pieces of the sector on the ground.

The stable next door creaked, and Scar just watched as it collapsed to one side. Injured horses ran out in desperation, almost trampling civilians as they fled in all directions. She was sure some of them were left behind, dead or trapped.

There was no point in blinking to regain her vision because Scar’s ears didn’t seem to work well, and her head was throbbing. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and certainly not the last. It seemed she was destined to suffer from explosions for the rest of her life.

Her ankle was injured and hurting, but she still tried to move it, to get it out from under a piece of cement. An involuntary groan escaped her throat, and her breath faltered.

She still held Darcy’s damn letter, so, carefully, she stuffed it into her pants with trembling, bloody hands.

Scar didn’t care when hands closed around her shoulders and arms, pulling her to her feet. The cement slipped off her ankle, and she screamed in pain.

In the midst of so much muffled noise, she managed to identify someone shouting:

— The Shooter!

And then it all went downhill.

Scar was punched in the left eye by someone.

Before staggering and falling to the ground, the same people who had lifted her held her tighter, setting her up to take more blows.

Another fist hit her stomach.

Everything was slow.

The people around started shouting more angrily, blaming Scar, blaming everything she was and had been. Blaming Scar’s parents and everything else she called family.

They blamed her for the explosions and, for that, she had to pay, for that she had to take the blows without flinching.

Others struck her jaw, followed by a kick to the ribs.

The crowd was angry, shouting that Scar was a thief, that she had stolen from the arena factions, that she didn’t deserve all this recognition. But the more they shouted, the more recognition they were giving her, even if it was as a thief or a murderer.

Scar’s ears were becoming more attuned, recovering. But her vision had returned to normal.

Scar dodged the sole of a foot aimed directly at her face and twisted her arms backward, breaking free from those holding her. She advanced with her fist to someone’s nose and kicked another in the knee, breaking it with a satisfying sound.

The man in front attacked, but Scar saw an opening on the right and dodged the blow before punching his ribs and grabbing one of his arms, twisting it until his shoulder popped. His scream reverberated through her bones, and Scar couldn’t hold back the small smile that formed on her face.

The people around backed off when she raised her head to look at them. All frightened, but Scar was more so. Scared, injured, and angry. She didn’t want this anymore.

She swallowed hard, feeling her throat crack from dryness, and refused to shout at the crowd. Because now they knew she was alive, that she had cheated death, or that she was a ghost.

Scar wiped the blood dripping from her nose and walked over the sector’s debris, refusing to look where Darcy’s body probably was. A redhead was pulled from beneath, encrusted with dust, and Scar turned her painful gaze away.

Her ankle hurt, but she swallowed the pain as if it were something normal and walked to where she had left her horse, far from all this, as if she could predict this shit would happen.

Daughter of the Oracle. Enigmas were part of her life, just like the future. Sensing things, in the end, was normal.

Even though the night was above everyone, people brought torches to the street and threatened Scar with them, wanting to burn her as she walked through the crowd. But the Shooter had returned from the dead, she was the villain there, walking over blood and ashes, creating her own storm with her deadly lightning.

Everyone was afraid of her now, and gradually the insults diminished until only the crying of children and babies remained, just one family hugging while looking at Scar with disgust.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

She bared her teeth at those who didn’t avert their gazes, and when she saw a little girl clinging to her mother’s leg who was carrying another child in her arms, Scar smiled with amusement, watching the funny scene. The little girl cringed. The father was almost in front, protecting his family from the Shooter walking through the streets while there were still brave ones burning her now-exposed arm with glowing torches, throwing them in her direction while refusing to approach, out of fear and remorse.

Cowards. Scar spat at their feet.

The explosion had destroyed her clothes and almost all her tunic. Scar tore the brooch from the fabric and left the tunic on the ground indifferently as she paraded away from everything. She didn’t need it anymore, she was free to show herself to the world again. The hatred she would receive was her fuel, so she just smiled all the way to her horse, even when the crowd had long ended.

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Once again, Scar recited Darcy’s words in her mind.

Take it to the king.

If she showed up, she would be exiled.

Take it to the king.

And that meant being killed.

Scar huffed at the letter she held in her hands. She watched one of them tremble in a way she had never seen before, and then rubbed it on her leg to shake off the sensation. But she couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down her face. In a few seconds, Scar was crying.

She stood up with a grunt and screamed as she kicked one stone, then another.

Twilight watched from a distance, its breath condensing in front of it.

Scar stopped, breathing heavily, and looked up at the starry sky. Was some god watching her? Dictating her steps? Scar muttered to herself; it didn’t matter at the moment. But if it were true, it mattered little as well, because she couldn’t do anything about it. Just exist.

Darcy Raux was someone who rarely came close to death. Scar wondered what the boss was doing in there, what the hell got into Darcy’s head to stay inside the sector when that single beep had given the answer. But she knew very well that her boss wouldn’t leave all those cases behind, knew they were important, and trying to save evidence cost Raux her life. Looking for the source of the noise was also a huge mistake, as if she could save all the pending cases. It was a warning beep, one that only Scar had escaped from. And now she had a new case to solve. Unfortunately, without evidence and solutions from the most recent cases that could help.

Why would they blow up a sector tonight? Maybe they knew Scar would be there at that moment, but it would be impossible. Or maybe they were just waiting to trigger the bomb, but they had planted it long ago.

Scar closed her eyes and lowered her chin, giving up on anything now. She just wanted to go home and rest.

They had arrived at the city’s exit, at the bridge that passed over a river. Scar had sat at the bridge’s side, tired, but now she was climbing back onto Twilight.

For a while on the way back, lighting the way with the lantern she had stolen from a bar outside, Scar wished she didn’t have to worry about anything other than finding the way home. She wished she didn’t have to think about anything. And it worked, for a while.

Halfway through, her mind returned to all the moments with Darcy, the way she made Scar remember her actions with superiors, or when she saved her from certain deaths when she plunged headfirst into a terrorist attack by mystics or rebels. She owed Darcy her life. But after months, the boss didn’t seem so happy to see Scar, and she admitted, she felt hurt by the way Raux had acted.

The house was dark when she arrived. The moon and the starry sky provided a view of the house’s top, and no light came from inside.

Scar sighed and got off Twilight, then felt her legs wobble and weaken. Her ankle was throbbing hard. Gods, she just wanted to lie down and wake up with the morning sun streaming through the doors and windows.

Scar didn’t bother to unsaddle her horse, patting its cheek and heading toward the house. No sound of another horse was around.

She climbed the stairs carefully in the dark and placed her hand on the doors, praying they were open, that Ethan had the good sense to leave the house for her.

The doors opened, and Scar exhaled. The relief was short-lived because Ethan wasn’t home. In no time, she was inside, the lantern illuminating what it could around. Scar placed it on the kitchen counter and went in search of firewood. She lit the fireplace and stayed there for a while until the fire took shape, staring at those embers for a long time before settling on the floor in front of it.

She barely noticed how cold she was until she felt the warmth on her skin, giving her comforting shivers. But it was that dancing fire that seemed to devour her boss alive, circling her body and trapping her inside.

Scar closed her eyes, and a solitary tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away indifferently and stood up, looking for clothes and praying once more that Ethan had left something for her.

But she stopped midway, about to pass by the couch.

Scar’s mind was screaming non-stop, and her heart was racing as she turned her head towards the rug on the floor in front of the couch.

The black bag was there, now closed.

Scar thought and rethought the idea of messing with it. But if Ethan had left the bag there, he would probably come back for it. Which means Ethan Sinclair hadn’t left.

She glanced at the now-closed doors, seriously considering locking them. Her hands began to tremble slightly with fear. Ethan could show up at any moment, and she was afraid of any proximity to the assassin on the silent night. Scar wouldn’t have the patience to continue the discussion if he brought it up too. She couldn’t. She knew very well what he was capable of and didn’t want to face him. The fear she had never felt when confronting Ethan seemed to want to take hold.

So Scar turned and went to the bag, curiosity taking over her body. She should do this before Ethan showed up.

The zipper slid perfectly when Scar opened it quickly. She threw the flaps wide open and felt her soul leave her body.

It wasn’t things for the journey to the Opposite Continent as Scar had imagined. It was far from it.

As much as her heart and skin were collapsing upon seeing all that, Scar knew it was a problem. A bag full of firearms was not something to be happy about, even though she felt she could handle them very well.

But Scar stepped back when she saw the bombs placed gently, as if they could explode at any moment. The air escaped her lungs, and she had to breathe through her mouth.

Scar grabbed a pistol and opened it. It was loaded. Scar closed it and unlocked it before getting up and pointing at a specific wooden plank. But that was it.

She locked the gun again, feeling the familiar weight she had once been so used to. Now she could take advantage. She could go after the culprit, make them pay. And now it would be easier.

So she dressed appropriately and waited.