His mission was to spy and gather information, and that was what he would do. A long black kurta, sunglasses that analyzed mana pathways to very fine detail, and a modern cut that was low at the sides and swept back at the front.

This was not Imtiaz Ahmed’s true form. This was a disguise procured by the transformation magic circle. A discovery of Lady Frey Suleiman, third wife of the Caliph. The patent of the magic circle was known only to the sorcerers of the Alhambra Guardians. His true form was older and dressed in a luxurious green thobe, added with a bisht and an agal. It was the trademark of the rare mages, wizards, and sorcerers in the Alhambra Guardians. A golden crescent moon was stamped on the breast of the thobe—the mark of the Alhambra Guardians. But not today.

Today, under the behest of the Honoured Wife of the Caliph, he was ordered to live amongst the ordinary and gather information on the identity of Jack the Ripper. Imtiaz was not alone in his mission. At the end of the Nebulous Bazaar was the main headquarters of the Alhambra Guardians, the Magnificence. The shape of the headquarters was reminiscent of a traditional mosque, with a large central green dome rising majestically above and flanked by smaller domed structures and minarets. The exterior walls were made of white marble, with accents of blue tiles and calligraphy detailing. The entrance was marked by a grand archway that, unknown to the naked eye, was the start of a barrier. Without the golden crescent moon pin, access to the Magnificence was denied, a system devised by Lady Frey.

Magic was not well-liked within the inner walls of the Alhambra Guardians. To train among the Alhambra Guardians was to focus on classical weapons such as spears and swords. Thus, Imtiaz was one of fifteen wizards and sorcerers under Lady Frey, a number that she had planned to grow exponentially. As a start, she had taken fifteen students under her wing from the Old Mage Tower and was pleased by their progress. She even made headway in convincing the Honoured Wife in building a department for magic at the Magnificence. The project was making headway until the massacre of Gate 10.

Only one student among the ten Lady Frey sent returned. The humiliation, the vengeance, and the hate came crashing all at once. Lady Frey ordered all sorcerers at hand, even Imtiaz, to conduct a search, leading Imtiaz to draw the transformation magic circle for each and every one of them. His specialty lay in magic circles, hence why he came out last and with the least amount of confidence. He was a sorcerer, not a spy, and he did not know where to begin either. He walked directionless. Along the way, he saw a man that everyone else was avoiding like a snake.

“Please, my daughter! Have you seen her? Please! W-we just reunited and—”

The man dashed from person to person, begging for them to look at the poster. Imtiaz stopped, catching a glimpse of the poster and the redhead illustrated. He stepped back and retreated.

‘Jack the Ripper.’ Imtiaz pursed his lips. ‘What am I even supposed to look for? Disguise yourselves among new players and find them…yeah, right. As if it would be that easy.’

He was smackdab in the middle of the Nebulous Bazaar where food stands and restaurants ran rampant. It was almost chaotic but it was the kind of chaotic that Imtiaz was acquainted with. He was born and raised in Pakistan and proceeded to spend the adult part of his life in Bangladesh, working as the right-hand man for a wealthy family in the textile industry. Smelling fresh oranges reminiscent of his home city, Bhalwal, he headed into a store called the Mango Pulp. Inside, he was blasted by the scent of fruits and the messiness of a local shop.

“Hello, sir,” greeted the owner, Manish Gogawale. “How do you do? Take out or package? Sorry, I mean, take out or dining.”

“Dining,” Imtiaz replied, brushing past him to get to a table. The place was surprisingly busy. Men spoke boisterously with glass drinks in hand. Manish followed Imtiaz to his seat, chasing him for his order. “Mango lassi please.”

“Yes, sir!” Manish returned a minute later with the drink in hand. “I hope you enjoy!”

The drink cost fifteen points, which Imtiaz casually paid off. He was a Sipahi, above the riff-raff that were the Ghazis. He was promoted faster than the norm for his adept skill in magic and unwavering faith to the Caliph. He was subsequently put under Lady Frey, whose orders he followed thick and thin.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

Imtiaz swept his gaze over the store. To pretend he was doing something, he sat at the corner table and watched. ‘Maybe Jack likes Indian drinks. I don’t know.’ Because really, they knew nothing. Nothing aside from the rumours of his lack of statue in the Hall of Players, his relations with the Templar Order, and his presence during the Great Schism. Imtiaz participated in the previous Heavenly Games so this was all new to him. Until the newspaper began printing about the tragedy, he had no clue who Jack was at all.

‘How do they know it’s Jack anyway—oh, right, the gods.’ Some players were closer to the gods than others—and it was a fact that the gods were allowed to watch any and all gates. Generally, they only watched raids and gates affiliated with their respective mythos.

Imtiaz wasn’t too interested. Zeus or Odin or Athena or whoever they were, they were just monsters. False gods that were blasphemous to Allah. He didn’t think for a second that they cared for humanity or were of truly divine nature. They were fakes.

He finished his drink and considered flagging Manish for another until the bell chimed and a new customer entered. His jaw clenched. His eyes widened behind his sunglasses.

‘What the hell…?’

He didn’t dare say it out loud but the man that entered the store was among the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen. Tall yet not absurdly so and handsome in the face and smile. Turning was a V-shaped back and black hair that hung in waves, below the earlobes and nearly shoulder-length.

His sunglasses were a one-of-a-kind magic device that Imtiaz personally manufactured. Other than the Caliph, he had never had seen the shades go haywire yet as he attempted to scan the flow of mana within this stranger, a crack formed in the rim of his sunglasses. 'What!? How is this...?'

The handsome man turned back—and looked right at him. Imtiaz’s breath hitched and he looked away. The left eye. He saw it. It was shining blue, zoning in on him as if he were an ant. Locking eyes, Imtiaz’s smallest movements seemed consequential. As if his essence was being extracted.

Then he looked away, smiled at Manish, and sat down for a drink. Another crack formed in his sunglasses. The longer he looked, the less he comprehended.

This wasn’t possible. It was impossible. This man was wearing Azrael’s black garbs. A tutorial piece that all players sold at one point. That meant, that meant…!

‘How is he generating that much mana!? It just keeps going and going and going…!’

Forget a new player, this was unheard of! Sorcerer's were monstrously efficient with mana, it came with the title. Supreme Sorcerers like Lady Frey were a league above efficient and were plain godly. This man was different. He stood there not with efficiency but with an origin of mana that didn’t stop. Crack. Stealing glances while drinking an empty glance, Imtiaz found it. The origin came from his left eye. That ball of blue that contrasted with the equally beautiful hazel in his right.

Beautiful. So beautiful.

‘Where have I seen this?’

That hazel, that level of calm divinity…

‘No…it’s not possible—’

“A friend coming over?” Manish asked.

“Yep, it’s Phillip. He has something to give me,” the heterochromic man explained.

“Phillip, yes, yes. He comes over more often than you do now, Kazi.”

Manish played it off as a joke and he laughed. The man known as Kazi laughed.

Kazi.

His hands trembled. His eyes widened.

Kazi.

Kazi H—?

‘This can’t be. No way.’

Time did not operate on the same wavelength. The two year gap between a Heavenly Game consisted of approximately twenty years on Earth. Imtiaz…Imtiaz was terrified. He should have known right when he saw him. He should have known when he saw the impossible aura around him. There was only man on Earth with gifts that surpassed humanity—Kazi Hossain. He remembered the day he first laid eyes on him. He remembered the day he left Mohanganj Upazila, the heart of lower Bangladesh, to search for a servant.

The day Imtiaz arrived, everyone pointed him to a single household—to the Hossains. Imtiaz opened the door, peered down at the little boy, made two seconds of eye contact with his beautiful hazel eyes, and heard, “Assalaikum alaikum. You are the one from the Hasina family, yes?”

Years ago, he met a boy in a small house in a region belonging to the poor and the forgotten. Names were forgotten. Death carried the rivers. Yet when he heard his voice, he knew he didn’t belong here. He knew he had to take him away.

Imtiaz tried to be his teacher and take him under his wing. He thought Kazi was like him, a faster learner limited by his surroundings. He was wrong. Very wrong. Kazi was nothing like him. He was far, far worse.

Imtiaz remembered dying in an unnamed alleyway, tasting his own blood and being forced to stare into the bare feet of a child. His life had ended miserably and without anyone knowing what truly caused it—who caused it.

These past years in the White Abyss, Imtiaz tried to forget. He tried to move on. He disregarded the short-term Heavenly Games and threw himself into the endless, ever evolving study of magic circles. He was the top student of his grade. He impressed Lady Frey and the Caliph and so many others. He tried to forget and move on and he failed. In the back of his mind, he would always remember that he was outsmarted and killed by a boy a quarter his age. He was no genius. Imtiaz refused to accept that title when he existed.

And now…he was here. Kazi Hossain was back.