He was a striking man—handsome, with the sharp features of someone who had seen both battle and hardship. His dark hair, carefully styled under normal circumstances, now had strands falling over his forehead, tousled from his haste. The hints of silver in his hair caught the dim light, adding to his dignified air. He had the kind of presence that turned heads—strong, yet graceful, his athletic build evident even under the clothes he wore. There was a red arm band attached to his right arm, red armband with a crystallized star on it – the symbol of the Nightguard. Though Rinne had lost her armband in the scuffle.
The captain’s gaze met Rinne’s with a heat that spoke of anger, worry, and something softer, something almost protective. His eyes, the color of a storm-darkened sea, glinted as he drew closer, his brows knitting into a frown.
"Rinne, you really did it this time," he muttered, the weight of his concern making his voice rough. “Didn’t I ask you to wait for backup?”
Rinne shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her boots scuffing against the dirt floor as heat surged to her cheeks. It wasn’t the scolding that flustered her—it was the way his eyes lingered just a second too long, the way his voice softened as though he genuinely cared. She bit the inside of her cheek to suppress the stupid grin threatening to tug at her lips. Was it concern? Frustration? Or… something else?
Her face burned brighter at the thought, and she could practically feel the flush creeping down her neck. Oh, no. Not now. Her pulse quickened, and she folded her arms tightly across her chest in an attempt to steady herself. Her mind raced, leaping between ridiculous notions of what his lingering gaze might mean. Did he... could he actually...?
No. Don’t be stupid, Rinne, she scolded herself, shaking the thought away as quickly as it came. And yet, the idea rooted itself stubbornly in the back of her mind, refusing to let go.
“I don’t need backup,” she said, forcing her voice into a brashness that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She straightened and flexed her arms, rolling her shoulders back in what she hoped looked effortless. “Look at me—I’m invincible.” The words came out too fast, a little too loud, betraying the nerves she was trying to bury.
The captain sighed, his breath a whisper of defeat against the night air. His eyes, once stern, softened as they both turned to the skyline—a vast, sprawling silhouette of the city’s towers and jagged edges, all shrouded beneath a sky that looked like it had been stained by nightmares. It was an unnatural red, like the sickly glow of a wound festering, and the clouds hung heavy, as black and twisted as the claws of some monstrous hand. The eerie light painted everything in shades of desolation, and in that moment, the city felt like a world suspended between time, between hope and despair.
The captain’s watch beeped, pulling him from his thoughts. He glanced down, the glow of the display reflecting in his eyes. "Midnight Hour’s almost over," he murmured. “The abominations should stop popping up soon. All we have to do now is clean the streets of the ones that still remain, which should go pretty quick.”
As if on cue, the distant tower began to fade. It dissolved into mist, its black spires unraveling as the sky above slowly lightened, trading its sickly hue for the familiar deep blue of night.
Rinne’s eyes lingered on the spot where the tower had vanished, her brows furrowing in thought. “Captain, the monsters… they come from the tower, right?” she asked, tenderly.
He nodded, the weariness in his eyes deepening. “Yeah. Every night, between midnight and one a.m., it appears. Right where the old government building used to stand.”
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Rinne’s gaze sharpened, frustration curling in her chest. “Why don’t we just destroy it? The tower. If that’s where they come from, then maybe this whole thing would stop.”
He let out a long, tired breath, the kind that seemed to carry the weight of too many years and too many failed missions. “We’ve tried. It’s indestructible from the outside. And every team we’ve sent in…” His voice trailed off, eyes distant. “They never made it back.” His hand found her shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Because of that, our king has forbidden people from entering. All we can do is focus on defending the people. That’s the responsibility we have, as those born with power.”
For a moment, he paused, his eyes darkened, and he seemed to reconsider, his voice softening. “No… maybe that’s not right. Everyone in our world is born with power, in one way or another.” He hesitated, then corrected himself, his tone firm but tinged with something close to sadness. “It’s the responsibility of the strong.”
Rinne continued to stare at where the tower once was. “Captain,” she asked, breaking the silence, “what do you think powers that thing? The tower?”
The Captain didn’t answer right away. Instead, he crossed his arms, the faint crease in his brow deepening as if her question had pulled him into his own thoughts.
“I don’t know,” he admitted at last, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “No one does. Not really.”
Rinne frowned. She had expected something more—some insight, some certainty. “There must be theories, right?”
He nodded slowly, his expression grave. “There are. Some say it’s ancient technology. Others think it’s some ancient magic that we can’t hope to understand. But the one that makes the most sense to me…” He trailed off, his eyes narrowing as if searching the darkness.
“What?” Rinne pressed, her voice softer now.
He glanced at her, his face unreadable. “Some say that the tower feeds off imagination,” he said simply.
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The basement was a hall of shadows, its vast stone walls disappearing into darkness beyond the flickering reach of torches mounted in wrought-iron sconces. Pools of candlelight dotted the room, cast by clusters of candles that dripped wax like silent tears onto the cold, uneven floor. The air was thick with the scent of burning tallow and damp stone, a chill that seeped into the bones.
Along the sides of the hall stood figures draped in heavy, obsidian robes, their faces obscured by deep hoods. They were as statues—likes ones made of the very material of the floor that they stood on. Their collective gaze was fixed forward, where a narrow walkway carved a path through the darkness, leading the eye upward.
At the far end of the hall, a staircase of worn marble steps ascended to a raised dais, upon which a throne of carved ebony commanded attention. Seated upon it was a man, his robe was pure white, cascading around him like a waterfall of silk. Medium-length hair, the color of freshly fallen snow, framed a face that was both serene and strikingly handsome. High cheekbones, a strong jawline, and lips set in a contemplative curve gave him an almost ethereal beauty. But it was his eyes—deep-set and crystalline blue—that held a mesmerizing intensity, as if they could see through flesh and into the very soul.
In his hands rested a book bound in aged black leather, it’s surface etched with the symbol of a large white cross.
Breaking the silence, his voice resonated through the chamber—calm yet laced with a gravity that demanded attention.
"Throughout the annals of history," he began, his gaze sweeping over his gathered followers, "when tales unfold of humanity clashing with monsters, it is not the beasts that herald the ultimate downfall. Inevitably, it is man who turns upon his own. The true conflict lies not between the known and the unknown, but within the very heart of mankind."
He paused, allowing his words to settle like dust in the still air. The assembled figures remained motionless, but a subtle tension rippled through the room, a collective intake of breath.
The man snapped the book shut—the sound echoing like a gavel in the subterranean space. The candles flickered, shadows dancing wildly for a moment before settling.
Leaning forward, his eyes burned with a cold fire. "We will not allow anyone to destroy the tower.”