There were about fifteen warlocks, all trained professionals. They spread out and surrounded the disturber with habituated expertise. At first glance, it looked like he was a young man in his early twenties, his appearance concealed by a devil mask and a ragged crimson cloak. He remained still, prompting them to wait with consummate preparedness.

“Coagulate, Danse Macabre.” Blood-red tentacles surrounded the disturber and immediately set on the offensive, venous tendrils whose purpose they didn’t understand—and weren’t keen on finding out.

The spell was faster than the eye could follow. The blood tips suddenly hardened and, sharper than a spearhead, plunged into the nearest victim. Over half the warlocks didn’t have a chance to respond. For every stabbed sorcerer, a secondary tendril would offshoot from the main one and instantly seek a new target.

At first there was a single scream, and then there were two. In a matter of seconds, the festival devolved into pure chaos. Everyone present in the crowd immediately made a run for safety. Ironically, this disorderly stampede played to the disturber’s advantage; the warlocks couldn’t reach him without risking civilian casualties.

A stranger shoved Ben to the ground as he fled. He curled into a ball as a flurry of running legs charged past, unintentionally kicking and thrashing at him. Sybil and Sam clung for dear life to the steel barricade separating the sidewalk from the street, momentarily safe.

Orangier shielded Ben with his hulking frame and helped him up to his feet. Ben could see the outlandish blood tendrils stabbing and multiplying behind the butler’s back.

Something’s off. Ben noticed that the victims hadn’t been run through in a straightforward manner. Rather, the tentacles seemed to be pumping into their bodies, merging with them. The affected warlocks, who had drawn their weapons the moment the disturber cast his spell, loosened their grips and let them drop, clinging to the cobblestone. Their faces clearly showed expressions of either a drunken stupor or a waking dream.

One of the untouched warlocks finally spotted an opening. His legs turned into a rippling blur, and he dashed across the mob at preternatural speed. That’s Quicken, Ben thought excitedly. He remembered his first armspell lesson with Orangier; he had called it one of the basic trinity of spells taught at Warlock Corp boot camp.

The sped-up warlock broke the spell as he reached the disturber and cast Bolster in quick succession. As soon as the blur on his legs dissipated, a reddish sheen enveloped his left arm. He thrust his fist at him with all his might.

One of the victims merged with the tentacles jumped in between and took the blow meant for the disturber. It was a near-fatal blow. “Wha—?” His confusion was palpable, and he was briefly thrown off guard by the unexpected sacrifice.

The enemy, however, wasted no time. A new tendril appeared from behind and impaled the warlock like a striking serpent. He coughed up blood but managed to stay standing. Like the others, he merged with it, his eyes becoming glassy and vacant.

Ben hadn’t blinked through the whole fight. His face looked paler than usual, and his voice quivered with shock. “D-Did you see that?”

“He appears to be controlling them. Blood magic seems like. First time seeing anything like it,” Orangier replied with a grim nod. “We should do as the others and evacuate this place. Fast.”

The once-crowded street gradually emptied as terrified onlookers managed to flee the area in a frenzy. Yet amidst the mayhem, pockets of trapped civilians still struggled to break out, their escape hindered by the sheer number of people present. Nearby intersections became chokepoints, plugs of bystanders crushing one another.

Ben’s heart leaped in his chest as the blood sorcerer’s gaze locked onto them from a distance. He slowly walked in their direction, the warlocks a neutralized threat. Around him, his escort of mindless puppets attacked anyone who dared be close to them with wantonness and abandonment. The floats regarded the scene with their lifelike eyes, uncanny witnesses to the riot.

“I’ll engage him to buy us some time. Wilhelm should be presently arriving. Hide until then, and protect Lady Blake at all costs.” Orangier said, his voice cutting through the din.

“Who’s Sybil?” Sam asked, but no one answered him. Instead, Ben nodded and grabbed both of them by the wrists, taking them behind the motorcade of the medusa float. Her expression seemed to mock the trio.

In the meantime, the butler unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a network of scars that spoke of many past battles. He protruded a pair of knuckledusters from his jacket and slid them onto his hands in a fluid, almost casual motion. His muscled figure was a formidable sight; he strode toward the disturber, his steps measured, and his frown burrowed into an unforgiving stare.

As the distance between them shortened, Orangier addressed him with a cool demeanor. “Quite the theatrical interruption, I’ll grant you that. But that’ll be far enough for today.” The blood sorcerer halted in his tracks and remained still as a statue, just like before. Orangier continued, and his tone remained polite. “State your name and purpose, if you would.”

After a long silence, he finally replied. A deep, muffled voice emanated from behind the motionless devil’s face. “You can call me Bloodmask. I am here for the Blake girl. Give her to me, and no one else will suffer.”

Orangier feigned ignorance, unwavering in his façade. “I may not know about any Blake girl, but you’ve ruined what was a perfect afternoon, sir.” He spaced his legs and bent his knees a little into a fighting stance, which Ben recognized instantly from countless sparring sessions.

Bloodmask clicked his tongue in annoyance. “She is here. Blood does not lie. If you do not yield to me, worse maledictions will befall you, Grigori.”

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Ben was engrossed in their back-and-forth. His mind raced with implications: how had Bloodmask tracked them here if he didn’t know exactly who Sybil was? He realized that he didn’t know anything for certain but had taken one judicious guess after another. What had spurred him in their direction so self-assuredly, then?

Blood magic. The thought suddenly popped into his head, echoing Orangier’s earlier words. There was no other explanation. What was it that he had just said? Blood does not lie. He tilted his head and snuck a furtive look at Sybil. If his conjectures were correct, then this particular enemy of theirs could find her like a pin in a haystack.

“I do not have more words for you. I shall take care of you, pest.” Orangier declared. Ben snapped out of his thoughts and returned his attention to the unfurling confrontation.

Bloodmask scoffed dismissively. “So be it.”

The duel ignited without a preamble. Bloodmask snapped his fingers, and his warlock puppets surged forward in a coordinated assault formation, their movements eerily synchronized.

Orangier drew in a deep breath and intoned a string of incantations, one after the other. “Quicken. Fortify. Bolster.” Each time he finished pronouncing one, a slight change took effect upon his body; his legs blurred with ripples, a translucent shimmer surrounded his torso, and his arms glowed with a reddish sheen.

“Did he just cast three armspells simultaneously?” Sam asked, mouth agape, his disbelief evident. Ben and Sybil, transfixed by the battle, disregarded his question. He sighed in resignation. “I’m out of my depth here.”

Orangier rushed forward to meet the oncoming tide of blood puppets with a primal roar. As he dashed forward, the cobblestone where he stood cracked with the sudden impetus; his movement was brutal and precise. He shattered the foremost warlock’s riot shield with a single, thunderous blow. He sent him hurling backward against his allies, who crashed against each other like bowling pins.

As they fell, they cleared a path for Bloodmask, who was busy casting a spell. He clapped his hands together and bellowed an incantation. “Bleed, Sanguine Rotation!”

A rapid, spinning missile of blood shot out of his pressed hands straight at Orangier. He had been too busy dealing with the puppets and had no time to evade—even Quicken wouldn’t cut it. There was only one thing he could do.

The butler puffed his chest and met the spell head-on. The projectile collided with his magical armor, causing Fortify to waver and almost shatter. He gritted his teeth as he stood his ground, ultimately unscathed.

Bloodmask, however, was relentless in his assault. He was already midair, fist charged backward. “Bleed, Sanguine Hardening!”

Two of the gory tentacles he had summoned earlier pierced him, and he borrowed blood from them. It moved mercurially across the surface of his body, concentrating on his arms and legs—it hardened into a solid, durable coating. Blood plating.

Orangier also charged forward, meeting Bloodmask’s oncoming strike head-on. Their fists collided, a magical shockwave pulsing from the contact. In the distance, Ben felt its force buffet his face.

The collision momentarily pushed back both combatants, but neither of them caved in. Orangier was the first to regain his balance, the seasoned warrior that he was, yet he maintained his distance, his gaze on his opponent.

“Right,” Orangier said, more to himself than anyone else. “Time to end this.”

Bloodmask, however, chimed in with a reply. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Orangier lunged at Bloodmask for a third, and hopefully last, time. His knuckledusters glinted ominously—a fatal sentence. He planted his feet with a firm step, concentrated all three armspells into his fists, and unleashed a barrage of heavy blows.

Bloodmask countered every single attack, but his responsiveness started to lag with every crack that appeared upon his sanguineous plating. Each punch he blocked was delivered with bone-jarring strength. It wouldn’t be long before he faltered.

The duel stretched on, and Orangier would emerge victorious. Now and then, one of his strikes would slip through Bloodmask’s defenses and connect with a direct hit, visibly damaging the Solomonari.

Ben swelled with pride for his teacher. The moment it became a physical battle, he thought, Orangier attained the advantage. He regarded him with newfound respect.

“He’s actually winning!” Sam celebrated beside her.

Sybil’s expression, however, remained grim. “He’s up to something.”

Ben followed her gaze. The sorcerers had distanced themselves again. Bloodmask held something in his hand and was showing it to Orangier. He squinted his eyes. It was an ampoule, a green liquid visible throughout the glass.

“You’re good, old man, but failure is not an option.” Bloodmask declared. With a swift motion, he sliced the top of the vial with a blood-hardened finger and downed the liquid within.

Almost immediately, amplified magical currents swirled toward Bloodmask. They had become so dense that they were almost tangible. Sparks crackled and danced around him. He clenched his chest, and his knees wobbled, but he steadied himself shortly.

Orangier tried to stop him, but he acted too late. Before he could react, Bloodmask closed the gap between them and punched him in the chest. This time, his Fortify shield was pulverized. He was sent crashing into a building, the impact destroying the wall.

Bloodmask opened and closed his hand, examining it from behind his stolid mask. Beneath, a smirk no doubt decorated his face. “That’s better. It irked me that your armspell resisted my birthspell earlier.”

The blood tendrils, revitalized, raised their respective victims. His army was replenished in full. The warlocks’ eyes were glassy as they returned to their eerie, synchronous movements. They regrouped around their master, a deadly Praetorian guard.

Ben’s heart sank. “This can’t be happening,” he muttered weakly. He couldn’t hide the frightened quiver in his voice.

Orangier struggled to rise from the rubble, but rise from the rubble he did. Despite his badly bruised body, he was resolved to carry on. He cast a glance toward Ben, Sybil, and Sam. It was a wordless plea, urging them to flee and hide.

Sybil clenched her fists, angry and helpless. “We have to do something.”

Ben grasped her arm. “Remember our oath, Sybil. Your oath. No playing hero.”

Her eyes blazed with frustration, but after a heated moment, she nodded reluctantly. “Fine. But we can’t just leave him. We stay close and wait for Wilhelm.”

Ben nodded, but didn’t offer a response. He immersed himself in thought, analyzing their current predicament. For all of Bloodmask’s capacity as a sorcerer, none of his victims were dead. It was clear from the controlled warlocks’ appearance. And he was banking on this hunch, too: Bloodmask wouldn’t kill Orangier. Not yet, at least.

Sam broke the tense silence with a proposal. “Flamel Bridge is not far from here. It connects one side of Dool with the other across the bay. We should be safe there, I think.”

“If we manage to outrun him, that is,” Sybil added in a bearish tone.

Ben took a deep breath and peeked from behind the motorcade to make sure they had a clear path. “On three?”

The trio nodded and braced themselves for a desperate dash.

“One…” Ben started.

Sybil interrupted him with her impatience. “Three!” Bewildered, they sprang into action, darting away from the chaos. Sam almost stumbled, but she caught him by the elbow just in time.

The noise of battle raged on behind them, and as they ran, it commingled with the pounding of their hearts and the distant shouts of panicked civilians. They fled in ignominious defeat before firing a single shot, leaving Orangier to his fate.