"Miss Maya," Zanh Kiem called.

The girl immediately exited the Projection, materializing in reality. However, before the Maker could explain his summons, the walkie-talkie on Maya's belt crackled to life. With a nod from the sensum, Maya activated the device.

"The nest summons Ghost One."

"I'm listening," Maya replied instantly.

"We have a problem. The assault failed, and the militants have taken three wounded policemen hostage. We need ghost intervention."

I didn't catch Maya's response; I had already initiated a Sliding.

Damn it! This stretch of coast is a good distance from the port. The battle's clamor didn't reach this far, leading me to believe the operation had concluded ages ago. Why hadn't the special forces quelled the attackers? Clearly, something had gone awry.

The port area, particularly around the dockers' union's unfinished structure, was swarming with law enforcement. Snipers perched on rooftops, operatives armed with machine guns took cover behind cars flashing their sirens, helicopters hovered overhead, and a pair of armored vehicles sat at the ready. To round off the scene, a fleet of ambulances was on standby.

Gliding forward, my feet never touched the asphalt.

The yet-to-be-completed building looked like it would need to be razed and constructed from scratch. Its walls were riddled with bullet holes and marred by explosion breaches. Not a single window remained intact, and the communication pipes had been shattered in numerous spots. This wasn't a mere gang skirmish; it was a full-blown military offensive!

I leaped through a shattered window.

The entrance hall was a scene of utter destruction. Scaffolding lay in ruins, paint from ruptured cans smeared everywhere, and amidst the chaos lay a dozen bodies. Seven unmistakably belonged to the negotiation's security, identifiable by the unique cat clan emblems on their attire. Four were dressed as port security, but they likely weren't genuine members given the assault rifles gripped in their cold hands — private security wasn't permitted such weaponry. It seemed the attackers had donned guard uniforms to achieve the element of surprise. Another corpse was that of a special forces operative, his armor riddled with five fatal penetrations.

I press on without hesitation.

Another corridor stretches ahead, littered with bodies: seven from the garbage clans, and three in the uniform of port guards. The attackers, given the death toll, appear to be far more skilled than the mafia's enforcers.

I keep moving.

Another corridor. More doors. Behind them, only death awaits.

I continue on my path.

Behind one door, I hear a muted commotion and hushed voices.

Could there be Eshin shapeshifters inside, ones who've ingested an alchemical potion, sensing my presence? I need to be swift, brutal, but thoughtful in my approach.

The door looks flimsy. I could breach it in mere seconds. But those few moments could be fatal - if they detect me, the hostages are as good as dead. Damn it!

I scan for another way in, but after a minute, it's clear: this is the only entrance, and there aren't even windows.

"Stay back!" I caution Maya, who's suddenly beside me.

Her presence is reassuring. Together, our odds are better.

"I'll go through the wall; you take the door," I instruct her. "Hold back initially, gauge the situation. Rely on the element of surprise, but if needed, don't hesitate to kill." I search Maya's eyes for affirmation. "Can you handle it?"

"These are the same scum as those that spill out from the Breakthroughs," she replies, her lip curling in disgust. "Maybe even worse."

"Count to twenty then move."

"Understood, master."

"Keep the pace like this: thousand-one, thousand-two, thousand-three... Say it."

"Thousand-one," she echoes, a beat behind me.

"That's the rhythm. Start counting. Thousand-one..."

I count deliberately, loud enough for her to follow. Once in the adjacent room, I activate the "Shock" on my sword and begin to bore through the wall. It's unexpectedly dense, reinforced like armor plating. I struggle to make headway, but with sheer determination, I press on.

By the count of "thousand-eighteen," I burst into the open.

I'm poised to strike, but first, I assess the room.

It appears to be a reception area, quite spacious, spanning about forty square meters. Along the walls are once-lavish leather sofas from a famous brand, now riddled with bullet holes, slashed and stained with blood. The secretary's desk stands on just three legs; the computer that once sat atop it is now shattered on the floor alongside a broken monitor. Miraculously, a glass coffee table remains unscathed amidst the chaos. The floor is a mess, scattered with debris, spent shell casings, torn papers, and stained heavily with blood.

In this waiting room, there aren't any corpses, but I spot seven living individuals. Three are clearly from the special forces — two are conscious, tied up and gagged, and the third, with a glancing wound on his head, is unconscious. But by his aura, I can tell his life isn't in immediate danger.

The remaining four are shapeshifters, wearing bulletproof vests over their port guard uniforms. They've smartly positioned themselves against the walls, not only setting up a crossfire for anyone entering but also ensuring that each captive is covered by a gun. Even with my swiftness, I can't incapacitate more than two before the others would shoot the hostages.

Yet, there's a silver lining — none of the militants have detected me. There's a good chance we can free the hostages. Maya has just entered, and I signal for her to halt. Remembering that no one in this dimension would hear our voices anyway, I say:

"Be cautious. They've positioned themselves to cover the hostages from various angles. We need a swift and effective plan."

I sidestep around the room, assessing potential strikes, while on the opposite end, the Knight girl is doing the same.

Suddenly, a door covered in luxurious leather, presumably leading to the head office, swings open. A wounded shapeshifter steps out. He sports a bandanna adorned with crossed bones and clutches a shotgun. He's been shot in the shoulder, but astoundingly, his wound seems nearly healed. Any regular person with such an injury wouldn't be able to move their arm for weeks, yet he grips his weapon with ease. The bullet that struck him was likely regular, lacking any silver inserts.

Staggering, the shapeshifter leans against the doorframe, exhaustion evident.

"Damn it!" he exclaims bitterly. "This is the absolute worst kind of mess!" As he curses, he surveys his comrades. "We're screwed. In there..." he points behind him, "... are four beheaded bodies. Their heads? Perfectly aligned on a table, clearly done on purpose. And these aren't just any heads. Two of them belong to the eldest sons of the garbage clan leaders. Not just murdered, but humiliated. They'd hunt us to the ends of the earth for partaking in such an act. We've been played! We're in deep shit!"

"But we were hired by the heir of the Alihark's Dogs!" the man in the corner, armed with a light assault carbine, bursts out. "You said it yourself, this is a covert purge of the crime clans, and that the authorities are in on it!"

"Yes, I did," the apparent leader of the militants responds bitterly. "We were promised cover and a safe way out. The police weren't supposed to show up for another twelve minutes. By then, we'd have blended in with the evacuating crowd. But we were double-crossed! The helicopters were overhead just four minutes after the gunfire began. A mere ninety seconds later, special forces were firing at us! We were told... We were promised it was all taken care of..."

"But the Dogs don't break their word! Everyone knows that," another militant chimes in, nervously gripping his submachine gun.

"We've been had," the leader growls with anger. "Lemuria's best mercenaries were duped like children. It's over for us. We're done."

"But we still have hostages! Especially this one," the fighter with the carbine interrupts, pointing at the unconscious special forces soldier. "He's no common soldier."

"That's the youngest son of the leader of the Faithful Fangs, a vassal of the Alihark clan. That much is clear: we weren't hired by the duke's people... Damn it!" The leader's curse is low and filled with a sense of impending doom. "We're done for. Anyway..." The leader stands taller, his voice resolute. "It's been an honor working with all of you."

A previously silent shapeshifter, armed with two heavy pistols, growls and starts a partial transformation. "Let's give them one last fight. Let us be remembered. They'll tell tales about us... About Lemuria's best mercenary brigade! The Sharp Knives!"

"Let's take as many of them down with us as we can!" growls the fighter with the carbine, also beginning his transformation.

"And in doing so, we'll play right into the hands of those who betrayed us," the leader interrupts his transforming comrades. "The contract's been broken."

"To battle!" one cries.

"We'll die as we lived!" shouts another.

"No surrender! We've shone in life, and we'll shine in death!" another proclaims.

The other mercenaries are clearly not prepared to go down without a fight.

"Idiots," the leader murmurs, his hand covering his face. "Fools. We've been here for over fifteen minutes. Neither of you will die with any honor."

"We won't be taken down easily!" one retorts defiantly.

"Fool," the leader replies. "Let me ask you something, just how fast do raigs move?"

"What?!"

"The authorities didn't hire us, that's clear now, and we've taken a hostage from a major clan. So, tell me, are the ghost swords already at our throats or are they still on their way? What do you think?!"

With that, the leader lays his weapon on the floor.

For some reason, I pity these fighters. They were genuinely deceived. It's as though the rats played them, used them in the dark and set them up.

"We need them alive," I say to Maya. "They surrendered on their own, without being forced. We need them to provide information for the investigation."

"I agree," Maya nods.

"Monitor the situation here. I'll be back shortly."

In the meantime, another mercenary places his weapon on the ground.

I make my way to the office from where the leader had emerged. Trying not to glance at the severed heads, I conceal myself behind a massive door, out of sight. Then, I exit the Break.

"Listen up," I call out, "Even if you kill the hostages, we'll still capture you alive. But trust me, you'll be treated very differently then." Having delivered my message, I instantly re-enter the Projection.

"Damn it!" the leader exclaims with a sort of resigned mirth. "I told you. Ivan, Sly, lay down your weapons. The Knights are here for us. And just so you know, we hold no grudges against raigs and greatly respect what you all do. Sly! Stop the transformation and put your gun down!"

"Grrr... Fine."

The leader sinks to the ground, a peculiar, melancholic smile playing on his lips. With a chuckle, he retrieves a walkie-talkie from his belt. But before he activates it, he issues a command.

"Pyotr, Jovan, tend to the wounded. We should lose with some dignity."

"Understood," responds the lean, dark-haired mercenary, retrieving a first-aid kit from his bag.

"Damn it!" exclaims a slender blonde man, referred to as Sly by the leader. "I've faced death so many times without fear, but now, my spine is tingling. Those ghost swords... they terrify me. Hey, anyone know if meeting your end by a Break Knight's blade is considered an honorable death?"

"The boss was right calling you a fool," retorts the fair-haired, stout man, presumably Ivan. "How could it ever be dishonorable to die by a knight's sword?"

"But..."

"Just shut it!" Ivan snaps at his companion. "Help me out here — this guy needs to be laid down gently; he's got a bad concussion."

Once he's assured that the wounded are being cared for as instructed, the leader lifts the radio to his mouth.

"We won't harm the hostages. We're giving them medical attention. We surrender and will cooperate fully with the investigation. We have only one request — not a demand, a request. When it's all said and done, allow us to die with dignity."

"Drop your weapons and put your hands behind your heads. A team is on its way. But if you..."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"Hah," the mercenary interrupts Mr. Alir's message, "what can we possibly do under the sights of ghost swords?"

"Smartass," Mr. Alir's irate voice emits from the speaker. "Wait for the team."

Sly lets out a cackling laugh as the radio goes silent. "Boss, do swords even have sights?"

"Oh... When will you ever shut up?"

"Soon, boss, soon, and for good."

"You have no idea how the mere thought of your silence brings joy to all of us!" Ivan says with a smirk, continuing with the first-aid. "I'd die with a smile on my face!"

"I don't buy it. You adore my rambling more than anyone," Sly retorts, pulling out fresh bandages.

"Who fed you that nonsense?" Ivan snarls back.

These guys are hardcore. They're aware of their impending doom, yet there's not a hint of fear in their voices. As bizarre as it sounds, I'm drawn to these mercenaries. They remind me of individuals from my past, people I've worked alongside.

"Maya," I address the young woman, "Keep things in check here. I'm going to inspect the hallway for any explosives or traps."

"Didn't they already surrender?" she asks with a touch of surprise.

"They're aware the Break Knights are on scene, and they can claim anything. But if someone steps on a mine or trips a wire..."

"I get it, master."

Since when did I earn the title of "master" from her? And not even "Maestro." What's her intent with this term? Simple respect?

After inspecting the corridor, it's evident there are no traps. The mercenaries likely planned a swift operation and didn't bother with mines. I then waited for the SWAT team, fully geared and clutching bulletproof shields, to appear at the entrance. Understandably, they proceeded with caution, likely anticipating explosives and traps, just as I did.

Returning to the main room, I speak to Maya again.

"The coast is clear. Greet the SWAT team and let them know the hallway is safe."

"Understood!" Maya replies promptly, heading to the door.

The walkie-talkie clipped to the leader's belt crackles to life as she exits.

"Open the door," commands Mr. Alir's voice, now void of his earlier ire.

"'And throw out the weapons,' I know, I know," the mercenary leader grumbles in response.

"Just lay the weapons on the ground. Don't toss them," Mr. Alir instructs before ending the transmission.

"Why are they letting us keep our weapons?" Sly murmurs in astonishment.

"You truly are an idiot," Ivan retorts, shaking his head. "You wouldn't even get a chance to pull the trigger."

"Look, I know you admire the Knights, but to think..."

"Both of you, enough! Now open the door, you imbeciles!" The leader's voice cuts through their banter.

Ivan promptly kneels, placing his hands behind his head, with the others following suit.

"I wonder which of the Knights will 'take care' of us," muses the blonde mercenary. "Maybe Maya Grimm is around?"

"In your dreams!" Sly fires back, grinning. "As if Miss Wilflaes herself would bother showing up just for you! Fat chance..."

"They'll be doing me a favor by killing me," the boss says with a weary roll of his eyes. "I'll never have to endure your incessant bickering. It's almost... a blessing."

"Boys, no fighting in front of the ladies!" comes the voice of the Knight girl from the corridor. "I can hear everything."

"Damn it..." Sly murmurs, taken aback. "It really is Miss Wilflaes..."

"I knew it!" Ivan exclaims with a hint of glee. "Miss Maya!" He calls out louder, "You're the best!" Then, resting his head against the wall, he whispers, "Now I can die contentedly."

"An imbecile's dream realized," Sly remarks, not with anger but a touch of envy. "You lucky... very lucky guy."

"Stay still and silent. Anyone who so much as blinks will be seeing out of a third eye!" A sharp, commanding voice from the corridor interrupts the mercenaries' exchange.

The militants are apprehended swiftly, with utmost precision, and quite roughly. Some might even say cruelly. From the perspective of the special forces, they probably exercised restraint, likely influenced by Maya's presence.

From the Break, I monitored the situation as the mercenaries were escorted out. Although I felt this extra precaution might be overkill, I couldn't quell my instincts.

Maya conversed with Mr. Alir, the wounded were transported to ambulances, and I observed the detainees being ushered into a police vehicle. All seemed relatively tranquil when a spectral figure darted between buildings. Maya, engrossed in reality, remained oblivious.

The apparition, however, made no effort to conceal itself. Within moments, Ungor leapt off the rooftop, landing beside me.

"Hello, Maestro!" exclaimed the stout figure, reminiscent of illustrations from gnome tales. "How did you get here so quickly? The news about the port hostage situation just aired minutes ago on TV! I rushed here as fast as I could... Yet, you're already on the scene."

"Same here!" Rex, emerging from behind the ambulances, slows as he approaches us. "I sped here as fast as possible!"

In no time, the port's heavy truck parking area was crowded with Break Knights. Though referring to a group of seven, not counting the occupied Maya, as a 'crowd' may sound exaggerated, considering our circustances, it's indeed a sizable gathering. All fo them had flocked here post the TV broadcast.

I was bombarded with queries, to which I provided vague and non-specific answers. Given that every raig present understood the unique traits of the "Word", they sought more definitive responses.

"Look, there's a thing called confidentiality," I say, mildly irked. "I'm not trying to keep secrets. It's just that I can't reveal anything at this stage. It's not feasible."

"Hello again, everyone!" Maya, catching the commotion in the Break, shifted into the Projection. "It's all wrapped up; the danger is gone. It's just a standard police operation — yes, with some gunfire — but that's the only thrill. It's truly over. Instead of pestering Master Maestro, I'd be thinking, 'I have to leave now' and 'I still have a lot of unfinished business.'"

"Well, no," Rex retorted, a bit defensively. "Did we rush over here for nothing?"

"If you want to stay, then stay," Maya replied with a gentle smile, addressing everyone. "No one's forcing you out. In fact, I've been meaning to introduce you all to Zanh Kiem."

"Who?" Ungor asked, puzzled.

"Right there," Maya directed, pointing towards a pair of newly-arrived sensums in the parking lot. The aura of the Maker from the Break was as grandiose as ever, evoking the imagery of a living volcano. "That's him."

"Who is that?" Ungor questioned, taking a step back instinctively.

"He's the Maker of Bodhidharma's palm," Maya replied.

Rex chimed in quickly, "Since everything's done and there's nothing to see, I think I'll head out. I've got things to handle..."

I've always suspected that many Knights approach high-ranking sensums with a healthy dose of wariness. I recall my own interactions with Hyungang Tu Chong. Coupled with the maker's stature of being a servant of Retribution, it took less than thirty seconds for the raigs to request a recount from me later and promptly disperse. Once again, only Maya and I remained in the Break.

"It almost seemed too easy," Maya observed, her voice serene, but a playful glint in her eyes.

"Still, they did what was needed — they showed up, ready to rescue, the moment they heard about the hostages," I responded.

"True," she smiled. "I should head back. Mr. Alir is waiting for my report."

"Go ahead."

Observing the bustle in the physical realm, I contemplated staying within the Break even if I wore a motorcycle suit. There were just too many people around. Rui and Nein had already pointed out the inadequacy of my disguise. I need to address this at some point, though I'm fresh out of ideas right now.

Alir, Zanh Kiem, Nein, and Maya moved to the operational headquarters, and I trailed close behind. I listened intently to Maya recount the events from her perspective. She narrated the entire episode as if the safe release of the hostages and the voluntary surrender of the mercenaries were solely my accomplishments, and she was merely a standby helper.

"What are your personal impressions of these people, Miss Maya?" the investigator of the third Palm inquired.

"They've been set up. Manipulated. But that doesn't excuse their killing of the police," Maya responded.

"The special forces fired first," the curator pointed out.

"Miss Maya," Nein interjected with a sigh, "I asked for your impression, not a recount of the events."

Caught off guard, Maya hesitated. "I... I liked them. They're genuine mercenaries with a unique sense of humor and a disdain for death. I'll be saddened when they're gone."

"When they're gone?" Alir raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"I assumed they'd be executed after the investigation," Maya explained. My understanding was aligned with hers; it seemed we were on the same page. The mercenaries, upon their surrender, seemed to expect the same fate.

"They're already dead," the curator stated calmly.

"What?!" Maya exclaimed, rising from her seat. "I just saw them alive moments ago!"

"You've misunderstood, Miss Maya," Alir clarified, a hint of a smirk appearing on his face. "Officially, they're dead. But to physically eliminate them? 'Sharp Knives' had only twelve fighters, yet they decimated the mafia, eliminating numerous shapeshifters. They repelled three assaults, including one from clan special forces with armored and aerial support, all while taking hostages. These men are elite, the crème de la crème for hire. I don't even have individuals of their caliber under me. We won't waste such talent. We'll extract every bit of information, alter their identities, leverage any points of control over them, and rather than letting them rot, they will repay their deeds. And they'll repay with interest."

"Thank you for the clarification," Maya said, her relief thinly veiled.

"A pragmatic approach," the Maker commented. "I concur with your decision, Mr. Alir."

The conversation shifted to the shapeshifter who had taken his own life using poison. Once again, Maya bridged the communication gap between me and the rest. After a detailed ten-minute exchange, Alir leaned heavily into one of the vacant chairs by the video surveillance terminal.

"I need to prepare some documents," he uttered, a weariness in his voice. "It seems I'll have to report that the operation was unsuccessful since our primary objective wasn't met."

"I'd advise against such a definitive stance, Mr. Alir," Nein chimed in. "Yes, the surveillance might have fallen through, but we've gained new leads. Unraveling them might significantly advance our progress towards the main goal."

"I agree with Nein," Zanh Kiem remarks, nodding. "Did anyone else pick up on the Sharp Knives claiming they were hired by the heir of Alihark's Dogs?"

"Oh! Yes!" Alir exclaims, smacking his forehead. "I've already looked into that. The hire wasn't direct; it was through a go-between, whom the Knives had always trusted. I suspect this intermediary betrayed them. We've identified him, and a task force is en route."

"I don't believe it'll be that simple," Nein responds, shaking his head. But before he can continue, the sharp ring of a phone interrupts him. Every eye in the room turns to Maya.

"Oh!" The girl's face turns red. "Apologies, it's my phone. A call from the Abode of Knowledge."

She carries a cellphone? Then again, why am I shocked? She's an open raig, so she has no reason to conceal her location.

"I'm unaware of this," Zanh Kiem admits, clearly surprised.

"Answer it," the criminal curator instructs, a hint of anxiety in his voice. His ears elongate in a partial transformation.

"I'm listening," Maya responds as she accepts the call. "Yes... Close by... I can... Understood... Thank you... Yes... I'll relay the message... Take care."

"Well?" the Maker demands, the moment Maya ends the call.

"A package has arrived for Master Maestro. It's at the Abode."

"From whom?" The Maker's puzzled look is a rare sight.

"The package came from Rome. The sender is Legate Abel de Diaz," Maya reports, her tone betraying her disbelief.

"I see," Zanh Kiem murmurs, taking a seat beside the curator. "I need a moment to think."