A House in Dawn
Midnight had settled over Dawn—one of those quiet, heavy nights where most townspeople were already asleep, simply because there wasn't much else to do. Life here still resembled a 17th-century Earth village: no electricity, no nightlife, just darkness and the occasional candle flickering behind shuttered windows.
Inside a modest stone house, a retired adventurer sat alone by the fireplace. Age had thickened his muscles rather than softened them, and a massive claw-shaped scar ran across his face—a permanent mark from the rival who had defined his youth. He took a sip of ale, letting out a long, wistful sigh.
"Ahh…"
His gaze drifted to the wall, where a large red sabertooth head with distinctive stripes hung proudly as a trophy.
"Oh, Tigger… I miss the days when you and I chased each other through the woods," he murmured, brushing a hand over the striped fur. "You trying to eat me, me trying to prove I could out-hunt you… If only I could go back."
Thud.
A faint sound echoed from the second floor.
The old adventurer froze.
Midnight noises were never good news. Years of experience whispered one truth: trouble.
He quietly lifted his old battleaxe from its place on the wall and crept up the stairs.
Thud. Thud.
The noise repeated, coming from his son's room.
He slowly pushed the door open and saw his son's armor neatly displayed on the stand—heavy plate gleaming in the moonlight. The greatsword rested at its side.
He opened the door wider—
—and in the middle of the room, a muscular young man spun in awkward circles, smartphone in hand, recording himself dancing.
"WHAT THE HELL! THIS AGAIN!?" the father roared.
"D-Dad!?" The young man nearly dropped his Murican phone as he scrambled to hide it.
"You're supposed to be asleep! Your party has a dungeon raid tomorrow morning! A ranked one! And you're doing—" he gestured vaguely at the dance pose, "—this?"
"I told you, I don't want to go to the dungeon tomorrow! I already announced a livestream!"
"What do you mean you don't want to go? And how are your party members supposed to fight without their damage dealer?"
"Well, they can just rent Murican guns," the son muttered. "They've saved enough."
The father dragged a chair over and sighed as he sat. "Son, listen. I used to be an adventurer like you—"
"Then I took an arrow in the knee," both father and son said simultaneously.
"You've told me that thousands of times, Dad," the boy groaned. "You're basically an NPC at this point."
"What the hell is an NPC?" The father shook his head. "Never mind. Kids and their weird slang…"
He leaned forward. "What I'm trying to say is, an adventurer's reputation depends on trust. If you don't show up for your party, you won't find a group willing to take you in the future."
"I told you, Dad! I don't want to be an adventurer anymore! I want to be a dance content creator!"
"Son, be realistic! Being a content creator won't earn you gold!"
"Yes, I can! One day I'll be on Murica's Got Talent, everyone will see how amazing I am, and then I'll move to Hellywood!"
"But—you're NOT a dancer! Look at you! Those big muscles are for swinging a greatsword, not for spinning a dance partner!"
"SEE!? You're doing it AGAIN! You've been telling me what to do since I was a novice! When I wanted to be a bard, you forced me into the warrior class! When I wanted to put skill points into intelligence, you made me put everything into strength! What's wrong with a warrior having high intelligence!?"
"Because a warrior is NOT supposed to be intelligent!"
"AAAGH! YOU'RE SUCH A FUCKING HELICOPTER PARENT!"
"LANGUAGE! AND WHAT THE HELL IS A HELICOPTER PARENT!?"
Murican influence, for better or worse, has cracked open Ravendawn's worldview. Suddenly there are thousands of career options besides the 40 traditional fantasy classes. The generational gap had widened dramatically—and arguments like this had become common in many homes.
Neither father nor son noticed the shadowy figures leaping across rooftops above them—silent silhouettes clad in black, heading toward the newly built port.
---
Dawn New Port
In the quieter residential edge near the water, the shadowy group settled atop rooftops overlooking the port's security gate. At this hour, no wagons or cargo were moving—only two bored Ravendawn guards chatting to pass the time.
The leader signaled. He chanted a spell.
His body vanished. His group followed, shimmering out of sight.
They dropped silently from the roof and dashed past the guards, slipping through the main gate unnoticed.
Navigating through the port, they selected paths that avoided lanternlight. Even invisible, too much illumination risked exposing the faint distortions around their bodies. They skirted the line of sight of security cameras—having already learned what those did—and circled through the dim parking lot filled with trucks, horse wagons, golf carts, and chariots.
Near the warehouse entrance, they halted. A lone guard stood watch.
One member received a signal and moved, slipping behind a parked wagon. Once hidden, he dropped invisibility and whispered a spell aimed at the guard.
The Ravendawn guard yawned, eyes heavy. It had been a long, lonely shift. But this time, the drowsiness hit too hard, too fast.
His knees buckled.
He collapsed.
"Zzz…"
With the spell successful, the group moved in. Two stayed behind to hide the sleeping guard; the rest slipped inside.
The warehouse was cavernous and cold.
At its center lay the shipwreck debris—and beside it, the recovered bodies arranged in a bizarre semi-circle, with a triangle carved inward like part of a ritual diagram.
Once certain there were no cameras, the leader released his invisibility. The group followed.
"What kind of ritual is this…?" one whispered.
"A forbidden one," said another. "Reserved for the greatest dark magician. Lich."
"You're sure that drunk guard told the truth about the Lich coming to investigate?"
"Yes. I cross-checked with the port schedule. Lich was arriving tomorrow."
"And his soul-memory magic can replay past events…" The man swallowed. "Our client was doomed if he were to see what happened."
"That's why this was our only chance. Plant the explosives."
"Yes, sir."
Two members unmasked and stripped, standing expressionless as others unloaded bags filled with explosive scrolls. The scrolls had to be attached directly to skin to activate—a deadly but necessary method.
---
Langley, BICH Headquarters
In the operations room, Mo' and Janet watched the scene unfold through a hidden warehouse camera. From the overhead view, the bodies on the floor looked suspiciously like… a Pac-Man formation about to eat the shipwreck.
"Seriously, Megan? Pac-Man?" Janet said into her comm.
"What? I'm bored! I've been stuck in this warehouse for five days waiting for them to make a move. Add sleep deprivation and see what shapes 'you' would arrange corpses into," Megan's voice crackled back.
Mo' sighed. "Tell her to move."
Janet nodded. "Megan, the old man says go. Move your team."
---
Dawn New Port
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Suddenly, bright lights flooded the warehouse as the shadow group was mid-operation.
"FREEZE! DROP EVERYTHING!"
"RAISE YOUR HANDS!"
BICH agents stormed in from all sides. Demons raised their rifles, Ravendawn guards blocked the exits. The shadow operatives were caught completely off-guard—swords sheathed, bows unstrung, nowhere to run.
Their leader scrambled for an option. He glanced at his two naked suicide bombers, about to shout the detonation order—
RATATATATATATATA!
Too late.
Two demon rifles chattered, shredding the suicide bombers instantly.
"Nuh-uh," a voice said. "Nobody is allowed to go boom anymore."
Megan strode in with two agents behind her, gun barrels still smoking.
"Hands up. All of you."
The shadow group hesitated.
RATATATATA!
Megan shot one of them dead.
"I SAID. HANDS. UP."
They complied.
She marched up to their leader and ripped off his mask.
"Well, well. Alan Ridgewood." She smirked. "What's a fancy restaurant owner doing here? Cooking something?"
"…Tch. You know me?"
"I like your red-circle place. Very zazzy. No wonder Muricans love it."
"Thanks, Miss Demon. So the Lich's arrival was just bait?"
"Yep. I've been fishing for you."
THUD!
She cracked him across the face with her weapon's stock, dropping him to the floor.
"That's for making me sit in a warehouse for five damn days."
The other BICH agents flinched.
A mistake.
In that tiny distraction, one assassin leapt toward a corpse covered in scrolls.
One surviving shadow operative dashed toward the half-dressed explosive corpses, grabbing several scrolls.
RATATATATATATA!
A BICH agent fired—non-fatal.
"Oh shi—"
He began chanting.
"GET DOWN!" Megan screamed.
BOOOOOOOOM!
The explosion rocked the warehouse. Megan hit the floor hard, ears ringing.
RATATATATA! RATATATATA!
Gunfire erupted through the haze.
As her vision cleared, she saw BICH agents clashing with shadow operatives wielding short swords and wrist-mounted crossbows. Near the exit—
Alan Ridgewood was escaping.
"He's getting away!"
"Megan, you idiot! Stop him! We need him alive!" Janet barked through the comm.
---
Megan staggered up and sprinted outside—just in time to see Alan and a companion steal a chariot and speed toward the gate. She and a Ravendawn guard chased on foot, but couldn't keep up.
She scanned desperately and spotted a port golf cart with keys still in the ignition.
Meanwhile, Alan's chariot was hurtling toward the exit gate. Two guards attempted to block them, but Alan's companion expertly fired a customized assassin's wrist-crossbow, dropping them both. The horses smashed through the wooden barrier and bolted into the city.
"Sir, are we fleeing Dawn?" the operative asked.
"Yes," Alan hissed. "But first, we are returning to the Red Circle."
He tightened his grip on the reins.
"We can't leave any evidence behind."
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