The Mercenary Bureau of Helior never truly slept.
Even at dawn, when the capital still yawned behind shuttered windows and the streets held that cold, blue hush, there were boots on stone, voices already bargaining, and ink already drying into decisions that ruined lives.
Aren stepped through the tall doors with his cloak pulled tight, one hand resting at his side where the familiar ache still lingered in his shoulder. It wasn't sharp. Not anymore. It was the kind of pain that didn't scream—it reminded. Like a knuckle tapping the inside of his bones.
You're still human.
He exhaled slowly and walked forward.
The front hall was the same chaos he remembered: mission boards lined up like commandments, clerks shouting numbers and names, mercenaries laughing too loudly to prove they were fearless, and a half-asleep man slumped beneath a sign that clearly read:
DO NOT SLEEP HERE.
Aren approached the main counter.
A clerk with ink-stained fingers looked up only halfway, already irritated—until his eyes flicked down to Aren's tag.
The clerk paused.
Then reached out a hand.
"Card."
Aren blinked once. "What?"
"Your member card. Don't make me repeat myself."
Aren pulled the metal card from his pouch and slid it over.
The clerk took it, turned it under the light, and clicked his tongue. "Still breathing, huh."
Aren didn't respond.
The clerk opened a registry, ran a finger down columns, then leaned back in his chair with the lazy confidence of someone who had never been hunted in a forest.
"You were F-rank when you signed up," he said. "That's the trash tier. 'Too young, no mana, probably dies on his first contract.'"
Aren's jaw tightened.
The clerk kept going anyway.
"But you've cleared enough verified missions to bump. Escort. Retrieval. Rural cleansing. Emergency assist. That little incident on the southern trade road too… someone filed you under 'unpleasantly competent.'"
Aren stared at him. "So?"
"So," the clerk said with a faint grin, "you're C now."
For a second, Aren didn't move.
It wasn't joy that hit him; it was something more dangerous. A validation that felt like fuel. A small official stamp that told the world, he isn't a joke anymore.
"You'll need to update the board permissions," the clerk went on. "Higher access. Higher pay. Higher chances of dying."
Aren extended his hand.
The clerk didn't give the card back right away. He held it, eyes narrowing as if he'd suddenly remembered how the world worked.
"There's something else."
Aren's gaze sharpened. "What?"
The clerk tapped the registry with his pen.
"Two C-rank teams were found dead near Lake Ornelle. Not monsters. Not a clean job. They were… cut apart. Aura traces all over the scene. Sacred residue too, apparently."
Aren's stomach tightened.
The clerk watched him carefully now. "They've been asking questions. Order of Light. Paladins. Investigators. We're under pressure."
Aren kept his expression still. He'd learned that much. In Helior, emotion was a weakness people could grab.
"So why are you telling me?" he asked.
The clerk slid Aren's card back across the counter, slower than before. "Because the Bureau's tired of losing people. And because whoever did that—if it's connected to those Cannibals everyone whispers about, we're going to need eyes that don't panic."
Aren's fingers closed around his card.
"And because," the clerk added, voice dropping, "you were last seen around Lake Ornelle recently. Weren't you?"
Aren didn't answer.
The clerk didn't smile anymore.
He just pointed at a sideboard, where a new parchment hung, sealed with official wax.
C-RANK: ON-SITE VERIFICATION / LAKE ORNELLE PERIMETER.CONFIRM STATUS OF MISSING TEAMS. REPORT DIRECTLY TO HELIOR.
Aren read it twice.
Then nodded once.
"I'll go."
The clerk's pen scratched paper. "Sign."
Aren signed.
The moment the ink dried, the clerk leaned back, expression carefully neutral.
"Try not to get killed, kid," he said. "And try not to give them a reason to blame you."
Aren took the mission slip, turned, and walked out of the Bureau.
Outside, Helior's morning air hit him like steel.
He didn't look back.
The road to Lake Ornelle was quieter than it had any right to be.
The trees stood too still. The wind moved like it was afraid of waking something. Even the birds sounded… distant, like they'd learned not to sing too close to the wrong places.
By late afternoon, the lake mist began to creep between trunks, thin white fingers that made distance hard to judge. Aren followed the shoreline path until the village appeared—small, wary, and tight-lipped like someone holding back a scream.
He didn't come here to fight.
He came here to understand.
Aren stopped at the first cluster of houses and approached an older man mending a net beside a post.
"Mercenary Bureau," Aren said, showing his tag. "I'm here about the missing teams."
The old man's hands slowed. His eyes flicked to the tag, then away.
"We already answered questions," he muttered.
"I'm not the Order," Aren said. "I'm Bureau. Tell me where the bodies were found."
The old man's jaw tightened. "Not in the village."
Aren waited.
The old man sighed through his nose, like giving directions would curse him.
"Out past the boathouse trail," he said. "Near the old path that no one uses anymore. There's a bend where the reeds grow thick. After that—woods. Abandoned ground. People used to cut timber there, long ago."
Aren's gaze sharpened. "How far?"
"Half an hour if your legs work."
Aren nodded once. "Did anyone see who did it?"
The old man gave a short, bitter laugh. "See? We hear things. We find things. We don't see."
Aren turned to leave.
Then the man added, quieter, "Two days ago… men in white came. Sword and prayers. They weren't here to comfort anyone."
Aren didn't answer. He just kept walking.
The village behind him felt like it was holding its breath, relieved the trouble was leaving its streets.
The trail curved around the lake like a scar.
Mist clung to the reeds. The ground turned softer near the water, footprints surviving longer—if you knew how to read them.
Aren did.
He found the first sign where the old man said he would: a patch of flattened grass, trampled hard by boots. Not villagers. Too heavy. Too many.
Then he saw the second sign.
Blood.
Not fresh. Dried dark into the earth.
He stepped forward, and the air changed.
Not in magic—Aren had no mana sense to tell him that.
In instinct.
The silence here wasn't natural. It was the silence left after something had screamed and nothing answered.
Aren rounded a cluster of reeds—and found them.
Two mercenary bodies sprawled near the edge of the abandoned path. Another lay farther back, half in brush. A fourth had fallen against a tree, head bowed like he'd tried to stand until his legs stopped existing.
Aren's throat tightened.
He forced himself to breathe.
He forced himself to look.
Not to mourn.
To understand.
There were no clean cuts. No single decisive strike. This wasn't one warrior proving superiority.
This was violence with intention.
Aren crouched near the nearest corpse.
The man's armor was split. Not shattered—sliced. The wound pattern was precise, but too deep, too brutal, as if the attacker wanted to make sure the victim understood helplessness before dying.
Aren's jaw clenched.
Then he noticed something else.
The air around the bodies felt… wrong.
Not a smell. Not wind.
A faint pressure, like a memory still hanging in the space.
He couldn't sense mana, but he could recognize when the world had been scarred by power.
He moved toward a tree near the path and saw the mark on its bark—blackened grooves that didn't look like fire.
Something had eaten through wood like rot.
Aren stood slowly.
Sacred residue, the clerk had said.
He didn't know what sacred residue felt like.
But he knew this place had been touched by forces far above normal blades.
And that meant one thing:
The Order of Light hadn't come here for curiosity.
They came because someone important had bled.
Aren exhaled.
He shifted his weight and felt the ground under his boot—something hard.
Metal.
He looked down.
A small emblem, half-buried in mud. A mercenary clasp.
He picked it up.
And for a moment, he imagined someone in Helior staring at his face and deciding guilt was easier than truth.
Aren's eyes narrowed.
Then a voice spoke behind him—warm, gentle, absurdly calm.
"You shouldn't touch those."
Aren spun.
Rasilca stood on the abandoned path like she'd been there the entire time, as if mist had simply shaped itself into a woman.
Clean dress. Dark hair tied back. Calm eyes.
A smile that didn't belong near bodies.
Aren's hand went to his sword immediately.
Rasilca's gaze drifted to the blade, then back to his face, still soft.
"You're faster than I expected," she said.
Aren's voice was flat. "You."
Rasilca stepped closer, careful not to step on blood, like she had manners even here.
"I wondered when you'd come," she said. "The Bureau always sends someone when enough people die."
Aren's grip tightened.
"You're the reason," he said. "Those Cannibals wanted your crates. Your contract. Now these teams are dead. So tell me—what are you?"
Rasilca blinked slowly, like she was truly trying to understand why he sounded so angry.
"Aren," she said gently, "you look tired."
That tone—friendly, concerned, almost affectionate—hit him like an insult.
"I'm not here for your kindness," he snapped. "Answer me."
Rasilca sighed softly. "You think I killed them."
"I think you know who did."
Rasilca's smile returned, patient and infuriating. "Knowing is dangerous."
Aren stepped forward, steel half-drawn now. "Then it's dangerous."
Rasilca looked at the corpses, then back at him. "Do you want the truth, or do you want something you can live with?"
Aren's eyes burned. "The truth."
Rasilca leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret between lovers.
"The crates," she said, "contain the Compatible."
Aren froze.
"The… what?"
"The Compatible," she repeated calmly. "That's the only name you need for now."
Aren's anger sharpened into something almost clean.
"What is it?"
Rasilca's gaze softened again. "I'm sorry. That's all I can say."
Something in Aren snapped.
He drew his sword fully.
Steel hissed into the mist.
Rasilca didn't flinch.
Aren stepped closer, blade aimed at her throat.
"Answer me," he said. "Or I open those crates myself. Or I cut you down and search your pockets after."
Rasilca's expression didn't change.
Not fear.
Not tension.
Just calm.
And that calm made Aren's skin crawl, because it wasn't bravery.
It was certain.
"Aren," she said gently, "put that down."
Aren's voice shook with rage. "Stop talking to me like you're my friend."
Rasilca's smile widened slightly. "But I want to be."
That was the final straw.
Aren lunged.
Not wild.
Not reckless.
Direct.
Technique of the Southern Sword — Simple Pierce.
The blade shot toward her throat.
Rasilca moved.
Not with panic.
Not with a flashy dodge.
She simply shifted one step, like avoiding a puddle.
Aren's blade cut empty air.
He adjusted instantly, pivoting into a second thrust.
She stepped aside again.
A third lower, ribs.
She leaned back, the tip missing her by a finger's width.
Aren halted mid-motion, chest heaving.
In that pause, the difference became obvious—not through light or aura, but through reality itself.
Rasilca was not fighting him.
She was allowing him to prove he couldn't touch her.
"You can't win," she said quietly. "Not now."
Aren's teeth bared. "I don't care."
Rasilca sighed—gentle, almost sad. "You will."
Aren attacked again, faster, anger pushing his body past comfort.
Rasilca raised two fingers and tapped the flat of his blade.
Just a tap.
Aren's sword shifted off line as if struck by a hammer.
His wrist screamed.
He staggered back, eyes widening in shock.
Rasilca didn't press. Didn't punish.
She simply stood there, calm as mist, eyes warm like she was watching a child throw stones at the sky.
"Aren," she said, voice almost kind, "join us."
Aren stared at her. "Join what?"
Rasilca smiled. "You'll see. You'll understand. You're closer than you think."
Aren lifted his sword again, but now his mind was screaming one thing:
She didn't even fight me.
Rasilca began to step away, turning toward the woods.
"I won't harm you," she said. "Not today."
Then she looked back, eyes bright with quiet confidence.
"You'll come to us eventually."
Aren stepped forward too late.
She slipped into the reeds and fog, leaving no trace, no sound, no urgency.
Aren stood there, blade lowered, hatred boiling in his throat.
"As if I'd join a group that kills people like animals," he growled. "Bunch of fanatics."
His grip tightened until his knuckles whitened.
Then another voice cut through the mist, cold, sharp, righteous.
"Drop your weapon."
Aren turned.
A man in white armor stood at the edge of the abandoned path. Half-plate polished. Cloak marked with the symbol of Light. His sword was drawn, its blade faintly glowing with sacred energy that made the air feel cleaner and harsher at the same time.
His eyes were sharp.
And they were looking at Aren like he was already guilty.
"You're late," Aren said, voice low.
The man's expression didn't flicker.
"I arrived when the bodies were found," he replied. "And when I tracked the last living mercenary in the area."
Aren's stomach tightened.
"So you tracked me."
"Yes," the paladin said. "And I watched you threaten a woman near a crime scene."
Aren's jaw clenched. "She's involved."
The paladin's lips curled slightly. "Convenient."
Aren felt heat rise.
"She's gone," he said. "If you want her, chase her."
The paladin took one step forward.
"I'm looking for the one who slaughtered these teams."
Aren's eyes hardened. "It wasn't me."
The paladin didn't blink.
"I've heard that before."
Aren's breath grew heavier.
"You didn't even ask."
The paladin raised his sword slightly, sacred energy whispering along the metal.
"I am Gilos Brum," he said. "Trainee of the Order. And today, you will answer for the blood on this land."
Aren's voice sharpened. "I told you—"
"You will answer," Gilos repeated, louder.
Aren realized then:
He wasn't here to investigate.
He was here to judge.
Rasilca hadn't simply escaped.
She had left Aren here—alone, surrounded by corpses, surrounded by residue he couldn't explain.
Bait.
Aren's grip tightened on his sword.
"Fine," he said, voice cold. "Then try to kill me. See what happens."
Gilos surged forward.
His movement wasn't sloppy. It wasn't arrogant.
It was trained—precise, disciplined, and backed by power that didn't belong to flesh.
Sacred reinforcement wrapped his body. His speed sharpened. His step ate distance.
Aren barely had time to raise his blade before the first strike came down like a verdict.
CLANG.
Steel screamed.
Aren's arms jolted, pain shooting up his shoulder.
Gilos pressed immediately—two strikes, then a thrust aimed at Aren's heart.
Aren pivoted, barely slipping aside, then countered with a straight pierce.
Technique of the Southern Sword — Simple Pierce.
His blade shot forward.
Gilos angled his torso, letting the tip graze armor, then struck back with a slash that carried more force than it should've.
Aren blocked—
—and his feet slid back across the damp earth.
That's not muscle.
That's mana… turned holy.
Gilos drove Aren back toward the reeds, away from the bodies, away from any stable footing.
Aren forced himself to breathe.
Forced his mind to sharpen.
Gilos attacked in patterns, clean sequences designed to break guards and punish openings.
First slash. Second thrust. Third overhead.
Aren ducked under the overhead and stabbed toward Gilos's ribs.
The blade slipped past a guard edge and nicked flesh beneath the plate.
Blood appeared.
Aren felt a brutal satisfaction.
I can hit you.
Gilos stepped back, hand touching the wound.
Then his lips moved.
A short phrase, prayer, command, or something sacred.
Light gathered around his side like warm water.
The wound closed.
Blood dried.
Skin mended.
Aren's stomach dropped.
He… healed.
Gilos looked at Aren with something close to pity.
"You fight well," he said, voice steady. "Even without mana."
Aren's teeth clenched. "Shut up."
Gilos raised his sword again.
"But without mana," he continued, "you cannot defeat me."
That sentence hit harder than any strike.
Aren's eyes burned.
"I said it wasn't me!" Aren snapped. "Those mercenaries weren't killed by me!"
Gilos's gaze stayed cold.
"I do not need your excuses."
He surged forward again.
This time, he didn't test.
He ended.
Aren blocked one strike—his arms screamed.
Blocked the second—his wrists shook.
The third came in a diagonal slash that forced Aren's guard wide.
Gilos thrust—
Aren twisted—
The blade grazed his ribs, cutting cloth and skin.
Aren stumbled back, breath ragged.
His vision narrowed for a second.
Gilos advanced.
Aren tried a decisive pierce again.
Gilos slapped it aside with sacred strength and drove his shoulder into Aren's chest.
BAM.
Aren hit the ground hard.
Mud and reeds under his back.
Pain everywhere.
Gilos stood over him, sword raised.
"Your resistance is noted," he said. "But judgment is final."
Aren's lungs failed him for a second.
His body didn't want to move.
And in that moment—flat on his back, staring up at the blade and the grey lake sky—Aren understood the truth with horrifying clarity:
If he dies here, no one will know.
Kayla remains unreachable.
His parents keep waiting.
And the world continues swallowing children without consequence.
Gilos's blade began to fall.
Aren turned his head slightly, voice low, rough, furious—
"Hé," he said, almost spitting the words. "You, obsessive fanatic."
Gilos hesitated, just a fraction.
Aren's eyes flicked toward the mist.
"I know you're there," Aren hissed. "Watching like a voyeur."
Gilos frowned. "Who are you talking to?"
Aren forced the words out through blood and exhaustion.
"Help me."
For a heartbeat, there was only wind and lake mist.
Then a voice answered softly, amused, and close.
"I'm sorry," Rasilca said.
Gilos's eyes widened.
Aren barely had time to turn—
Rasilca moved.
Not like a mage casting.
Not like a warrior charging.
Like wind.
A simple gesture.
A blur.
A whisper of something sharper than steel.
And then—
Gilos's head left his shoulders.
No scream.
No heroic last words.
Just a clean sever.
The head rolled into wet grass, eyes still open, expression frozen in disbelief.
The body collapsed.
Mist swallowed the sound.
No villagers.
No witnesses.
Only reeds, water, and silence.
Aren lay there, frozen, breath stuck in his throat.
Relief hit first.
He wasn't dead.
Then disgust followed immediately after.
Because she hadn't needed to do that.
She could've stopped Gilos.
Disarmed him.
Knocked him unconscious.
She chose the simplest, coldest solution.
Rasilca stood over the corpse with a faint smile, as if she'd just cleaned up a mess.
Aren forced himself upright, trembling, pain tearing through him.
Rasilca turned to him, eyes bright.
"If you asked for my help," she said sweetly, "does that mean you accept to join our organization?"
Aren stared at her.
Then laughed once—low and ugly.
"Go to hell," he rasped.
Rasilca tilted her head. "Oh."
Aren pushed himself to his feet, wobbling.
"It's because of you," Aren snarled, voice shaking with rage, "that I'm like this."
Rasilca blinked innocently. "Me?"
Aren pointed at the corpse.
"You knew he'd come. You left me here. You used me."
Rasilca pressed a hand to her chest as if wounded.
"I don't know what you mean."
Aren's eyes narrowed.
"Doesn't matter," he said, voice dangerously calm. "One day… you'll die by my hand."
Rasilca's smile widened—genuine, delighted.
"I look forward to that day," she said lightly.
Then she stepped back, already turning away.
"Aren," she added over her shoulder, "you're closer than you think. You just don't know it yet."
And then she was gone again.
Like she'd never existed.
Aren stood in the wet grass, staring at the corpse of Gilos Brum.
No one would find the truth quickly.
No one would believe the boy without mana if he tried to explain.
He looked at the severed head, then at the glowing sword still in Gilos's hand, now dull as ordinary metal.
Aren's hands shook.
His body screamed.
But inside him, something else cracked.
Not bone.
Not muscle.
Certainty.
He had fought.
He had trained.
He had refused.
He had endured.
And it still wasn't enough.
Because there were levels in this world that didn't care how hard you tried.
Levels where willpower was just a funny story someone told before killing you.
Aren's jaw tightened until it hurt.
He limped away from the bodies, away from the reeds, away from the lake mist that clung to everything like memory.
His mind replayed the fight.
The healing.
The sacred reinforcement.
The sentence that had sounded like a law of nature:
Without mana, you cannot defeat me.
Aren's nails dug into his palm.
He thought of Kayla.
He thought of Nerathis.
He thought of prodigies who would crush him by accident.
And he thought of Rasilca—smiling, inviting, untouchable.
Aren exhaled through his teeth.
No dramatic oath.
No screaming promise.
Just a decision made in the deepest part of his bones.
"I need mana," he whispered.
The words tasted bitter.
But they were true.
"I have to find a way to use mana."
He looked up at the darkening sky.
Not with hope.
With hunger.
And behind him, the lake wind moved—quiet, patient, like the world already waiting to see whether Aren would break…
…or evolve.