...
Cold seeped into Kirsty's bones before consciousness fully returned.
Concrete pressed against her cheek, rough and damp. The air was putrid, and oil clung faintly to it. Her head throbbed in dull pulses as sound crept back in: boots scuffing, low voices, metal clinking somewhere nearby.
She didn't move at first.
Her wrists were bound behind her back—tight, but not cutting. However, it was cheap, she noted automatically. She flexed her fingers once, testing their integrity.
...
"…told you we should've grabbed her sooner."
A male voice spoke in an adjacent room
"Shut up," another snapped. "We have her now. That's all that matters."
Kirsty focused on breathing, slow and shallow, keeping herself limp. Her eyes cracked open just enough to take in blurred shapes—warehouse walls, rusted beams, stacked crates casting long shadows under flickering lights.
"…Detective Landon's been breathing down our necks for months," someone muttered. "This evens things out."
"So she's leverage?" another asked.
"For now," the sharp voice replied calmly. "Depends on how things play out."
A chill crawled up her spine—not from the cold, but from the certainty in his tone. This wasn't panic. This wasn't desperation. These men weren't scrambling.
They were waiting.
Kirsty swallowed, jaw tightening.
"Stay calm..." she thought, "I can get through this."
-----------------------------
The night air brushed Enark's face as he crouched along the warehouse roof, body low and senses razor-focused.
Still twelve.
They moved in loose rotations inside—pairs circling, others posted near entrances. Not sloppy. Not bored. Alert in a way street thugs never were.
"So that's how it is…" he muttered.
The radio at his hip crackled softly.
"…Enforcer units rerouting—possible disturbance reported three blocks east…"
His jaw tightened.
"I can't rely on the Enforcers," Enark thought. "If they move too late, Kirsty could be hurt… or dragged somewhere I'll never reach in time."
The radio at his hip crackled faintly, distant voices overlapping with static. Too many variables. Too much delay.
Enark exhaled once, sharp and controlled.
"If I don't act… she pays for it."
His hand moved.
With a quick, deliberate motion, he switched the radio off. The faint chatter died instantly. In the same breath, his fingers curled around the hilt of the sword he had taken from the nobleman not long ago. The familiar weight settled into his palm.
The silence that followed felt heavier than any noise.
He slipped through the shattered skylight, dropping inside the warehouse and landing soundlessly on a steel beam. Dust stirred beneath his boots, but no one looked up.
Below him, two men stood near a side entrance, murmuring to each other, weapons slung carelessly at their sides.
Enark moved.
He dropped behind them like a shadow given form.
One hand snapped forward, striking the first man's neck with brutal precision. The second barely had time to draw breath before Enark's blade flashed—hilt-first—cracking against his temple.
Both bodies collapsed in dull, muffled thuds.
No shouting.
No alarms.
Enark released a slow breath through his nose, steadying himself.
"Good," he said
He moved again—faster now.
A third guard rounded a corner.
Enark snuck up from behind, fingers driving into precise pressure points along the man's neck and shoulder. The guard stiffened, eyes rolling back as consciousness was snuffed out in seconds. Enark guided him down carefully, lowering the body instead of letting it fall.
"Wait, shit! Someone--" Enark realized that another man was about to step through the doorway at the same time.
"Hey, what are—?!" the man yelled.
Enark dashed towards him, closing the distance in a blink before driving a clean right hook into the man's jaw. The guard's body hit the floor hard, going limp before he even understood what had happened.
From somewhere deeper inside the warehouse, Kirsty heard it.
A sound that didn't belong.
Not footsteps.
Not voices.
A body hitting the floor.
Her heart stuttered.
Then—silence.
The man standing at the center of the warehouse—the boss—straightened slowly.
His eyes narrowed.
"…We're not alone," he said.
The others stiffened instantly.
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't shout orders or reach for a weapon. Instead, something rippled through the air around him—an invisible pulse that made the lights flicker faintly.
Prime Energy.
"Circle in," he ordered calmly. "Now."
One of the men grabbed Kirsty by the shoulder and yanked her upright. She hissed in pain but clenched her teeth, refusing to cry out as the boss stepped closer and placed a firm hand on her arm.
"Whoever you are," the boss called out, eyes sweeping the shadows above, "you're skilled. I'll give you that." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "But you won't get another free move."
Above them, Enark watched like a predator.
Now!
He dropped.
Enark drew his sword as he cut through the air, aimed cleanly for the boss's arm—meant to sever his hold on Kirsty.
"IDIOT!" the boss shouted, a grin stretching across his face as he turned upward—still holding Kirsty with one arm.
His free hand shot out.
He ensnared Enark mid-air as his hand clamped around his throat. The impact stole the breath from his lungs as the boss hoisted him up effortlessly with one arm, stopping his momentum dead.
"You got him, boss!" one of the men yelled.
Kirsty stared in shock.
The blindfolded figure in black—the one her father had mentioned—hung helplessly in the air, feet kicking uselessly.
How…?Enark's thoughts spiraled as his hands clawed at the grip, crushing his windpipe. "How did he know I was there?!"
The boss leaned in close, eyes glinting with amusement.
"I don't know what you were planning with that sneak attack," he said casually, tightening his grip, "but unless you can properly mask your Prime Energy, you might as well be walking around on fire."
"G—rk!" Enark snarled, forcing his arm to move. He swung the blade toward the boss's face.
The sword snapped. Instantly.
The sound rang sharp, bouncing off the walls of the room.
The boss raised an eyebrow. "Attacking me while I'm unarmed?" he continued mockingly. "That's cheating."
With a violent motion, the boss swung Enark sideways and hurled him across the warehouse. Enark's body slammed into the concrete wall, spine colliding with crushing force.
The impact rattled the entire structure.
Enark slid to the floor, breath torn from his lungs, as pain flared through his back.
And the boss merely watched—calm, composed, and in control.
"Heh—get 'em, boys!" The boss's voice rang out with almost childish delight.
The remaining seven men closed in, boots scraping against concrete as they formed a loose circle around Enark.
Enark gritted his teeth and forced himself upright, every nerve screaming in protest.
*KRAK—!*
A left jab snapped into his face before he could fully raise his guard. His head jerked sideways.
*WHAM—!*
A heavy right hook buried itself into his ribs, tearing the air from his lungs.
"HNK—!" Enark choked, as pain began to bloom.
Another man stepped in, throwing a straight cross. Enark barely recovered in time—his forearm caught the punch, and instinct took over. He twisted his hips and drove a counter straight into the man's jaw.
The impact should've dropped him.
Instead—
The man didn't even flinch.
"What…?" Enark's breath hitched, "He's not hurt?!"
The thug grinned, blood at the corner of his mouth, and lunged forward. Both hands clamped around Enark's wrists, yanking him close—
*CRACK.*
A brutal headbutt smashed into Enark's face.
Enark felt his head explode. He staggered back, trying to regain balance as it felt like his senses were inverted.
Then the hits came in a blur.
Right.
Left.
Cross.
Uppercut.
Each strike landed before he could breathe, his body rocking under the onslaught.
"Yo—heads up!" one of the men barked. "Knock his lights out!"
A metal bat spun through the air.
Two men seized Enark's arms, locking them down.
*THWACK!*
The bat connected square with his face.
His grip went slack instantly, his body ripping free from their hold as he was sent skidding across the concrete.
The man lifted the bat again, winding up.
Enark tried to brace—tried to raise his arms—
They wouldn't move.
*WHAM—!*
The second strike launched him across the floor. His body dragged, rolling once before slamming to a stop.
Silence swallowed the space around him.
Enark coughed, blood spilling freely from his head as he struggled to push himself up. His breath came slowly and unevenly.
"These guys…"
His gaze swept the room—at the men repositioning. The boss stood calmly at the center, adjusting his stance as if this were nothing more than a warm-up.
"They're different..."
"They're not like the people I fought before..."
"They're..."
A memory surfaced—Miss Yamamoto's voice echoing clearly in his mind.
"Through preserved accounts, we know this much… those who wield Prime Energy are known as—"
Enark's fingers curled weakly against the floor.
"…Conjurers!"