...
Enark's palms scraped uselessly against the concrete as he tried to push himself up.
His head split open as warm blood streamed freely down his face, soaking into the fabric of his blindfold. Every breath came heavy and uneven. The world tilted violently, his senses dulled to the point where sound felt distant, and movement came seconds too late.
Boots scraped closer.
The men circled him again, slow and deliberate, like predators savoring the moment before the kill. At the center of it all, the boss stood relaxed—arms loose at his sides, eyes sharp with amusement.
"Havin' regrets yet?" one of the men sneered.
Enark barely managed to lift his head before another voice barked out—
"Here—let me give you a hand!"
The punch crashed into his jaw.
His body folded, crashing back to the floor. The impact rattled his teeth, knocking what little air he had left from his lungs.
Laughter echoed through the warehouse.
From across the room, the boss finally spoke.
"Let me tell you something, 'Shadow Mask.'"
Enark struggled to breathe as the man's voice carried easily through the space.
"An ordinary person doesn't stand a chance against a Conjurer."
Another blow landed. Then another and another.
"Walking in here with just a sword?" the boss continued casually.
"No backup."
"No Prime Energy."
"No plan."
A boot drove into Enark's side, rolling him onto his back.
"Daniel was thrown in that lion's den. But you?"
The boss scoffed.
"You walked in."
"And nobody is coming to shut our mouths."
Something twisted in Enark's chest.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
The men stepped back slightly as Enark planted a trembling hand against the ground.
Slowly—painfully—he pushed himself up.
His legs shook violently. His arms threatened to give out. Blood soaked through his clothes, dripping onto the concrete below.
Still—
He stood.
The warehouse fell quiet.
The boss's grin widened, something feral flickering behind his eyes.
"…This guy," he muttered, excitement bleeding into his voice.
Kirsty stared in an almost silent awe.
Her breath caught as she watched Enark sway on his feet, barely upright, barely conscious—yet still refusing to fall.
"He's still getting up…" she thought, disbelief tightening her chest.
Then fear surged forward.
"No—wait! Stop!" she cried out. "If you keep fighting, you'll die!"
Enark heard her, but for a fleeting moment, the warehouse faded.
He remembered a voice—older, gentler.
...
"I know you want to help. I know you hate hearing people cry."
"But the city is too big… and you're still so small."
"I don't know what I'd do if you got hurt."
"Promise me…"
"…you won't follow the voices."
...
He drew in a sharp breath.
Slow and deliberate.
He exhaled.
Then spoke.
Low, steady but certain.
"If I turn away…" he said, blood dripping from his chin,"…then someone else will fall in my place."
Kirsty felt it in her chest—a quiet, undeniable certainty. A warmth that was not fear, but trust. Something intimate, like he had reached across the chaos and anchored her to his resolve.
He straightened as much as his broken body would allow.
And in that moment—beneath the black blindfold, beneath pale, sightless eyes—his resolve shone like gold.
-----------------------------
The boss tilted his head.
For a moment, he merely stared.
Then his grin returned—wider this time, almost delighted.
"…Look at that," he said softly, spreading his arms. "Still standing. Still choosing."
He laughed, the sound echoing off the steel and stone.
"Do you know what that is!?" he called out, eyes fixed on Enark."That shine in you?!" "That stubborn refusal to fall?!"
He took a step forward.
"It is the faith of FOOLS!" the boss sneered, exhilarated
The men around him shifted uneasily.
Enark forced his hands to curl into fists.
The pain was still there—screaming through his body—but something deeper had taken hold now. Something immovable.
He lifted his head.
And for the first time, he raised his voice as his words rang out, raw and unwavering.
"Though I walk..."
"...through the valley of the shadow of death—"
"I WILL FEAR... NO EVIL!"
-----------------------------
The air compressed, as if the world itself leaned inward to listen.
The lights overhead flickered violently. Dust lifted from the concrete floor, hanging unnaturally in the air around him.
Something stirred harder in the atmosphere—responding not to anger, not to desperation—
But conviction.
A pressure rolled outward from Enark's body—low, heavy, undeniable. The men nearest him staggered back a step, breath hitching as an unseen weight bore down on them.
The boss's grin vanished.
His eyes widened, just slightly.
"…There it is," he murmured, voice hushed with awe and excitement.
"The flow of Prime Energy..."
Enark's body shivered as an azure-blue aura erupted around him, pulsing rhythmically like the heartbeat of some living force. Pain still screamed through his limbs, his chest, his head—but beneath it all, the surge of power lent him a strange clarity.
And then—it happened.
A thought appeared in his mind, cold and certain, yet not his own. A single, crystalline phrase:
"The hand that archives."
"What… what was that?"he thought, heart hammering. "The hand that archives? Who… who's speaking?"
A chuckle cut through the air—a sound that carried both amusement and hunger.
"Now we're talking!" The boss's voice rang out, almost giddy, echoing across the warehouse.
The other men shifted, sensing the change in him—the visible aura that made the air itself feel heavy.
The boss raised a hand, almost theatrically, addressing Enark across the ruined warehouse floor.
"On guard, Shadow Mask!" "Though I must correct myself. You are no longer in the lion's den, no… no... the stage has changed! This—"
He spread his arms wide, eyes gleaming with anticipation, "—this is a battle."
"A battle of Conjurers!"
And in that moment, the aura around Enark flared brighter, almost in response. The blue light twisted around him, pulsing with intent, waiting to obey whatever command he would give it.
"Bring it!" Enark growled, steeling himself through the lingering pain.
...
Moments ago, he could barely keep his legs under him. Now, with the pulse of Prime Energy coursing through him, his senses sharpened further beyond!
The circle of thugs lunged.
Enark ducked under a wild right hook and spun around a precise flying kick from a side attacker. His body moved like water as he slipped past two others.
Another man jabbed toward him. Enark caught the punch and slammed a countering right hook into the man's ribs. But the thug locked his wrists around Enark's forearms, trying to pin him.
A sudden buzz in his mind warned him of something---a sensation he had never felt before.
The bat.
The metal swung in a horizontal arch with lethal intent, aiming at the back of Enark's neck. Enark ducked just in time. The bat crashed into the man, pinning him, knocking him cold to the ground with a dull thud.
Enark spun on one foot, rounding with a kick that connected cleanly with a jaw.
"Better luck next time, Bat-man!" he quipped, the words awkward on his lips but laced with deadly intent.
The man staggered back, teeth gritted, preparing a downward swing. Two others jumped from behind, aiming to overwhelm him.
They struck nothing but air as Enark flipped and landed away from them, already calculating his next move.
"Tch—what the hell?" one thug hissed. "How's he moving like that?" another whispered, fear edging their voices.
The boss watched, his grin widening, a glint of something almost religious—or perhaps sacrilegious—flickering in his eyes.
"Magnificent…"he thought.
"That euphoric feeling when a Conjurer first awakens to their Prime Energy can never be replicated. The body no longer merely obeys flesh—it begins to defy the natural order. They become supernatural, and each step beyond demands greater adversity, for to awaken into Circuit Seven is, in essence, no different than taking the first trembling step into Circuit One.
When confronted by tribulation, a Conjurer's true growth ignites, and thus it is at death's door that they draw nearest to their own soul!"
The 'boss' muttered to himself as he watched Enark dispatch two more men.
-----------------------------
Enark swung again, connecting a jab followed by two hooks in perfect succession. The man crumpled just as Enark recovered from knocking another out.
Behind him, the man with the bat lunged. Enark spun, catching the metal with both hands, but the force pushed him downwards against the concrete. They were locked in a stalemate—bat pressed down onto his neck as he resisted.
*Tzzzt…kshh*
Something sparked in the palm of Enark's hand. His aura surged, tingling across his fingers. With a sharp kick, he shoved the assailant off and over him. The bat whistled toward him again, but this time Enark lifted his left arm to brace, enduring the jarring impact.
Instinctively, his right hand extended. A blue light coalesced, hardening into the exact bat the man had just swung.
Time seemed to slow.
"His hand…!? Is that my bat? What… how did he—"
The man's thoughts scrambled, incoherent until clarity struck:
"A Prime Ability!"
*CRACK!*
Enark swung. The bat struck squarely across the man's jaw, snapping him unconscious instantly—but the weapon shattered in his hand, vanishing into nothing.
He exhaled, chest heaving, and turned toward the last thug and the boss, who still held Kirsty like a prize.
"Let's finish this," Enark growled. "Just us. Leave the girl out of it."
The boss grinned, his eyes glinting.
"Heh… sly bastard," he purred, the sound of teeth clicking like claws.
Then a massive roar of footsteps circled the warehouse.
"This sound... Enforcers!" Enark's head tilted, shock tightening his jaw.
A megaphone crackled, the amplified voice cutting through the chaos:
"Listen up! These are the Enforcers of Caldonia! Lay down your weapons and exit immediately! Hands in the air! You have thirty seconds to comply, or we will enter by force. Anyone who resists will be subdued!"
One of the thugs turned to the boss.
"Boss… we gotta go, the feds are her—"
"Hey!" Enark barked.
Kirsty cried out in alarm.
The boss's grin stretched wide, almost deranged. One thug faltered, glancing at the arm now impaled through his chest.
"Screw… you…" were his last words before collapsing, the boss calmly withdrawing the limb, wiping the blood off it.
"Why—why did you kill him?!" Enark shouted. "Weren't you supposed to be friends?!"
"Friends?" the boss scoffed, tossing Kirsty toward Enark. "What are you, five?"
Enark barely reacted, catching her as they slid across the floor, stumbling backward.
"Are you alright?" he asked urgently, hands tearing at the ropes binding her.
"I-I'm okay," she gasped.
Enark's tone hardened. "What are you planning?"
"You'll see," the boss replied, pacing around him, eyes glinting with cruel amusement.
Then the Enforcers poured in, weapons trained on Enark and Kirsty. Among them, a single figure moved like a storm contained.
"I'm Detective Landon of the Enforcers," he said, stepping forward. "Are you the one who made the call?"
"Yes, sir," the boss answered smoothly. "This blindfolded fellow kidnapped the girl a few hours ago. I called in some friends to slow him down—but as you can see, he bested us." His smirk widened. "That one over there?" He gestured to the fallen thug. "He just stabbed him just moments ago."
Landon's eyes went wide. "Kirsty!" he yelled, drawing his gun. "Unhand my daughter! Now!"
Every Enforcer tensed, aiming.
"Wait! Dad, he's—" Kirsty's voice faltered. The boss's gaze, cold and lethal, pinned her in place. She froze as fear rooted in her, sensing the murderous intent not aimed at her but her father instead--forcing her hand.
She hoisted herself up as she stumbled across the room into her father's arms.
"I'm sorry..." she whispered, low enough for only Enark to hear.
"Surrender now!" Landon's command rang across the warehouse.
The boss tilted his head, eyes shining with madness and glee. His grin widened, stretching unnaturally.
"Shadow Mask…" he said, voice carrying over the chaos.
"Tell me… how will you walk out of this alive?"