Through the deep silence, Lucien Sinclair moved. Shrouded in a dark, hooded cloak that swallowed his form, he was a sliver of living shadow, his eyes closed as he walked with an unnerving, precise grace.

  His senses, extended to their operational limit, painted a detailed sonic and energetic map of the sleeping town in his mind. He was not searching for anything in particular, only observing the city's nocturnal rhythm, the baseline pulse of its hidden life.

  His path was aimless, yet deliberate. A predator conducting a census of his new territory.

  The streets were illuminated only by moonlight and the distant, stationary lights of guard towers. The bustling market squares stood deserted, the loud public chatter replaced by a weird, waiting silence as he walked. Nearly everyone was inside their homes.

  But not all of Pipra slept. He sensed a few groups patrolling in specific, repetitive patterns—guards or officers, he concluded, paying just enough attention to log their routes before dismissing them. The others were scattered figures, perhaps night workers or thieves or drunkards finding their way home. Normal variables.

  Shifting direction, he moved through a network of alleys. His perception flared as he pinpointed one area that was markedly more lively than the rest.

  The district was famous for its taverns and bars. Its energy was a chaotic mix of high spirits, intoxication, and base entertainment, a dense knot of life in the sleeping town.

  Further on, in a poverty-stricken sector, he sensed the equivalent of a clandestine night market operating in hidden alleys and side routes, some dealings open, others carefully concealed.

  The volume of nocturnal activity was much higher than he had anticipated. He continued his endeavor, and within forty minutes, he had mapped the entire town's skeletal night structure, cataloging each area's function and its potential for conflict or utility.

  His initial survey complete, Lucien’s focus narrowed, drawn by a persistent anomaly—a single presence moving erratically through the town.

  This individual’s signature shone with disruptive clarity through the thousands of data points streaming into Lucien’s consciousness.

  The person’s path was a trail of minor chaos. He visited locations crowded with life, and each time, the energy signatures around him fluctuated violently, spiking with the distinct rhythm of conflict before swiftly fading. He was crashing one place after another.

  Lucien was not interested in him, yet the individual kept appearing in his awareness, an incessant buzz that was becoming difficult to ignore.

  “He crashed another place,” Lucien muttered, a note of cold observation in his voice. He turned his direction toward the east side of town, still with no intention of involving himself.

  As he moved, his perception flagged another anomaly. This one was different—lethal. A finely spun web of energy, like a trap set for a specific target, reminiscent of a spider’s silk. The signatures of a few guards who had wandered into it were already weakening, their life forces dimming.

  Before he could analyze it further, he registered two more high-speed movements converging on the area. One from the rooftops, another from the ground.

  Knowing his current position was drifting into their trajectory, Lucien erased his presence completely, withdrawing his sensory output to near-zero. He vanished from the spot, redirecting his path toward a different point of curiosity, the riverside.

  There, his True Perception had long registered two signatures. One was normal, unremarkable. The other was peculiar, incredibly stable and still. It was so finely controlled it would be invisible to even a seasoned fighter.

  Had Lucien not possessed True Perception, it would have slipped by entirely. He had observed this signature for some time, it remained perfectly constant, without the slightest fluctuation.

  It did not radiate immense power, but rather indicated an individual so deeply engrossed in a single task that their very life force was focused into a point of absolute, unwavering concentration.

  At riverside

  A man, perhaps in his late thirties, stood on the bridge. His long, untamed black hair and ragged clothes, spattered with old paint.

  He was staring intently at the night sky, a posture he had held for a long while. Behind him stood his new disciple, Anna, who had dutifully carried a canvas and paints, expecting a lesson. But her master, Klos, had done nothing but gaze upward, his eyes ceasing to blink.

  Anna grew restless as the night deepened, the air turning colder.

  "Master Klos," she began, her voice hesitant. "What are you planning to do? Are we not going to draw anything today?"

  Klos did not move his body or shift his eyes. "The sky feels weird today, for some reason," he spoke, his voice distant. "I wonder why."

  Anna looked up, perplexed. "The sky is weird? What do you mean? It looks very normal to me. Though there are some clouds today."

  Klos was silent for a moment, then replied, "Huh. That's it. It's the clouds. They shouldn't be here."

  "Are clouds that rare?" Anna asked, her confusion mounting.

  Klos kept looking, then issued a calm, quiet command that carried the weight of a teacher's instruction, not a mere suggestion. "Leave the materials here and go back. It is already late."

  "It is no problem," Anna protested. "My house is in the next narrow lane from this road. It is very close. I wouldn't have come if it was a problem."

  "Still, go. You have a job to do tomorrow, and then there are my lessons as well, right?"

  In the end, Anna accepted. She set up the canvas and easel, then left, the sound of her footsteps fading into the night.

  Klos remained, a solitary, still figure on the bridge, his focus absolute, his gaze locked on the heavens.

  Lucien observed the entire scene from the roof of a nearby house, shrouded in darkness. He analyzed the situation visually but did not hear their conversation.

  Just an old man, he concluded. Likely an artist. He reclined his head against the wall and looked up at the star-filled sky.

  He wondered what the man could possibly be preparing to draw that required such intense focus. Watching him, a dormant desire stirred within Lucien—a desire to draw. He had not touched a brush or canvas for a long time.

  It was not a skill he particularly enjoyed, he disliked the process of filling a blank canvas from imagination alone, of making arbitrary choices about subject.

  But his mother, Hilda, had drilled the discipline into him until it became an inseparable part of his life. Now, for reasons he did not fully understand, in moments of inactivity he would sometimes find himself staring at a blank canvas, falling into a state of deep introspection.

  He looked down one more time at the old man, who remained perfectly still, his gaze still locked on the heavens.

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  Anna was walking toward home. Just as she turned onto her street, she disappeared, as if carried away by the wind.

  In a narrow, deserted lane a block away, a figure appeared carrying someone.

  He wore a green-and-black tuxedo with metal gloves, his head covered by a yellow weaver bird mask that hid his hair and ears, leaving only his mouth visible.

  He held Anna with one hand, his other clamped over her mouth. She was paralyzed with terror, her body shaking, eyes wide and wet with unshed tears.

  "Haha, haha. What a little catch I found," he said, his grim smile unmistakable.

  He released his hold, letting her drop. She drew a breath to scream, but he silenced her by pressing a sharp, pointed finger to her throat. "Screaming will not work at all, little lady."

  "Who are you? What do you want from me?" Anna pleaded, her voice a terrified whisper.

  The man in the weaver bird mask scowled. "Don't talk. I don't like them talking. Keep it shut." He captured her by the throat and began dragging her across the rough ground toward a brick wall. She struggled and cried out, her shouts echoing in the empty lane.

  He pulled her up and smashed her against the wall, pulling a hammer and a long nail from his belt with his free hand. He placed the nail's point at her shoulder, the promise of the pain to come clear. The fear in her eyes was absolute.

  Suddenly, a spear blade struck the side of his head with a sharp, metallic clang. The force threw him sideways, making him stagger.

  A voice cut through the tension. "Woah! Just when I thought my shift for today was done, I hit the jackpot, didn't I?"

  The man in the yellow weaver bird mask glared at the newcomer—a figure in black with a knight's helmet and a red cape. "Huh. What is it you want, Red Cape?"

  The knight tilted his head. "Hmm. 'Red Cape'. I have to say, it's a good name, coming out of your filthy, disgusting mouth. I'll take it as a gift." He walked calmly, positioning himself between the terrified girl and her assailant. "From now on, I shall be called Red Cape."

  "How funny of you," the masked man spat, standing and closing the distance between them. "Going this far to protect someone. Who is she, your sister?"

  As he lunged to grab him, Red Cape threw another spear. The masked man blocked it with his metal glove, the impact sparking in the darkness.

  While the two men were locked in their clash, Anna was suddenly pulled upward by an invisible force.

  Her new abductor landed softly at a nearby crossroads and set her down.

  He was a stark contrast to the others—dressed in the pristine, sophisticated clothes of a scholar or a teacher from a noble academy. A round hat sat atop his head, and he wore a fine coat with white gloves, one hand holding an ornate staff.

  He handed her a handkerchief and a small potion vial. "Hurry. Run to your house or to someone you know. Get out of sight. You are not my target."

  Anna didn't need to be told twice. She snatched the items and ran for her life, her footsteps echoing desperately down the street.

  As she fled, the yellow weaver mask lunged at the scholar with a furious, sweeping strike. The scholar simply changed his position, evading the blow with an effortless step.

  Red Cape seized the opening. He struck with his spear between the two, not as an attack, but as a distraction to disrupt the scholar's graceful evasion.

  In the same motion, he closed in and threw a punch aimed directly at the scholar. The scholar, caught off-guard by the feint, was forced to block, but Red Cape followed through with a powerful kick to his midsection, sending the man in the fine coat stumbling back with a grunt.

  "How dare you!" the yellow weaver snarled, his voice dripping with rage. "You steal my prey, you bastard, and then you let her go!"

  Red Cape grinned behind his helmet, his focus now split between the two. "Ha. He is not with you," he said, his senses picking up the hidden hostility and the distinct, smell of fresh blood emanating from the Scholar. "So, which one of you is the serial killer, huh?"

  The scholar didn't answer, merely raising a single, gloved finger before leaping backward, flying through the air with unnatural grace toward the rooftops.

  "Today, my prey has been stolen from me twice!" the yellow weaver shrieked. "Neither one of you is leaving!" He jumped with blinding speed, cutting an invisible magical string that was pulling the scholar away. The scholar fell, landed nimbly, and immediately switched direction, breaking into a run. The yellow weaver followed, shouting, "Get back here, you copycat!"

  Red cape joined the chaotic pursuit. As they ran, he struck the yellow weaver's back with a surprise knee smash, then threw a volley of hidden knives toward the fleeing scholar.

  The scholar stopped the projectiles by spinning his staff like a wheel, but the distraction allowed Red Cape to close in. He appeared behind the scholar in the middle of his spin and delivered a sharp blow to his neck with his spear.

  Seizing the moment, the yellow weaver retaliated for the earlier kick, punching Red Cape hard in the chest. Red Cape grunted and replied in kind with a punch of his own.

  In the end, their frantic chase and simultaneous skirmishing spilled out from the maze of alleys. All three men found themselves in a large, open area, a silent, moonlit square.

  Red Cape broke the tense silence, spinning his spear in a playful, taunting arc. "Hahaha! What a quaint gathering. Two weirdos in formal attire, as if this is a themed party." He then turned his helmet toward the scholar. "And you aren't even trying to hide your pretty face. Or are you using some makeup? Perhaps even more weird. It must take you a lot of time to get ready for all the murdering you do."

  The scholar looked mildly annoyed. "This is getting annoying. I intended to end this peacefully."

  "Peace?" the Yellow Weaver shrieked, his voice cracking. "You want peace? You shouldn't have interfered with me! I was about to make a beautiful art out of her flesh and bone! The sounds she would have made... the expression on her face as I put nail after nail into her body... Hahaha! Both of you took that away from me! But for how long? I will get her again!"

  The scholar's grip on his staff tightened, his calm demeanor finally cracking. "I guess I have no choice. I have to kill you after all."

  The Yellow Weaver laughed, a raw, manic sound. He didn't waste a second, summoning a blasting spell of raw energy and hurling it at the scholar.

  The scholar responded instantly, a protective barrier flaring to life around him. The clash of spells erupted with a concussive boom that shattered windows in the surrounding buildings.

  Using the explosion as a distraction, the Yellow Weaver lunged at Red Cape, his strike augmented with searing fire magic. Red Cape met him head-on, his spear spinning and enhanced with a faint, visible aura. He ducked under a swing, the fire singing the air above him, and launched a powerful kick to the Weaver's side.

  The Weaver grunted but retaliated, launching the same blasting spell point-blank at Red Cape. As the knight was forced to maneuver away from the blast, the Weaver changed targets, closing the gap with the scholar and delivering a brutal kick to his ribs.

  Red Cape, having weathered the explosive shockwave, came from behind the Weaver, driving an elbow into his back followed by a solid punch to the side of his masked head.

  Enraged, the Weaver spun and landed a heavy punch deep into Red Cape's stomach. The knight grunted in pain, and before he could recover, a second strike to his face sent him stumbling to one knee.

  The Weaver moved to finish him, but Red Cape surged upward, grabbing the killer and using his momentum to throw him down hard.

  Seeing his opening, the scholar raised his staff. "Third Circle Spell: Vortex Slashes!"

  The surrounding air shimmered, then became a storm of visible, razor-sharp magical arcs. Red Cape reacted with instinctual cunning, immediately using the dazed Yellow Weaver as a living shield before grabbing his spear and thrusting it toward the scholar's face.

  The scholar stopped the spearhead midair with a web of invisible threads. But the distraction was enough. The ground at Red Cape's feet erupted, and three stone golems formed, all striking at him at once.

  Now fully in combat, Red Cape channeled his mana. Lightning crackled along his spear. With a roar, he unleashed the energy. "Fourth Circle: Lightning Pillar!" A wave of destructive lightning surged forward, crumbling the golems to dust and piercing toward the scholar, who barely managed to erect a magic barrier in time.

  The two forces clashed, a storm of lightning against a wall of light, brightening the dark night like a false dawn.

  On the other side of the square, the Yellow Weaver, pushed to the verge of his sanity by the pain and humiliation, radiated pure hostility. He jumped back, then launched himself into the air.

  A massive, swirling ball of fire formed between his hands. "Flame Spear!" he screamed, and with a maniacal laugh, he crushed the massive fireball downward, intent on incinerating both of his enemies at once.

  Lucien stood in the cold, windy night, a few dozen meters from the fray, perched high on a rooftop. He watched the three-way clash with detached, analytical interest, a spectator observing a violent play.

  Not bad. Not bad at all, he thought. It seems all three are holding back significantly. To avoid drawing attention, perhaps? Too late for that now.

  He kept his gaze fixed as the Yellow Weaver's flame spear struck the square. The resulting explosion was immense, carving a crater into the ground and sending a thunderous roar through the district. Lights flickered on in nearby houses; the sleeping town was jolted awake.

  As the smoke and dust began to clear, the Scholar was the first to move, seizing the chaos to vanish into the labyrinth of alleys. The Yellow Weaver, seeing his primary target escape, also melted away into the shadows.

  That left Red Cape, who assessed the situation for a half-second before he, too, disappeared just as the first shouts of arriving guards echoed in the distance.

  Lucien, concluding the night's entertainment was over, turned to leave. The show had ended.

  A spear tore through the air, targeting his head. His hand, hidden by his cloak, snapped up and caught the weapon's shaft mid-flight.

  In the next instant, he vanished from his perch, reappearing a short distance away on the same rooftop.

  Red Cape landed where his spear had been thrown, his posture tense. "Damn," he muttered, staring at the cloaked figure. "This is going to be long, isn't it? Now tell me, where is your accomplice?"

  Lucien did not answer. His fingers, still hidden, held the stolen spear. His face was barely visible under the deep hood, but he turned it just enough for a single, flat glance in Red Cape's direction. The peridot gaze was all the reply he gave.