A domain-based spell, or ritual? We’re already suppressed before the fight began!
“Hehe, quite a violent seer, you are.” The voice said, amused and lighthearted. But his words weren’t funny; not at all.
Victor came close behind, hand conjuring hails of wind, taking the form of blades as it slashed toward the source of the voice. Instantly, he frowned, feeling his wind hitting nothing, just air.
Once again, that feeling of bizarreness pressed down on the two watchmen. They stepped back, shoulders touching one another as their foot creaked against the wooden floor.
“Who are you?” Ulrich asked, his voice bouncing against the poorly insulated wall.
Victor’s recon didn’t fail, no, he didn’t believe that. Even if it did fail, how did Terry Mondie escape his divination? No matter how hard he thought about it, it should be impossible. The only conclusion is that this isn’t Terry Mondie, but his accomplices!
As though reading through Ulrich’s mind, the man laughed, no—not a man, but a shadow. The shadow laughed, then walked forward, becoming corporeal.
It was a middle-aged man. Burnt black hair, messy trimmed sideburns, and he wore a very purple suit, the kind that pimps are known for. His face wasn’t worth noting, at least not enough for Ulrich to remember.
“We meet again, little seer.” He said lightheartedly. But his intent was far from lighthearted, more like a sharp, concealed blade waiting to cut whatever stood in its way.
Victor hid his hand, concealing a swirling mass of wind within his palm, ready to strike at any moment.
Ulrich blurted, “I never met you before.”
The strange man tilted his head, not the normal thirty or forty-five degree angle, but a whole ninety. “Yes, yes, we have. Don’t you remember me?”
Saying so, he mimics the swiping motion on his face, the same gesture a clown does when playing tricks for children. Ulrich was no kid, but he was startled and frightened by the face-changing ‘trick’, as any kid would. It wasn’t because of the way his face shifted, no, he’d experienced enough bizarreness to overcome that fear by now.
What scared him was the face that came.
“You—“ He froze, his voice didn’t quite come through. In that moment, Victor noticed Ulrich’s abnormality and raised his hand, about to attack the man who just changed his face.
“Ah. You do remember me now, do you?”
Ulrich's voice lowered to a whisper, conflicted, he murmured, “Lewis Smith. You are alive?”
“Lewis Smith?” Victor repeated, the wind in his hand flickered, almost dissipating. Even at this moment, he was trying to stall for time, for Captain and Rosaline to arrive. However, Lewis Smith saw through the watchman's intent and squashed that hope.
“Your superiors are busy with my comrade. You are in good care with me.”
Victor's heart dropped, feeling their circumstances becoming more and more perilous by the second. The gale breather attempted to have Ulrich return to his senses, but the seer's mind was too occupied to wake up.
“How are you still alive? I killed you!” Ulrich said, the puzzlement in his voice rose.
Lewis smiled, too friendly, too amicable. The same as he always was, even when Ulrich first met him outside of Selena’s home.
“You never once questioned how I died so easily? I’d imagine you performed your little tricks to check if I was alive or not, did you not? Or… Did you never think about any of these questions?”
For a moment, his words stunned Ulrich, far more than all the bizarreness he’d shown so far. Indeed, did he never question the plausibility that Lewis Smith was alive? No—he did, however, it was squashed away when the Ministry had concluded that Lewis Smith died. Back then, he wasn’t awakened, and assumed that his divination was simply an error due to his own fault, his own ignorance.
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That clearly wasn’t the case. He should have trusted his own intuition.
No wonder… After becoming a Rank 1 Weaver, I was already so powerful. How could a normal human like myself killed Lewis back then? It didn’t make sense. Even if I knew their limits and had enhanced senses, killing a Weaver is extremely difficult and almost impossible. So this is the truth!
At this moment, Lewis Smith felt no pressure from the two little watchmen, despite their status as being with the Churches of the Night Mother or the Ministry. He bowed slightly, his right arm spread outward to introduce himself.
“Reintroducing myself. The name is Lewis Smith, Bishop of the Twilight Order.” Saying so, he smiled, an exaggerated smile of a clown.
Each reveal was a drum that slammed Ulrich’s heart. Victor was no different. The implication that a Bishop of the Twilight Order was involved was well beyond their estimation and planning. As for Ulrich, he remembered that note he’d obtained after killing ‘Lewis Smith’. As a matter of fact, he still carried that paper after all this time, never having it thrown away.
He took it out, glancing at it, then letting it drop on the floor.
The prophet has requested the securement of the 'thing'... Unfortunately, it was lost after entering Port Ratt… I request the help of the Bishop, codename L.
“You’re Codename L.” He stated. "And you've been hiding your identity in plain sight all along!"
Lewis nodded, not afraid of revealing his identity. “As you can see, gentlemen. I have no flair for wasting time, and my partner is in need of my help. Let's make this quick, shall we?”
He disappeared, the same ability Ulrich was too used to. However, the seer was more experienced, more powerful. Relying on his sense, enhanced by the Blessing of the Shadow, he pointed and shot at an empty spot against the wall.
Bang!
“Your sense… it was improved!”
Lewis exclaimed, appearing from the shadow of a sofa leg. Victor didn’t entertain the zealot and shot a wave of sharp wind blades forward, striking him where he stood.
Lewis's form scattered like smoke before the wind blades could connect, his body dissolving into the shadows cast by the flickering gaslight. His laughter echoed from multiple directions at once, disorienting and mocking.
"Still so predictable, all you GaleBreathers!"
Victor spun, conjuring a spherical shield of compressed air around himself and Ulrich just as shadows erupted from every corner of the room. They slammed against the barrier with enough force to crack the floorboards beneath their feet. The wood splintered, groaning under the supernatural pressure.
"Ulrich, snap out of it!" Victor shouted, gritting his teeth. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he maintained the shield. He could feel his spirituality draining with each passing second. Prolonged fight against a bishop was unwise. Actually, fighting against a Bishop at all wasn't the wisest move!
The seer's hands trembled as he clutched his revolver.
"Rummaging about your failure?" Lewis's voice slithered from the darkness, moving ever so closer. "How did you believe you'd killed me? How did the Ministry validate your delusion? Poor little seer."
Ulrich's jaw clenched. His finger tightened on the trigger, but he held fire. There was no point wasting bullets on shadows.
Victor's shield flickered.
"We need to move!" Victor shouted, but before either could react, the floor beneath them exploded upward in an eruption of splintered wood and shadow-tendrils. The wind barrier shattered like glass.
Both watchmen were thrown in opposite directions. Ulrich slammed against the far wall, his vision swimming. Through blurred eyes, he saw Lewis materialize directly in front of Victor, one hand already plunged into the Gale Breather's chest—not physically, but spiritually. Dark energy crackled around Lewis's fingers as they sank deeper into Victor's torso.
Victor's scream was soundless, his mouth open in agony as his body convulsed.
The shadows in the room began to pulse, growing darker, denser. The domain was intensifying.
Ulrich aimed at Lewis's head and fired three times in rapid succession. Each bullet found its mark—temple, eye, throat. Lewis's head snapped back with each impact, but he only laughed harder, a wet gurgling sound.
"Wrong choice!"
Victor collapsed as Lewis withdrew his hand, clutching something translucent and writhing. The Gale Breather's breathing was shallow, his skin turning an ashen gray.
“I suppose the blessing of my Lord has returned to its original holder.” Lewis chuckled.
Ulrich charged forward, abandoning gunplay for close-combat. He conjured two Dark Arrows, their edges sharp and devoid of light. Moving closer, Ulrich elongated the arrow, forming two spears, one resting in each hand.
The distance between the two of them narrowed in the blink of an eye.
The Bishop's face had already morphed back to his original, forgettable features. He caught Ulrich's wrist mid-thrust with casual ease, his grip like iron.
"Did you really think," Lewis whispered, pulling Ulrich close enough to smell the rot on his breath, "that a mere Rank 1 and 2 could threaten a Bishop?"
Pain exploded through Ulrich's arm. He looked down to see his flesh darkening, eating away at where Lewis touched him. The corruption spread rapidly, crawling up toward his elbow like a living ink drop on a pool of water.
Ulrich tried to break free, but Lewis held firm. With his other hand, the Bishop reached toward Ulrich's face, those same accursed hands belonging to the zealot.
"Now then. Let me see what secrets hide in that peculiar mind of yours."
Behind them, Victor stirred weakly, his hand trembling as it reached into his coat. His fingers found the cold metal of an emergency flare—the kind that would alert every Church and Ministry member within the city's radius. But his strength was fading fast. The flare felt impossibly heavy, taking herculean strength to lift.
Lewis's fingers were inches from Ulrich's forehead when a gunshot rang out—not from Ulrich's revolver, or Victor’s flare, but from the shattered doorway.
Everyone froze.