Green or blue. Cymir stared at a pair bridges that crossed in separate directions. He stood above an intersection of two canals. Where each corner connected to two covered bridges of different colors. None of which signified the proper path. Such were the results of the day's mindless wanderlust.

  Did he take a turn here? Was that store familiar? Why are the streets exactly the same?

  Countless questions churned into his mind and the current conundrum was the latest. In the end the youngster could only guess. Not a single landmark could of be seen. All hidden behind tall walls and trees. Even the materials of the buildings around leaned towards of wood than the expected concrete. Did he leave the Eastline District?

  As the last day faded below the horizon streetlamps began to reveal their warm glow. The gentle snowing continued and brought a chilly presence. One that ushered those of the evening indoors. It's deep cold touched the youth's senses and lead it to a single destination. Finalizing the intention by pulling up his collar. While he desired to venture more becoming ill would not do this week.

  Finding recent memories poor, Cymir muttered, "My dorm is near the Eastline College... That means I should head east. East is... opposite of the sunset, so that way."

  Step by step. Following the direction, of an arguably poor logic, the youth strode forth. Under the quite atmosphere his gaze wander upwards through the glass overhangs. The grey clouds had long disappeared as if black paint coated the skies. As such the road before him bathed in a muddy glow. Caused by dissipating the streetlamps' light through the glass above. A sight reminded him of the times he snuck outside in his youth. The thought brought a brief frown.

  Every so often the rattle of trams would past by. Filling the air as the youth's mind ponder forward. Reflecting on the events at the Cadastral Association. Although not everything went as planned, passing the examination remained a boon. A bit surprising that he only needed to complete half of the tests. Seemed the trick for the second step worked too well. Whatever.

  The first step towards his goal had been achieved. He even witnessed the public display where the Bright Generation started and the generational quarrel between two nations. Albeit not living up to his expectations. Sadly the hunting license would be left to another day. A shame since the materials from the Northern Greatwoods would fetch a high price. Unlike those winter's thaws.

  Sighing, the student looked around. Recalling those early moments where they too harvested the thaws for coin. Those scenes showed the futility of the act. Tedious and unworthwhile pay. To the point they vowed to never behold a shovel ever again. Acting as the catalyst to partake in sponsorship and grant competitions. Despite the slim margins. He grimaced at the idea. Speaking of, why was she-

  A thud. Cymir jumped. His head snapped towards the source. Within the dim lighting snow had fallen from a tree's branch. Letting out a meek laugh as the sight brought a chill. He rubbed his neck and moved on.

  Such sudden interruptions had pulled him from his thoughts. Now wading through the dark, the surroundings held its breath. Although outdoors, the path felt small. Suffocating. His footsteps rung and echoed akin to the ticking of a clock. Not knowing how far he walked nor how long. Only that he needed to continue down this endless path as always.

  Yet to contest the gloomy streetlight, the buildings around him began to light up. One after another they blasted the dim with flamboyant displays. Their desire to attract the evening wanderers clear. Drawing the youngster's eyes everything else became shadows in comparison, yet lingered. Within the nearest shop held a rack of weapons. From swords to axes to clubs. Each more elaborate in decoration than the last.

  Those tools of war reminded the youth of their wielders. Martial artists. Individuals that danced with death caring not for life but their own. To slay without a breath. Although they held strength known through the regions, it fell short. Shorter than what he required or wanted, but enough to fend off...

  He looked around.

  Ah.

  Cymir suddenly remembered. "Artifacts. Those lost era weapons are expensive. Could make a good amount from those."

  Although he desired to ponder his feet hastened under the colder hours. Several more ideas came to be in his mind. Each as dubious as the last, yet held enough importance to appear. Said by one of those meticulous characters, maybe? A familiar sensation. It brought a chill. Fighting it off the youth tilted his head at the vagueness.

  What was it? The youngster attempted to recall one of those scenes. A meeting towards a plan that must succeed, yet all his thoughts drifted elsewhere. The cold sting of air, a path half lit, and- He shook his head to remove the thought. However his grip on his satchel tightened as his movements drew from memory.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Unable to be ignored. Moving at a pace always a beat faster. Slowly and carefully. Then silently. Cross the nearest bridge. Tight turn at the edge. Look behind and...

  Footsteps-

  Cymir slammed into another person and tumbled. Pain clawed at his forehead as another fell to the same fate. While groans filled the silent night. Making eye contact with the other person they pointed towards a bench lit by the closest building. Under a scrambled, dizzied mind he agreed. With rest the youth rubbed his head and peered towards the bridge. Nothing. A breath of relief escaped the youth's mouth as that cold sting vanished.

  "Did both of us run with our sights at the rear?" the person asked, his voice in pain.

  "Ah- Sorry," Cymir replied, looking away, "It... was dark."

  "It's fine. I'm Casper Wyatt," the man sighed, tending to his cranial pain, "independent reporter for- ugh, blasted. I should of brought numbmers."

  Bending down the man scooped a hand of snow and brought it to his forehead. Relaxed he leaned against the wall with lazy eyes wandering around. Accusing the fearsome sky invaders of white, with jests, of dastardly schemes. Yet admitted to their usefulness. He nudged the youth to agree and only found hesitation.

  Towards such reluctance the reporter inquired if the youth was the cleansey type. Even if snow held specks of dirt, cold contact eases. Especially snow. Still denial replied with a slow head shake. Thus he could only offer words of encouragement while shaking Cymir's shoulder. It's just frozen water. Dirt would not be able to pass their dense foreheads anyways.

  Rattled, the youngster's head rocked under the relentless assistance. Evolving the bearable pain into a incomprehensible distress. Desperation took charge as he swatted away the hand and palmed snow. Now a forehead chilled with a wry smile. Such brought a mental sanctuary, yet if only the extra agony never occurred.

  Jumping for joyous victory, the Casper shot his arms skywards. Standing up, he said, "The name's Casper Wyatt. Investigative reporter."

  "Casper what?" Cymir replied, blinking, "You already said that."

  Frozen, as the snow in his hand, the man stared back without a word. He swore he had not. Pacing in a circle he attempted to claw through his recent memories. Closed-eyed mutterings followed. The same question looped in his mouth? How hard did they run?

  Snapping his fingers the reported looked down the road. A quick twirled showed a renewed vigor for inquiry. Where consistent elbow nudges brought out answers. Upon learning their destinations laid down the same path he offered camaraderie. Northwards they would go, but Cymir pointed elsewhere. Laughter came from the man. Calling the youth a jester while pointing at the nearby tram shelter. Specifically it's textured glass.

  Confused the youngster stumbled up to the display with a squint. All he could discern were abstract lines and squares. The dimmed light helped not. What he could make out was flat lines that sprawled out towards the edge. Along with the repetition of colors. That skinny figure again- it was a map. The stick figure upon the glass depicted their location. South of the college.

  "When eastward has been trekked," Casper explained, dragging his newfound companion, "Northbound follows."

  "Huh? Wait- wha!" Cymir replied.

  Pulled along by the assertive man, the youth could not find the words to reject. To fill the night's silence the reporter spoke of his storied adventures of investigations. Of how he sniffed out the coldest of trails and chased the wildest goose. One time those clues led him northward towards Stadia, the nation's port city. Where he watched upstarts conquering school zones in a so-called adolescence war.

  Nowadays his sixth sense has been honed to catch the tiniest of stories. Although those reports were neither thrilling nor first-page worthy, but all lead to the biggest narrative of yesterday. Eastline's maverick. The explosive maniac that broke the Son of Shield's defensive vow! The biggest hurricane since the ARK papers last quarter.

  Hearing of the tale the youth's eyes glowed with wonder. Anticipation had taken the his thoughts. Enough for him to almost forgive the prior exchange. Yet it was enough for Capser to show the grandest of smile. As if he struck gold and silver and then diamonds in the next hit. Leaning in he conjured up a theory of how the Iso Association's schemes.

  Of how they were cultivating a level of combatants above the current Magus. With the other's day incident caused by a rouge youth itching prove their worth. Why else would the association's Main Branch Director appear with ivies if not for a major scandal. Especially since not a single statement came out.

  Surprised marked the youngster's face. To think such an event took place. Perhaps it needed time to avoid conjectures? Such were the procedure he recalled, yet Casper shook his head. Claiming a reporter's intuition led elsewhere and towards urgency. Iso's Boundary and Defensive Unit were involved in the end.

  Stumbling a step Cymir asked, "How... how would you know that?"

  "Easy, because I saw them. Perspective is more than a single angle. You got to go around unlike those idiots stuck at the front gate."

  "Trespassing..."

  Instantly correcting the youngster, the man stated it was a necessary perspective work. Juggling the snow in his hand the man pointed across the canal as an example. With verbose he described a peculiar detail. Of how, despite being lit by storefronts, a quarter of the road remained in shadow. Specifically when walking near the trees. All due to the overhang's light bending properties. Intrigued Cymir leaned forward to observe, yet only found the silhouettes of trees.

  Doubting the claim, Cymir said "It's... dark. I don't think- Ah, I see someone if I move a bit."

  "See, they don't call me an ace reporter for nothing," Casper replied, smirking with a spin, "How about we run?"

  "Run?"

  "Run."

  "Run..."

  "RUN!"

  As he shouted, Casper chucked a snowball behind him. Pelting a person who rounded a corner as another came barreling towards. The sudden outburst brought form to earlier unease. Therefore he bolted with Cymir following close behind.