The afternoon bell clanged, signaling playtime. A tide of students surged from the classrooms, their shouts echoing as they flooded the yard.

  Jim remained at his desk, head down. He waited until the room was empty before slinging his satchel over his shoulder and slipping out.

  He didn't head for the playground. Instead, he moved through the deserted corridors to the school's back wall, a known spot for a quick, discreet exit. He hoisted himself up.

  A hand grabbed the strap of his satchel, pulling him firmly back to the ground.

  "Isn't it a little late to bunk school now, huh, Jim?"

  Jim landed lightly and turned. "Oh. It's just you, Hermann."

  The math teacher’s brow furrowed. "Calling your teacher by his name? Where are your manners? I don't think we are that close, are we?"

  Jim’s eyes were flat and unimpressed. "Respect is earned, mister teacher. And none of you in this place have earned any from me."

  "For a thirteen-year-old, you sure know how to talk back." Hermann’s tone shifted from scolding to concerned. "Jim, you've been skipping school for days. When you do show up, you try to bunk. Why? Tell me. I can help you. That's why I'm here."

  Jim yanked his satchel free. "You're new here, Teach. Don't bother yourself so much in other people's business."

  "I'll write you down as sick for leaving today, got it? But it ends here. No more skipping." Hermann said, his voice firm.

  "No need to do any of that, you creep!" Jim shouted over his shoulder, already scaling the wall again.

  Hermann called out, his voice now edged with a warning. "And be careful! Go straight home! There's a serial killer on the roam, you know!"

  Jim paused at the top of the wall, looking down. "He only targets women and girls. What's that got to do with me?" And with that, he dropped down and disappeared.

  Hermann stared at the empty wall. "You can't say that," he muttered to the silent bricks. "You can't say he only goes for women."

  Jim slipped into the labyrinth of hidden alleys, a practiced route to avoid the eyes of anyone who might report back to his sister. This had become his ritual.

  His biggest challenge was never the act of skipping school, but the vast, empty stretch of day that followed. With no money for shops or entertainment, his options were bleak: walk until his legs ached or sit until boredom became a physical weight.

  To solve it, he had turned the town into a puzzle. His new pastime was mapping its secret geography—finding new routes, forgotten passages, and hidden places. When exhaustion set in, he would retreat to one of his finds.

  His best one was an old, broken-down house whose owner had died, the family having long since vanished. The surrounding neighborhood was equally deserted, making it the perfect hideout to wait out the clock.

  He’d found a broken section at the back to slip through and had made subtle adjustments to ensure no one else could follow. He knew it was trespassing, but necessity had overridden the law.

  He entered the dusty silence of the house and, as was now his routine, opened a book. He had built a small collection here, bought with meager funds he’d scraped together.

  To his teachers and classmates, Jim seemed like a disinterested slacker. The truth was the complete opposite. He possessed an immense, burning interest in learning. He knew, with unwavering certainty, that knowledge was his only viable escape from Pipra Town and the only way to ever lift the burden from Emily's shoulders.

  His ambitions were precise: a place at the Imperial Academy, or, if that proved impossible, a prestigious apprenticeship. Joining the army or city guard was the easier path for many, but he was not strong by any measure, and his heart wasn't in the swing of a sword or the thrust of a spear. It was here, in the quiet of a ruined house, buried in books.

  What he truly hated was the suffocating environment of his school, surrounded by people who didn't care, and the crushing knowledge that he could never ask Emily to place him in a better one. He knew, all too well, what she could and could not afford. So he studied here alone to make something of himself.

  The few hours passed quickly. When it was time to leave, a thought jolted Jim into motion.

  “Huh. Shit. I’ve gotta go before she gets off work,” he muttered.

  He adjusted everything to its original state before he arrived, then slipped out. He ran through the streets, ducking into a hidden alley and using a different route for his exit, a standard precaution.

  He emerged from the maze of narrow passages into the main market area, the buzz of the public a stark contrast to the silence he had just left.

  Just as he was about to cross the path to the other side, a distant movement in another alley caught his eye. A few thugs were ganging up on someone. It looked like a woman.

  What do I do? Should I help her? It looks like three people. I can't take three, right? Should I shout? As if anyone would just show up in this place. What are those drunk guards even doing? This is their job.

  His first instinct was to walk away. But his moral compass, and the inner guilt it provoked, got the better of him.

  "Fine," he whispered to himself. "All I need to do is get an opening and run together with her. After that, if she doesn't take the chance, it is on her, not me."

  Before moving, he retrieved a pair of spiked knuckles hidden in the inner fabric of his satchel and a small knife.

  "All I will do is scare them off," he assured himself.

  He moved toward the alley silently, hiding at its edge to observe.

  Perhaps they would just take her money and let her go. Money in such situations could save a life more effectively than pride.

  Three men surrounded her from all sides—front, back, and side.

  One of the men sneered, "You must belong to a pretty big-shot family, don't you? A short highway robbery wouldn't mean much to you, right?"

  Another added, "Of course she is. Look at her. I bet we can sell her clothes for a fortune too."

  The man at the center laughed. "Fool, we have hit a diamond mine, and you are satisfying yourself with so little. Think about the amount of ransom we can get."

  The first man talked back, "Isn't ransom too risky?"

  The second man countered, "We can just sell her to Gunther for a fixed price. He will deal with the rest of the business from there himself."

  The center man focused on the woman again. "So tell me, pretty lady, how would you like to do this? For now, hand over all the things you have."

  Pelta, replied with flat calm. "I sincerely refuse any of it. Now, would you give me a way to pass?"

  The three of them laughed. One moved to grab her hair. Before his fingers could touch a single strand, a voice interrupted.

  "Hey! Leave that girl alone!" Jim stepped forward, his knife held out in a threatening gesture.

  The first man scowled. "Who the fuck are you?"

  "The city guard. Now back off," Jim bluffed.

  Jim moved toward Pelta to get her. Another man stopped him, grabbing his arm. Jim struggled, slashing wildly with his knife. The blade nicked the man's forearm.

  With a grunt of pain and rage, the thug seized Jim's wrist and slapped him hard across the face. Jim's head snapped back. He retaliated instantly, punching back with his spiked knuckles. They connected with the man's ribs, drawing a sharp cry.

  The other two were on him in an instant. His knife slipped from his hand, clattering across the concrete. One thug kicked it out of reach, while the other pulled a jagged blade from his belt.

  His expression twisted with anger as he spoke. “You picked the wrong day to be a hero, kid.”

  Before anything could happen, Pelta intervened. She moved silently, stepping between Jim and his attackers. As the man raised his knife, her hand moved fast, a slight, graceful motion above his shoulder, her fingers tapping the side of his neck.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He froze, his eyes glazing over. He crumpled to the ground without a sound.

  The other two stared, their brains struggling to process what had happened. Pelta looked at them once. It was not a look of anger or fear, but of simple, final assessment.

  Their expressions went slack, as if their minds had been fried, lost in another world. They stood dumbly for a second, then fell to their knees, drool spilling from their slack jaws.

  Both had been hit by a condensed Mana shard—a point of materialized energy, invisible to ordinary eyes, flicked from Pelta's finger.

  The entire alley fell silent.

  Jim stared, his face throbbing, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked from the unconscious men to the completely composed woman.

  The carriage interior was quiet, its occupants settled into the plush seats as it rolled through the city streets. Everyone had returned except for Pelta.

  Finn, with a rare note of amusement in his voice." I have to say, I am shocked, brother. To think you would buy this many gifts. That, too, dresses and ladies' accessories. That is the last thing I thought you would get."

  Lucien leaned back, staring at the carriage roof, and spoke without looking at him. "That was the only viable option. Other than that, it is just fabric, not dresses."

  "Still," Finn persisted, "to think you were parading around the city buying all this. I wish I was there to see you. I just missed a once-in-a-century opportunity. It is so funny. Were you making the same face you always make?"

  Ultimare, seated opposite, was also on the verge of laughing. "Hey, you are being very disrespectful. Though I can understand. Personally, I thought you would get some sweets, or perhaps some collectibles or decorations."

  Lucien's tone was flat. "Is me buying something like that really a bad thing?"

  "Oh, no, no," Ultimare clarified, waving a hand. "It just feels so out of place."

  "Like we are fitting in the city very well, right?" Lucien countered.

  Finn adjusted his cuffs. "Even after current suppression, we are still quite noticeable."

  "Suppress it further, but do not completely erase the presence either. You will get the hang of it after a while. Though it is definitely a pain in the ass," Lucien stated.

  Ultimare shifted the subject. "On a completely different topic, about our meeting. What are we going to do?"

  Finn answered, "Following proper procedure and protocol, we will first go to her house, greet her, enter, give our wishes and gifts, and drink tea. We will talk a little and go back. Though we must match it with our purpose."

  Ultimare with soft thoughtful voice,"Among the list of prime suspects and people we have to be cautious of is no other than this family we are visiting. So we must also observe them very carefully, right, brother?"

  Lucien did not bother replying.

  "Obviously," Finn answered for him. "We are here for that. We will do all the observing and figuring out. But the one who has to lead the conversation and stand at the center stage is you, Brother Lucien. I am not interested in small talks. Just finish it formally and leave. You know that you are the head of the family, right? It is one of your duties."

  "Did you book any place?" Ultimare inquired.

  "Not yet," Finn admitted. "But how hard will it be to find one?"

  Lucien finally turned toward the window. "Once we get there, we will not be staying for more than ten minutes. Within that time, I will have the conversation as a formality, but also to properly assess her. At the same time, I want you to scan her house without being noticed. Look for any anomaly. You have ten minutes to get a result. Make sure, no matter the method, you do not cause a problem for them in any way. We came peacefully, we will leave in the same way."

  "Got it," Finn said. Ultimare nodded.

  The carriage slowed to a halt. The door opened, and Pelta entered, settling silently into the seat beside Lucien.

  Finn looked at her. "How were the pharmacy and the potion shops?"

  "It was very informative," Pelta reported. "My apologies for the delay because of me."

  Finn waved it off. “No need to worry.”

  Ultimare leaned forward and addressed the driver's compartment. "Eisen, take us to the main event."

  From the front, Eisen replied, "As you wish."

  The Sinclair carriage moved at a moderate, almost lethargic pace—a crawl for its advanced capabilities. It drew glances as it navigated the wide road before gliding to a smooth halt before a specific property.

  The house was a wide, three-story structure of a bygone era, its architecture speaking of a forgotten grandeur. Now, it stood dilapidated, a relic amidst its neighbors.

  The buildings on either side, whether smaller cottages or more modern houses, were clearly better maintained, making this mansion look like a gaunt, sleeping beast—an "old haunted house" as the evening shadows began to stretch.

  It was clean, and the attempt at maintenance was evident, but there was little one could do to hide the fundamental flaws of a decaying structure.

  The carriage stopped before a rusted iron gate, no more than four feet high.

  The Sinclairs disembarked with quiet, synchronized efficiency, their presence immediately altering the atmosphere of the quiet street.

  Lucien’s gaze swept over the property. "Finn. Ring the bell."

  Finn stepped forward, his eyes scanning the gatepost and wall. "I would," he replied, his tone pragmatic, "if there was one. I am not seeing one."

  Lucien didn't reply, instead glancing at Pelta. She moved forward without a word, her movements economical. She located a nearly invisible, curled metal lever on the gatepost. Grasping it, she pulled it up and then down in a precise, ringing rhythm—five times in total.

  Finn’s expression cleared. "Oh. That's what you meant. My apologies."

  Ultimare let out a soft, amused breath. "You are lucky it is just family here. What if you had embarrassed him in front of an actual audience?"

  "How was I supposed to know?" Finn retorted, though his voice was more defensive than angry. He eyed the archaic mechanism skeptically. "And would anyone actually come outside just for that sound?"

  They fell silent, waiting in the settling dusk.

  The cool water did little to clear Jim’s head. He braced his hands on the edge of the bathroom sink, droplets falling from his face as he stared at his reflection. The image was pale, a red mark still visible on his cheek from the thug’s slap.

  “Who… what was she?” he muttered to the empty room.

  The woman had moved without a sound. A single, graceful touch, and a man twice her size dropped like a sack of stones. Then she had just… looked at the other two. They just fell, drooling on the cobblestones.

  “And she disappeared quickly without saying thanks,” he whispered, gripping the basin tighter. “Though I should have been the one thanking her. Hah. I made a joke of myself there.”

  He looked at the medicine she had left for him.

  “It was just a slap. Who gives medicine for it? I’ve taken far worse than that lousy slap.”

  Suddenly, he heard the distinct, clanging ring of the gate signal—five times.

  “Who the heck is it at this time? It must be those money-collecting greedy bastards,” he grumbled, stalking toward the gate and muttering further insults. He crossed the front yard, head down. Once he reached the metal gate, his hand on the latch, he looked up without fully seeing the visitors.

  “Hear me out, I don’t fear you guys! We aren’t paying you a coin! Take your business somewhere else—” His words died in his throat as he finally registered the people standing before him.

  Lucien Sinclair. Ultimare Sinclair. Finn Sinclair. A royal-looking carriage. This alone was enough to shock him into silence. Then his eyes fell on Pelta Sinclair, who stood just beside the gate, looking at him.

  “Oh. It is you, if I am not mistaken,” she stated.

  Jim could only manage a stunned, “Huh? What is going on?” he whispered.

  Finn turned to his brothers, a dry comment on his lips. “Brother, when did we ask him for money? Is that bell supposed to be rung by beggars so those who live here know someone has come asking for alms?”

  Ultimare nodded, a faint, amused smile on his face. “Quite a stupid but innovative system, if I say so. He should have removed that thing if he didn't want to aid the helpless.”

  Lucien cut both of them off, his voice flat. “No. He was not talking about us. He mistook us for someone else. Pelta, do you know him?”

  “I met him during shopping. Nothing else,” Pelta reported.

  Jim finally found his voice, the shock giving way to defensive confusion. “Who are you guys? What are you doing here?”

  Lucien looked at him for a moment, his gaze analytical. “Is this the place where Sinclair lives?”

  By now, the truth dawned on Jim. “Yes, it is. Why so?”

  “I am Lucien Sinclair,” Lucien stated. “And you are?”

  A cold wave of goosebumps washed over Jim. “Jim… Jim Sinclair.” He fumbled, immediately pushing the gate open wide enough for the carriage to enter. “Please, come inside.”

  Lucien entered first, the others following behind him. As Ultimare passed Jim, he reached out, held Jim’s head, and rubbed it a little. “You look like a good kid.” His hand brushed Jim’s cheek where the red mark was.

  With a flicker of light from his finger, the mark vanished, the skin returning to normal. “Was it done by those goons?” Jim, too stunned to process the healing, didn't notice or feel anything. He backed away with a rude sound.

  “Hurry up, get inside! My sister is not home yet,” Jim said, his voice rough with flustered panic. “Take your carriage here and park it in the backyard.”

  Finn’s eyebrows rose slightly as he looked past Jim. “There’s a backyard too? Huh.”

  Eisen guided the carriage inside. “I will meet you inside.” he called out, doing as he was told.

  Jim stood rigid by the door as the Sinclairs filed in. "Shoes," he muttered, pointing a tense finger at the worn mat. "Clean them."

  To his surprise, they complied with silent, unhurried efficiency, scraping the city's dust from their boots before stepping onto the clean but faded floors.

  Without another word, he led them into the living room, a space dominated by a worn-out sofa, two threadbare chairs, and a single low table.

  "Sit," Jim said, the word more a command than an offer.

  Lucien took the center of the sofa, reclining into the cushions as if it were his own throne.

  Finn claimed one chair, crossing a leg over his knee and pressing a finger to his temple. Ultimare settled beside Lucien, with Pelta taking the spot at the end, her posture perfectly upright and observant.

  Jim remained standing, a stranger in his own home. "I can make you tea," he offered, his voice tight. "But it won't taste good to you, I suppose."

  Lucien's gaze, which had been passively scanning the room, settled on him. "When is your sister returning?"

  "As soon as she finishes her job," Jim replied, meeting the stare for a moment before looking away.

  He shifted his weight, the silence pressing in on him. "What is your purpose for coming here?"

  Finn let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, as if the question was a tedious formality. "What do you think we came here for?" he said, his tone dry. "I'm pretty sure it must be obvious, right? It's for that stupid event."

  Jim opened his mouth, likely to retort or ask another question, but Lucien's calm voice cut through the tension, redirecting the conversation with effortless authority.

  "Jim," Lucien said, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Make the tea a little stronger."

  A flicker of defiance crossed Jim's face. "I said it would taste bad," he stated, his voice edged with a warning. "Don't blame me or anyone else." But he was already turning, defeated, toward the kitchen to fulfill the request.

  Lucien’s fingers moved in a soundless snap.

  The gesture was invisible to Jim, but for Finn and Ultimare, it was a clear command.

  Scan the house. Now.

  The wait for Emily had officially begun, and the air in the room was thick with unspoken scrutiny.