Liam rested his left hand against the side of his helmet, fingers pressing into the cheek plate as if the cold metal could steady his racing thoughts.

  “Fine,” he muttered, voice rough. “I’ll do it. Whatever you’re selling, I’m buying. We don’t have much time. So tell me—how exactly are you planning to help? I say you take east and south, I’ll handle the center.”

  His mind defaulted to brute force, the only path he could see. From the last fight, Liam knew the shadowed figure in front of him was capable of far worse than brute force.

  Though Liam preferred to avoid unnecessary killing, that was the only reason he hadn’t already drawn his sword.

  He didn’t want to kill if he didn’t have to—even scum deserved a trial, not direct execution.

  Lucien had melted back against the low parapet, one leg crossed lazily over the other. The cloak swallowed what little moonlight reached the roof, leaving only the faint glint of eyes beneath the hood.

  “No,” he said, calm as deep water. “That would be an inept way of doing the thing. I have something cleaner for the first problem—the riot itself.”

  Liam’s jaw tightened. “Then enlighten me. Every other option is either as destructive as what the gangs are already doing, or worse. The officials are neck-deep in this mess. Their help’s worthless—especially with those three running wild.”

  A distant blast painted the horizon red for a heartbeat. Lucien didn’t even blink.

  “An incomplete prototype mana circuit,” he said, as if dictating terms to the night itself. “At best, it covers all of Pipra Town. At worst, every major hotspot.”

  Liam stared. “You want to lace the entire town with a magic circle? That’s insane. It’s suicidal. I don’t have a spell like that—nobody does—and even if you do, I’m not letting you drop something that big on civilians. Good intentions or not, city-scale magic always has side effects. The slightest instability in the formation, and half the district is gone.”

  He said it all in one breath, the words tumbling over each other.

  Lucien waited until the echo died, then spoke with the quiet authority that didn’t invite interruption.

  “I said prototype mana circuit. Half-complete. Not a spell, not a circle. You already know what mana circuits are—every mage has them etched into their body. Think of them as veins for mana: they don’t decide how much you have, only how cleanly you can move it, how much control you wield. That’s why mages train them raw, until they can channel higher levels of power without rupturing.”

  “But people always forget the second function. Mana circuits aren’t just pipes. They’re an extension of will itself. That’s why any kind of magic is even possible—On the other hand. Aura is life energy, soul residue, whatever you want to call it. It can be used to extend your will and manifest your influence. You’ve seen high-rankers do it. A swordsman coats his blade with killing will. A shield-bearer projects a dome of pure refusal. Most basic application imaginable. Now, since aura can extend your will, and mana circuits are connected to one’s will, do you see the implication?

  Master aura even a little, and you can externalize the circuit—not as solid lines, but as threads of intent.”

  Liam folded his arms. “I understand the theory. Get to the point—what does any of that have to do with the riot?”

  Lucien’s voice dropped, almost gentle.

  “I’m telling you to extend your own mana circuits through the city to form a prototype network. In its current, incomplete formation, it will allow you to project your primary affinity anywhere within its range. No complex spells or any other techniques will be possible at this stage of formation, making it the safest method for an operation of this scale. If the manifested circuits are severed, the feedback will cause you physical pain and numbness at most. Your Thunderlord state provides the necessary foundation needed to use this little trick.”

  Liam's thoughts spiraled into panic… “And you just happen to have the exact pattern I need to weave? How does it even tell friend from foe? What will it do to everyone it touches? Can it be sensed and countered? Most importantly, can I even pull this off? I doubt my control is sufficient for something city-wide.”

  Lucien tilted his head, already expecting every objection.

  “I will guide you—your only task is to form the pattern on this roof. I will direct your mana and aura to the required scale. To do that, I will use a technique on you, though I won’t disclose its nature.”

  Liam’s mind spun. Trust him? I don’t even know what he is. One wrong twitch and my brain’s cooked. But the situation down there doesn’t look good right now, and I’m out of ideas.

  A long breath hissed between his teeth.

  “Fine,” he said at last, shoulders slumping. “Show me how to do it.”

  Lucien tore a page from his sketchbook and held it before Liam. "Bow down. Place both hands and knees on the ground." He set the notebook open in front of Liam's eyes. "Now. Activate your Thunderlord state."

  Liam complied. Immediately, his form became sheathed in a crackling nimbus of lightning. His knight's helmet gleamed under the energy, and furious arcs of power danced across his armor, casting a harsh, blue-white glow across the rooftop.

  "Now," Lucien instructed, his voice calm amidst the storm. "Do nothing but trace the pattern shown in the notebook. Use your manifestation, not your lightning."

  Liam tried. A flash of light erupted and swept around the roof in a bright arc before fizzling into nothing. It was raw, unshaped power rather than a controlled manifestation.

  "Wrong," Lucien stated.

  "What am I even supposed to use?" Liam's voice was strained. "Lightning control is all that comes to my mind."

  "Currently, your aura and mana circuits are synced, holding your form together," Lucien explained, his tone analytical. "Focus on your body's structure. Imagine the area around you as an extension of yourself, as if it is a part of your body. To make it easier, let your aura flow outward like water. Do not concern yourself with fine control yet. Think of that space as part of you, then let your mana extend into it. Use both to form the formation as stated."

  Liam tried. He failed. Again. And again. Then, a realization dawned. He didn't need to control an external space; he needed to claim it, to make it part of his own being. He succeeded in the first stage, the aura flowing out.

  The second stage was forming the mana circuits. Agony seared through him. It felt like being forced to lift a mountain using only his breath. If manifesting was this hard, how could he possibly extend and control it?

  It was then that Lucien joined him. He placed a palm on Liam's back, closed his eyes, and activated his True Perception. He subtly blended a thread of his own diluted aura with Liam's, gently manipulating its rhythm.

  Suddenly, Liam felt lighter. The mountain became a heavy rock—still immense, but now possible to move. With this aid, he pushed through the agony.

  Blue energy strips flowed from his body into the rooftop, etching a complex hexagon pattern with multiple nodal points, exactly as shown in the notebook. The circuit was complete. Liam's eyes glowed solid blue, his body radiating pure energy.

  "Now what?" Liam's voice was a strained hum.

  Lucien allowed a faint smile. "My turn."

  From the edge of the roof, he extended his manipulation of the circuit's rhythm and, with an instant command, seized full control. The structure flared and shot from the building, spearing into the ground and flowing through the streets and alleys of Pipra. In one minute, it covered the entire town.

  Lucien waited another minute, letting the network stabilize. "I am transferring the output to you. The initial feedback will be painful. Do not lose focus. Just like before, think of it as an extension of your body. Recognize it as you would your own hand."

  Liam, already breathing roughly, gritted his teeth. "Okay."

  Lucien shifted the load.

  Agony hit Liam like a physical blow, a sensation of being crushed by a thousand bulls. He held on, gripping the last rope of salvation from a fall.

  Lucien focused his aura, relaxing Liam's body and shielding his mind. Since Liam's mana circuit was externalized and diluted, Lucien stabilized it, causing the pain to recede from an overwhelming tide to a brutal, manageable pressure.

  "The formation is ready," Lucien announced. "In the notebook, you can see that every node has been marked with a number, and the area in and around the formation is labeled with that node’s number and a letter—like node 1B. Attack the location I indicate, using the spell construction written in the notebook. It’s a simple strike-type lightning spell, only strong enough to knock out an ordinary or weak mage. Aside from that, you can use your usual lightning strike as well. Now, follow my lead."

  Using his heightened True Perception, Lucien pinpointed every gangster mob in the city at once. He began calling out coordinates. To make it easy for Liam to understand

  "3E."

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “4C, 8H, 2F:

  The sound of lightning cracked across Pipra. A pillar of energy struck a distant alley.

  "5d."

  "And 9A."

  Lucien continued calling out targets, and Liam followed, his will flowing through the city-wide circuit.

  Even those on rooftops were not safe, in this state, Liam could conduct electricity through the very air.

  The night was torn by sporadic lightning spans and culminated in multiple final pillars that lit the sky.

  It was over.

  Lucien withdrew his control. The structural support vanished. The circuit collapsed.

  Liam fell to the ground, his body radiating heat, his breath coming in ragged, heavy gasps.

  He managed to lift his head, his voice a raw whisper.

  "Did I succeed?"

  ***

  [1 Hour before the circuit formation]

  The Rosevilla Restaurant, District Center, Pipra.

  Outside, the town was consumed by the chaos—distant blasts, the crackle of stray spells, the faint roar of a mob.

  Inside the Rosevilla, the world was held at bay by thick velvet drapes, polished mahogany, and the soft glow of crystal chandeliers.

  In the lavish dining hall, three individuals sat at a single, long rectangular table, an island of tense calm in a sea of anarchy.

  At the head of the table, facing the main entrance, sat Colin. Around fifty, with a face carved from granite and eyes that held the cold rage in his eyes. He led the Sparrows, the gang whose rage had lit the fuse on tonight's riot. Two of his most trusted enforcers stood like statues behind his chair, their hands never far from the weapons at their sides.

  To Colin's right, facing the eastern wall, was Carlos. Forty, with a heavy, deliberate stillness. He controlled the town's hidden veins—its smuggling, its black-market trade. Two of his men, just as imposing, flanked his seat.

  To Colin's left, facing the western wall, sat Silvana. Also forty, she was a razor blade in a sheath of midnight-blue silk. She represented the unseen ruler of the entertainment district, a figure who had deemed this meeting beneath her personal attendance. Her two bodyguards were nearly invisible in the shadows behind her, their presence felt more than seen.

  They waited. The only sounds were the faint, muffled booms from outside and the restless shift of leather and steel from the other gang members scattered around the room's perimeter.

  The wait ended.

  The double doors swung open. The man who entered was draped in attire of regal bronze and deep black, impeccably tailored. His hair was the color of sun-dried oranges, styled with flawless precision. A smile stretched across his face, wide and utterly at odds with the grim atmosphere.

  Town Chief Hector Claude spread his arms in a theatrical greeting.

  "Hah! Sorry I am this late," he announced, his voice booming with forced cheer, "even though I was the one who sent the invitation!"

  Hector strode forward, boots clicking once, twice, three times across the marble, and took the last empty seat. He sat, rested both gloved hands on the table, and let the smile linger.

  Colin looked at Hector once, and his rage only piled higher. “Why’d you drag us here, kid?” His voice scraped like gravel. “Thought you didn’t like slumming it with the likes of us.”

  Hector replied in a casually mocking tone. "I still don't, actually. Even now, I had to arrange this meeting so secretly, without anyone knowing. I had to sneak in here like a thief, and I only brought two old guards with me! Can you believe it?

  Just the fact I had a meeting with you. One whisper that the noble Town Chief dined with criminals and poof, my political career is in flames. Noble society is one cruel place, you get what I mean, right? I guess..." He chuckled at this point. "Frogs of the well wouldn't get the complete picture of what I am saying, would they."

  Carlos's voice was a low rumble. "You’re awfully bold tonight, Chief. After all these years of looking the other way for the chump changes we give you, you sure are behaving arrogant as hell. Such hot-bloodedness is not good. You live in this town. By now, you should know who owns this place. That kind of hot blood isn’t good for the heart." He let the silence hang. “So tell us—what dragged the great Hector Claude out of his tower?”

  Hector, in the same ridiculing way, replied, "Obviously not for the pleasure of your company. I want to know why you rats are suddenly gnawing through my floorboards. What you are doing outside is more than what one can just cover up. It could cost me my position as Town Chief. I can already hear whispers of such a plot. So I’ll ask once, nicely. Who lit the match under your asses? Who is behind it, and why suddenly? Why has a killer become such a big matter suddenly for everyone, including you?"

  The guards of the three bosses did not like his way of talking but kept their calm under watch.

  Colin replied, his eyes no longer hiding his anger. "Oh, so you want us to stop, huh? So that's what it was? Then hear me out, you crawling bitch. I won't rest until I burn this town and set my message clear to everyone about what happens when they try to mess with the wrong folks."

  Carlos added, "If you think you can stop us, you are wrong. If you still believe you can try, you will only end up dead. If you let us do as we like, and even give us access to the town's warehouse and everything else, we might consider letting you live." He stated this while laughing, his men followed as he continued. "From today, this town will belong to us completely."

  Hector smiled and struck back. “Carlos, my friend… ever considered rinsing your mouth before you speak? All that ass-kissing you do for the old man’s left a stench.”

  One of Colin’s guards lost his leash. “Mind your tongue, you bastard!”

  Hector looked at the shouting guard once, his smile not faltering. "Down, boy. You will not become the big hot shot you're dreaming of just by staying a yes-man. Climbing the ladder by riding the boss’s dick only gets you sticky.“

  His comment made the air in the room curdle with fury. Every guard’s hand twitched toward a weapon.

  Only Silvana kept her composure, though a deep confusion churned beneath her calm mask. Why is he being so reckless? He’s at a disadvantage in every conceivable way.

  A primal instinct whispered that something was profoundly wrong, that staying here was a trap. Her role was only to gather information, not to get drawn into this suicide pact. That was what her lady had ordered.

  Silvana finally spoke, her voice cutting through the heated silence. "I stand against this whole riot. It is causing nothing but unnecessary chaos. Making it an ambition as large as taking over the town will only lead to further reprisals, especially now that the Dukedom has gotten serious. Some low-ranking thugs aren't winning against them. The goal was to avenge Colin’s daughter. That much would be sufficient. My faction has nothing to do with the riot and is only interested in protecting our area. We, too, will involve ourselves if the Town Chief allows a proper hunt for the killer, though we cannot let the officers do the job for obvious reasons."

  Hector interrupted her with a dismissive wave. "And let gangs do as they like? It’s the same thing, different story. In both cases, gang members will run through the town, destroying everything. Those are the town’s filthy rats, not some well-trained hounds. You can't expect fine work from them. Also, quit behaving like you guys are some big deal. All of you are nothing but this city's grunts. That's all you folks are. Don't overestimate yourselves."

  Every face in the room twisted with pure, unadulterated hatred. The pretense of civility evaporated.

  Then Hector asked, his head tilting with mock curiosity, "So the killer killed your daughters, huh? That is..." He paused dramatically. "...such a stupid reason to start something like this. So, so stupid. You’re still young, old man. Go breed another brat if you miss playing daddy that much. Or, if the equipment’s rusted, just search for the hundreds of whores you’ve visited, or the women you have raped. Plenty of candidates might have your offspring, I'm sure." He finished with a light, genuine laugh.

  The sound was the final spark.

  Colin smashed the table with his fist and launched himself forward. Two of his men were faster, grabbing Hector by his expensive collar and shoving him against the wall, a blade point pressing into the soft flesh of his neck.

  Hector merely chuckled, the steel dimpling his skin. “What’s the matter?” he crooned. “Why so angry over something so normal? You’re underworld kings, aren’t you? Family gets buried every week. What kind of gang leader are you if a little truth makes you cry?”

  "That's it. No more talk," Colin snarled, saliva flying from his lips, his own dagger now in hand. "I will rip him apart first."

  As Colin lunged, an invisible force snatched him backward. Invisible threads, sharp and unbreakable, wrapped around his torso and limbs, yanking him off his feet with monstrous force. Before the shock could settle, the restaurant's double doors were silently sliced into falling pieces of wood.

  Carlos met the same fate a heartbeat later, hauled into the air beside his rival.

  Above the Rosevilla, standing calmly on the roof, was the Scholar. His pristine academy clothes, round hat, and white gloves were a surreal contrast to the carnage below. He had already finished his work outside.

  The gang members posted as guards were now nothing more than geometric sections of meat, cleanly diced and scattered around the entrance.

  The remaining men inside rushed out, weapons drawn, only to freeze at the grisly scene.

  The Scholar did not wait. He moved. Not with a flash, but with a terrible, deliberate speed. The threads holding Colin and Carlos went taut, and the two gang bosses were dragged behind the fleeing figure like grotesque puppets. He moved at the speed of a galloping horse, fast enough to brutalize them against the cobblestones, but carefully controlled not to kill them immediately.

  He ran down the main road, cutting into a narrow alley. The two men were pulled after him, their bodies bouncing and scraping over stone and debris, a bloody testament to the Scholar's absolute, pitiless control.

  The ruined doors of the Rosevilla hung crooked on their hinges, smoke and moonlight spilling through the gap like blood from a fresh wound. For the first time that night, Hector’s smile was gone.

  He stared at the empty space where Colin and Carlos had vanished, voice barely a breath. “What the hell… that wasn’t in the plan. Who the fuck was it”

  He looked up. He and Silvana were now encircled by the remaining fifty-odd gang members, all of whom had just watched their bosses be stolen by a phantom.

  Their killing intent was a physical pressure in the room. By the simple, brutal logic of the situation, all suspicion now fell on the man who had called the meeting.

  The guard Hector had humiliated earlier stepped forward, knuckles white around a machete. “Where did you take our bosses?”

  Others began to circle Silvana. Most of her guards lay dead outside, only four remained, closing ranks around her with desperate resolve.

  Hector scratched the back of his head, irritation replacing every trace of amusement. “Listen, idiots. I’m officially pissed. Things just went sideways, and I hate surprises.” His voice turned cold. “So here’s the deal: walk away now, and I’ll give you all quick deaths. Stay, and I get creative.”

  The machete-wielding guard opened his mouth to snarl.

  He never finished.

  Something invisible punched through his jaw, tore upward in a wet red line, split his face from mouth to crown. Upper half and lower half fell in different directions.

  Before the body hit the floor, the rest of the circle followed, limbs separating, torsos folding, heads rolling like dropped fruit. Less than two heartbeats, and the grand dining hall became a silent slaughterhouse.

  Silvana bolted. Terror clawed up her spine raw, animal terror she hadn’t felt since childhood.

  Every instinct screamed that the man behind her wasn’t human, that the polite mask had cracked and something ancient and starving now wore his face.

  She made it three steps.

  An iron grip closed around her wrist. The world spun. Her back slammed against the edge of the long table, silverware clattering.

  Hector loomed over her, smile back in place.

  “Where were you running to, sweetheart?” His voice was velvet again, almost tender. “You’re coming with me tonight.”

  Silvana’s breath came in sharp, panicked bursts. “What do you want from me?”

  He laughed, low and filthy, leaning in until she could smell wine on his breath.

  “Oh, don’t worry, my lady. We have the whole night to talk.” His fingers tightened until the bone creaked. “So for the time being… shut your fucking mouth.”