As Lucien watched the entire event unfold before him, his mind dissected it with cold, surgical precision.

  Hmm… that’s an interesting ability.

  It doesn’t look overwhelmingly powerful, but it’s extremely useful. Still, the way he’s moving—running around like that—it doesn’t seem like he can activate it freely. There must be multiple conditions to meet, and likely a heavy price as well.

  If my guess is right, this isn’t a natural or inherited ability.

  It’s contracted.

  Should I bother joining now?

  … No.

  That officer has already sent out an emergency call. This is a good opportunity to see how the town’s officers actually behave under pressure—and to assess their true level of competence.

  I did promise Liam I’d deal with the remaining assailants in town, but that doesn’t mean I have to do everything at once.

  For now, I’ll observe. Gather data.

  Then, when the time is right, I’ll deal with them.

  I’ll capture two for interrogation—give one to Liam. I’ll keep the other one.

  As he finished his deduction, Lucien’s gaze returned to the battlefield below.

  Renda, with an amused smile, took two high-grade potions from her tuxedo and tossed them in a seamless arc. They shattered against K17 and K33, the liquid instantly absorbing into their bodies.

  "Block all exits," she ordered, her voice light.

  The effect was immediate. K17's shoulder wound healed and K33, who had been on the verge of collapse, surged to his feet, his injuries vanishing.

  They moved with renewed vigor, splitting to opposite ends of the ruined arcade, their presence dominating the space and sealing any viable escape route.

  Aers backed into a corner, falling into a battle stance he knew was little more than a bluff. He couldn't win. But he wasn't completely hopeless.

  His only goal was to survive long enough for backup to arrive—to turn this three-on-one slaughter into a more manageable one-on-one.

  He took a deep, steadying breath, locking his eyes on the terrifying figure of Renda as she began to walk toward him, her steps unhurried.

  He didn't blink. He couldn't afford to.

  And yet, she vanished without a hint.

  He felt a cold, sharp pressure pierce his side an instant later.

  Renda had reappeared instantly, having stabbed him with a slender, black, beak-like rod.

  And the world swapped once again.

  Aers now stood where Renda had been, the black rod in his own hand. Renda was in his former spot, a matching wound now in her side.

  He didn't hesitate—he flung the rod aside and sprinted, putting distance between them.

  Renda just smiled, pressing a hand to her new injury.

  "Amazing. Such a unique ability. Kind of hard to believe you're just an officer in a backwater," she mused, her voice carrying across the rubble. "But the damage isn't as severe as it should be. You see, I was already layered in protective magic. So even though your ability reflects damage, it isn’t absolute. If the opponent is prepared, it can be mitigated."

  She tapped a finger to her forehead, eyes closed, as if visualizing a diagram.

  Aers used the moment to glance for an exit, but K33 was already behind him. The massive knight's arms locked around his torso in an iron grip, squeezing the air from his lungs. K17 appeared in front of him, her sword already drawn and leveled.

  "Here's a deal," Renda said, opening her eyes. "Tell us everything about yourself and your ability. Agree to work as our henchman. And I'll let you live." She tilted her head. "Good deal, isn't it?"

  Aers struggled against the crushing hold. "Shut up— you—"

  Renda gestured, and K33 loosened his grip just enough for him to breathe.

  "Then, let's see what happens if we do this," she said, her tone clinical. "K17, stab him near the right chest. K33, begin ripping him apart from the stomach. Oh, and prepare yourselves for the backlash. Do it. Now."

  At her signal, they moved in perfect, brutal synchronicity.

  K17's blade lanced toward his chest. K33's fingers dug into his abdomen, ready to tear.

  The ability triggered.

  But not as Renda predicted.

  Positions swapped—but not with K33.

  Aers now stood free, gasping heavily on the ground a few feet away. K17 was in the hold of K33, her own sword buried in her chest where Aers' had been, and K33's ripping fingers were buried in her stomach. K33 froze immediately, releasing her as she crumpled with a choked cry.

  Renda’s playful smile didn't fade; it deepened with intellectual curiosity.

  "Hmm. You should have switched with K33. He was the nearest and definitely the most lethal source. Yet you switched with K17." She tapped her chin. "I wonder what her attack had that his didn't?"

  Renda looked at Aers once again, her cyan mask tilting. "Heh. This is getting boring, you know." Her voice held a sinister, singsong quality. "Well, let's see if you survive this or not."

  Her fingers wove a quick, intricate pattern in the air. Mana condensed, heavy and malevolent. "Fourth Circle Spell: Green Pillar."

  As the words left her lips, Aers felt the ground beneath his feet grow warm. He looked down to see a complex, glowing magic circle flare to life beneath him, etching itself into the shattered cobblestones with emerald light.

  He knew what was coming—a sustained column of annihilating energy. He braced.

  But the eruption didn't come.

  Before the pillar could fully manifest, a figure dropped from above like a meteor of pure will.

  Monica Feasta landed between Aers and the forming circle, her boot slamming down with decisive force. Her eyes were cold chips of flint, locked on Renda.

  "Gravity," she stated.

  The air warped. The nascent green energy, which had begun to surge upward, visibly strained, then compressed. It was like a warhorse straining against iron reins.

  The brilliant column choked, flickering violently as Monica's invisible force crushed it downward, containing its eruption to a sputtering, contained flare of light that barely reached waist-height.

  In the span of a heartbeat, Monica grabbed Aers by the collar and moved. It wasn't a run; it was a controlled, violent repositioning, yanking him completely clear of the spell's range.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  She released her hold on the spell the moment they were clear.

  The suppressed Green Pillar, its energy violently contained and destabilized, did not simply fade. It imploded, then exploded outward in a deafening shockwave of wild green force and shattered stone.

  The blast tore through the space where Aers had stood just moments before, vaporizing rubble and carving a fresh crater into the arcade floor.

  Monica set Aers down roughly on the far side of the new devastation, her gaze never leaving Renda.

  Monica’s eyes didn’t leave the three figures. “Are you okay? What is going on?”

  Aers stood, wincing but straightening his posture. “I’m… somehow. Short report: the knights are with the killer. Or, the killers are impersonating knights.”

  Monica absorbed the information instantly, her expression hardening. Before she could reply, Sera dropped from a nearby roof behind them, landing with a soft thud. Her face showed a flicker of anxiety she quickly masked with a sharp, familiar edge.

  “Yo, Aers. You don’t look so good. Haha. Serves you right for always acting like an arrogant prick.”

  Aers didn’t look back, keeping his focus ahead. “Don’t misunderstand, Sera. I was merely halting them so they wouldn’t escape. If anything, you should thank me. I actually did the job.”

  “Of course we should,” Sera shot back, her tone dry. “After all, you actually did something. You know, had you just said ‘hi’ when you saw me earlier, you wouldn’t have gotten so beaten up.”

  “More like we’d both be dead for nothing,” Aers muttered.

  While their bickering continued behind her, Monica’s attention never wavered.

  She had learned from her previous mistake. The moment she’d arrived, she had cast a wide-area, one-time spell—a barrier of intensified force encircling the entire arcade plaza.

  It cost a significant chunk of her mana and focus to erect, but as a static, self-sustaining construct, it wouldn’t require constant maintenance. It would hold. No one was leaving without going through her.

  Fulfilling the grim formality of her role, Monica finally addressed the woman in the cyan mask, her voice flat and authoritative.

  “Who are you? What is your reason for committing these atrocities?”

  Renda chuckled, a light, girlish sound that clashed with the surrounding ruin. “Look at Miss Cop, trying to make a tough-sounding voice. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’”

  Then her demeanor shifted. Her posture straightened, and her voice took on a tone of theatrical pride, intended to dominate and instill fear. It was the confidence of someone who believed she held all the cards.

  “We are the Weaver Club,” she declared, the name-dropping into the silence like a stone. “And what we desire… is punishment for the copycat.”

  [At the same time, within the Department of Law Enforcement building]

  Tiger loomed over the medical cots, his brow furrowed. "Doc, are those two going to be okay?"

  The old doctor finished his examination, wiping his hands on a stained cloth. "Pretty much. Both are in a deep slumber, likely induced by a severe neurotoxic attack. Poor folks. They were probably trapped in that cocoon when their opponent realized he couldn't win a straight fight." He sighed, his eyes distant as he wondered what fresh chaos was unfolding beyond the walls.

  "Should we use a potion?" Tiger asked, his voice gruff with concern.

  "Absolutely not," the doctor snapped, his practicality cutting through the sympathy. "Our supplies are already scarce. Using a high-grade remedy when we don't even know if it will work is stupidity. You have no idea how much those things cost." He softened slightly. "Don't worry. I've checked them thoroughly. Their bodies aren't failing. But if they don't wake up soon… that will be a problem."

  "What should we do, then? Do we have any medicine? A spell? If you need something, I can get it," Tiger pressed.

  The old doctor gave a dry chuckle. "You sure are a hardworking fellow, going this far for some unknown faces. Tiger, relax. I know what I'm doing."

  He rummaged through a crate of what looked like medical junk and pulled out a pendant. It was a dark, polished crystal, its purple hue so deep it seemed to swallow the light.

  Tiger leaned in. "What is it?"

  "A warrior paid me for helping him out. With this artifact." He held it up. "It's called a Nightmare Emblem. You feed a little mana into it to activate it. Basically, it causes the target to experience vivid nightmares and heightened emotions. These two are sleeping. If I use this on them, the nightmares and the emotional spike might trigger a reaction—or even wake them up."

  "What were you doing with it before?" Tiger asked, suspicion coloring his voice.

  The old doctor just laughed. Without further explanation, he channeled a trickle of mana into the dark crystal.

  It glowed with an unsettling, bruise-colored light. He held it over the two unconscious knights.

  Instantly, their bodies went rigid. A violent spasm wracked them, muscles contracting sharply.

  "Stop it!" Tiger barked, taking a half-step forward.

  "No issue. It's under control. It's working," the doctor said, his eyes fixed on his patients.

  After a few more seconds of agonized twitching, a sharp, guttural gasp tore from K2's lips. A moment later, K5's eyes flew open.

  Both were drenched in a cold sweat, their chests heaving as if they'd just run for their lives, the horrors of the artificial nightmare still clinging to the edges of their vision.

  K2 asked, taking a deep, deliberate breath as she forced her body to stillness. "What is going on?"

  K5 followed her lead, composing himself with visible effort.

  Tiger quickly caught them up: the chaos in the town, Dave's critical injury, Nosfraet's death, the Yellow Weaver's capture, and how they themselves were found unconscious in that strange cocoon in an alley.

  Upon hearing it all, K2 and K5 shared a look that was a fraction too long. "Can we see the captive?" K2 asked, her voice carefully neutral. "To confirm if he was the one who put us in that state."

  Tiger remembered Monica's explicit order: under no condition let anyone meet him. But these were knights, part of the sanctioned task force. They weren't civilians. His loyalty warred with protocol. Maybe I shouldn't...

  "Sorry," Tiger said, his voice firming with resolve. "I can't allow that yet. For now, you should focus on recovery. As we gather more information on the situation, we'll discuss future plans and conduct any interrogation under the guidance of our superiors."

  K2 nodded, her expression one of weary understanding. "You're right. We'll focus on a quick recovery first." She paused, as if a thought had just occurred to her. "Tiger, could you go to the meeting room downstairs? There should be a bag there. It has medicine and potions. Please, take it and use it on Dave and anyone else who needs it. It belongs to the task force, sanctioned by the Duchy."

  Tiger felt a flicker of unease. He hadn't heard anything about such a bag. But perhaps he wasn't privy to all the task force's logistics. "I'll check," he said, and with a final, cautious glance, he left the room.

  The moment the door clicked shut, the atmosphere shifted.

  K2's composure vanished. "How much do they actually have?" she asked the old doctor, her voice low and direct.

  The doctor, misunderstanding her intent, sighed. "It's classified, but definitely not too much. I wonder what's in that bag. If they're high potions... well, it would be a good thing. Ease the tension—"

  His words ended in a wet choke.

  K5, who had been casually walking toward a supply drawer, was now standing beside him. The doctor looked down, confused, at the horrifying emptiness where his abdomen should have been.

  His insides spilled onto the floor with a sickening sound before he crumpled.

  K5 didn't even look at him. He yanked the drawer open. Inside was a small crate containing about twenty high-grade potions.

  "Very weird place to hide something this important, huh?" K5 mused, lifting one. "You have high potions. Considering the state of this town, I was expecting low-ranking market-level stuff at best."

  He used five on himself, the potent energy sealing his remaining wounds and flooding him with vigor. He tossed five more to K2. The remaining ten went into his pack.

  Together, they walked out of the medical room. They moved with purpose, killing the two junior officers stationed outside the Yellow Weaver's cell without breaking stride.

  K5 shattered the reinforced lock with a single, mana-enhanced kick.

  Inside, the Weaver was a ruin. His iconic yellow mask was fused to his face, his body a tapestry of burns and crushed bone. He was barely conscious.

  K2 knelt. "Yellow. Are you awake?"

  A pained, guttural sound was his only reply.

  K5 didn't hesitate. He uncorked a high potion and poured it over the Weaver's head. The effect was immediate but partial—severe injuries knitting slowly.

  With a grunt of impatience, K5 used another. And another.

  He used five in rapid succession, the concentrated healing magic working violently to undo catastrophic damage. By the fifth potion, the Yellow Weaver stirred.

  By the eighth, he was pushing himself up. By the tenth, he stood on his own feet. The melted mask fell away in brittle pieces, revealing a face contorted not with pain, but with pure, undiluted fury.

  His eyes, once playful, now burned with homicidal intent.

  "Haah... thanks, you two," the Weaver rasped, his voice raw but laced with venom. "It feels nice to be back in one piece. Now, let me go find those wretched pieces first. I have a debt to repay."

  The three of them moved as a unit through the sparsely populated office.

  Most personnel were either on patrol, dead, or tending to the wounded elsewhere. They met no meaningful resistance.

  On the first floor, Tiger stood frozen at the main exit.

  He had gone to the meeting room. There was no bag. No potions.

  His suspicion had crystallized into cold dread just as he saw them descending the stairs—K2, K5, and, walking between them, fully healed and radiating malice, the Yellow Weaver.

  His heart hammered against his ribs. He didn't think. He acted.

  He had two talismans: one linked to Monica's command, the other a private channel given to him by Liam before the suspension, for emergencies only.

  He activated both simultaneously, sending an urgent distress call.

  Then he turned to face the three killers, planting his feet squarely before the only exit.

  He had no grand weapon, only his fists, his loyalty, and sheer, stubborn determination.

  What should the next extra be about