Shadows of the Blade
Red lights and blue lights flashed in alternation. The faces of the people bathed in that glow shifted colors with every pulse—icily detached under the blue, then wild with bloodlust under the red.
Daniel, wincing at the lights for a moment, spoke up as a shadow passed by his side.
“Sarge!”
The man called Sarge turned. He was an orc, his single jutting lower tusks glinting in the patrol car’s lights.
“What.”
“...Huh?”
“You called me. Spit it out.”
Daniel scratched his head awkwardly.
“Nah, just... let’s head in together. Partners, right?”
The orc snorted through his nose and turned without a word. Daniel followed with an embarrassed grin. They approached the stairs cordoned off with yellow tape. A uniformed officer lifted the tape as they neared.
Beyond the tape, the two detectives descended the stairs and came face-to-face with a wide-open steel door—and the scene beyond it.
“Holy hell... what a mess.”
Daniel shook his head, clucking his tongue. The orc just snorted softly.
The club inside was a wreck. Even accounting for it being a playground for drunks and junkies, this was next level. Corpses, spent casings, splintered tables and chairs littered the floor. Shattered bottles and glasses sparkled in the investigation team’s camera flashes.
“Looks like Romanos went to war with someone, huh?”
Daniel said it after spotting a white-furred Siberian werebear among the dead. A nearby forensics tech snapping photos replied.
“If this was war, it was one hell of a one-sided beatdown.”
“Huh? Why’s that?”
“All the dead guys? Looks like Romanos’s crew, top to bottom.”
Daniel tilted his head, not quite getting it at first.
“...Just Romanos’s guys? All the bodies here?”
The tech shrugged in affirmation, saying nothing. Daniel’s face grew serious as he turned to his sarge.
“Sarge, if this is gang war, isn’t it a bit big for us to handle solo?”
“Who said it’s gang war?”
The orc asked without even glancing back from the scene. Daniel stroked his chin.
“A slaughterhouse like this with only Romanos bodies? Means the other side carted off their dead. Probably prepping some gang funeral rite. Gotta be Osaka Brothers, Bull Han Bandits, or Bellator. They’re big on that ceremony crap.”
The orc just snorted again, silent.
“Most of the bodies are chopped to bits. Flesh charred black at the cuts... probably ultra-vibration blades. Japs love that stuff. Katana samurai wannabes.”
Daniel nodded to himself, his thoughts clicking into place.
“Siberian gang versus OB. Rumors said someone was eyeing Romanos’s turf lately. Had to be them. Raided this club to gut his strength. Might hit elsewhere too.”
He finished and shot his sarge a look—like, how’s that for detective work? But the orc stayed crouched, ignoring him.
“Sarge?”
“This ain’t gang war.”
The orc’s eyes were fixed on a polar bear corpse bisected at the waist.
“...It ain’t?”
“Massacre. One guy did all this.”
“What?”
Still crouched, the orc clasped his hands.
“No gunshots killed any of ’em. Sure, there’s bullet wounds, but that’s just friendly fire from their wild shooting. OB loves their katana theater, but not this much.”
“...All blade kills?”
“Aura Blade, precisely.”
Daniel’s face scrunched in confusion at the term.
“Aura Blade? You mean Aura Master? Those swordmaster freaks?”
“Aura Master ain’t just swords. It’s mastery of every martial art—gods of combat. Don’t think local dojo hack.”
Daniel glanced at the tech beside him, lost. The tech just shrugged again.
Daniel tried again.
“Still, they’re old-school relics who won’t touch implants or even net sockets. Train their asses off with cold steel but hate guns like poison.”
“That’s how they get the Aura Blade. Pure body training breaks human limits to forge that light-blade.”
The orc’s gaze swept the club from the bear onward.
“Active Aura Masters in Midland? Handful at best. Most guard megacorps or VIP pols as judges or bodyguards. Regular folks never cross one.”
“Uh... so Romanos pissed off some bigwig? Isumi? Mayor’s office?”
Daniel played along. The orc licked his tusk with a chuckle.
“Romanos ain’t the mad Soviet dog people say. Cold as ice—avoids fights he can’t win. This wasn’t a slip-up.”
“...Sarge, you just said Aura Masters guard bigwigs.”
The orc chuckled deeper, amused.
“Yeah. But not all Midland Aura Masters. Some ditch wealth and fame, slap on a merc tag, haunt back alleys. Intel calls ’em ‘Ronin.’ Mercenary blades.”
Daniel realized the orc was getting a bit excited. Then he remembered: this guy got fast-tracked into MLPD as a martial artist. Orc romanticism, he thought, shaking his head inwardly.
“Wound patterns scream him.”
“You can tell just by looking?”
“Seen his traces over years. Miss this, I’d gouge my eyes.”
Daniel sighed faintly, covering with words.
“Then nab the guy. If Intel named him, they got an address.”
“Nah. No big incidents, so Intel just notes he exists. Probably saving him for leverage. And key point: no crime to arrest him for.”
“Huh? What—”
The orc rose, gripping his knees.
“MLPD protects Midland citizens’ safety and lives. These corpses? Illegals and wanted scum. No legit citizens.”
Daniel and the tech’s jaws dropped slightly. The orc turned, blue light flickering in his eyes—his cybernetic optics had been scanning IDs.
“...So what now?”
“What else? Call city sanitation for trash pickup. Case closed before it started. Pull the uniforms.”
“But Sarge, all these bodies—”
The orc smirked thinly despite the protest.
“Call ’em people, you won’t last in this job.”
Daniel’s face hardened. His eyes glowed blue—orc-sent dossiers scrolling: murder, robbery, rape, gunrunning, narcotrafficking, human trafficking. His lips pressed thin.
“Got it? Let’s go.”
Daniel chewed his lip, started to speak, then spun away. The orc watched his back, fished a smoke from his coat, lit up. The lighter clicked; gray haze rose.
Detective Sergeant Harry Welsson inhaled deep, scanning the club once more. A space that once throbbed with life now lay deathly still.
“Wonder how Romanos’ll play this.”
The old man’s face flashed in Harry’s mind: white-haired human gripping Midland’s polar bear leashes. He’d hunt the killer. Shaky business or not, ignoring this threatened his throne.
“...Not my circus.”
The orc turned, trailing smoke.
As the last patrons left, the hall lights auto-dimmed. Silence, darkness, and chill remained.
A black muscle car pulled up at the warehouse docks. The growling engine cut; a door opened. Roque stepped out.
He scanned the docks, grabbed a hardcase from inside, shut the door, and headed for Warehouse 13—not far off. Rendezvous with the mage Melissa.
Walking to the gate, he sniffed. Club workout felt good, but their bulletstorm left gunpowder stench clinging. Shower first at home.
At the gate, a side door stood ajar. Roque slipped in. Pitch black inside—no lights.
His brows furrowed. Bad vibes.
Sudden floodlights blazed from within. Roque shaded his eyes. Squinting past the glare, a black silhouette backlit stood.
“Welcome.”
“Blinding. Dim it.”
The shadow was Melissa. She stepped forward.
“You brought the goods, Roque.”
No dimming. Roque shrugged, set the case down.
“Yeah. What you wanted’s inside.”
“Ah, yes. That too.”
Roque’s brow twitched. Off phrasing.
“...Serum, drugs, data chip. That the ask?”
“Nice bonus. But I want something else, Roque.”
Straightening slowly, Roque smirked bitterly.
“Knew some bullshit was coming.”
“Might sound that way. Hear me out?”
“Shoot.”
His eyes adjusted. He read her face in the light.
Thrilled.
“I want your body more than trinkets.”
“Bar line, woulda got cheers.”
“Cheer here.”
Roque shook his head, palm out. His belt’s wooden hilt flew to his grip. Melissa’s eyes widened.
“Aura Blade..!”
“Did homework.”
Her blue eyes burned despite his sarcasm.
“Aura Blade. Cuts anything. Aura Master’s invincible edge. No spell or science replicates it. Pure-body privilege. Inexplicable as cyber space.”
Roque’s face soured at her fervor.
“...Yeah. Lotsa research—”
“Aura Masters. Outdated relics. Reject implants, net sockets. Obsessed with killer arts, ignore guns. Blind to spellcraft and binary beauty.”
Roque blinked.
“...What? Writing a thesis?”
“Plenty tried. Mages and Aura Masters chased blade secrets since history began. None cracked it.”
“You will? With my corpse?”
She nodded rigidly.
“Predecessors slacked post-cyber space. Dismissed blade-jocks. But old riddles demand solving—that’s infinite wisdom’s way. Dissect your body and brain, unravel the light’s mystery.”
Mad gleam—or boundless curiosity?—swirled in her blue eyes. Roque smiled wryly.
“Gonna chew out Philip. Second dud client.”
“Free-roaming Aura Master. Long hunt. Known ones had backers. Old assassin firms were all blades, but gone by my interest. Thrilled to snag you, Roque.”
Her smile: black hair, blue eyes, snow skin—bar-perfect. Might’ve followed.
But dock warehouse.
“Know why your elders skipped it?”
“Skipped what?”
“Cracking an Aura Master’s skull.”
She shook her head, amused.
“Why not?”
“Subject fights back.”
Calm as his tone, gray blade extended slow from the wooden grip. Burning yet icy.
But Melissa’s eyes narrowed. Still smiling.
“Sorry, Roque.”
The warehouse flashed brighter. Before he stepped, bizarre vibrations assailed him.
“...Hm.”
Roque staggered. Vision whited out; skull throbbed.
Melissa smirked, pleased.
“Unlike stagnant Aura Masters, we mages shed fireball-and-fortune-telling ages ago. This is modern magic.”
She twirled a finger. Vibrations intensified.
Roque gritted through skull-split pain, forcing eyes open. Warehouse sharpened.
Speaker-like devices hung from the ceiling. Their eerie vibes blurred his sight, cracked his head. Melissa’s fingers tuned their aim and power.
A prepared mage’s lair isn’t entered lightly. Pre-WW adage. Given time, a mage’s spells were lethally prepotent. Roque learned viscerally.
He could’ve killed her first—swift, silent, no setup chance. He knew mage counters. Past taught him.
That pain dredged it up? Roque wry-smiled. Lips muttered: Damn it.
He dropped the Aura Blade.
“...Dropping the sword?”
Her smug smile faltered, puzzled. Eyes tracked the lightless hilt rolling on the floor. Aura Masters never dropped blades—even dying. It channeled soul-sword to reality.
Blood trickled from his nose and ears, but brain and body intact—she hadn’t crossed the line. Quitting now mismatched his rep.
She rationalized, nodding.
“Hm. Figures. True Aura Master wouldn’t merc alleys, Roque.”
She leaned cocky, head tilted—full control vibe. Figured him half-baked.
“Pity the specimen’s flawed. No death penalty clan, Roque? Research says most Aura Masters have priestly ties—”
Gunshot cracked the warehouse.
Melissa blinked dumbly, looked down. Red bloomed on her white shirt. Tiny entry hole.
She looked up. Roque’s right hand gripped a revolver.
“...Wha—pistol?”
Her focus slipped; vibes ceased. Roque’s left thumb-cocked the hammer—trigger finger still pulled, hammer snapped forward. Bang. Left thumb repeated four times. Five shots total.
She flopped like a marionette, then crumpled backward.
Dying eyes brimmed questions. Aura Masters hate guns? Lifetime sword focus for the blade... but him...
Consciousness snapped.
Roque eyed the spreading red pool.
“You started it. Never prepped for guns—trapped by myths you never checked.”
Revolver spun on trigger finger, holstered. Empty palm out—hilt flew back. It spun, then sheathed.
He pinched a nostril, snorted. Red glob splatted floor. Grabbed the case—client dead, take payment.
“...Big jinx cleared.”
Back-to-back jobs? Roque left, vowing lazy spending till funds dried. Overdid the hustle, too many kills.
At the Black Knight, he terminal-called Philip. Quick pickup.
“Fucked it. Body here—clean up.”
On the tiny screen, Philip gawked.
“Questioning your broker skills myself.”
Philip rubbed his temple.
Roque eyed mini-Philip, nodded.
“Clear the body. Weird vibe devices too—bring a truck.”
Roque pulled the door shut.
“Taking time off. No contact unless world-ending.”
Screen blanked.
Roque sat blank-faced, sighed deep, gripped the key.
Black Knight’s engine growled low, headlights flared. Beams swept the dim docks, then wheeled back the way they came.
The abandoned docks fell silent. Far off, Midland’s gaudy lights blazed like a colossal lighthouse cluster.