The Prophet at the Party
There were several major cities along the Border. Cities born from the first land race. Scholars classified and analyzed them by size, economic scale, location, and dominant factions.
Azenman Riantl's city ranked mid-to-upper in size, top-tier in economic power, and leaned slightly toward the Duchy among its major factions—neutral overall. It was a place where no faction held sway, drawing those shunned by all sides. A hub for both talents and troublemakers. If some cities grew by embracing neutrality, others stood as its antithesis. And the spot where Azenman now stood was one such example.
This city, ruled by a former imperial noble called Lugen, was nicknamed the Small Empire. From architecture to culture, everything mirrored the Empire, and most residents hailed from there. Even their holidays followed the imperial calendar.
Azenman had come to the Small Empire. He was attending a party hosted by Lugen. And approaching him now with a smiling face was none other than Lugen himself, the master of this small empire and landlord of these lands.
"Lord Azenman, what a surprise. I never dreamed you'd grace us with your presence."
"I couldn't very well ignore an invitation bearing your name, Count."
Lugen was a former imperial noble. He held no official title, but people called him Count Lugen anyway. The Small Empire rivaled any great imperial noble house in every respect. Calling him a noble wasn't far off the mark. Moreover, as the Empire's bridgehead linking West and East, he received varied support from the imperial court and ambitious upper crust dreaming of western expansion—making his de facto status even higher.
Azenman couldn't outright dismiss his invitation. But the real reason he'd come today was something else.
"Those must be them. The ones you made such a fuss about, Count."
"Indeed. Pillars of the Empire, destined to make monumental contributions to the West's development."
Off to one side of the party hall stood a handful of knights and a single mage.
So this party really was for them.
The invitation had mentioned someone for introduction—that had lured Azenman here. The timing coincided too perfectly with the carriage crossing the Border. Half-expecting a trap, he'd come anyway. And sure enough, the knights escorting the carriage were at the party.
"Care to meet them? It could benefit your ventures, my lord."
"In the West, one can never have enough muscle."
Besides his shadowy illegal enterprises, Azenman ran several legitimate businesses. To launder money without suspicion, the more legitimate channels for funds to flow in and out, the better.
"Over here, gentlemen!"
At Lugen's call, the knights approached. Azenman exchanged routine greetings, his mind racing all the while.
Given the number and caliber of escorts, it's no ordinary cargo. Top secret, even in the Empire. So why are these secret operatives kicking back at a party?
It didn't add up. But he couldn't just assume the worst. Human hearts weren't so easily read by logic alone. Maybe on this long haul, they'd requested rest at Lugen's, he'd obliged, and suggested a party. The knights, superhumans though they were, set duty aside for a bit of fun...
Knights were human too. Away from watchful eyes, the mind slackens.
Azenman traded greetings with the knights Lugen introduced. They welcomed him, eyes gleaming with schemes to fleece him. Nothing new there. To powerful knights, bookish scholars were eternal marks. The adage that the pen outmatched the sword held only under ideal conditions. Most times, the sword won.
Following the knights with their predatory stares came a man still cloaked in his plain mantle—even here. Cheap cloth, not fine leather; hardly party attire for a count's soiree. Yet no one commented on his dress. He was a mage, and nobody wanted to risk becoming the butt of a mage's whims.
"They say dewdrops falling under moonlight let you glimpse the future. Do you know that superstition, my lord?"
"I've heard of such a myth."
"The Duchy’s brain lives up to the hype. You're the first to recognize it. Pleased to meet you. Call me Night Dew."
"A nameless mage? One of the Mystery Trackers?"
"I run with that crowd."
A genuine Mystery Tracker mage embedded with the group. Attending openly wasn't meaningless.
"What’s myth to one might be truth to another. What’s your take, my lord?"
"Well, magic’s not my field, so I hesitate to speak."
"No matter. Even so-called mages are a motley bunch inside. Some stake their lives on bogus theories, but I'm a free spirit."
No one who boasted like that ever truly was. Azenman mentally tagged the man: Obsessive nutcase. One wrong word, and he'll snap. Real or fake, treating mages with that mindset cost nothing.
The obsessive nutcase smiled warmly and asked,
"Do you believe future-sight is possible, my lord?"
"Hard to say. Even magic that defies impossibility struggles there. If it were, I'd love tomorrow's market rates. Rolling big money means tiny fluctuations spell huge losses or windfalls."
Night Dew stepped boldly closer, breaths mingling. Azenman glimpsed the madness behind his smile. Madness redder than blood. It coursed through this man’s veins. Even drained dry, he'd live on—he swam in it. Leech-sucked or not, as long as that madness churned inside, he'd chase mysteries forever. Conversely, unscathed but madness-gone, he'd drop dead.
Stooped posture belied it, but Night Dew was tall. Up close, his breath brushed Azenman's nose. But his eyes demanded attention more: powder kegs primed to blow.
"Future-sight is possible. But altering it? Impossible. Confirmed futures must come to pass. That's my view of foresight. All I can do is clean up afterward."
"Cleanup? Impressive. Minimizing damage in any crisis."
"Exactly. That's how we've reached here unscathed. But what if it's beyond one person's handling? Something colossal, utterly unstoppable by individual power?"
Azenman's back slicked with sweat. Real future-sight? Humanly possible? Then his plans—were they exposed? The carriage raid? Inside, he teetered on madness, but he wasn't green enough to show it. He picked a characteristically sly reply and tossed it back.
"If that happened, I'd run."
"No, you can't. Confirmed futures must be witnessed. That's my magic, my mystery. Flight's forbidden."
"A Mystery Tracker overwhelmed? Unimaginable."
"Really? Lord Azenman. Not for you? You could unleash a disaster no one withstands."
"If I said no, it'd smack of false modesty. I can. Fleecing ants in ways others can't—that's our trade. But whatever you're envisioning? Beyond me."
"I see. Understood."
Night Dew brushed past. Whispering for Azenman's ears alone:
"Don't cancel the plan. Promise I'll shut up then. My mystery demands it. Cancel the raid, and leave the fallout to your imagination."
Darkness. Sensory swamp. Like a drowning man flailing, Azenman whirled. Night Dew was gone. Vanished into magic light like dawn dew.
"Fuck."
A Mystery Tracker mage. He'd taken him seriously, prepared countermeasures—even great magic. His miscalculation: Night Dew's madness exceeded imagination. A red-mad seer.
"Lord Azenman, leaving so soon?"
"Feeling under the weather. Must head back."
Lugen grabbed the departing Azenman. Chances to chat without prying eyes didn't come often. Normally, he'd cling despite the strain. But Azenman's ashen face brooked no talk.
That night, a carriage fled the Small Empire at speed.
Night Dew confirmed the carriage leaving the mansion from upstairs, then slipped from the party.
The escorted carriage sat in an emptied warehouse at Lugen's estate. Opening the doors revealed three lined up. Two held cash and jewels—their operating funds, seed money for follow-up forces. The third stood conspicuously apart. Even its guards didn't know its contents. Half followed Yurel; the rest were hired mercenaries—free knights in name only.
Wars against demons and the Union had forged many superhumans. Post-war power glut made such hires feasible.
"What? Already over?"
A shadow bolted up atop the third carriage. It leaped down. Moonlight dimly lit the dim warehouse, but Night Dew saw the woman's face. Joy flared, then soured as party echoes seeped in. That instant shift made his heart pound. She was perfection, but her purity completed her. A purity he'd never known.
"Told you not to wake me unless we're leaving."
"Azenman Riantl was here."
"Azenman? The raid's mastermind—did he sniff something?"
"No. He's too sharp for that. And you know he shouldn't find out."
"Useless magic."
"It got us here, didn't it?"
"Fair. But you're sure? This path leads to the truth of Her Highness's death?"
"Didn't say truth. Just that the vanished Second Princess's name surfaces."
The woman had been the Second Princess's guard knight. Over a decade ago, the princess vanished with a few closest aides. Not direct subordinate, but even she didn't know where. The Emperor never uttered her name since. The woman had chased traces ever since. Normal methods failed, so she'd turned to mysteries and magic—meeting Night Dew.
"Close enough. Hearing her name suffices."
A name taboo even among royals. If she could hear it again, satisfaction.
"It's not too late to turn back."
"I'd die there. But get Her Highness's clue. I flee, you die—but I live. That's it, right? You dying?"
"That satisfies me."
Night Dew could alter futures. But never had. Altering killed—gut instinct. Baseless delusion, yet instinct trumped all in mysteries. So he'd never tried.
But this was exception. A future worth dying to change? Humans gladly sacrificed.
"Some royals suspect me. Digging Bachea intel from Muet Empire? I'll surface. Never imagined this after rampaging free."
His heart nearly stopped. She'd knighted young, elite enough for royal guard. Over ten years honing tracking beyond peers, dabbled in mysteries, knew Bachea inside out. Five years back, a lead pointed the Second Princess west—she'd scoured Bachea relentlessly. Crucially, no backing. No repercussions for her deeds. To royals, she was prime prey—especially Yurel salivating.
Night Dew was Mystery Tracker; she had ties but neither followed Yurel. If true, Yurel's forces and his Trackers hunted them now.
"Return, and Yurel finds me first. This is my life's pivot. Right, pup?"
The carriage behind her shuddered violently.