No Path Chosen

As hands grabbed them from behind, Leon twisted, elbow lashing out—

Only to be caught mid-swing.

"Relax," came a low voice. "It's me."

Silas.

Leon froze. Lucian exhaled sharply, turning.

"You scared the hell out of us," Lucian muttered.

Silas ignored the comment. "What did you see?"

Leon didn't waste a second. "Owl masks. A woman—they called her Vice-Stringer. Bluebreaker was there too. They forced a mask on him. And… they took Harry."

Silas stiffened. "What?"

"In chains," Leon said. "Dragged out of a wagon. We think he followed us—probably got lost."

Silas cursed under his breath, stepping back. "I told him to go home. Damn it… this is on me."

Lucian looked around. "The structure of this place—it's changed. The streets, the walls. This is probably how they hide all of this."

Silas nodded slowly, eyes scanning the warped alley. "Zone Distortion. A city beneath the city. Makes it easy to vanish crimes."

Leon tightened his grip. "There's no turning back now. We have to find Harry."

Silas closed his eyes. "Wind Humming."

A soft pulse rippled through the air. Trails of breeze lit up like threads across the ground and buildings—visible only to them. Leon and Lucian stared in awe as swirling wisps danced through the alleyways.

"They've been moving around this area," Silas muttered. "I've marked where they gather—but I still can't pinpoint the tavern. My range only covers a hundred meters."

He didn't wait. In a blink, Silas dashed toward the trail.

Leon and Lucian followed.

"Stay sharp," Silas called without turning. "Remember your training. Be ready to fight…"

Then, softer—

"…but only if you must."

They went up the stairs and crossed a narrow, swaying wooden bridge. Beneath it, two owl-masked men stood guard, barely visible through the gaps. Silas whispered, "Move quietly," and they crept forward, following the faint wind trails.

Just ahead, on the rooftop of the next building, a third masked man appeared—blocking their path. He hadn't noticed them yet, but they'd have to go through him.

Without hesitation, Leon turned back, descending the stairs quickly and circling beneath the bridge. The creaking wood made him pause—he held his breath and moved carefully to avoid drawing attention.

Near the two guards below, he slammed his Blaze Gear into the ground. Dust and dirt erupted into a thick, smoky veil. The guards reacted, swords half-drawn, but couldn't see.

They stepped forward, and just as one raised his weapon, Leon burst out of the smoke with a larger, fiery blast. The flames struck both men—one fell back, coughing, the other stumbled forward. But neither made a sound beyond grunts of pain.

The third masked man above turned toward the commotion, moving in.

Before he could shout, Silas appeared behind him, wind spiraling around his hand. A sharp crack—Wind Tail—hit the man's head, and he dropped silently.

Below, one guard grabbed Leon's arm. Then the other caught his other wrist. Leon struggled, but they held tight. A blade gleamed, rising to strike.

A flash—Lucian's knife flew down from the bridge and struck one guard's foot. The man cried out and let go. Leon twisted free and sent another burst of fire into the second guard.

Before Silas could finish them off, Lucian leapt from the bridge, landing hard. He dashed across the stone, yanked his knife from the injured guard's foot, and slashed across the second man's chest.

The two guards fell.

Silas stood still for a moment, surprised. He hadn't expected them to coordinate this well. "You remembered your training," he muttered, almost impressed.

Then he knocked both men fully unconscious with a final gust of wind.

They moved in silence, slipping through a broken iron gate and into the edge of Gloryrail Industry.

The city was built on the slope of a hill, and from where they stood, they could see layers of smokestacks and brass structures stretching downward into a maze of noise and shadow. Buildings clung to the incline like rusted barnacles—connected by hanging walkways, gear-lift elevators, and spiraling tracks that disappeared into fog and steam. The deeper they went, the larger the city seemed to grow.

Pipes hissed. Chains groaned. Sparks flared in bursts from welding torches. Laborers—faces smeared with oil and eyes dull from long shifts—worked without looking up. Some hauled crates; others adjusted valves on oversized pressure tanks. The constant thrum of machines filled the air like a heartbeat, masking the sound of their footsteps.

Lucian glanced over the edge of a grated walkway. Below, a furnace yard roared—its flames barely visible through clouds of smoke. "We're getting close," he whispered.

Silas raised a hand. The wind shimmered faintly at his fingertips—his Wind Humming still active.

"The trail's thinning. They're somewhere deeper. East slope."

They pressed on.

As the incline dropped further, the architecture became denser—more industrial. Support beams jutted out like jagged teeth. Overhead cranes creaked, and cable carts whined along hanging tracks. Steam vents hissed, forcing them to duck or time their movements between bursts.

Then, amid the gloom, something caught Leon's eye.

A stack of crates tucked behind a rusted generator tower—marked with a foreign emblem: a winged gear over a cracked sun.

Silas crouched beside them. A quick glance was all he needed.

"These aren't from Mirage."

Leon leaned closer. "Smuggled?"

Silas opened one slightly. Inside—rows of carefully packed vials. Some shimmered. Others glowed faint blue. Not ordinary goods.

He closed it quietly.

"Whatever they're moving through here... it's not legal."

A hiss. Footsteps.

Up on the next bridge, a masked figure paused—an owl mask. He glanced toward the crates but didn't speak. Then vanished into the smog.

Silas whispered, "They're not just transporting. They're watching the cargo."

The slope continued down into a deeper sector—barely lit, dense with machinery and shadow.

The wind trail beckoned.

And they followed.

They moved deeper into the slope of Gloryrail, where the steam hung thicker and the streets grew quieter. Below them, the city's mechanical heart pulsed in rhythmic hisses and grinding gears. The wind trail flickered faintly in Silas's vision, dancing between rusted catwalks and shadowed chimneys—until it stopped.

Silas's eyes narrowed.

"There," he whispered.

Tucked between two slanted warehouses was a faded stone tavern, its sign cracked and unreadable. Pipes crawled up its outer wall like veins, and smoke poured from vents behind it. Two cloaked figures stood at its entrance, masks dull beneath the amber glow of an overhead light.

Without a word, the trio slipped around and climbed atop the neighboring building. From the rooftop, they could see the tavern's back alley, the nearby streets, the comings and goings.

Lucian crouched beside them, eyes scanning the ground below.

He exhaled quietly.

"So… what's the plan?"

Silas narrowed his eyes. "Be careful of the woman. The way they move around her… she's in charge. Dangerous. Probably powerful."

Leon and Lucian nodded silently.

They crouched atop the sloped rooftop, watching the dimly lit tavern below. The shadows stretched long in Gloryrail's industrial haze.

"I'll confirm Harry's position," Silas added, closing his eyes. His hair lifted slightly as a soft hum pulsed through the air—Wind Humming. "Six inside. One small—likely Harry. Injured. Breathing weak."

Then, in a whirl of feathers, Silas shifted into a raven. He glided across the tavern, circling once before perching on the window edge. From his sharp eyes, he saw him.

Harry. Unconscious. Beaten. Alone.

He returned in seconds. "He's in the back room. Woman's not there."

Leon clenched his jaw, rage flaring in his eyes—then something colder replaced it. Calculation.

"We're getting him out. Lucian, you're the one bringing Harry. You're the fastest and quietest," Leon said.

Lucian nodded. "What about you two?"

"We'll give you a distraction."

The plan moved fast.

Lucian slipped into position near the tavern's backdoor, hidden in the mist and the crates.

Leon walked to the front. He dropped low, fingers glowing faintly red. A small fire sparked beside a stack of wood.

Silas, perched above, watched. When Leon gave the signal, he surged a gust of wind—and the flame exploded into a roaring blaze, licking up the side of the tavern.

Shouts erupted. Two guards burst out the front.

In the chaos, Leon vanished into the smoke.

From above, Silas gave a sharp whistle—Lucian's signal.

Lucian darted in through the back. Inside, the smell of sweat and beer filled the hall. He found Harry, slumped and bruised, and slung him over his shoulder.

No time to check for injuries. No time to hesitate.

He moved fast. Out the door. Into the night.

They ran.

Harry limp in Lucian's arms, Leon leading the charge, Silas guiding them with pulsing streams of wind—a glowing path through the city's underbelly.

But as they began climbing the hill, past the crates and soot-streaked workshops of lower Gloryrail—

They were seen.

A sharp whistle sliced the air.

"Intruders!"

Two owl-masked figures sounded the alarm. Within moments, shouts echoed from all corners. The Silent Chord had been alerted.

Farther in the city, in a glass-paneled office carved into steel and stone, the Vice-Stringer rose to her feet.

Her jaw clenched as reports flooded in.

"They took the boy."

No hesitation. She flung open the balcony doors and leapt onto a waiting Hillrunner—a six-legged beast built for the slopes of Gloryrail. On flat land it lumbered, but here in the hill-choked city, it moved like thunder given form.

Meanwhile, from the shadows of a warehouse rooftop, a figure in a wolf-shaped mask raised his hand once more.

Zone Distort.

The ground rippled.

Reality bent.

The entire edge of Gloryrail warped, buildings twisting, alleys shifting, streets folding into new shapes. A labyrinth was born.

But Silas's wind hummed louder—a glowing ribbon carving through the chaos.

"Follow it!" he barked.

The trio bolted through shifting corridors, ducking low metal beams and crossing bridges that hadn't existed minutes ago. They were close—the city's border was in sight.

Then—

She arrived.

The Vice-Stringer appeared at the hill's crest, her Hillrunner screeching to a stop on the stone ramp.

Her eyes blazed.

"Reflexion."

And suddenly—

Every window, every puddle, every mirror, every glass surface around them shimmered—

—and then shattered outward into jagged spears.

Blades of reflection launched from all directions.

From above. From behind. From beneath their feet.

Silas barely managed to summon a wind shield, spiraling gusts deflecting the first wave.

Leon yanked Lucian down just in time, a shard slicing across his shoulder.

Lucian protected Harry with his back, gritting his teeth as a glinting spike grazed past his ribs.

They're not going to outrun her.

Not like this.

They burst out from the last tunnel of Gloryrail, lungs burning, shoes scraping against the gravel-streaked slope—free.

Almost.

Because the Vice-Stringer wasn't done.

A howl of wind followed them as her Hillrunner bounded over a ridge. She stood tall in the saddle, coat whipping behind her, and raised her hand once more.

"Silver Ripple."

All around them, the shattered shards of glass—the remnants of her Reflexion—quivered midair.

They lifted slowly, suspended like stars frozen in time. Then, before the group could move—

Each shard stretched.

Glass turned to gleaming threads—long, thin spears of crystal razor. They curved midair, forming a spiral cage around the group's escape route. A wall of death.

They were trapped.

From behind, masked figures poured from the distorted alleys of Gloryrail—like shadows spilling from a broken dam. Owl masks. Wolf masks. Boots and blades. Closing in fast.

Lucian spun, clutching the unconscious Harry. "We're boxed in!"

Leon stepped forward, fire swirling around his arms in a vortex of heat. "Then we burn our way through."

Silas pulled Harry closer, wind beginning to coil at his feet. "We protect the boy. No matter what."

Tension crackled in the air.

And then—

Spotlights.

Blinding beams descended from above, slicing through the fog and steam like swords of light. The crowd froze.

A thunk echoed as boots landed atop a cargo tower. A man in a sharp purple coat—lined black at the shoulders—stood above them. His uniform bore a crest unknown to Gloryrail.

He stared down at the Vice-Stringer, voice smooth but cold:

"This is past your jurisdiction, Silent Chord."

"Withdraw. Unless you're ready to face the consequences."

The Vice-Stringer's jaw clenched. Her eyes—piercing, furious—burned beneath her mask.

She didn't argue.

She turned the Hillrunner slowly, grinding her teeth. The hovering glass spears dissolved into mist.

Before riding off, she looked back—glaring at the trio like a blade unsheathed.

"You got lucky tonight. But next time…"

Her voice dropped like venom.

"You won't walk away."

Then she was gone—swallowed by fog and darkness, her underlings scattering with her.

Only silence remained.