While soldiers rushed back and forth, working strictly by the book, Kataske sat on the floor, sweating over the report on today’s operation.

Doubt gnawed at him doubt about the results, about whether he would live up to the expectations of Stella Benjamin Dan Rossi, who had helped him so much.

No one had expected they would find this… down in the cellar.

Kataske turned the page.

Just then, the men in front of him carried past a sword wrapped in cloth the very blade that had been jutting from a corpse.

“Damn – forgot to log it as evidence,” he thought, flipping back to the previous page.

A gray-haired man in a plain black uniform approached. At first Kataske waved him off without looking, but the moment the man spoke, the major’s hair stood on end he realized who stood before him.

Imperial veteran Karl Ast Noro. He asked how things were going.

In truth, everything was awful: the investigation was at a dead end; there were no witnesses to question—and no suspects either. They couldn’t even probe memories. Those lunatics had poisoned themselves in advance, and by the time they reached the magi at the morgue, their brains had liquefied…

“I see… things really aren’t going well,” Karl said, lowering himself to sit beside Kataske.

The major sketched the symbol from the wall into his notebook.

“Señor Ast Noro, have you ever seen anything like this?” Kataske asked, perplexed.

Karl scratched at his silver hair. He looked like a man, but his years made him an old soldier.

“In my fifty long years serving the Empire… I’ve never seen that,” he admitted, a little disappointed.

Bad news especially for Kataske. After weighing it all, he dispatched several officers under his command to hunt down any trace of the symbol, pressing into their hands the paper copy he’d drawn.

“We can’t waste time. We don’t even know what we’re dealing with—and that’s dangerous,” the major said, getting to his feet.

Some time later, after things had settled, a comm crystal chimed. Kataske’s men were calling. They asked him to come to the capital’s library—they thought they’d dug something up. It looked dubious, and they wanted him to see it himself.

“Good. So they found something on that mark…” Kataske thought, tucking the crystal away.

He had already left the raided building and was in civilian clothes—no weapon on him. Without further delay, he headed out, strolling the long, undeniably beautiful streets of the capital. Twice he took a wrong turn and, deciding to cut through, slipped into a long, narrow alley.

He stopped dead.

“What the...?” A figure in a black cloak and white porcelain mask appeared right in front of him.

The air grew tight.

Kataske tried not to make a thing of it and stepped sideways to pass.

Turning his head, he saw another cloaked figure behind him.

“Gentlemen? Can I help you with something?” Kataske asked, looking from one to the other.

Awkward silence. They simply stared. Kataske’s gaze flicked between them, but it was already obvious: he had run into some very shady types.

Or had they run into him?

The silence snapped. One of them flicked a throwing knife. Kataske ducked and the blade whistled past.

Both figures drew their swords in unison.

“What nonsense. Attacking an imperial officer in broad daylight?” Kataske reached instinctively for his own weapon, then remembered he’d left his blade with his uniform.

He sighed, already wishing he’d worn that uncomfortable kit, and set his stance.

“Two muggers with swords? Pfft. Not a problem,” he thought, making it plain that all he had were his own fists.

Against Kataske, they looked triumphant. He couldn’t resist a jab: “You really think those bits of iron will let you lay a finger on me?”

They didn’t bother answering. They moved in together, hemming him in the narrow alley.

Kataske turned half-sideways—best position when it’s one against two. He could see both at once, and the high wall at his back protected him from a blindside.

When one of them got close enough, Kataske used the moment, sprang up, pushed off the wall, and vaulted over the startled killer.

Professionals? Not even close.

Before, caught between the two, Kataske had been at a disadvantage. Now, in a space tight enough to keep them from moving freely, he was in his element fighting one at a time as they swapped positions.

It was still tricky, but he slipped every slashing cut and rapped a masked face whenever he could. The moment the man reeled, Kataske lunged forward, and in a blur he wrenched the lead hand, stripped the sword free, and took it for his own.

“What is this? If you’re as limp as your friend, this ends quickly,” he told the second attacker.

Steel rang through the alley.

The difference in skill was obvious. Kataske wore down the nearer foe with ease. No wonder—the man was trying to fight left-handed with a little knife.

Parry, counter, pressure—he left no breath between. He spotted a wide opening and drove a killing thrust and… missed?

“What?” Kataske froze, incredulous.

He hadn’t missed. The blade hit true—something simply bounced it off right at the man’s throat.

Before he could think, the second attacker heaved the wounded one backward and took his place.

“What is this nonsense? I was certain I’d killed him…” Kataske thought. “And now I have to start over with number two,” he muttered out loud, annoyed.

The “second” gave no reply.

Kataske had a guess. Early in the exchange he’d noticed a strange spherical device at each of their belts.

Now he was sure.

“An artifact.” It wouldn’t hold long, though. After a few hits, it would need to recharge.

So he didn’t drag it out. Kataske accelerated and struck again and again at the unguarded parts of their bodies.

Bleeding from a dozen cuts, the first man dropped. His mask shattered, he sprang up with a wild scream—and lost his head.

The cut was so clean there wasn’t even a spray. Kataske walked past him; the body slid apart into neat segments, like an apple sliced into wedges.

The partner was barely standing. It was all too easy—and that worried Kataske.

“How dare you!” the last swordsman cried, trying to rush him. Using the man’s panic, Kataske stepped in, swept the blade in a tight arc, and lopped off the stunned killer’s arm.

With enough effort and a lot of mana—petty little barriers like that can be broken. Kataske mocked him with a casual kick. The man slammed into the wall and, in a trembling voice, begged for mercy.

“P-please, wait! W-we didn’t mean… We were hired to delay you, that’s all…” Hearing this, Kataske sliced a strip from his own cloak and ordered the man to bind the stump.

The mercenary did so gladly. Then Kataske pressed the edge to his throat, knocked the mask away, and said, voice flat and commanding, “Talk, filth.”

“Y-yes, yes—of course… W-we were sitting in a bar, and this odd man came up. I told him to shove off, but my brother decided to listen. And…”

“Get to the point.” Kataske pressed; a lone bead of blood crept along the blade.

“Please, mercy! I’ll tell you everything,” he squeaked. “They offered money... big money, for men like us… Then they gave us your picture. On the back, the time and place. That’s it! I swear, I don’t know anything else…”

Kataske found himself inclined to believe him. He couldn’t have said whether it was pity or his own sense of justice.

His thoughts didn’t last. Sunlight on him suddenly vanished—blotted out by a figure with a long scythe across his back, standing on the roofline above.

“And who’s this clown?” the major thought.

A black-cloaked silhouette, covered head to toe, didn’t move—just measured Kataske from the roof. Then, as if it were nothing, he paced along the edge and leaned into the drop…

Predictably, he fell. In midair, he whipped the scythe off his back, gripped it with both hands, spun like a top, and smashed down with everything he had.

Kataske barely got the stolen sword up in time.

The blow pinned him to the concrete.

Things were getting interesting.

The scythe-bearer kept pressing, grinding the blade down; cracks spidered across the slab as it gave under the strain.

“W-who are you?” Kataske asked, voice tight, strain in every syllable.

“I don’t talk to the dead,” the scytheman said.

Then he whispered, “Eltabium.”

Kataske couldn’t see his face, it lost in the hood, black hair spilling over the shadowed features but he knew one thing:

He was a knight.

The spell-name “Eltabium” was very familiar to Kataske: a foundational incantation, taught in every fencing faculty.

Flames licked into being along the scythe, raced the length of the weapon, and bit at Kataske’s sleeves, burning straight through.

The pressure doubled. The floor boomed—and collapsed. More precisely, Kataske’s body punched a wide hole and dropped through.

The last thing he saw up there was the scytheman flick a knife into the prone drunk of a mercenary—and dive after his falling prey.

It didn’t take much to guess the knife had found its mark.

Kataske tucked in the air, flipped, landed on both feet, and sprang back. Good call: a heartbeat later the scytheman slammed into the spot where he’d been.

“This is no coincidence. Which means I need him alive,” Kataske thought. “I’ll drag answers out of him.”

It might even be the same masked “handler” from the drunk’s story.

“Don’t worry,” the silhouette said, breaking the silence. “No one will interrupt our little game down here…”

“I take it we can’t come to an arrangement?” Kataske replied, lifting his guard, point leveled at the chest.

“Ha. Correct.” Kataske still couldn’t see the man’s face, but somehow he could picture the smug grin—all thirty-two teeth of it.

They clashed without wasting another second.

Sparks fanned in all directions; the echo of steel beat down the narrow channels of the sewer.

Strike for strike. In a “fair” duel, Kataske was losing—though it hadn’t been fair from the start. The scytheman was using Eltabium; Kataske had been relying on pure technique.

He had been waiting.

When the scythe’s tip nearly took his eye leaving a thin line on his cheek—Kataske bounded back and changed tactics.

“All right. Enough playing nice,” he said, passing his palm along the blade.

Light erupted. A harsh, buzzing crackle filled the tunnel.

Round two.

He lunged at once, carving a few shallow cuts. The last stroke in the sequence met the blazing scythe and locked.

Beyond the muffled grind of metal, two forces slammed into each other—thunder wrapped in lightning, heat wrapped in fire and pushing back, keeping the edges from touching.

They traded like that for a time, until Kataske found what he’d been looking for: a flaw. On the wind-up, the man’s left elbow rose just a touch too high, baring the left side—an invitation.

That was it — the weak seam.

When the scythe-wielding madman, sliced to ribbons, swung again, Kataske was ready. He parried cleanly and dove under the left arm.

The man tried to check the blow with the butt of the scythe’s long haft. But when he heard “Eltabium,” it was already over…

A deafening roar smashed through several walls. The young man—cut and burned, wreathed in crackling arcs—slammed into the masonry and stuck there.

Residual current from Kataske’s spell crawled over his body, sparking and singeing for a heartbeat—then faded.

By some miracle he opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was his target.

“Major Kataske…” the scytheman growled.

Lightning played lazily over the calmly approaching officer not as dramatic as it sounded. A few arcs walked his frame, and several more danced along the edge of his sword.

The sword crazed with cracks—and fell to gray dust in Kataske’s hands.

On the floor amid the rubble lay a scythe, sheared neatly in two. That, in fact, was what had saved its owner.

Kataske flicked the bladed half up with his foot, caught it, and used it to replace the shattered sword.

As he came closer, the scytheman lost whatever hope he had left. With a hoarse shout and a cough, he flailed forward, swinging his fists.

A sharp heel to the forehead laid him out; before he could blink, the edge of the scythe was at his throat.

“In the name of the Empire,” Kataske said at last, “you are under arrest.”