Gray Aero stood in the Hunter Association archives at 3 AM, cross-referencing attendance records from the Festival of Renewal three years ago. Twelve thousand names. Detailed travel manifests. Security footage from seventeen checkpoints.
Someone had distributed the spores there. Someone had weaponized a blessing.
His sword rested against the desk—cleaned earlier during his investigation. The repetitive motion had helped him think. Helped him process the implications of a city-wide infection that turned heroes into something too righteous to fight.
A sound behind him. Barely audible. Just breathing.
Gray's hand moved to his sword hilt. He turned.
An old man stood in the doorway. Mid-fifties, black hair streaked with white, scar on his left eyebrow. Wearing simple scholar's robes. Holding nothing but a worn notebook.
He looked tired. Not threatening. Not dangerous. Just... exhausted.
"Gray Aero," the man said quietly. "The Sword Saint. The only one still himself."
