Nymia didn't wait for the silence in the house to settle. Within twenty minutes of the attack, she had packed what little she could—two satchels of food, a small water flask, and the disc that had just saved their lives.
Her hands trembled as she tied the straps, her mind a storm. There was no time to think, no time to grieve. Only movement.
She grabbed the girls—Ouale and Ouake—and pulled them close. "Stay quiet," she whispered, voice breaking. "And don't let go of my hand. No matter what happens."
Then they stepped out into the streets.
The wind outside was sharp and carried the metallic tang of fear. Shadows leaned long across the narrow streets of the Nazare countryside, and every flickering movement seemed to hide eyes behind it.
Nymia moved quickly, her feet barely making a sound on the dirt road. Her cloak fluttered behind her like a black ribbon as she half-ran, half-dragged the girls beside her.
Ouale stumbled once, breath hitching. "Mama—slow down—"
"We can't," Nymia said through clenched teeth, scanning the horizon ahead of her. Her gaze darted left and right, searching every rooftop, every glint of light, every rustle of movement.
She could almost feel eyes watching them.
The image of the four cyclopses, their single unblinking eyes and bloodless faces, still haunted her mind. She could see their severed heads rolling, the dull thud echoing in her chest.
It hadn't been her strength that saved them. It was Naze's disc, hiding a fraction of his abilities. His foresight. His love branded into that disc.
But what if more of those monsters were out there—waiting? What if Lord Glaivus's emissaries had already infiltrated deeper into the empire?
She couldn't take that chance.
She had to reach Naze. Or the emperor. Someone who could act before it was too late.
The roads began to slope downward, leading toward the faint orange glow of the lower gates. The capital city of region 4 of the Nazare Blade Empire loomed faintly in the distance—a wall of towers and blue flame torches lighting the horizon.
"Almost there," she muttered, half to herself.
Behind her, the girls clung tighter to her hands. They were frightened, but silent—their young faces drawn tight with courage beyond their years.
Somewhere far behind them, a branch cracked.
Nymia froze. Her heart lurched into her throat. She turned sharply, eyes scanning the shadows. The road was empty, but the silence that followed was too still.
The girls looked up at her, waiting.
Nymia forced a shaky smile. "Keep moving," she whispered, though her hands tightened on theirs. "We're not safe yet."
As they disappeared down the path, the faint outline of a figure emerged on a rooftop—tall, hunched, its single eye glowing faintly red. It watched them for a moment, unmoving. Then it turned and vanished into the darkness.
The hunt had begun again.
---------------------
In the arena, the air shifted—charged, expectant. The next match was about to begin, and a hush rippled through the spectators like a tide drawing back before a monumental wave.
This time, the duel was between Camille Ajun of the Martial Arts Academy and Khan Michaelson of the Oradonian Order of Mages.
Camille stepped forward first.
At only fourteen, she moved with a speed so sharp it bordered on unnatural. The slim blade at her side was almost invisible against the light—more an extension of her intent than a weapon. The veterans in the crowd whispered that if you blinked at the wrong moment, Camille could strike you four, five, even seven times before your eyelids rose again.
Her speed wasn't just quickness.
It was precision.
A deliberate, honed art.
Across from her stood Khan Michaelson—tall, broad-shouldered, and unbearably calm. His presence alone made the arena feel smaller. He carried not one, but two grimoires: one bound in scales of shimmering sapphire, the other in living embers.
He was the prodigy everyone feared.
The boy who had mastered fire and water, two elements most mages couldn't even combine without destroying themselves. Yet Khan manipulated them as if they were threads in a tapestry he'd woven since birth.
Many considered him the strongest student the Oradonian mages had produced in years.
Normally, the Order boasted three undefeated monsters:
1. Khan Michaelson
2. Gilda Ali
3. Ace Axer
But Gilda Ali had already been publicly humbled—brought crashing to his knees earlier by the flexible brilliance of Adebi Monta.
So now, only Khan and Ace remained untarnished.
The crowd leaned forward, unable to look away. This was the match everyone had been whispering about for hours—the duel of speed versus domination, precision versus power.
Camille wasn't intimidated.
Not outwardly, at least.
She inhaled slowly, replaying Adebi Monta's victory in her mind. Adebi had shown the world that strategy could overturn brute magical might—that a mortal body, if used with intention, could outmaneuver even an earth grimoire's crushing might.
The Martial Arts School had already surpassed all expectations today.
They had more victories than the Oradonian Order—something no one in the empire had predicted. Not with the difference in resources. Not with the difference in reputation.
But facts were facts.
The impossible had already happened more than once today.
So Camille Ajun allowed herself to hope.
If Adebi could break Gilda Ali's dominance with nothing but flexibility and relentless pattern-reading… then maybe, just maybe, she could break Khan Michaelson's streak too.
The announcer raised his hand.
Silence deepened, solidifying into something almost sacred.
Camille lowered her stance, blade angled behind her like the promise of lightning.
Khan opened one grimoire—the water tome—its pages glowing with soft, rippling blue.
The winds slowed.
Time itself seemed to hesitate.
And then—
The match began.
Just then, a sharp ripple tore through the arena's atmosphere—not from magic, not from steel, but from panic.
Nymia burst into the arena grounds, breathless and wild-eyed, dragging her two daughters by the hands. She was screaming—desperately, frantically—but the roar of the crowd drowned her out. To most people, she was only a blur of terror moving against the tide of bodies.
The security guards reacted instantly.
Three men broke formation and sprinted toward her, hands already raised to block her path. Spectators turned, murmuring in confusion.
Up in the imperial stand, Naze's entire body stiffened.
Though blind, he needed no sight to recognise that voice.
His head snapped toward it, the movement sharper than steel being drawn.
"My emperor," he said quietly, already rising, "allow me."
Josh Aratat looked at him—first in curiosity, then in concern—but ultimately gave a small, trusting nod. It was barely more than a smile and a gesture of permission, an unspoken understanding between emperor and friend.
"Go," the emperor said. "See what troubles her. And keep your family safe."
Naze vanished from his side in less than a heartbeat.
The emperor exhaled, unaware that with that single, casual permission, he had just opened the first page of a disaster waiting to unfold—a disaster capable of shifting the fate of the entire empire.