Rain whispered against the lancet windows of the cathedral, each drop echoing faintly within its hollow stone ribs. Piere Lal, elder of the Cathedral of Saint Havel, knelt before the altar.
A single candle flickered weakly beside him. His robe was worn, the hem frayed from years of walking between pews and graves. The light outlined his bald crown and low, silvery beard, casting long shadows across the mosaic floor.
He prayed, not with devotion, but with purpose.
Each word in his lips was more calculation than worship.
"Bizarro Solace…. not in Durkan anymore," he whispered, eyes half-closed. "The Ring of Ecstasy.… green light…. is in Ramsis now."
His lips trembled remembering the dream. He had dreamt of it again, the same emerald whirlpool swallowing a sun, the same voice chanting from beneath the earth like an ancient bell. Find it before they do.
Piere rose slowly, his joints stiff and traced the sign of the halo over his chest. Around him, the church was silent except for the soft hiss of rain and the faint, ghostly drip from the ceiling. Statues of forgotten saints lined the nave, their stone eyes following him as he turned.
He took his painter-like hat, placing it gently over his head, and walked toward the open door.
A gust of wet wind blew in, snuffing the candle behind him.
Outside, the world was grey and green, a vast field of swaying grass and moss-eaten gravestones. The cathedral stood isolated on a hill, its spire piercing through clouds like a needle through flesh. He stepped onto the path, boots sinking into the mud.
The city of Nayga shimmered faintly in the distance. Its cyber towers gleamed through mist, electric sparks pulsed like mechanical stars.
But here, in the quiet stretch between holy stone and synthetic steel, the world still belonged to things older than faith.
Piere paused, looking back once. The cathedral bells tolled once, deep and heavy, like the heartbeat of a sleeping god.
He muttered to himself,
"If the Green Rune is here.… then i need to hunt it down."
The wind rose again, carrying whispers across the grass. Mysterious syllables in a language that hadn't been spoken since the first playerss were spawned. He clutched his rosary tight.
Piere began walking toward the capital—toward the city, the empire and the secret that might end both heaven and man.
....
The sunlight spilled over Nayga's capital streets. Finally breaking a week's worth of grey. The city glimmered by the cyber towers flashing faintly against the morning gold. And the tree-lined avenues buzzing with life.
Vendors shouted in cheerful rhythm, selling sugar dates, orange peels dipped in honey, and skewers of greenfish. Even the air smelled clean, a rare thing for a place driven by machines.
Albert Newton walked quietly beside Harriet Clover on the wide stone footpath. He wore his gray trench coat buttoned up, wide-brimmed hat shading his eyes, his gait slow and thoughtful.
Harriet, on the other hand, strode with lightness, a red scarf fluttering over his shoulder and a paper bag of fruit tucked under one arm.
"See, Newton," Harriet said, biting into an apple. "This is what civilization's supposed to look like. Peaceful, colorful, no one trying to stab anyone."
Tom smirked slightly. "You talk too much. There's always someone ready to break the peace, guess it is you."
As if on cue, a deep growl thundered from a nearby alley.
People turned. A massive mountain dog, slightly larger than a bear, burst through a cluster of stalls, snapping its leash. Fruit baskets toppled, apples rolled under feet, a lady stallkeeper screamed. The animal's eyes were wild, froth dripping from its jaw, claws hammering against the pavement as it charged through the crowd.
Without hesitation, Tom stepped forward.
The trench coat fluttered as he moved, quiet and precise like water flowing against gravity. He caught the dog mid-lunge, one hand gripping its furred neck, the other pressing gently on its chest.
The creature snarled and thrashed, muscles strained but Tom's stance didn't waver. The crowd gasped as the chaos stilled. The man and the beast locked in a strange face up.
Then Tom spoke softly, voice calm.
"Easy, big guy. You're not the monster here."
The dog blinked, breath slowing. Its body went limp. Tom gently set it down, letting it rest.
The market burst into relieved applause. A woman called out, "You saved us, sir!"
Tom only adjusted his hat and nodded humbly.
From behind, Harriet appeared, finally returning from the fruit stall, clutching a bag of oranges. He looked at the crowd, then at Tom.
"What did you do now? Wrestling with pets instead of solving murders?"
Tom gave a faint smile. "You were busy picking apples, so I thought I'd handle the dog."
Harriet frowned dramatically, glancing at Tom's shoes. "Handle? Look at your shoes! You've scuffed the finest leather in Ramsis!"
Tom looked down and mud splashed across his polished boots. "That's tragic," he said dryly. "Truly a crime of the century."
"Unbelievable." Harriet groaned. "You could've at least kicked it elegantly."
They kept bickering as they walked, the market slowly returning to its rhythm. Children pointed at the big dog now sitting quietly beside a stall owner, wagging its tail. The world once again felt normal.
As they turned a corner, the sun broke fully through the clouds, scattering light across the plaza. A radiant rainbow arched over the buildings, shimmering through the mist of the lilies. The colors curved above the city like a quiet blessing.
Harriet stopped walking looking up. "You ever think it's funny? The world throws beasts, bullets and betrayal at us and still gives us this?"
Tom followed his gaze, expression unreadable beneath his hat. "Balance," he murmured. "Even light needs shadows to be noticed."
"Poetic," Harriet teased. "You been reading a novel again?"
"Only the parts without happy endings."
They both chuckled, the sound blending with the noise of the street. The sellers, the laughter, the hum of distant engines. For that one moment, beneath the glowing spectrum, everything was still.
The people of Ramsis moved on with their day.
The dog slept peacefully beside its stall.
And Albert Newton, once a ghost from Durkan, once a forgotten name—walked on with his partner, pretending he was just another man beneath a clear, forgiving sky.
....
The tall glass windows of the Shaw Second Estate. The manor stood on the outskirts of Nayga, framed by towering cypress trees and the faint smell of wet iron from Liam's nearby factories.
Inside, the estate's drawing hall burned with amber light from chandeliers, reflecting against the silverware and glass tea cups laid neatly before the guests.
Liam Shaw sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his gloved hands clasped beneath his chin. The steam from his untouched cup of tea curled like smoke, faintly blurring the tension that filled the room.
Around him sat four merchants. Old allies or so they claimed to be. Each wearing the same mask of false composure.
One of them, a stout man with grey whiskers, leaned forward nervously. "Mister Shaw, the report was confirmed. They've taken two hundred and thirty workers. The smugglers are using the salt refinery in the north docks as their base. They…. they say they'll release them if you surrender yourself."
Liam's gaze didn't shift. "Did they specify who sent them?"
"No, sir. But they mentioned a name 'The Pledge.' Could be an old faction from the border trade war."
Liam exhaled softly as his composure reclaimed, though the faint tapping of his index finger against the table betrayed his thoughts. "The Pledge," he repeated. "I burned their ships five years ago. I suppose old ghosts never forget the fire."
The merchants exchanged uneasy glances. One tried to lighten the air with a trembling laugh. "Then perhaps, sir, it's time to negotiate. If not your life, maybe a ransom?"
Liam finally reached for his tea, stirring it once before replying, "You think they want gold?" He let out a gentle chuckle. "They want to humiliate. To prove that Shaw blood fears them!"
He rose from his seat, his shadow stretching over the table as lightning flickered through the window. "We'll send investigators," he said. "Two people who won't be bought or swayed. I want this ended quietly before the authorities sniff it."
The merchants nodded in quiet relief, unaware that Liam's eyes had hardened with something else—a cold calculation.
He looked out through the window at the drenched city below, the faint glimmer of its skyline reflected in his tea.
"Albert Newton and Harriet Clover," he murmured, almost to himself. "Let's see if they can handle the smell of real blood."