The sun hangs low over the city, swollen and red as it sinks toward the horizon, its light smeared across a smoky sky. Thin plumes of grey drift above the rooftops, remnants of industry and evening fires, blending with the dusk until the boundary between cloud and smoke disappears. Shadows stretch long across the streets, swallowing alleys and corners one by one.
Clive walks alone.
His coat brushes against his legs as he moves, boots steady, pace unhurried but alert. Every sense is sharp. The words exchanged in the carriage still echo faintly in his mind, but he pushes them aside and focuses on what lies ahead.
Rick's Doll Repair.
He turns into the familiar side street and steps onto the narrow, mud-filled path leading toward the shop. Rain from earlier has softened the ground, and each step sinks slightly, drawing a quiet suction sound from the earth. The air smells damp, mixed with the scent of old wood and clay.
The shop stands ahead, dim and crooked, its silhouette framed against the dying light.
Clive is halfway down the path when the world erupts.
A thunderous explosion tears through the air, violent and sudden. Heat and force slam outward from the direction of the repair shop, flinging debris in all directions. Clive reacts on instinct. He throws himself backwards, boots losing traction as he lands hard in the mud. The impact knocks the breath from his lungs, but his hand is already moving.
His gun is out.
He rolls onto one knee, mud splattered across his coat and hands, and aims toward the source of the blast. Dust and smoke churn violently, obscuring everything. Wood fragments clatter to the ground. A pressure wave ripples past him, then fades.
Silence follows.
Slowly, the dust settles.
Clive's eyes narrow.
In the clearing haze, he sees a figure cloaked entirely in black, kneeling on one knee. The figure faces a massive object that towers over a man's height.
A doll.
Human-sized.
Its surface is cracked and scorched, its limbs grotesquely proportioned, stitched and reinforced with visible seams of clay and metal. Strange symbols glow faintly across its torso.
Behind it, partially shielded by debris, Rick crouches low, his back pressed against a broken wall.
Clive keeps his gun trained on the cloaked figure.
Surprise flickers through him, sharp and immediate.
A few hours ago, when they met, he had perceived nothing unusual about the old man. No trace. No pressure. No hint of cultivation.
Now, the air tells a different story.
Rick's aura leaks through the chaos, old but powerful, layered and dense. Tier five alchemist.
Clive is certain.
The cloaked figure rises slowly from one knee, fluid and unhurried. For a brief instant, Clive thinks the battle might already be over, that the kneeling had marked an ending rather than a beginning.
He is wrong.
The massive doll shudders violently.
Sparks burst from its joints, showering the ground with sharp flashes of white and orange. With a grinding screech, the doll collapses inward, its structure failing all at once. Limbs tear free. The torso caves in. The head rolls across the mud and comes to rest near Clive's feet.
Before the dust from its fall can settle, the cloaked figure moves.
Black energy surges outward, condensing in the air like ink drawn into shape. In a heartbeat, it forms a massive scythe, its blade curved and jagged, radiating cold, oppressive force.
The cloaked figure swings.
The scythe arcs toward Rick with terrifying speed.
Clive steps back into the alley instinctively, pressing himself against the wall, gun still raised but forgotten for the moment as he watches.
Rick moves.
The old man shifts with speed that has no right to exist in his frail frame. He twists aside, the scythe slicing through the space where his head had been a moment before. The air screams as it passes.
Steam erupts.
Two compact weapons snap into place in Rick's hands, mechanical and alchemical in equal measure. Steam guns. Their barrels glow faintly as pressure builds.
Rick fires.
Compressed bursts of force roar through the air, each shot cracking like thunder. The bullets streak toward the cloaked figure, leaving trails of distorted air behind them.
The cloaked figure reacts instantly.
The scythe spins, sweeping in a tight arc. Each bullet strikes the black energy blade and disintegrates on contact, scattering harmless sparks across the ground. The impact sends ripples through the scythe, but it holds.
They clash again.
Rick slides through the mud, feet barely touching the ground as he fires continuously, steam hissing violently from his weapons. The cloaked figure advances without hesitation, scythe carving through shots, its blade leaving scars in the ground wherever it passes.
Clive's eyes never leave the cloaked figure.
The aura.
It feels familiar.
Not in recognition, but in resonance. Something about the energy gnaws at his mind, tugging at half-formed memories and instincts he does not fully understand. It feels bleak, heavy, saturated with intent.
Emotion.
Fear.
Disaster.
At the same time, another thought intrudes.
Why hasn't anyone come?
An explosion of this magnitude, a battle between alchemists in a populated district, and yet the streets remain eerily empty. No guards. No alarms. No authority present.
As if the world has chosen not to look.
Rick stumbles, a glancing blow tearing across his chest. Blood stains his shirt, dark against the fabric. He grits his teeth and shouts, voice raw with fury.
"You people from the Church of Disaster," he roars, "how did you find me?"
The words hit Clive like a hammer.
Church of Disaster.
Every line of reasoning collapses at once, replaced by clarity.
He steps out of the alley.
His gun rises.
He fires.
The shots ring sharp and clean, cutting through the chaos. Bullets tear toward the cloaked figure from the side, forcing it to pivot. The scythe swings defensively, intercepting the shots, but the interruption breaks its rhythm.
Rick does not waste the opening.
Steam howls as he fires again, pressing the attack, forcing the cloaked figure back step by step. Mud sprays. Energy collides. The alley shakes under the strain.
Clive advances, steady and controlled, firing whenever an opening appears.
Each shot is measured, his stance grounded despite the mud sucking at his boots. His breathing is calm, his mind eerily clear, every hesitation burned away by a single, undeniable purpose. The chaos of the explosion, the secrecy of the authorities, the dismissal in the carriage—all of it collapses into this moment.
The cloaked figure did not expect him.
That much is obvious.
One of Clive's bullets slips past the sweeping arc of the black scythe and strikes something solid at the figure's back. The impact rings strangely, not like flesh or bone, but like hardened armour. Sparks burst outward, scattering in sharp streaks of light.
A turtle-shell–like object is briefly exposed beneath the cloak, layered and ridged, etched with faint runes that glow angrily from the impact.
The cloaked figure stiffens.
Rick does not miss the opportunity.
With a roar, he unleashes a rapid volley from both steam guns. The weapons scream as compressed force tears through the air, shot after shot hammering toward the cloaked figure. Steam vents violently from the barrels, obscuring Rick's arms in white clouds.
The cloaked figure reacts instantly.
The scythe whirls, black energy thickening and reinforcing itself as it sweeps through the storm of bullets. Impacts explode against the blade and the surrounding cloak, but none penetrate deeply enough to cause real harm. The turtle-shell protection absorbs what slips through, its runes flashing brighter with each hit.
Clive fires again.
And again.
His bullets strike, spark, deflect.
None finds flesh.
The realisation hits him a second too late.
Click.
His gun is empty.
For a fraction of a heartbeat, reason falters.
Then instinct takes over.
Clive's eyes flick to the ground, and without thinking, he grabs the nearest object within reach—a thick wooden stick, splintered at one end, half-buried in the mud. He grips it tightly and charges.
The cloaked figure turns, surprised again, clearly not expecting a civilian to rush forward without a weapon.
Clive swings.
The stick cuts through the air, fast and desperate. The cloaked figure shifts aside with minimal effort, the blow missing by inches. Before Clive can recover his balance, a fist slams into his abdomen.
Pain detonates.
All the air is driven from his lungs at once. Clive's body folds instinctively, knees buckling as he stumbles backwards, gasping soundlessly. The world narrows to burning agony and blurred motion.
The cloaked figure looms over him.
"Disaster strike," the figure says, voice low and distorted, layered with something unnatural.
The words feel heavy, as if they carry weight beyond sound.
The figure moves.
Too fast.
The scythe sweeps outward in a wide, brutal arc, forcing Rick to leap back, steam guns firing wildly to keep distance. The blade cuts through the space between them, leaving deep gouges in stone and earth.
Clive tries to move.
His body does not respond quickly enough.
The back of the scythe slams into him.
The impact is crushing.
It strikes between his shoulders, sending a shockwave through his spine. His feet leave the ground, and the world flips violently. He crashes into the mud, vision exploding into white, then dissolving into darkness.
Sound fades.
The clash of weapons becomes distant, muffled, as though heard through water.
Clive's thoughts scatter.
Then vanish.
His vision turns completely black.