"It's madness, they said.
It's suicide, they said.
Why do this, they said.
So I asked myself the same question — why do this?
And the question scared me.
But that fear… that fear pushed me forward even harder."
Zero crept from one tree to another, following traces of blood in the dirt. His rusty short sword rested in his left hand—old, chipped in many places, but it fit into his hand like a glove, like it was made for him. The trail led to an abandoned building. Two stories. Wood and stone. The structure looked ancient, its timbers scorched black, its stones fractured and crumbling. Above, on the second-floor outer wall, there were stone sculptures of five symbols. They were all chipped and broken, but even in their broken state, they screamed their purpose.
Empyreal architecture, he thought—This close to the Veidon Empire, Empyreal buildings are a rare sight
Zero crouched and lifted a pinch of blood-stained earth to his nose. For a split second, his vision flared red. When it cleared, the blood trail hung in the air like crimson smoke, pointing toward the second floor. He had seen other hunters smell blood to track their prey, but he wasn't sure whether they could see clear trails of blood in the air. He pulled the wanted poster from his Veidonian military jacket.
Conor Daud. Ex-Veidonian soldier. Five murders. Two silver cogs. Dead or alive.
Zero hadn't wanted this job. Veidonians were geniuses, master clockworkers; they had made all sorts of tools and weapons, and the deadliest one was their pistols—one bullet from their pistols could end him. But he had no choice. He hadn't eaten in two days, and there were no other bounties available. His only hope was that either Conor had lost his weapon or burned through his kinetic reserves—The power they channel to use their pistols.
He sprinted in a crouch toward the building and vaulted through the nearest window. Dust and rot filled his lungs, but beneath it all, he smelled blood. The trail pointed across the building toward the far stairs. The only light came from cracks in the walls. Good. He wished there were no light coming through, but he couldn't help it. He didn't have magic to fill the gaps between stones somehow. He slowly moved toward the stairs, careful not to make any sound. In the darkness of the room, he could see every crack on the wall, every mote of dust suspended in the air, and every footprint his boot left on the ground.
Zero slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor. cracks in the ceiling let more light through, illuminating a wide room lined with five pillars, all with intricate designs, beautiful and unharmed. Atop each pillar were the same symbols from outside, this time intact. Zero recognized one of them, Mark Of Divination. These were symbols of Empyreal schools of magic.
Empyreal church. He thought, What is it doing so close to Veidon's borders.
Zero inhaled slowly. The blood trail led directly to the center of the room. There, was a small shrine dedicated to the Empyreal god—whatever he is called.
Trap. Zero was sure of it, a dark room with five pillars to hide behind. It was definitely a trap.
He steadied his grip. He didn't have any other choice. He needed to eat. He would rather die here fighting than in the muddy street, starving.
He knew he was being a bit dramatic, but he needed to pull his own weight; he was not a kid anymore. He had to stop relying on Kade and Mara.
Zero approached the shrine carefully, avoiding the pillars in case Conor was hiding behind one. When he reached it, he scanned his surroundings—every crack, every distortion in the floating dust, every footprint laid bare before him.
Faint footprints and a small distortion in the air led to the pillar on his left.
He must be there.
In one swift motion, Zero lunged behind the pillar. Conor was there, eyes wide and mouth open. Zero ambushed the ambusher. Victory was his. His blade swept toward Conor's throat—
—and passed through empty air.
No blood. No resistance. Just the sound of steel cutting the air. Zero's expression turned sour.
Conor's form dissolved into dust. A fraction of a second later, Zero's instincts screamed a warning from behind. He threw himself right, the real Conor's blade whistling past his neck as he rolled twice before springing to his feet near the shrine.
Shit. He's a kineticist. A Resonator.
It couldn't get worse. Zero was hoping he had no reserve left to use his pistol. He never thought that not only did Conor have reserves left, but also that he was a kineticist.
"You're sharper than you look," Conor said, "I guess that's expected from an Empyreal dog." He leveled his dagger at Zero's neck.
Zero glanced down. His left collar had been cut clean through, exposing his neck—and the mark.
"I know that mark," Conor continued, satisfaction dripping from his voice. "Divination. I must be famous if they sent someone of your caliber to hunt me." He grinned.
"If you know what it is," Zero said evenly, He couldn't let his panic show, "why not surrender? The bounty's dead or alive. I won't kill you if I don't have to."
"Surrender?" Conor laughed, the sound echoing off the stones. "I'll be a war hero when I bring your head back. Conor Daud, slayer of an Empyreal diviner."
Zero cursed the mark on his neck. It had been nothing but trouble.
Persuasion didn't work. Time to bluff.
"And you think you can kill a diviner? I don't even need magic to take you down."
Conor hesitated. His Brows knit together. Good. Zero needed him wary. Afraid. Divination was the strongest School of magic. Zero had heard that there are only three diviners in the whole Empyrean Empire.
"I'll take my chances with you," Conor said, jaw tightening. "Let me show you the might of a Resonator."
He lunged.
Zero slashed upward and cleaved through him—but there was no resistance. The image dissolved like smoke. The next attack came from the right. Zero deflected it just in time, steel ringing against steel.
"Which one am I?" Conor's voice bounced between the pillars. "Here?"
A figure darted past on Zero's left.
"Or here?" The whisper came from directly behind.
Zero spun and cut through empty air. Another echo.
He steadied his breathing and gripped his sword with both hands, eyes scanning the shadows. It was all cheap tricks. Echos can't hurt you; they're all just an afterimage of the user's last movement.
Movement flickered on his right—Conor bursting from cover, dagger raised. Zero cut through the echo and immediately pivoted, catching the real Conor's strike from the opposite side. Their weapons locked.
Up close, Zero could see it clearly: Conor fought with only his left hand. His right arm hung stiffly, favoring old injuries
Conor was a soldier. He had superior technique—precise footwork, fatal strikes—but weeks of running had taken their toll. His breathing came in ragged gasps. Sweat beaded on his pale forehead. That was Zero's saving grace.
Conor disengaged and slashed three times in rapid succession. Zero blocked the first two, but the third scraped across the back of his hand. Blood welled from the shallow cut.
"You're fast," Conor hissed through labored breaths, "for an Empyreal who doesn't use magic."
"I told you," Zero said, pressing forward. "I don't need it."
Conor's jaw clenched. Four echoes materialized, spreading in a semicircle before rushing Zero from different angles. With no room to retreat, Zero lunged through the nearest one of the right—it dissolved on contact. The remaining three converged, all mimicking the same overhead slash.
Zero couldn't block all three. He chose the middle figure.
Wrong choice.
The leftmost echo was real. Conor's dagger bit into Zero's shoulder, tearing through coat and flesh. Pain flared white-hot down his arm.
Zero bit back a curse and refused to give ground. He's a Resonator. Limited reserves. Keep the pressure on.
He attacked in a flurry, forcing Conor backward. Each strike was blocked, but Conor's movements grew heavier. His echoes flickered weakly now, less solid than before.
"Getting tired?" Zero taunted.
"Not before you bleed out," Conor shot back, but his voice wavered.
Two more echoes flanked Zero. In the dim shrine with dust swirling, every movement looked identical—every shadow could be real or fake.
Zero feinted left, then threw himself right, narrowly avoiding a slash aimed at his throat. He came up with his back against a pillar.
Think. There has to be a pattern.
He watched as three Conors advanced. The echoes were perfect replicas of Conor's last actions—kinetic imprints replaying previous movements. That meant they couldn't adapt. The real Conor would always be the one doing something new.
Three figures rushed him. Zero focused on details: footwork, blade angles, breathing rhythm. Two moved in perfect unison, synchronized to the millisecond. The third—approaching from the right—shifted his grip mid-stride, adjusting for Zero's position.
There.
Zero waited, coiled. The echoes were a breath away, but he ignored them, his entire world narrowing to the figure on the right. Exploiting his reach, he uncoiled, his blade sweeping in a short, vicious arc aimed to bisect his true target.
His sword met resistance. Steel bit flesh.
Conor gasped and staggered back, clutching his thigh. Blood seeped between his fingers, dark against his pants.
The scent hit Zero immediately—copper and salt. He'd marked him. Now he could track him.
"Clever," Conor growled through gritted teeth, limping as he tried to circle. Three more echoes flickered around him, but it didn't matter anymore.
He launched himself forward in one final, reckless assault. Six echoes erupted—more than Zero had seen at once. Conor was burning through whatever reserves he had left, spending everything on this last gambit. They came from every direction, a storm of blades creating a maze of death.
Zero locked eyes with the real Conor. The scent of blood pointed directly at him.
He moved in, blade rising to meet the single attack that carried weight and consequence.
The air rang with the shriek of clashing steel. Zero batted the dagger aside, and Conor—his bad leg giving way—staggered. It was all the opening Zero needed. He stepped in and ran him through.
Conor gasped, his hand clutching weakly at Zero's shoulder as blood pooled beneath him.
"Why didn't you use your magic?" he rasped, each word a struggle. "You could have ended this... no resistance."
Zero met his eyes—those dying eyes still searching for understanding.
"I can't use magic," Zero said quietly. "Never could. This mark?" He touched his neck. "Wasted on a Veidonian without mana."
Something shifted in Conor's expression—shock, then bitter understanding, then the ghost of a smile. His hand slipped from Zero's shoulder.
"Then I could have..." The words died with him.
Zero closed Conor's eyes.
The man had surrendered the moment he saw the Mark of Divination. He'd fought without hope, believing himself already beaten. If he'd known the truth—that Zero couldn't access his power, that he was just a Veidonian with an Empyreal mark he didn't know how to use nor could use—Conor would have fought differently.
Harder. Smarter.
He would have won.
"This mark isolates me from the world," Zero muttered to the corpse. "A Veidonian with an Empyreal mark I can't even use."
He sighed.
"Now, how do I carry you back?"
It had taken two days to track Conor. It would take another two to reach the guild.
"Can Veidonians survive four days without food?"His question echoed through the building
"Maybe"