Chapter Twenty-Four
---
At the Guard Headquarters, the fourth hour before dawn suggested that the world was either asleep… or planning a crime.
Remi belonged to a third category: "employees who had forgotten what a bed looks like." She sat with her glasses reflecting the dim candlelight.
She was seated at her desk, organizing papers and sorting reports. The glasses rested on her nose, and the cup of tea beside her had gone cold—untouched for an hour.
Sabed entered in haste.
"Urgent report. From the Investigation Office."
He handed her a sealed scroll.
Remi looked at it. The seal belonged to the investigators. They rarely sent reports to the Guard at this hour.
Why now? Is there an emergency?
She opened it and read quickly. Her eyes widened slightly.
Vargas… had gone into the forest alone.
Then she saw the signature at the bottom.
Ained.
She paused.
Ained. That irritating investigator. His personality reminded her of her commander—summed up in one word: annoying.
But his reports were precise. That was the problem.
She closed the file and stood.
"I'll inform the commander."
She left her room and walked down the long corridor toward Cox's office. She arrived and raised her hand to knock—
Knock.
One knock.
Knock.
A second.
Before her hand could touch the door for a third—
"WHO IS THE DAMN BASTARD KNOCKING AT THIS HOUR?!"
Cox's voice was loud enough to wake the guards at the far end of the corridor.
"Can't you see I'm in my break time?!"
—
Silence.
Remi opened the door with unsettling calm, stepped inside, and stood before the couch where Cox lay sprawled in chaotic sleep, his hair like a bird's nest after a storm.
She spoke in icy calm:
"Sir. First, four a.m. is the start of your shift, so your 'break' is legally sleeping on duty. Second… to answer your question, I am the 'bastard' who knocked."
"Remi… you?"
"Yes. Me."
She stepped forward.
"And secondly, you do not have something called a 'break' at this hour. Only a lunch break. Which is in eight hours."
—
Silence.
Cox opened his eyes wide, then slowly turned his face toward her.
He looked at her.
She looked at him.
Then—he scratched the back of his head and let out an awkward laugh.
"Haha… alright… my mistake. I… apologize. I didn't mean—"
"It's fine."
She cut him off coldly.
"I didn't mean calling you that, I just—look at you, you work in—"
"It's fine, sir!"
"You're not wearing a short shirt or skirt—you're dressed properly, not like a—haha—"
"I said it's fine. Enough. I understand."
She hurried on, afraid he'd interrupt again.
"I have an urgent report."
She tossed the scroll toward him—whether intentionally or not, even she didn't know. Cox caught it before it hit him.
Still lying down, he opened and read it in silence.
Then—he smiled.
"Vargas… went alone."
"Yes."
"To the forest."
"Yes."
"To fight a third-level Qaz Lord."
"Yes."
He looked at her. His eyes gleamed.
"That's amazing!"
"Sir… this is not amazing. This is—"
"This is amazing!" he repeated as he stood up. "The old man finally decided to play the hero! I was getting bored waiting for him behind a desk!"
Remi closed her eyes for a moment.
Dear God…
---
The Guard Headquarters buzzed with noise. Soldiers rushing, orders shouted, doors opening and slamming. But inside the main office, the atmosphere was different.
Cox lay back in his chair, feet on the desk, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling as if contemplating the secrets of the universe.
"Vargas. The composed old man went alone to chase a third-level Qaz Lord. Alone. Can you believe it?"
He said it loudly, as if addressing the entire room.
Across the office stood Remi, in her guard uniform and glasses, organizing papers with meticulous precision.
"Sir, I am busy."
"What? It's the start of the shift. Were you slacking yesterday? How is there a pile like this?!"
Remi looked at him.
Cox looked back.
She ignored him.
Obviously, this was his office. His papers. His work.
"Remi! I'm talking to you!"
She slowly raised her head, looking at him over her glasses.
"Yes. I heard you. Vargas went alone. That is his decision."
"His decision?! That's a foolish decision! A selfish old man hoarding glory! He wants to die a hero and not share it!"
Cox frowned, lips curling downward—then lifting again.
"But I get it. Fighting… has a special taste when you're alone. No one watching. No one judging. Just you and your enemy."
He suddenly stood up, towering.
"So… I'm going."
"What?!"
Remi lifted her head sharply, her glasses nearly falling.
"I'm going to the forest. I'll fight the Lord of Threads."
"Sir, that—that is not permitted! You are the Captain of the Guard! It's not within your authority—"
"My authority?! Who defines that? I do! I take it!"
He laughed.
"Relax, Remi. I'm just joking."
He looked at her pale face.
"You really can't take a joke, can you? Come on… smile a little."
She didn't.
"Sir, your combat abilities are immense. If you unleash them in the forest, you'll cause massive destruction. Trees, animals, maybe—"
He grinned widely.
"I'm going. Final decision."
Remi nearly had a breakdown.
Cox noticed and softened his tone.
"Don't worry. Not to fight. I'll just cover the far edge of the forest. If the Lord of Threads tries to escape, that will be his first exit. And then—"
His eyes gleamed.
"—I'll be there."
She looked at him, unconvinced.
"Really?"
"Really… maybe."
She closed her eyes briefly, then said formally:
"Sir, I record my official objection. If anything goes wrong, you bear full responsibility."
"Of course, of course. Write it down. Stamp it. Burn it later. What matters is—"
He suddenly stepped closer.
"I never noticed this before… you're really short in that uniform. Didn't anyone tell you height matters in the Guard?"
She looked up at him. She wasn't short—he was just enormous.
"Sir, I am not—"
She stopped.
A vein appeared on her forehead.
Cox noticed. He grinned.
"Oh… so you do get angry? Hahaha! I thought you were just a machine!"
"I do not get angry, sir."
"Of course you don't! Hahaha!"
She didn't respond.
He burst into laughter.
"I'm sorry! I really am! Come on… look at me."
She raised her head, her serious eyes fixed on him.
"Girl… what is that expression? It's terrifying! Change it immediately!"
It didn't change.
"Smile! That's an order!"
She tried.
The result was unnatural—like a smile painted with a rough brush.
Cox stared—then doubled over laughing.
"That's worse! Please stop! I'll die laughing!"
Her face returned instantly to seriousness.
"Sir, if you are finished, I have work."
"I'm never finished joking. But… fine. Get ready. We're going."
"We… are going?!"
"Yes. You're coming with me. Don't worry—I'll protect you. I know you dream of fighting beside me."
She looked at him.
"Sir, I dream of a day I can work without you ruining it."
He laughed loudly.
"That's the best insult I've heard today! Come on. Let's go."
"No, I can't. I'm busy finishing someone's work. Someone built like a gorilla with the mind of a walnut—and careless and—"
Cox quickly left before she could continue describing him.
---
The night in the southern district was darker than anywhere else in the city.
Here, where narrow alleys met foul water drains, and the smell of cheap spices mixed with intoxicating smoke, the black market had a gate seen only by those who knew.
The Lord of Mist stood before a small shop beside an old mosque. Its wooden facade was worn, its windows sealed with rusted iron plates. Nothing about it suggested it was anything but abandoned.
He pushed the door.
Entered.
—
Inside, the light was dim, coming from scattered candles. The walls were lined with wooden shelves holding colored glass bottles, rough cloth sacks, and small locked boxes.
Behind a long wooden table stood a man.
Hanzala.
In his fifties. Bald. Light beard. Sharp, cunning eyes. He wore a simple robe, his hands stained with dark marks—traces of chemical work.
He looked up and smiled.
"Ah… a strange customer at a strange hour. What do you want?"
The Lord of Mist stepped forward slowly, faint mist still surrounding him.
"I heard you sell… rare things."
Hanzala chuckled.
"Everything here is rare. The question is—can you afford rarity?"
The Lord of Mist placed a small pouch on the table. It landed with a soft but heavy sound.
Hanzala opened it. His eyes widened briefly.
"This… is more than a price. This is—"
"Not payment. Payment for information."
Hanzala quickly closed it and hid it under the table.
"Ask."
"Have you heard about the new visitor?"
Hanzala's expression shifted—more cautious.
"Which one?"
"So your information is fast enough to know there are two."
Silence.
Then Hanzala spoke calmly:
"You're an interesting customer. To deduce that from a few words… fine. Which one? Or both?"
"Rock Qaz Lord."
"Hm. I have some information. Do you want his location, or his personality and style? I also have details of his conversation with Vargas's young investigator—Ained."
"What else?"
Hanzala turned slightly—then suddenly, a hidden drawer slid out from the wall, holding a scroll.
"Here. Everything about the Rock Qaz Lord."
The Lord of Mist's eyes widened slightly—there was even an image.
"This place is more professional than I thought."
He prepared to leave.
"Well then, I hope we meet again," Hanzala said.
Silence.
Then Hanzala added, more quietly:
"One more thing. The one called Karso… hasn't been seen since the morning incident."
The Lord of Mist stared at him for a long moment.
Then—without a word—
He turned and left.