Chapter 1: This is my life
Chapter 1
Night bloomed over the city like a wound refusing to close.
Blood fell in heavy drops, splattering against the pavement below, pooling between cracks in the street. Feathers followed—large, scorched at the edges, drifting unnaturally slow as the wind carried them through the empty town.
A bird?
No.
Too large. Too deliberate. Too holy.
And yet—there was something wrong with it. Something rotting beneath the divinity.
High above, Emmanuel tore through the sky, each beat of his wings sending fresh agony through his body. His shoulder was shredded—skin split, bone exposed—yet it regenerated in sickening pulses, flesh knitting itself together only to tear again with every movement.
“He’s close,” Emmanuel whispered, panic bleeding into his voice. “I can feel him.”
The night answered.
A flash of gold split the sky.
The spear struck Emmanuel’s back with divine force, as if the heavens themselves had condemned him. His scream was swallowed as he was ripped downward, crashing into a narrow alleyway. The spear drove clean through him—pinning flesh, bone, and wing to the concrete beneath.
“Urgh—!”
Pain detonated through his body. His wings spasmed violently, feathers snapping and tearing as they struggled to pull him free. He clawed at the ground, hands trembling as he tried to lift himself—
Then the shadows moved.
Golden chains slithered out from the darkness, glowing faintly, alive. They wrapped around his wrists and yanked them forward with brutal force.
“No—no—no—please—!”
His arms stretched, tendons screaming, bones cracking—
And then they tore free.
The sound was wet. Final.
Emmanuel’s scream shattered the alley, raw and animal. Blood poured from his shoulders in violent waves as tears streamed down his face, his body convulsing against the spear that kept him helplessly upright.
“Cry louder,” a voice said calmly. “Call to your gods. Maybe they’re asleep.”
Heavy boots echoed as a figure stepped out of the shadows.
A pastor.
His collar gleamed white against his dark coat, untouched by the blood soaking the ground. His eyes reflected no mercy—only certainty.
“C-Celestian…” Emmanuel choked, horror replacing hope.
Celestian smiled.
“You can hide from the Lord,” he said, voice smooth, rehearsed. “But you cannot run from Him. You cannot fly away from Him.” He raised his gaze, almost reverent. “He laughs at futile attempts—because He knows the moment of judgment arrives ”
Celestian stopped inches from Emmanuel.
“And it has arrived.”
“W-wait,” Emmanuel sobbed. “I—I can help. We can make a deal. Please—”
Celestian leaned closer, his smile sharpening.
“You can help me,” he said softly. “By perishing.”
He straightened.
“And in exchange—perhaps our Goddess will forgive you. Perhaps you’ll be spared.”
A pause.
Then, mockingly:
“But I wouldn’t pray for it.”
Three Weeks Later
“Dear Sengoku,
I understand what I have done has turned us into enemies. Know that I am deeply sorry for stealing your treasures and assassinating your grandsons—”
The old man paused mid-sentence.
A knock echoed through the paper walls.
“Enter,” he commanded.
A samurai stepped into the dim room and knelt, head bowed.
“You return sooner than expected,” the old man said calmly. “I assume the mission was accomplished flawlessly.”
“Yes… and no, my liege,” the samurai replied.
The brush froze.
“We secured the Saiden Clan’s treasure,” the subordinate continued. “But we failed to assassinate the twin grandsons of the Mighty Dragon.”
The old man’s eyes snapped open.
“What?”
Two Hours Earlier
The trading ship had become a slaughterhouse.
Steel rang against steel, sparks bursting like fireflies as battle cries ripped through the night air. The deck trembled beneath stomping feet, blood slicking the wood as bodies fell and rose again.
Keegan laughed.
Not a nervous laugh. Not a forced one.
A genuine grin split his face as a blade screamed past his neck—close enough to shear his hair. He twisted smoothly, letting the strike miss by inches.
“Oh, that was almost good,” he muttered.
He caught the attacker’s wrist mid-swing, slammed his forehead into the man’s face, and felt bone crunch. The body dropped instantly.
Another came. Then another.
Keegan blocked, parried, and stepped through attacks like a dance—each movement effortless. His sword met steel again and again, overpowering weaker grips, shattering stances. A kick sent one man flying across the deck. A reverse slash took down two more before they even realized they were dead.
They just kept coming.
Keegan tightened his grip.
Flames erupted from his katana, roaring to life and coating the blade in blazing orange. Heat washed over the deck as he charged forward, laughter echoing as his sword carved through the enemy ranks like wildfire through dry grass.
“This is getting fun,” he said.
Fillan wasn’t laughing.
His lungs burned. His heart hammered so violently it felt like it might tear itself apart.
A flaming blade crashed against his water-formed sword, steam hissing violently as elements clashed. He barely held his ground. Three presences flared behind him—
Too close.
Fillan twisted, channeling power instinctively. His sword stretched unnaturally, liquid steel snapping outward like a whip. It smashed into all three attackers—and kept going, slamming into more rushing toward him.
No time to breathe.
He ducked under a strike, his sword igniting mid-motion into flames as he drove it upward, cutting one man down. Wind slammed into him an instant later.
The impact sent him flying.
Fillan hit the deck hard, pain exploding through his back. His sword skidded away.
Move. Move. Move.
He rolled just as flames scorched the space where his head had been. A hand grabbed his arm—Fillan pivoted, flipped the attacker, stole his sword, and drove it into his chest.
Another strike. Another block.
Five attackers surrounded him.
Steel cut into his shoulder. His chest. His leg.
Not deep—but enough.
Enough to slow him.
I can’t keep this up.
He blocked desperately, hands shaking, mind screaming as he stole another sword and struck someone down. His vision blurred. His breathing was ragged. But more came forward.
I’m outnumbered.
They closed in.
High above, on the ship’s upper balcony, a demidemon leveled an AK-47 toward Keegan.
A blade pierced his throat before he could fire.
Somila materialized behind him, eyes already scanning the battlefield.
She saw Saiden warriors falling. She saw Keegan surrounded. Fillan barely standing.
Then she saw it.
A demidemon marking crates with paper seals.
Her blood ran cold.
“They’re stealing the cargo,” she whispered. “And trying to assassinate the twins.”
Somila closed her eyes.
“Zander,” she spoke into the mind-link. “I know you can hear me.”
“Somila?” Zander responded.
“I need you to tell everyone to stab their swords into the ground and hold on my count.”
“…If I do that, everyone will know I’m an Augur.”
“Zander,” she said sharply. “If you don’t, everyone here dies.”
Silence.
“ZANDER?!”
The message rippled outward.
Every Saiden warrior drove their blade into the deck and braced themselves.
“Now,” Somila whispered.
“NOW!”
She vanished.
Somila reappeared at the center of the ship and plunged her sword into the ground. Power detonated outward—a massive tornado erupted, ripping demidemons from the deck and hurling them screaming into the sky. Crates followed, vanishing just before they struck the ocean.
Then—silence.
The storm faded.
Somila withdrew her blade.
Cheers erupted.
She turned her head—and met Fillan’s gaze.
He stared at her in awe, bloodied and breathing hard, then nodded slowly with a warm, quiet smile.
Somila looked away—then back—blushing faintly as she waved.
The Sōke’s office was suffocatingly still.
Somila, Keegan, and Fillan stood before Lord Daimo’s desk, unmoving, as the old man read the morning paper with infuriating calm. The rustle of pages sounded impossibly loud in the silence. Incense burned low in the corner, its smoke curling like a slow, patient threat.
No one dared speak.
Their eyes flicked to one another—uneasy, searching—then back to the man who held their fates between his fingers.
Keegan swallowed hard.
“Hey… Grandpa— I mean, Lord Daimo,” he corrected quickly. “You summoned us?”
No response.
The silence stretched. Seconds bled into minutes. The air grew heavier, pressing against their chests, until breathing itself felt like a crime.
Finally, Lord Daimo folded the paper.
“Somila,” he said flatly. “You will be stripped of your duties serving this clan.”
The words struck like a hammer.
Somila froze.
The room vanished. Sound collapsed inward. All she could hear was her own heart—violent, frantic—and the shallow rasp of her breath as it failed her.
Lord Daimo continued, merciless.
“You will be reassigned to the City Protector Department. You will leave Castle Town and reside in the Imperial City. Your family has already been notified—”
“What the hell did Somila do to deserve this?!”
Keegan’s voice cracked through the room like a blade.
Somila gasped. Fillan turned sharply toward Keegan, eyes wide with alarm. He was always like this—too bold, too fast, too reckless for rooms like these.
Lord Daimo’s gaze lifted slowly.
“You dare address your superior in that tone?” he sneered.
“Somila saved our lives,” Keegan shot back. “So why the hell is she being punished like a criminal?”
Fillan stepped forward, forcing his voice steady.
“We do not mean to question your judgment, my lord,” he said carefully. “But please—enlighten us. What crime has Somila committed?”
Lord Daimo inhaled through his nose.
“According to your reports,” he said, “Somila was the first to notice our cargo was being stolen.”
Somila’s head snapped up.
“And yet,” he continued, “she allowed it to happen.”
Her stomach dropped.
“Worse,” Lord Daimo said coldly, “she lied.”
Somila’s vision blurred.
“One of your comrades reported that Somila instructed the group to omit a crucial detail—namely, the presence of an Augur. A Seer issuing commands. Orders that originated from her.”
The room seemed to shrink.
Keegan and Fillan stepped back instinctively.
“Normally,” Lord Daimo went on, “such dishonesty would result in execution.”
Somila’s breath caught.
“But out of respect for your bloodline—for the generations who served this clan with honor—I will spare you.”
He folded his hands.
“You saved lives. You protected Fillan, the future head of this clan.” His eyes hardened. “Therefore, your transgressions will be forgiven—if you surrender the Augur.”
The words settled like poison.
Somila stared at the floor. Her hands clenched, nails biting into her palms. Her lips trembled as she fought to keep them still.
“Somila,” Fillan whispered urgently. “This is your chance. Take it.”
The Saiden Code echoed in her mind—The clan above all else.
Above friends. Above family. Above self.
A lie dressed as honor.
Another voice rose beneath it—familiar, warm.
You can follow the rules and be praised as a hero, Ronin had once said.
Or you can break them and still be one.
Always be kind, little sister.
The memory faded.
“Somila!” Fillan shouted.
She flinched back into the room. Tears brimmed over.
“I can’t,” she sobbed. “I won’t.” She wiped her face roughly. “I won’t condemn them and their families to something worse than this. It isn’t right.”
Keegan moved instantly, placing a steady hand on her back. Fillan looked away—conflicted, wounded, silent.
Lord Daimo scoffed.
“Such foolishness,” he said. “Your older brother would be deeply disappointed.”
“Watch it,” Keegan warned.
A knife whistled through the air.
It grazed Keegan’s cheek—hot, sharp—before embedding itself in the door behind him with a violent thud.
Blood trickled down his face.
“You have exhausted my patience,” Lord Daimo said calmly. “You seem to believe that sparring with me once—and carrying my son’s blood—entitles you to disrespect me.”
His voice dropped.
“Your strength is impressive. But my skill and experience far outweigh yours. If I deemed your death necessary, you would not survive the thought.”
Keegan clenched his teeth, forcing himself silent.
“Then what about mine?”
Fillan’s voice cut through the tension.
“I’m sorry, Grandfather,” he said, fists trembling. “But I will not serve this clan without Somila. Losing her is a greater loss than losing me.”
Lord Daimo laughed.
“I almost respected that,” he said mockingly. “If only you’d look at me instead of trembling.”
His eyes turned cruel.
“Your parents died protecting you—to preserve the future of this clan. And instead, they died for failures.”
Fillan’s face drained of color.
“All three of you are banished,” Lord Daimo continued. “I only hope your uncle proves less disappointing when he takes your place.”
He waved a dismissive hand.
“You are dismissed.”
Fillan didn’t look back.
He burst through the palace gates, pacing blindly until he reached the nearest tree. He stopped, breath shaking, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
His fist moved before thought.
The impact split bark and wood—crack—leaving a gaping hole in the trunk.
Fillan staggered back, gasping.
When he looked down, his knuckles were torn open, splinters embedded deep in flesh, blood dripping freely.
The pain barely registered.
Somila stands in her room, folding her clothes with practiced care, hands steady despite the storm in her chest. Each garment is placed deliberately into her suitcase, layered beside medals, awards, certificates — proof of effort, proof she tried. They sit neatly packed, hidden away, contained. Achievements meant to matter, yet never displayed.
She zips the suitcase closed.
For a moment, she just stands there, staring at it.
Then she moves.
She steps into her little sister Lucille’s room. Lucille sits at her desk, legs swinging slightly as she works through her homework, earplugs in, music humming softly in her ears. The room is warm. Safe.
Somila approaches quietly and covers Lucille’s eyes with a soft laugh.
Lucille smiles instantly.
“Somila…”
She reaches up, pulling Somila’s hands away, tugging her headphones loose. As she turns, her smile falters when she notices the bags by the door.
“Where are you going?”
Somila freezes.
Just for a second.
Then she forces a smile — gentle, practiced.
“Yeah… just Saiden Clan missions. Don’t worry. I’ll be back,” she says, voice light. “Maybe I’ll bring you a souvenir.”
She pats Lucille’s head, presses a kiss to her forehead.
“Bye.”
“…Bye,” Lucille replies, watching as Somila lifts her bag and suitcase and walks away.
The door closes.
Lucille puts her earplugs back in and returns to her homework, unaware that something has shifted forever.
Somila walks down the hall.
The walls are covered in framed certificates and awards — Lucille’s, Ronin’s, Anika’s. Proof proudly displayed. A lineage of excellence.
She doesn’t stop walking.
Her own achievements are nowhere here.
She enters the living room. Her father sits on the couch, eyes glued to the television, body heavy and unmoving.
“Oh. You’re leaving,” he mutters, not looking at her.
“Good luck,” he adds flatly. “Maybe you’ll be the top of your coworkers there.”
The words land like dull stones.
Somila pouts instinctively, then stiffens as he continues.
“Your brother Ronin used to get into trouble a lot when he joined the Kashin. I was almost certain he’d end up banished. Or executed.” A pause. “Guess you’re beating him to it.”
Something in her snaps.
Her eyes flick around the room before she crosses her arms, jaw tightening.
“Well, at least he didn’t lose his ability to walk on a mission and sit on the couch all day glued to the TV,” she spits, tilting her head, gaze sharp as a blade. “I guess you beat him to that—”
The slap comes fast.
The sound cracks through the room.
Somila gasps, head snapping to the side, cheek burning as red blooms across her skin. Her eyes widen, mouth open in shock.
She turns.
It’s her mother.
“Don’t you ever,” her mother shouts, finger jabbing into Somila’s forehead again and again, “talk about your father that way. You understand?!”
Her voice shakes — not with kindness, but fury.
“He lost his legs for the clan.”
She straightens, hands on her hips.
“Take those clothes off. Go put on your kimono. We’re going to Lord Daimo. You’re going to beg. You’re going to plead. You’re going to cry,” her voice sharpens, “and you’re going to rat out that Augur—”
“No.”
Somila shakes her head, stepping back.
“No. I’m not doing that.”
Her mother scoffs.
“Somila,” she snaps, “your older sister is out there fighting for the clan. Your big brother died for the clan. Your ancestors were among the first women to protect this family.” Her voice rises. “You will not let their blood and tears go to waste.”
When her mother reaches for the suitcase, Somila slaps her hand away.
“I said no!”
Her voice breaks as she continues.
“I’m not my little sister — the prodigy,” she cries. “I’m not Anika, top of her rank. I’m not my brother who died saving his comrades.”
She presses a hand to her chest, tears spilling freely now.
“I tried,” she says, nodding desperately. “I tried reaching your expectations. I tried becoming the people you’ve always compared me to.”
Her voice rises into a scream.
“I’m not them!”
Silence stretches — heavy, suffocating.
She swallows, voice trembling.
“Do you even know who I am?” she sobs. “Because I don’t.”
She turns and walks away.
Her mother reaches for her, panic flickering too late.
“Somila—”
Somila shoves past her, strides to the door, yanks it open.
“If you walk out that door,” her mother yells, “I never want to see you again!”
Somila stops.
She turns back one last time.
Their eyes meet.
A single tear slips down Somila’s cheek.
“Goodbye, Mom,” she whispers.
The door shuts.
Somila walks down the street, wiping her tears, breath hitching. Then it all collapses.
She drops her bag, kicks it, screams until her throat burns — grief, rage, heartbreak spilling out into the night.
At the bus stop outside Castle Town, Keegan and Fillan stood side by side, bags at their feet.
Keegan glanced at Fillan’s bandaged hand and nudged his shoulder lightly.
“Hey,” he said with a grin. “We’ll be okay.”
Fillan smiled faintly.
A rolling sound approached.
They turned.
Somila walked toward them, glasses hiding her eyes, suitcase trailing behind her.
Keegan’s face lit up.
“Somila!” he shouted, running to her and wrapping her in a tight hug. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said softly, hugging him back.
Fillan looked away, eyes on the ground.
When Somila reached him, she noticed his hand.
“Oh my god,” she said gently. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he replied quickly.
The bus pulled in.
None of them spoke.
Later that evening, Lord Daimo stood in his private chambers, hands clasped behind his back, watching his son Daimiyo through the open window. The wind carried the sound of steel cutting air as the boy trained relentlessly in the courtyard below — movements sharp, imperfect, desperate to impress a future already too heavy for his shoulders.
“The Saiden Clan is still at war with the Ōra Clan—”
The voice broke the silence, soft but firm.
Lord Daimo did not turn.
Lady Maomao stepped closer, her movements graceful, measured — elegance drilled into her long before love ever found her.
“Our only ally among the Five Sword Clans has betrayed us,” she continued carefully. “We’ve lost the next head of the clan… and the strongest swordsman we had.” Her gaze flickered toward Daimiyo. “He’s still a child. He—”
The slap came without warning.
The sound echoed through the chamber as Lady Maomao was knocked to the floor, breath stolen from her lungs. She gasped, palms scraping against the tatami as she struggled to steady herself.
Lord Daimo loomed over her.
“If I needed an advisor,” he snarled, voice venomous, “I would have asked for one — not some concubine.”
He pointed down at her, eyes wild, veins standing out as if fury itself animated him.
“Know your place, woman.”
Lady Maomao said nothing.
She stayed on the floor, trembling — not from pain alone, but from knowing she had spoken the truth… and that truth had no place here.
Outside, Daimiyo kept training.
Meanwhile, Somila, Keegan, and Fillan stepped into their new apartment.
Their eyes wandered the space in silence — plain walls, cheap fixtures, unfamiliar smells. A far cry from castle halls and ancestral grounds.
“It seems… decent,” Somila muttered, though her tone lacked conviction.
“Dibs on the biggest room!” Keegan shouted suddenly, bolting down the hallway.
“Keegan!” Somila ran after him. “You can’t call dibs. We all need to examine each room and then devise a system to determine which space is most suitable for each individual.”
“Wow,” Keegan laughed, “banishment really didn’t kill the strategist in you.”
Fillan didn’t follow.
He dropped his bags onto the kitchen counter, the dull thud echoing louder than it should have. He stared at the unfamiliar space — the cramped counters, the dim lighting — then exhaled slowly.
“So this is my life now,” he muttered, almost to himself.
The next morning, Fillan jolted awake, sitting straight up in bed.
He stared at the curtains, unmoving.
Minutes passed. Or hours. He couldn’t tell.
His mind replayed everything — the office, the banishment, his grandfather’s eyes, Somila’s refusal, his own failure to protect anyone. Then a sudden movement snapped him out of it.
A cockroach scuttled across the floor.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He went to shower.
The water sputtered weakly, barely warm before turning cold altogether. He sucked in a sharp breath as it hit his skin.
“What’s wrong with the water in this place—”
A knock interrupted him.
“The owner called,” Somila said through the door. “The water pressure drops after 6 a.m. until 3 p.m. And the hot water…” she hesitated. “That one’s on me. We’re supposed to keep it under fifteen minutes.”
Fillan leaned his forehead against the tile, letting the cold water soak his back.
“I want to go home,” he whispered.
Later, he entered the kitchen wearing his new City Protector Department uniform.
Keegan looked up and smirked.
“Looks like I’m not the only one pulling off that uniform.”
Somila handed Fillan a plate — eggs and bacon, carefully prepared.
“You made breakfast?” he asked quietly. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” she replied with a small smile.
Her eyes lingered on him longer than necessary. They glistened, betraying something unspoken.
“Y-you look good in your uniform,” she added softly.
Fillan didn’t answer right away.
“Maybe it was destiny,” Keegan said between bites, grinning, “that we ended up City Protectors.”
Somila and Fillan both frowned, turning to stare at him — wounded, offended, exhausted.
Keegan froze.
“…Too soon?”
Silence answered him.
Inside the City Protector Department, the trio stood in a narrow office, shoulders squared, eyes forward. The air smelled faintly of old paper, ink, and disinfectant. Captain Drew leaned against his desk, flipping through their files with deliberate slowness.
“Before we begin,” he said casually, not looking up, “I’d like to say it’s an honor to be in the presence of royalty.”
He chuckled.
Keegan and Fillan couldn’t help it — their lips curved into proud, instinctive smiles. Years of conditioning rose to the surface.
Captain Drew’s expression snapped flat.
“Moreover,” he continued, lowering the files onto the desk with a thud, “this isn’t Naruto.”
Their smiles vanished.
“You’re in Imperial City. You are not members of the Saiden Clan. You are not heirs, prodigies, or legends.” His voice sharpened. “You are City Protectors. A symbol of peace. Hope. Justice.”
He slid three badges across the table.
“Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” they answered in unison, accepting the cold metal.
As Drew turned away, Fillan subtly pulled a dollar from his pocket and slipped it behind Somila’s back. She barely reacted, smoothly transferring it to Keegan.
“I told you,” Keegan whispered under his breath, victorious.
Moments later, the door swung open.
“Ah—Detective Cooper,” Captain Drew said. “Perfect timing.”
Detective Allison Cooper leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
“So,” she asked, unimpressed, “which one am I babysitting?”
Drew pointed directly at Keegan.
“This one. Make sure he’s clean, well-fed, and—most importantly—gets his naps. He can be quite the handful without them.”
Keegan stared at him. “Dude. I just got here. How am I already the punchline?”
“Keegan,” Drew said flatly, “this is your superior officer. She’ll be training you for the next four months.”
Keegan waved awkwardly.
“Uh—hi.”
“Well?” Cooper turned and walked out. “What are you waiting for, baby face?”
Keegan looked helplessly at Drew.
Drew nodded.
“Traitors,” Keegan muttered before waving goodbye to Somila and Fillan. The door shut behind him.
“I wonder who mine is,” Somila said quietly.
“Yours,” Captain Drew replied, “is one of the greatest detectives in the station. Brilliant mind. Exceptional intuition.”
Somila’s eyes lit up. “Really?”
Drew nodded.
Minutes later, they stood before a desk that looked like a crime scene.
Empty beer bottles. Crushed cigarette boxes. Ash. Scattered spell books. And at the center of it all—Henry, face buried in crossed arms, snoring softly.
The stench hit first. Alcohol. Smoke. Something stale and heavy, like despair that had settled into the furniture.
Somila and Fillan froze.
“I thought you said I’d love him,” Somila muttered.
“His intelligence,” Drew corrected. “Not the person.”
He raised his voice. “Henry!”
Henry shot upright.
“The answer is GDP is the total production of goods and services produced within a country’s borders in a year—!” He blinked, squinting at Drew. “…Oh. You’re not my 11th grade economics teacher.”
He dropped his head back down. “I’m going back to sleep.”
“No,” Drew said coldly. “You’re my subordinate. And I will suspend you without pay.”
Henry snapped upright again.
“You remember me assigning you a trainee?” Drew asked.
Henry looked between Somila and Fillan.
“Sure. So which one is it—the pretty one or the girl?”
“Her name is Somila,” Drew said flatly.
Somila waved stiffly.
“And as for the girl—” Drew gestured to Fillan.
“I’m not the pretty one,” Fillan cut in dryly.
“—he’s actually a boy,” Drew continued, unfazed. “He’ll be mentored by Sergeant Quill.”
Almost on cue, Sergeant Quill approached.
“Captain. Everything’s set. Regina’s being released.”
“Perfect timing,” Drew said. “This is Fillan. Your other trainee.”
They shook hands.
“We’ll do introductions on the move,” Quill said, already turning. “Let’s go.”
“Good luck,” Somila said softly.
Fillan gave her a thumbs-up before following Quill away.
“How’s the case?” Drew asked Henry.
“Solved,” Henry replied. “I’m concluding it right—after—I finish this nap.”
Drew sighed.
“It seems you’re the one who needs luck, Somila.”
He left.
Somila stood there, staring at Henry’s sleeping form, the mess, the smell, the badge heavy against her chest.
She exhaled slowly.
“…This is my life now.”
Somewhere in the streets of Imperial City, Keegan and Allison stood in line for hotdogs. The air smelled of grease and steam, the vendor shouting orders over the hum of traffic. Keegan spoke casually, like he was talking about the weather, telling her how he’d been banished. Allison listened closely, nodding along, studying his face rather than the street ahead.
“Your grandfather sounds like an asshole,” she commented bluntly.
Keegan let out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
“Imagine living with that asshole your whole life,” he replied. “At least now I don’t have to see him anymore.”
Allison tilted her head. “What about your friends?”
Keegan hesitated.
“…The only real friends I had were Somila—my best friend—and my brother too,” he said slowly. “Believe it or not, he was rather popular. Everyone adored him…”
There was a pause, just a fraction too long.
Allison noticed it—but chose not to push. “No way,” she teased lightly. “I don’t mean to judge a book by its cover, but he doesn’t exactly seem approachable enough to be popular.”
Keegan huffed. “Yeah, well… people either wanted to be him or be with him. Mainly because he was the next head of the clan.” He glanced away. “And besides his good looks, he was considered a prodigy.”
“Really?” Allison asked, crossing her arms, a curious little smile playing on her lips.
Before Keegan could respond, Allison’s walkie-talkie crackled violently, the sound sharp enough to cut through the street noise.
“HORRID RAMPAGE IN THE NORTH PARK. ALL CITY PROTECTORS CLOSE TO THE AREA ARE NEEDED.”
A deep, unnatural roar echoed through the city.
“Shit—” Allison muttered as she rushed toward her car. “Keegan, what are y—”
Keegan was already moving.
He leapt onto a streetlight, wrapped his arm around it, and swung with terrifying precision. His feet hit the ground for half a second—then he crouched, focused, and launched himself forward.
People screamed.
He landed on another streetlight, then another, moving like a blur—swinging, vaulting, jumping impossibly far. He shot upward and landed on the side of a building, sprinting across it like gravity didn’t apply to him.
“What the fuck…” Allison muttered under her breath as she jumped into the car and drove.
North Park was chaos.
A monstrous humanoid wolf stood taller than most buildings, its massive body tearing through trees, benches, and playground equipment as if they were made of paper.
Chains burst from the ground—magic flaring as multiple City Protectors restrained the beast. One of them began chanting, voice strained.
Before the spell could finish, the beast roared and tore free.
It crushed the City Protectors beneath its fists.
As it raised its massive arm to finish the last surviving one—
Keegan crashed into the scene.
He grabbed the remaining City Protector and super-jumped away just as the beast’s fist slammed into the ground where they’d been standing.
They landed hard.
Keegan set them down gently and turned away.
“Where are you going?” the City Protector asked, shaken.
Keegan rolled his shoulders, stretching his neck.
“To do my job,” he said casually. “Kick some ass, save some ass, and other heroic things.”
Then he launched himself straight at the beast.
The monster noticed him and backhanded him mid-air.
The hit sent Keegan flying—his body smashing through a building with a thunderous crack.
The beast charged toward the park gates.
Before it could escape, Keegan came back like a living projectile, slamming into the beast with his arm. The impact sent the creature rolling through the park.
Keegan landed on his feet.
Blood covered him. His clothes were torn. He shouldn’t have been standing—shouldn’t have been smiling.
His wounds began to heal.
The beast rose again, roaring.
Keegan’s smile widened.
The beast tried to crush him with both hands—but Keegan dodged effortlessly. A punch came flying—
Keegan blocked it with his shoulder.
A shockwave exploded outward. Smoke curled from his skin. His clothes tore further—but the blow didn’t hurt him.
Another punch—bigger.
Keegan blocked it with his fist.
The collision shattered car windows and rattled nearby buildings. The rest of his upper clothing ripped away, leaving his bare chest exposed.
They exchanged blows—each impact thunderous.
Keegan jumped, landing on the beast’s fist. Before it could react, he launched himself upward and slammed his fist into its cheek.
The beast stumbled.
Keegan landed on its shoulder.
It swung at him—Keegan leapt away just in time, landing on its ear. He roared directly into it, the sound ripping through the creature’s heightened hearing.
The beast clawed at its ears.
Keegan jumped again, landing on its chest, gripping its thick fur.
He wound up his punch.
And struck.
The impact sent the beast flying. Keegan landed on the grass as the creature tore through streets and soil before finally stopping.
The crowd outside the park gates erupted—cheers, applause, shouting.
Keegan turned toward them, arms extended slightly, soaking it in.
Breathing it in.
For a moment—he was a hero again.
The beast reverted.
A man in his thirties lay on the ground.
Paramedics rushed in, checking his vitals—then froze.
“He’s not breathing.”
Keegan’s punch had stopped his heart.
The cheers died instantly.
Keegan turned toward Allison, who was holding the crowd back with other City Protectors.
The silence snapped into rage.
Boos. Screams. Objects flew—rocks, cups, food.
“What is wrong with you people?” Keegan shouted, voice cracking. “That monster killed people! It was going to kill you! So what if it’s dead?”
“You’re the monster, ASSHOLE!” someone screamed.
“How dare you call him a monster!”
“He lost control—and you decided to kill him and call him an ‘it’?!”
“Fuck you!”
“You’re the monster!”
Keegan froze.
His breathing turned shallow.
The cheers echoed in his mind—overlapping, distorting.
Applause. Praise.
A younger Keegan stood before Lord Daimo, kneeling.
“You did good, son,” his grandfather said. “You slayed the long-time traitor of the clan. The demon sword mage. You’re a hero. Your parents would be proud.”
“Thank you, Grandfather.”
The memory shattered.
Keegan stood trembling.
His hands shook violently. His chest tightened. His throat closed like something was strangling him from the inside.
Allison rushed to him. “Go to the car, Keegan.”
“But—”
“I said go!” she snapped. “You’re only making things worse—for yourself and everyone!”
Keegan lowered his head.
He turned and walked—each step heavy, mechanical—until he collapsed into the passenger seat.
Inside the car, his hands covered his face.
His eyes burned. His breathing was uneven. His chest ached.
Allison drove in silence.
“Are you okay?” she asked carefully.
Keegan nodded, staring out the window, eyes red and glassy.
After a long pause, Allison spoke again.
“He’s alive. The paramedics managed to restart his heart.”
Keegan’s eyes widened.
Then closed.
He let out a shaky breath.
“I know you didn’t mean to,” Allison continued softly. “At least, I’d like to think so. But the downside is… people might associate you with anti-Augurs. Or purists.”
She hesitated. “Keegan… this isn’t whatever world you came from. This is the modern age. We use words to stop wars.”
Keegan didn’t look at her.
“Tell that to someone who didn’t grow up in one,” he said quietly.
Allison bit her lip, unsure what to say.
Meanwhile, beyond the iron walls of the prison, the gates groaned open.
A woman in her late thirties stood waiting, sunglasses shielding her eyes, a worn duffel bag slung over her shoulder. The metal doors parted fully, and she stepped forward into the open air. She paused—not out of hesitation, but indulgence—drawing in a slow breath, tasting freedom like it was something she had memorized and missed rather than forgotten.
Her expression remained unreadable.
Unbothered.
Fillan and Sergeant Quill stood a short distance away, watching her approach.
“Regina,” Sergeant Quill began, professional and steady. “I’m Sergeant Quill—your superior officer and instructor. This gentleman here is your partner, Fillan.”
“Afternoon, ma’am,” Fillan greeted politely.
Regina said nothing.
She merely stared at them through her dark lenses, her head tilted just enough to make the silence uncomfortable.
Fillan leaned closer to Quill, whispering, “Is she deaf or something?”
Sergeant Quill shrugged.
“Has prison made you shy, Regina?” a familiar voice suddenly broke the tension.
Regina stopped.
She turned slowly.
Behind them stood Tristan—a Russian man in his early forties, dressed sharply in a tailored suit, entirely out of place against the concrete and barbed wire. His lips curved into something resembling a smile.
“You’ve aged,” he said lightly. “Well… barely. Slowly, at least. Father Time couldn’t quite keep up with you, I suppose.”
Regina dropped her bag.
In one swift motion, she stepped forward and drove her fist into Tristan’s face.
The punch landed with a sickening crack—his neck twisting violently as he was thrown off balance and slammed to the ground.
Fillan froze, horror flooding his face.
Sergeant Quill merely sighed, rubbing his temple, like this was an inconvenience he’d already budgeted for.
Regina picked up her bag as if nothing had happened. She turned back toward them.
Fillan instinctively stepped backward.
“Are you taking me home?” Regina asked flatly.
“Correct,” Sergeant Quill replied.
“I’m prohibited from using my powers,” she continued, “even if it’s just to travel back home?”
“Absolutely.”
Regina glanced toward the nearby vehicle. “Is that your car?”
“Yes,” Quill answered.
She walked past them without waiting for permission, opened the passenger door, and climbed inside.
Behind them—
Tristan’s body suddenly snapped upright.
Both Fillan and Sergeant Quill flinched.
With a sharp crack, Tristan twisted his head back into place, rolling his neck with a low growl.
“Ебать,” he muttered, flexing his jaw.
“Я усыновила её в детстве, чтобы защитить их от DSC и помочь ей выйти из тюрьмы. Но она обращается со мной как с мусором.”
He stood, brushing dust from his suit.
“You may go on without me,” he said calmly. “I still have to search for Reina.”
“How’s that going?” Sergeant Quill asked.
Tristan’s mouth curved into something darker.
“Well. I’ve tracked her down. It’s about time we bring this—crazy family back together again.”
With that, he turned and walked away.
