The wind was strong, and dusk had long since set in.

  A lone figure crouched atop one of the city's towering structures, concealing herself against the horizon's dying light. Through her scope, the world below crystallized into perfect clarity.

  This was no mere surveillance—the bolt-action sniper rifle pressed against her cheek made her intentions clear.

  Novascope, her signature weapon, stretched an imposing 180 centimeters of silvery-black metal, a distinctive profile unmistakable even in shadow.

  Her raven hair fluttered in the gust, half of it contained in a ponytail to prevent it from obstructing her view of the night landscape that spanned across her vision. The cool touch of the rifle's stabilized, rubber-dipped stock brushed against her cheek. She placed both hands on the buttstock of the rifle, keeping it steady as she analyzed the view underneath her eyelashes.

  "Leila, information." A brusque voice that implied familiarity rather than audacity penetrated her ear, the source being a receiver-type wrapped around it.

  "Understood."

  She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them to reveal something transformed. Where emerald had been, coquelicot light now blazed—twin stars burning radiantly. The world shifted beneath such gaze.

  Previously hidden stimuli assaulted her senses from every angle. The sound filling her ears might have been wingbeats or her own thundering heart as reality fractured into data streams. Through the chaos, figures emerged below—each surrounded by swirling particles that responded to the slightest movement. Her own prana interfered with these patterns, creating minute vibrations that a lesser perception might have missed. But her enhanced sight could isolate each disturbance, separating her own influence from external forces.

  Most minds would have shattered under such overwhelming input. But her eyes were different—capable of distilling the raw data that reality and prana emitted into usable intelligence, creating a tactical overlay that could perceive the fifth dimension: information.

  Then she saw it, and her breath caught sharply in her throat.

  "Big Sis... Big Sis Dora... What's going on down there? This is just too cruel, way too—"

  "Leila, now is not the time for this. What did your Empyrean see?" The receiver, now recognized as the voice of Pandora Kircheisen, answered impassively.

  "E-Elias and Ac-Acacia, they're..."

  "Say it."

  "We were wrong in our estimation," Leila forced out. "There's not just one Bloodhound—there's another too. 350 meters diagonally left, Elias is fighting some pyromancer, and about 260 meters ahead, right in the central plaza..." Her voice cracked. "Acacia is being played with like a toy by the other Bloodhound! He's about to die!"

  "I see."

  "What do you mean, 'I see'?! He's being strangled!" Desperation clawed at her throat. "Tell me what to do! Please—he'll die if we don't—"

  "Relax." Pandora's voice carried an unfamiliar edge. "With your aim and a calm head, you can eliminate that Bloodhound. Study his prana—what do you see?"

  This wasn't the icy yet caring tone Leila knew so well. Something was wrong. Had she disappointed her mentor somehow? What could have shifted in Pandora's careful demeanor?

  Pushing aside the questions that threatened to overwhelm her, Leila forced herself to analyze the streams of data flowing through her enhanced vision.

  "Strings," she whispered, the pattern finally emerging.

  "Explain."

  "They're swarming his body, faint but interconnected, like a web. They're wrapping around Acacia, controlling his movements." She adjusted Novascope minutely, tracking the energy flows. "The strings anchor to his fingers, similar to [Flie?en's] circuits but externalized."

  Silence stretched across the connection as Pandora processed this information. Something in that pause suggested she'd confirmed a crucial hypothesis, but without seeing her face, Leila couldn't begin to guess its nature.

  "Shoot him."

  “What? Are you serious?"

  "You want to save Acacia, don't you? He's being strangled as we speak."

  "Yes, but—"

  "Then your target is exposed. Take the shot."

  "Big Sis, I've never—I can't—I've never shot anyone before!" Leila's hands trembled on Novascope's grip.

  "Are you giving up? Do you want Acacia's death on your conscience?"

  "No, that's not what I mean!"

  "Then shoot."

  "Pandora!"

  "Do it."

  "I don't have a clear shot! Acacia could be hit!"

  "You have the shot. You know you do."

  Leila's breath came in sharp gasps as the weight of the moment pressed down on her. Below, Acacia's struggles grew weaker. Would this be how it ended? Would she spend the rest of her life knowing she could have acted but didn't? Would his name become just another marker in a graveyard, another memory that would fade until nothing remained but her own cowardice?

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  It struck her, and something shifted in her core. All her life, she'd been the careful one, the stickler to rules, the girl who worked within safe boundaries. But what good were boundaries when someone was dying before her eyes?

  "Is that what you want? To live with that regret?" Pandora's voice had softened, carrying an emotion Leila had never heard from her before.

  "No." The word emerged barely above a whisper as tears threatened to spill from her glowing eyes.

  "A weapon bridges life and death, Leila. Just as it can end one life, it can preserve another. Will you remain a spectator to this cruelty, or will you act to end it?"

  Something broke loose in Leila's chest—a dam holding back emotions she'd never allowed herself to fully acknowledge. She hated suffering. Loathed the very concept of it. And here she was, watching it unfold in real time while sitting safely in her sniper's perch.

  Her grip steadied on Novascope as clarity washed through her like a tide.

  "I’ll dispatch the Bloodhound," she breathed, and for the first time in her life, Leila Trafalgar accepted that some hands needed to be stained.

  Through her earpiece, she could feel Pandora's smile.

  Blue particles danced around her like fireflies caught in a storm. Her mind raced through the Integration Sequence, constructing targeting solutions based on the data flooding her enhanced vision. She projected a laser-straight line to the Bloodhound's position, tracking his movements through Empyrean's extradimensional sight. The particles swirled faster, coalescing into something like a summoning circle before suddenly freezing in place. A brilliant blue "X" materialized on Novascope's tip, burning the air with condensed prana. Then as the light stabilized, she squeezed the trigger.

  "[Grilletto].”

  What erupted from her rifle wasn't merely a bullet. No conventional projectile could carry such radiance. Though it maintained the physical properties of mass and momentum, its true nature was wave energy given lethal form.

  The beam cleaved through Windsor's nightscape like a comet. Distance meant nothing—twenty meters became forty, then sixty, accelerating to 2000 meters per second as it crossed the 350-meter gap in mere milliseconds.

  [Grilletto]—a Strategic Class spell reserved for the Centrum Supremum and specific sectors of law enforcement without explicit permission—was designed to mold prana into oscillating death.

  Each time it manifested, mortality held its breath.

  Acacia gasped.

  Below, he felt air rush back into his burning lungs as Apollo's grip vanished. His body refused to respond, leaving him to collapse onto the plaza's cold stone. Through blurred vision, he watched his would-be killer, searching for what had interrupted his execution.

  "Dammit, dammit, dammit! What in tarnation?! What the actual tarnation! Who up and went and did that?!"

  Blood painted a vivid picture. Apollo's entire left arm bore a perfect hole through its center, crimson flowing like a fountain. The Bloodhound's flesh had been carved away like he was midway through a surgery, leaving nothing but empty space where muscle and bone should have been. Apollo's earlier composure shattered as agony overwhelmed him. His entire frame twisted violently, left arm spasming as nerve endings screamed their protest. No conventional Thaumaturgy could repair such damage—the spell had bypassed physical defense entirely. Even for a Bloodhound, the pain proved overwhelming, his battle-hardened facade crumbling as he clutched his ruined limb.

  "That weren't no regular spell," he gasped through clenched teeth. "Only the military, only the government—nobody else can pull off somethin' like that. That was a damn [Grilletto]!" His wild eyes fixed on Acacia. "An Irregular as weak as ya’s got a bodyguard?! Just who the hell are ya?!"

  Acacia said nothing, a hand pressed against his bruised throat.

  "I’ll kill ya!"

  Before Apollo could strike, sirens pierced the night. Red and blue lights suddenly flooded the plaza as armored automobiles screeched to a halt at its perimeter. Through his fading vision, Acacia heard the unfamiliar sound of Windsor’s IPA deploying in force.

  "Freeze! Everyone! Bloodhounds included!"

  Crimson emergency lights painted the scene in shades of blood as dozens of uniformed officers poured from their vehicles. Each brandished a drawn Contender, creating a wall of steel that surrounded the plaza's heart.

  "You're under arrest, Bloodhound!"

  "Drop your weapon! You're surrounded!"

  "Hands where we can see them!"

  Their shouts merged into a cacophony that might have deafened a lesser man. But Apollo barely seemed to register the noise, his senses overwhelmed by the burning agony in his ruined arm.

  "Shit," he muttered, breathing ragged and uneven. One eye darted across the plaza, searching for escape routes, but found none. The IPA had sealed every exit—vehicles, officers, and leveled Contenders blocking any possible avenue of retreat.

  Was the IPA tipped off?

  The response wasn’t random. Someone had orchestrated this ambush, someone with intimate knowledge and foresight of Bloodhound operations and tactics. The sniper had merely been the opening move in a carefully constructed trap, and Apollo had walked right into it.

  "Damn, damn, damn!" Blood dripped steadily from his useless left arm as desperation set in. With his current injuries and depleted prana, his chances of fighting through such numbers were effectively zero.

  Can't use Dread String like this—can't even feel my left hand anymore. Prana's running low too. Need an opening...

  His eyes swept the plaza again, more frantically now. The only clear path led upward, but even at full strength, such a leap would have been risky. In his current state, it was suicide.

  Only option remained.

  Years of experience guided his movements as he lunged for Acacia, using his good arm to haul the boy up as a human shield. The motion sent fresh waves of agony through his injured limb, but survival instinct pushed him through the pain.

  There was one way left. He eerily smirked when he realized it, staring at the wheezing Irregular. Years of experience allowed him to grab Acacia before the cops could fire, holding him in front as a human shield as his good arm wrapped around the boy's neck.

  "Nobody move!" His voice echoed across the plaza like thunder. "So much as twitch, and he's dead! Stay back, or he's a goner!"

  Acacia struggled weakly against the arm around his throat, but exhaustion and injury had left him defenseless.

  "I ain't bluffin’!" Apollo tightened his grip until the boy's struggles weakened further. "Move and he's dead! Ya think I'm scared of dyin’?!"

  The officers held their positions, Contenders still trained on Apollo's position, but none dared pull their triggers.

  "Don’t move! Don’t you dare, ya hear me?! Don’t even think about it!" Apollo barked, his grip tightening as he choked Acacia harder. "Back up! Get back! Lower them Contenders! Do it, now!"

  But the IPA held firm, their weapons never wavering. Something in their steady resolve pushed Apollo over the edge.

  "I'll kill him! I swear it! I'll rip his throat out right here and now! Three seconds! Disobey, and he's gone!"

  Even with sirens wailing and guns drawn, an unnatural silence fell over the plaza as Apollo stared down his opponents.

  "Three!"

  They refused to flinch.

  "Two!"

  Sweat trickled down his face. There was no going back now. Even if he stopped, the risk of being shot remained too high. They held all the cards, and they knew it. For someone who had mocked others as monkeys, Apollo's own survival instinct proved just as strong.

  "One—"

  "Stand down, Apollo."

  The cards are on the table. The Bloodhounds have shown their fangs. Acacia stands on the edge of death, and the city of Windsor might never be the same again.

  Swan Song. We're closing in on 4k views, 38 followers, and 10 ratings—and I’m grateful for each one. We also just got a banger review!

  Monday/Friday update schedule, so expect tight, high-impact chapters twice a week.

  — Ace