The sun was already peeking over the horizon as Daylan and the others climbed into their carriage, while the guards loaded their luggage.
Dressed in their uniforms, they planned to stop first at the house Astara had purchased, change there, and then head to The Coffee Shop.
Before long, the carriage began to roll away. They sat calmly, while Daylan gazed outside, his mind utterly blank, simply admiring the scenery.
A short way into the city, Astara asked the driver to let them off. Though hesitant—wanting to see them safely to their destination and ensure the Princess's safety—he couldn't defy her orders for long. Reluctantly, he dropped them off, repeatedly pleading with her to stay safe.
The moment the carriage rolled away, they hailed another and made their way to the northern part of the city. Before long, they arrived at a Victorian mansion—massive and stately, its red bricks radiating quiet luxury.
Yet, compared to the surrounding buildings, it didn't stand out at all. It looked like just another ordinary house.
They stood before it, Daylan and Medora tilting their heads upward, eyes fixed on its towering features. ''I knew you'd do something crazy,'' Daylan said, ''but I wasn't expecting this."
Without a word, Astara picked up her luggage and walked inside. The others followed without hesitation.
They stepped into the living room, greeted by three green Victorian sofas arranged around a glass table. Straight ahead, a staircase led up to the dining area, while two separate hallways branched off in opposite directions beneath a large clock mounted above.
Though the rooms weren't labeled, it was clear that one hallway led to the bedrooms and the other to the kitchen.
To their left was a massive library, and to their right, was a spacious training room.
Without wasting a moment, they headed to their rooms to change. Daylan returned in his usual style—black tailored trousers, a black shirt, and a matching waistcoat. Medora wore a black shirt as well, paired with a grey waistcoat and a black cravat. Astara dressed in a black shirt, black tie, a deep blue-black waistcoat, and a large overcoat—carefully chosen to mask her identity as a woman. For gloves, Medora wore grey, Daylan chose black, and Astara stayed with her signature silver.
Despite all their preparations, Daylan still felt afraid. The thought of facing opponents they couldn't defeat clouded his mind with doubt. But one glance at the others was enough—he knew he wasn't alone. He smirked.
They stepped out of the house and walked about a mile before putting on their masks.
Walking the entire way to the shop would've taken far too long, so without wasting a second, they hailed a carriage and climbed in.
They weren't heading into war, nor seeking outright revenge. They simply wanted to make an impression on their first visit—something bold enough to leave a mark on the cult, a reason for their names to be remembered and watched for. Soldier. Poet. King.
Before long, they arrived at The Coffee Shop. It sat beneath a multi-storied terrace house, its evenly spaced windows giving it a quiet symmetry. The shop itself was painted black, with a few tables and chairs set outside—completely unoccupied.
They stood before the shop as passersby cast curious, guarded glances their way, keeping a noticeable distance from the entrance.
They were certain the shop wasn't the main base of the people in black. Considering its popularity, it would've been a poor choice for a stronghold—too exposed, too public.
So Daylan knew the chances of encountering his father there were slim. Still, they braced themselves, stepped forward, and pushed the door open. Behind the counter stood an old man, eyeing them with a lazy glance as they approached.
Fractal Echo
Daylan watched the old man, who seemed lost in thoughts of how dull his job was, even as they approached.
*It's 'The noble pledged a promise'—one mistake, and I won't let you off. Or just pay me, and I'll let you go… I need the money.*
This was easy.
"The noble pledged a promise." He whispered to the old man.
"Okay…" he muttered, lazily twisting the coffee machine. The wall behind him sank inward, then smoothly slid to the left, revealing a hidden shop filled with potions, all neatly arranged on their shelves.
They hesitated, thinking the place held nothing more than potions. But as the old man reached the counter, he paused and gestured toward a narrow passage leading to another door. They exchanged glances, then strode forward without a word.
His heartbeat quickened with each step, but the moment he opened the door, a wave of relief surged through him.
He smirked as the door opened into a dimly lit tavern, its walls glowing with lantern light.
Inside, figures cloaked in black moved about—each one marked with a bold 'G' on their back.
The tavern fell silent as the cloaked figures turned, all eyes drawn to the three masked strangers who entered with measured grace.
The Poet led the way, flanked by the Soldier and the King, their presence commanding reverence with every step.
They moved in silence, eyes following the trio as they passed. Ascending the staircase, the masked figures came to a halt by the polished wooden rails, gazing down upon the room with quiet authority.
Seizing the moment, Daylan stepped forward and spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen." The room grew more attentive, their eyes sharp with caution—their expressions made it clear: one wrong move, and it would be the end of him and his companions.
Daylan smirked. "Exactly the expression I've been waiting for," he said, mocking them with a glint in his eyes.
"I've heard a lot about you people. 'No one returns once they enter,' they say."
He laughed—low and amused—but it didn't last. The sound died as he lowered his head, fingers resting on the edge of his mask. When he spoke again, his voice was colder, deeper, and sharp enough to cut through the silence.
"That's exactly what will happen today… but not to us."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, uneasy and uncertain.
"Beside me stand the King and the Soldier—but they won't be lifting a finger. You're not worthy."
Gasps and scowls answered him. A few cloaked figures reached subtly for weapons.
"I, the Poet, will be handling you little fries."
He took a step forward, the lantern light catching on the silver trim of his mask.
"It's simple. Escape my grasp—and you're free to leave."
A heavy silence followed—then a few chuckles from the bolder ones. Lighter at first, but before long, they were laughing at the top of their lungs. Others stood frozen, unsure if they were being mocked or challenged… or both.
Energy Manifest
Daylan gripped his dagger tightly—then, without warning, leaped from the upper floor, landing squarely on a table below with a resounding thud.
In the blink of an eye, a scream tore through the tavern as a man's arm was cleanly severed, hitting the ground before anyone could react. Chaos stirred. Another cry rang out. Then another. And another.
He was everywhere—like a shadow came alive, one with the darkness itself. Before they could see him, before they could even react, they were already struck.
One by one, they fell—swift, precise, and merciless.
Medora and Astana idly stood upstairs as they watched everything unfold below—silent and untouched by the chaos.
Before long, they all lay scattered across the tavern floor—clutching severed arms, mangled legs, or bleeding wounds. Daylan hadn't meant to kill them—though he knew some wouldn't survive long enough to get help. But that was never the point.
Just as planned, he only wanted to leave a mark—something the cult would never forget. A memory carved into their ranks.
Daylan knelt beside one of the wounded as Medora and Astara descended the stairs in silence.
"Are you the Anti-Diviners?" he asked, voice calm but cold.
"No… no, we're… we're the Phantoms," the man cried out in fear, clutching his severed arm, teeth clenched in agony.
"Phantoms, huh? Then what's the 'G' for?"
"That's our leader's initials… Please don't kill me. I have a family." Sniffling through the pain.
"Let's go," Astara said calmly, turning as she and Medora walked out without another glance.
Without another word, Daylan followed them. On his fifth step, Astara suddenly drew her sword and unleashed a swift blade of light—striking the ground just beside Daylan's leg.
He froze.
To his surprise, one of the cultists had been crawling toward him, dagger in hand. The strike had stopped her cold. And as the light flickered over her twisted form, it became difficult to tell if she was even human anymore.
With that single strike, fear rippled through the room. Those who had even considered making a move began backing away, eyes wide, trembling as the weight of their presence settled over them.
Daylan smirked and bowed his head. "Thank you, my King."
Astara barely spared him a glance before turning away, her stride calm and unwavering.
Medora and Daylan followed behind her, steady and silent.
They made their way back through the hidden door and into the café. From the look on the old man's face, it was clear—he had no idea what had just transpired beyond the wall.
He watched them in quiet confusion as they stepped out, noting silently that no one had ever entered and come back out… until now.
The moment they stepped out of the shop, three Phantoms approached them. Their presence was overwhelming—crushing, cold, and controlled. A thousand times more imposing than those in the tavern.
These weren't ordinary members. These were something else entirely.