Floating Away
A black-haired boy, dressed in a light grey shirt and loose blue trousers, with a wooden sword strapped to his back, ran across the rooftop, where a narrow metal walkway stretched in straight lines between buildings.
In each hand, he carried a small crate. He moved with swift confidence, utterly unconcerned by the dizzying height of the multi-storey structures, nor by the sway of the burden he held.
As he sprinted forward, he spotted a guard ahead. Without slowing, the boy adjusted his course, leaping lightly onto the rail and continuing his run along it as though it were no more than solid ground.
The guard merely raised a brow at the sight and continued at his usual pace. As the boy passed, he greeted the man with a nod and an awkward smile. The guard returned the nod without a word.
Thud—
With a soft land, the boy diverted his path, dropping back onto the rooftop tile before continuing toward its edge.
Below, crowds moved in and out along 18th Street. Turning away, he set his sights on his next goal—a contraption, a crude pulley lift used to haul heavy goods between floors.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
A loud sound echoed through the air.
Logan looked up and saw a flare. He did not pay it much mind, as it was a signal for the guards, used when trouble required reinforcement. Though he had never seen multiple flares rising so close together before.
Still, Logan ignored it. He gripped the lift rope and lowered himself swiftly to the ground floor.
When he stepped out, he approached a group of adults busy sorting their wares. One of them noticed him at once.
"Aye! My boy Logan! Didn't know you were my handler. Well, that's a fine surprise. Is that shipment mine?" the man called out.
"Yes, sir… well, if you're Mr. Halvern?" Logan replied, offering a slightly awkward smile.
"That I am," Halvern said with a chuckle. He tapped one of the crates, then carried it to a barrel and pried it open.
He inspected the goods carefully. Satisfied, he turned back to Logan. "You can drop the other one here." He gestured to a cluster of supplies nearby.
Logan set the crate down, then pulled a folded paper from his pocket and handed it over. Halvern signed it, and Logan took it back and step back.
"Look at this, lads!" Halvern called, lifting a bottle from the crate. "Fine mead from the Unshore Port. I've been waiting long enough for this."
He uncorked it and took a generous sip. His eyes lit up.
"Ah! Even better cold!" he laughed, raising the bottle toward his companions.
Then he turned his attention back to Logan.
"You're a rare sight to behold," Halvern remarked. "You and your friends used to run together all the time. Thought you'd gone soft—afraid of honest work. But look at you now… stronger, quicker. Learned that somewhere, did you?"
"Yes, sir… I was apprenticed of a knight" Logan said, his voice faltering slightly.
Halvern let out a short, impressed laugh. "Well now, that's a stroke of fortune, lad. I half thought you'd fallen in with some street swindlers—your friends' words, not mine. Said you'd been taken in by some rough sort." He shook his head. "Glad to see it was a man of honour instead."
His expression softened, the humor fading.
"And your master… how fares he?"
Logan nodded. "He… fell in battle."
"Lioris preserve his soul," Halvern murmured. "I am sorry to hear it. A good warrior, no doubt—and a fine master." He sighed. "Make proper use of what he taught you, lad. Not many knights would look upon a commoner, let alone teach him the art of war. Do not dishonour him."
"I will, sir. I won't." Logan straightened, resolve settling into his tone.
"Good lad. Now, here—" Halvern drew a pouch and pressed a silver coin into Logan's hand. "Get yourself something for breakfast. You'll need your strength today, I wager. And if you happen upon your friends, tell them there's work here—heavy work, the kind that needs muscle."
"I will, Mr. Halvern. I'll be going now." Logan bowed lightly.
"Farewell, lad. Good hunting."
Logan left Halvern and his workers behind. His gaze drifted toward a large bulletin board nearby, cluttered with papers.
The board stood like a restless hive of parchment, layered with overlapping notices—some fresh and crisp, others curled and fading at the edges. Inked headlines shouted of distant troubles, local disputes, missing goods, and quiet opportunities. Wax seals clung stubbornly to a few official postings, while hastily pinned flyers flapped whenever the wind slipped through the street.
A small crowd gathered around it, reading intently. Some tore notices free and hurried off with elsewhere.
Logan stepped closer and scanned the board before plucking a single flyer from its surface. He walked away, weaving through the thinning crowd until he found a quieter spot to read.
It was a commission—seeking a trustworthy handler to retrieve an item from a distant location and deliver it safely to a client. Payment would be given only after inspection.
Logan frowned slightly. He didn't understand every detail, but he grasped enough.
A job.
He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. then continue breezing the busy street ahead.
Logan was illiterate. He could not read what was written on the flyer, yet through experience he had learned to piece together meaning from fragments—symbols, patterns, and familiar phrasing.
Fortunately, he did not need full understanding.
Most retrieval work began at the Provisioner Clique near the Trade Hub. All he needed was to remember the emblem and present himself there. If the details eluded him, they would be explained in time.
He had once worked as a hired hand alongside his friends.
Those had been the best days of his life—simple, loud, and full of laughter. But things changed when Sir Edward Gustmill offered him a position as keeper to his daughter.
At first, it seemed an easy, if peculiar, task. Caring for a child was the work of a maidservant, not a boy like him. And for a knight, hiring proper help would have been no difficulty.
That illusion shattered the moment he met her.
Kimberly Mae Gustmill.
She seemed less a girl than a living madness—unruly, untamed, and burdened with a mind that strayed from reason. Rumours clung to her name like cursed she was, tales of theft, violence, and evil best left unsaid.
Yet none dared act against her, not even the guards. Perhaps her father's rank as a knight was shield enough.
But there was more.
Whenever she brought trouble upon herself, someone in cleric's robes would appear to pull her free. And when no one came, it seemed the world itself bent to protect her.
Logan had seen it with his own eyes.
She walked through fire unburned, fell from the height of a tower unbroken, and no hand dared rise against her, for those who tried met dire consequences.
He knew this all too well.
Once, in a moment of anger, he had struck her—and paid dearly for it. Not by his master's hand, but through a relentless chain of misfortune. He stumbled where there was no obstacle, fumbled where his grip had been sure, and bobbled his head where nothing stood in his way.
It was as though his very existent rejected him.
In time, he came to understand what it meant to be her keeper—and how heavy that burden truly was.
Sir Edward had seen his efforts.
In recognition, he rewarded him with a privilege beyond his statue—the guidance in sword mastery.
Like any boy, Logan accepted with eager heart.
All that he had learned was to better himself in handling the girl—to keep her out of trouble.
As Logan drifted through memory, the present snapped back to him.
A sharp gasp rippled through the crowd.
He looked up, following the tide of startled murmurs. Fingers pointed skyward, voices rose in alarm. Above, on the rooftop, a small silhouette skipped lightly along the edge—a girl, moving with careless delight.
She reached the end of the building and paused where a gap split the rooftops apart. The narrow walkway bridge that connected the two buildings lay on the far side of the roof—too distant to circle back to, or perhaps simply too unimportant for her to care.
The girl looked at it, then back at the gap.
Then, with great seriousness, she began hopping in place.
Once.
Twice.
A third time, with extra enthusiasm.
"Is she… really trying to jump?" someone muttered.
"She's not going to—"
Each hop sent loose snow sliding off the tiles.
"No, no, no—please don't do it!" a woman cried.
Snow crumbled over the edge in soft cascades. People below shuffled backward, some raising their arms and yell at the girl as if that might help attracting her attention.
The girl continued, she edged closer, until the tips of her boots peeked over the ledge. Then she leaned forward, peering down at the street below.
A sea of horrified faces looked back up at her.
"Owwwy…" she said thoughtfully.
Now they could see her clearly.
She wore a coat of fluffy pink fur, though faint stains of red marred its softness. The colour clung strangely, as though the coat itself had lost its brilliantness, giving it an unsettling air.
"Someone get a guard!"
"Where are all the city guards?!"
"They were here a minutes ago!"
The girl tilted her head, studying the crowd as though they were the curious ones. Then, with a sudden slip, her cap loosened and fell.
She reached for it instinctively. She lunged for it with her arms flailed. Her balance wavered.
"Lioris mercy!"
Half the crowd grasped in unison.
But somehow, miraculously, she steadied herself again.
The cap was less fortunate.
It drifted down and caught on a lone wooden beam jutting from the wall beneath her.
The girl stared at it.
Then, slowly, she knelt and lowered herself, hands and knees pressing against the slick tiles. She stretched her arm toward the cap.
"Don't. Don't do that," a woman pleaded.
The girl stretched her arm.
Too short.
She leaned further.
Still too short.
Then, as if struck by inspiration, she turned and began easing herself over the edge, feet first.
Her small hands clung to the roof with her feet dangling out searching for the beam below.
Still finding none, she keeps lowering herself.
Yet she still could not reach the beam—she was simply too short.
Now she hung there, dangling and swaying slightly, her grip trembling against the wet, icy surface.
Tension began to raised ever more among the crowd. They could not think of anything, still hoping for a guard to rescue the child.
It made no sense to them.
Not a single guard in sight. In any other moment, they would have been there already.
Logan felt the same tightening dread as the others.
But unlike them—he did not move in panic. He was calm, he was trained by his master for similar situation.
He drew in a breath, gathering the flow of magic around and within him, guiding it down into his legs. Power coiled there, tightening like a spring waiting to snap.
His eyes traced the distance. The fall. The angle. The moment. The Trajectory.
Above, the girl's fingers slipped—
Logan moved.
Magic burst from his legs as he launched himself upward, fast and forceful, his body cutting through the air like a stone flung from a trebuchet. The world narrowed to a single point—the girl.
He had already calculated it.
But—
Something was wrong.
As he neared the beam, the space where she should have been was empty.
His momentum carried him past it, too fast to stop.
Logan twisted midair, instinct taking over. The wall rushed toward him. At the last instant, he slammed his foot against it, using the impact to redirect himself upward, toward the roof of the building.
Thud! –Screech!
He landed with a roughly, boots scraping against the tiles as he steadied himself. Panic flared in his chest.
He rushed to the edge and looked down.
Nothing.
No fallen body of a girl. But a shocked and confused faced from the crowed still staring upward. But not to him. To something else.
He turned—and froze.
There, across the gap, the girl was running. Not on a roof. But through the air itself.
As the girl landed, her steps were uneven, clumsy. Then she tumbled, landing hard on the rooftop near the distant walkway.
The girl did not pause.
She simply scrambled onto her hands and knees, crawled the remaining distance to the walkway, then pulled herself up and broke into a run again, as if nothing had happened.
Logan stared, his thoughts scattering like startled birds.
His voice barely left his lips.
Then, quieter—uncertain, almost disbelieving—
"…buckteeth?" Logan frowned.
'No… it could not be… Kimmi…' He wondered.
He knew Kimmi antics well—better than any, save perhaps Ruben or Leliana. And yet the thought rang false.
Kimmi was never left to wander alone. Never.
Her mother, Catherine, kept her confined within their home, doors looked tight. Only under the care of her father, Sir Edward, was she permitted to step beyond those walls. At times her mother accompanied them, yet never—never—was the girl allowed to roam alone.
There was reason for such vigilance.
Kimmi was a most troublesome child.
She will not listen. She will not learn. She would never behave as other children would. Wrong meant nothing to her, and it was never she who bore the consequences; it was always someone else who blamed for it.
And worst of all—she did not care.
Not for those around her. Not for the harm she stirred. Not for anything beyond her own fleeting whims.
At times she obeyed her parents, yet only when it pleased her—only when it served her desires.
Logan drew a slow breath, his jaw tightening.
He had long pitied his master.
Sir Edward lived as though within an unseen cage, his strength was vast but in spirited worn thin day by day, siphoned away by the relentless menace that was his daughter. Logan could scarcely remember a time he had seen the knight true smile—only that imitation, cheery face.
It stirred anger within him.
He hated it. Hated every moment of it.
A bitter thought rose in him—Kimmi was unworthy of such love.
Logan stilled himself.
His gaze lingered upon the distant rooftops where the girl had vanished.
For a time, he stood in silence.
Then he turned away.
He closed his eyes and set his feet upon the opposite path.
He had no duty left toward her. No bond. No obligation. Had he not seen her, her fate would have passed him by as any strangers might. Yet he had seen her—and in that fleeting instant, she had fallen beneath his watch.
Step by step he went on, though his thoughts lagged stubbornly behind.
Logan halted.
"…stupid buckteeth," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Stupid…"
He turned sharply, scanning the rooftops where last she had been.
Gone.
"Damn it…"
He broke into a jog—then faster still.
His stride lengthened, boots striking the tile in urgent rhythm. He did not wish for this. Did not wish to chase her. Did not wish to care.
Yet if harm should befall her—if anything should come to pass while she remained within his knowing—he would not forgive himself.
For it would be a dishonour upon all his master had taught him.
His resolve hardened.
He would find her.
He had no cause, no reason to remain, yet one fleeting instant would not be in vain.
Familiar Familial
Not far from the Trade Hub, the 18th District was full of ordinary life. It had been designed as a residential area for the people of Limelight City, and residents were forbidden from turning their homes into store.
Yet, due to its proximity to the Trade Hub, some still took the opportunity to conduct business on the streets with stalls and carts, which was not against the law.
Because of this, the roads and streets of the 18th District grew narrow and often suffered from terrible congestion.
The street pressed on in its usual rhythm—voices rising, coins clinking, carts creaking through the narrow lanes. For a moment, nothing seemed out of place.
Then—a man stumble and collapsed.
He fell to his knees, coughing violently, as if something had torn loose inside him. A few people rushed to help, but before they could reach him, he went still. Another cough echoed nearby—then another body dropped.
Confusion spread like a web.
"What's happening—?"
More people began to fall.
Like waves of breeze unseen moving through the crowd. One moment standing, the next coughing and collapsing without warning.
Panic rose. People tried to flee, pushing through stalls and scattering goods across the road—but the same fate followed them. They ran only to stumble, coughing mid-step, falling one after another.
Within moments, the street turned chaotic. The lively market was swallowed by panic and silence in equal measure, as bodies dropped across the road like leaves swept by an invisible breeze that spared no one in its path.
Somewhere within the 18th District, far from the chaos and hidden from sight.
Logan kept running, searching for Kimmi.
At last, he caught sight of her again—still racing dangerously across the rooftops.
He could not fathom why she continue running, though experience had long taught him that seeking reason in someone plague by madness will become mad themself. Yet something about her manner gave him pause—she kept glancing over her shoulder.
Logan quickened his pace and charged toward her.
Kimmi noticed him at once.
Rather than flee, she stopped—tilted her head—and squinted, as though trying to recall whether he was someone she might know, or particularly interesting stranger that might course her trouble.
As Logan drew nearer, her eyes widened.
"Oogan!!" she exclaimed in delighted surprise.
Then, as if remembering she was meant to be running, she spun and bolted once more.
Only to reach the end of the path.
The row of buildings gave way to a wide street, where a grand roundabout stood, cantered by a weathered statue. The road split into branching paths, the buildings spaced wider apart as the street opened toward the cities main thoroughfare.
Any reasonable person would have stopped.
Kimmi did not.
She jumped from the rooftop and did not fall, but continued running through the open air.
"…what." Logan stood in shocked.
He could scarcely believe it—Kimmi walking through the air—again. He had seen it moment ago, but he dismissed it. Believed it as a trick of his eyes, but seeing it again left no room for doubt.
Even the most advanced wind mages struggled to hold themselves aloft. Yet here she was—running, quite poorly but enthusiastically, on the surface of the air.
After a moment, Logan slowed his pace.
He could not follow her there.
But magic, he knew, always had its limits.
"…you'll come down," he muttered, folding his arms with reluctant patience.
Sure enough—she did.
Kimmi landed, though not where he expected, but atop the high wall dividing the 18th and 16th districts.
Far beyond his reach, even with his skilled.
Logan exhaled.
Relief, at last.
And then—annoyance.
Kimmi stood upon the wall, peering down at him with unmistakable mockery.
"Win! Win!" she declared, pointing at him. "Lose!"
She giggled, entirely too pleased with herself.
Logan smirked despite himself. "Enjoy it while you can, buckteeth. The guards will have you reported to your mother soon enough. Let's see who laughs then. No more playtime for you."
Kimmi puffed her cheeks. "Hummp!"
She crossed her arms proudly. "Kimmi have cane. Cane love Kimmi," she said, patting something beneath her coat. Then she began counting on her fingers. "Kimmi have Iila… Ooben…"
She paused.
She glanced at her fingers. Only two remained, perhaps the only friends she knew.
She looks around her.
"Iila… Ooben… no here…" she muttered, her voice dipping with brief sadness. Then she return her gaze back at Logan. "Oogan here… not friend." She sighs.
"Well, that's fortunate," Logan said chuckle.
Suddenly, her face lit up.
"Roa… here!" she tapped her head eagerly. "Roaa Kimmi sister!"
"…Huh? What?!" He could not hear her.
"ShhhH! Roa sleeping…" Kimmi warned Logan for being loud.
Logan blinked, thoroughly lost.
He glanced at her pink cap, wondering if perhaps she was talking about her cap.
Kimmi, clearly dissatisfied with his lack of admiration, thrust a hand into her coat.
The fabric shifted around.
As though something inside her coat moving and alive.
With great effort, she pulled it free.
A small creature emerged—feline in shape, with soft brown fur with delicate feathered wings.
A Cataura.
"Hehehe!" Kimmi giggled, rubbing her cheek against it. "New friend!"
The creature, for its part, looked deeply opposed to this arrangement and attempted to escape.
It failed.
After a vigorous and one-sided display of affection, Kimmi stuffed it back into her coat.
Logan's expression darkened.
"You're going to suffocate it!" he yelled. "Let it out, you fool!"
Kimmi shook her head stubbornly. "Kimmi save cat!"
"That's not a cat—it's a Cataura! A magical beast!"
Kimmi only grinned, entirely unconvinced.
"Stupid buckteeth…" Logan muttered.
He sighed, then glanced about—
—and paused.
Something was wrong.
The street, once lively, had thinned.
Carriages stood abandoned along the roadside, some with doors still ajar. People were moving away—quietly, hurriedly—as though retreating from something unknown.
Even the usual noise of the district had dimmed, like a terrible omen preparing it stage.
Logan frowned.
"…what is going on?"
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The wall thundered with sudden violence.
Logan snapped his head toward the sound. Smoke and dust burst outward, swallowing the place where Kimmi had stood only moments before.
Through the drifting haze, a figure emerged. A man—bulky, but frail seemingly injured.
Yet standing with unsettling readiness.
He wore a refined black suit, paired with sleek dark trousers. In his hand rested a three-barrel flintlock, its muzzles still breathing thin strands of grey smoke.
His gaze fixed upon the dense dust.
"Come out, brat!" he barked, his voice rough with strain. "Show yourself!"
He coughed violently.
No answer came.
The dust did not settle.
It lingered—unnaturally thick, as though clinging to the air itself. The longer he waited, the more his agitation grew. At last, with a snarl, he raised the flintlock and fired blindly into the haze.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The blasts echoed across the district.
Logan felt the shockwave ripple through the air around him. Not enough to stagger him—but enough to breeze him.
The thought struck him hard—someone dared attacking the wall in open day.
He could not understand it. The guards should have struck the man down by now, or at least swarmed him in numbers.
"Where are all the guards?!" Logan grunted, scanning the area in confusion, searching for any sign of authority.
With no one intervening, his thoughts began to race. 'Could it be…? Was the city under attack?'
Logan did not believe in coincidence. Perhaps the city itself was under siege—for what else could leave the walls so utterly ungarrisoned?
This was no isolated madness.
"Damn it," he gritted. He had to save Kimmi.
There was a route to the wall, though it required a long detour. He clenched his hand, readied his wooden sword, and surged forward, running to reach Kimmi.
Back upon the wall, the man staggered.
He coughed again—then retched, collapsing to one knee. His body trembled as though it fought itself.
"Grr… show yourself…" he rasped.
Then—
Clog… Clog… Clog…
The soft, hollow rhythm of wooden shoes echoed through the dust.
The haze thinned.
And there she stood.
Kimmi.
Seem to be unharmed.
Finally the dust settle, and revealed Kimmi covered her face with furry creature. She stood there in place looking at the man—not with fear, nor anger—but with a distant, absent curiosity.
She held the beast Cataura against her face, its wings fluttering weakly as it struggled for breath.
The creature writhed in her grip.
At last, she lowered herself and release the beast gently upon the ground.
The Cataura immediately flee from Kimmi. Its tiny body trembled as it dragged itself along the stone fence.
Kimmi followed after it, squatting low like a duck. When the creature collapsed, she reached out and began to stroke it softly.
Like the man before her, the beast Cataura too was afflicted with the same illness.
"Why won't you just die…" the man groaned, barely holding himself upright.
His arm trembled as he raised the flintlock.
But his strength faltered. His fingers weaken.
With shaking hands, he fumbled into his coat, producing a small bottle. He tore it open with his teeth and drank deeply.
Slowly—his strength returned. But barely enough to vitalize him.
He raised the weapon again, aiming straight at Kimmi's head.
"Die!"
He squishes the trigger—
BAM!
A strike shattered his balance.
His knee buckled. The shot went wide, the bullet screaming past and striking a nearby watchtower.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
A second strike followed—sharp, precise—knocking the weapon clean from his grasp, sending it tumbling over the edge of the wall.
A third came for his head—but he blocked it.
His eyes snapped toward his attacker.
A boy stood before him.
Black-haired. Lightly clothed. A wooden sword gripped firmly in hand.
Logan.
He was gasping for air as he pushed himself to the limit, racing toward the wall and quickly took his chance striking the stranger.
"…another fool," the man spat mouth full of saliva.
Logan stood his ground, breath steady despite the distance he had run moment ago.
Up close, the man was worse than he had seemed. No visible wound marked him—yet his body failed him. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose ran freely, and his mouth hung open, drool slipping unheeded down his chin.
Something was deeply wrong.
Logan turned briefly to Kimmi.
She stood unharmed—yet not untouched. Bloodstains blended into the pink of her coat, almost camouflaged, the colour deepening from soft rose to dark red as time passed. She might have been bleeding without even realizing it.
He gazes turned back to the man before him.
"Who are you?" Logan demanded.
The man clicked his tongue.
Then moved.
Fast.
A butterfly knife flashed into his hand as he closed the distance, striking downward in a swift and precise.
Logan raised his wooden blade to block—and watched in shock as the knife sliced through his sword like butter.
His body reacted before thought. He leaned back—stepped away, but too slow.
The blade came for his neck.
Cold terror seized him.
He could not move in time—
Then—
The man coughed violently, his strike faltering and missing Logan's neck, though it still grazed his chin.
Logan stumbled back, widening the distance between them.
He realized at once that the man was no ordinary man; he bore the strength of a knight, and his blade sharpness proved it well enough.
"…foolish child," the man rasped. "So green… enough. You die first."
Lightning crackled along his arm, gathering with a sharp hiss. The air itself seemed to tense.
He crouched, ready to poise.
Just as he about to lunge at Logan, he stopped and turned, his instincts prickling as he sensed someone was behind him.
It was Kimmi, just right beside him, gazing in awe at the lightning crackling around him.
"Uuuuwaa…" she mesmerized.
He thrust his blade toward her eyes, but Kimmi slipped aside by mere centimetres. He pressed the attack, yet every strike failed to find its mark.
Again and again, his blade passed within a hair's breadth of her, as though some unseen force turned his blows into little more than a performance.
Logan watched as Kimmi stumbled about in the most ungraceful manner imaginable, yet somehow avoided it all, as though the blade itself had gone dulled from every failed swing and thrust.
Sweat gathered on Logan's brow. He understood it well enough.
The Curse of Feebleminded.
He had never seen the curse fully manifest before, always dismissing it as simple misfortune whenever it happened to him.
Even now, he still recalled the day at the park, when an ill-fated joke led to him accidentally hitting her head with pebble, and the crowd turned on him. Even his mother and sister mock him. Everyone in the city seems to know what he had done.
The man grew furious at Kimmi, absentmindedly dodge his attack.
Logan alarmed by a change in magic around them.
"Run, Kimmi!" Logan shouted.
"Lightning magic—Shockwave!"
He charged his lightning and unleashed a blast with his punch.
Kimmi managed to dodge the strike, but not the lightning itself. The electricity coursed through her body, and she jittered violently under the continuous shock.
Seizing the opening, the man lunged in to stab her.
"Finally! Die!" he cried, eyes alight with excitement.
But once again, Kimmi dodged—even while still being electrocuted. She fell flat onto the ground and rolled around while smoke rising from her coat.
"Hot!" she said, blinking, seemingly unbothered.
Kimmi pushed herself up and began brushing off her coat. Seeing it dirtied and partially burned, her expression turned troubled. How was she supposed to meet her mother now, dressed like this?
"Bad! Bad man!" she shouted, pointing at him angrily.
"…Impossible," the man muttered, truly shocked that the girl was still alive after everything he had done.
Logan rushed toward the man.
"Sword Mastery—Pierce thrust!" logan extended his half wooden sword forward, and a pressure form on the tips of the broken wood and rush through the man shoulder.
"Lightning magic—Crushing jolt!" the man pointed his toward the sword pressure and shattered it.
Logan was thrown by the force of lightning. He was stumble on ground rolling further until the force stopped.
The man snapped his attention back to the girl. With a ragged breath, he gathered what remained of his magic and surged forward.
"Lightning Magic—Shockwave!"
Kimmi blinked as the attack came rushing toward her.
"Arrrt… Oof Triikery—Sann Uust!" she declared with great confidence and absolutely no clarity.
At once, a cloud of sand burst into being, swirling thickly around her. Dust rose and twisted, swallowing her small figure whole.
The man lunged—but was too late.
The lightning dispersed into the choking haze, its brilliance dulled, its force scattered like sparks lost in a dust.
Suddenly, his strength failed him, and he dropped to one knee, breathing harshly and unevenly.
"…you…" he rasped, staring into the dust. "What are you?"
"Me?" her voice echoed lightly from within the haze. "Kimmi!"
Two faint golden eyes shimmered through the swirling dust.
The man let out a dry, broken laugh.
"…I see… Kimmi… you are a monstrous child." His voice trembled. "I should have killed you the moment you wandered into our base… comrades… comrades… I will join you soon…"
With trembling hands, he pulled out a small bronze artifact and crushed it in his grip—or tried to.
It did not break.
A thin, shimmering membrane wrapped around it like a bubble, resisting his strength.
His eyes widened.
Someone had sealed his artifact before he could even activate it.
His instincts screamed.
As he turned to look behind, he saw a figure in a white robed with a club in hand, ready to swing at him.
Then—
SMACK!
A sharp crack rang out as a club struck the man's head, and he collapsed, stunned. As he lifted his head again, he saw a figure in leather armour, longsword in hand, standing beside the robed figure.
"Bloody bastard!" the armoured man snarled. "Die!"
His blade plunged down without hesitation, piercing the man's chest, killing him on the spot.
The lightning flickered—and shattered like brittle glass.
Unsatisfied, the armoured man raised his sword again, ready to decapitate a dead man body.
"Sir Harword, stop!" The robed figure's voice cut through the moment, tired but firm. "He is already dead. Further damage will only hinder the inquisitor's investigation."
"Stop?" Harward spat, trembling with rage. "After what he's done—" His voice broke.
Suddenly, his strength failed him.
He dropped to his knees and retched onto the stone.
"They… killed everyone…" he choked. "My wife… my niece…"
The robed figure knelt beside him. "Do not overexert yourself. You have been exposed to the poison." Their tone worried.
The robed figure took a flintlock from Harward's belt and stood up. He raised it to the sky and fired. A smoky yellow flare shot upward, bright enough to be seen across the entire district.
The robed figure continues his work and bent over the corpse, removed the sealed artifact, and placed it into Harward's prepared box.
"That artifact could be another bomb…" Harward said weakly, still leaning against the wall.
"Unsure… but he was determined to use it here," the robed figure replied. "I saw a kid laying on the floor... on my way here"
"A good lad… former apprentice of Sir Edward. I saw the kid running toward the wall in a hurry… thought nothing of it until the explosion occurred," Harward explained. "He was injured, but only slightly."
"He must be a good fighter… for a kid, to survive this…" the robed figure said, looking over the damage around him.
The dust air still lingered around the wall, obstructing view to the district below.
Slowly the dust thinned and revealed everything clearly.
"Vvvv?"
A small voice startled the robed figure. He turned toward it and saw a little girl sitting on the ground, a weakened Cataura beast resting in her lap.
"Kimberly?!" the robed figure gasped.
It was Vyset, Crescent Cleric Healer.
"Vvvvvv!"
Kimmi burst with energy, running toward her while holding the beast high above her head. As she drew near, she suddenly stopped.
"Roa friend! Kimmi friend!" she declared proudly. Then, more softly, she added, "New friend…"
She lifted the creature toward Vyset as if presenting a treasure.
"That's my daughter's pet!" Harward exclaimed.
"No! Mine!" Kimmi argued at once, trying to hide the beast back inside her coat.
Vyset crouched immediately, her attention snapping to Kimmi. "What are you doing here? And what happened to your coat—are you hurt? Oh, Lioris have mercy…"
Her hands moved quickly as she checked Kimmi over, then froze.
Her breath caught.
A deep wound cut across Kimmi's shoulder, piercing through to her back. Burn marks scarred her coat, and the faint scent of scorched fabric lingered in the air.
And yet—
Kimmi only blinked up at her, distracted, as though the injury meant nothing at all.
Vyset's expression darkened. "Her sickness manifests again… this means… she never truly recovered…" she murmured.
A distant horn echoed across the district.
Moments later, armoured boots thundered against stone wall.
A squad of guards arrived first, spreading out in disciplined formation, followed by a knight clad in reinforced plate.
The knight surveyed the damage wall and tower, the scorched marks, and finally the single corpse lying nearby.
"…Report," he said coldly, eyes narrowing. "What happened here?"
Harward stepped forward, still unsteady but upright. "There was explosion occurred here moment ago and a suspicious individual now dead tried to armed the artifact which failed by Cleric Vyset sealed magic."
The knight studied him for a long moment, then gave a short nod.
"where are your man?" the knight question.
"most of my have fallen sir…"he look downed.
The knight exhaled once, then turned sharply to his men.
"Secure the district," he ordered. "No one enters or leaves. I want every suspicious movement accounted for."
Steel shifted as the guards responded in unison.
"Yes, sir!"
The district seemed to tighten around itself, as if the city had begun to hold its breath.
And amid it all—
Kimmi simply hugged her strange little creature tighter, unaware that she had everything to do with it all.
Unruly and bright, with no sense or fraid, Yet even disaster feels oddly delayed.