The Monarch was a dangerous guy, is what Mr. Wyvern thought to himself. He lay on the roof of a building with blood leaking out of his side and his arm slightly bent, the Monarch standing above him looking down, a pair of power-dampening cuffs in his hands.
"You made this harder on yourself," the Monarch's voice came out booming as well as, annoyingly so, Mr. Wyvern thought.
"Yeah, yeah," Mr. Wyvern yawned, covering his mouth with his working arm. "Just take me in already. I have a meeting tomorrow and I want medical treatment before then."
The Monarch just sighed and placed the cuffs on Mr. Wyvern's wrist, but as he was about to throw him over his shoulder, a bullet struck his calf and he screamed out in pain as he looked around.
Mr. Wyvern leaned back on the edge of the roof and sighed. "Great, that guy is here." And right on cue, Silvester Park fell from the sky, landing behind the Monarch, leg-sweeping him, but nothing happened as the Monarch stood firm and grabbed Silvester by the arm and slammed him into the floor.
"You idiot," Wyvern sighed, yawning as he wiped blood off his leg.
Silvester broke free and hopped back, clutching his side. "Bitch, cut me some slack. My ass is out here tryna save ya and all you do is ridicule me."
"Ridicule, really? When did your vocabulary improve? Did you consume a dictionary on your way here?" Violet's voice came from above as she fell gracefully out of a purple vortex in the sky, landing beside Wyvern with a stoic expression on her face.
"Really, Vee? Eating a dictionary? That was the best you could come up with? After six years together I'd hope you'd be on my level of comedy."
"I prefer not playing around with the enemy."
"So boring, innit, Wyve?"
"Never call me that again." Wyvern said as Violet pried the cuffs off his wrists. Adjusting his tie, he flicked his wrist and a chunk of metal from a ventilation shaft bent and flew into the Monarch, wrapping around his legs. It wouldn't hold him for more than a fraction of a second, but that was enough.
Violet's body erupted in purple smoke. When the area cleared, they were gone, swallowed up by the purple smoke as the Monarch stood there with a dark expression, cursing under his breath.
One moment the rooftop cracked under the Monarch's boots, the next the world folded away in violet silence. When the smoke thinned and dissolved back into Violet's skin, they stood in the heart of the Underground Kingdoms North Hospital's central medical wing.
The air hummed with the low thrum of bioluminescent algae strips woven into the ceiling, casting a soft teal glow over rows of cots and salvaged steel gurneys. The scent of antiseptic mixed with damp stone and the faint iron tang of blood—always blood down here. A few nurses in faded grey scrubs glanced up from their charts, unsurprised.
Violet's knees buckled the instant the mist faded. She flopped backward onto the nearest empty bed, chest heaving, purple wisps still curling lazily from her fingertips like dying embers. Her vision swam. Six rapid jumps in under ten minutes—pushing her limit, even after all these years. The old village days felt like a lifetime ago, when one mist-step had been enough to feel like magic. Now it felt like dragging her soul through concrete.
Wyvern eased himself onto the edge of the same bed, movements deliberate, suit jacket already half-off. Blood soaked the white shirt beneath, a dark bloom spreading from the gash along his ribs. He didn't wince. Never did. With a flick of two fingers, the metal cuff of his sleeve melted and flowed like liquid mercury, reshaping into a thin glove that he pressed against the wound. The alloy cooled, sealing the edges with surgical precision while he wrapped a strip of gauze over it with his free hand.
"Show-off," Silvester muttered, but there was no bite in it—yet. He was already pacing, boots scuffing the stone floor in tight circles between the beds, rifle slung across his back like an angry cat's tail. "Fucking Monarch. Eastern Kingdom's golden boy, number-one-ranked hero my ass. Guy's got the personality of a brick wall and the grip strength of a hydraulic press. I drop out of the sky, perfect gunman setup—leg sweep a textbook work of art —and what does he do? Stands there like I flicked a goddamn mosquito at him. Slammed me so hard I tasted yesterday's breakfast twice."
He spun on his heel, gesturing wildly with both hands. "And you—" pointing at Wyvern "—just yawn. Yawn! Like he's a mild inconvenience on your way to tea time. I'm out here risking my perfectly sculpted everything to save your metal-bending hide, and you're all 'yeah yeah, just cuff me already.' Mate, I swear on every bat in sector nine, next time I'm letting him keep you as a lawn ornament."
Wyvern didn't look up from the gauze. "You missed the cuff throw by three centimetres. Monarch caught it mid-air. Your zoom's off today."
Silvester threw his hands up. "Off? Off? I had an eighteen-times lock on his kneecap! The bullet was singing my name. Then gravity and that bastard's calf decided to have a disagreement with physics. And don't even get me started on the swearing I heard when we poofed—guy sounded like a sailor who just lost his favourite hooker. Good. Hope it festers."
Violet managed a weak laugh from the bed, eyes half-lidded but fixed on Wyvern's hands. Working hard to repair himself just to go back out into the dangerous unknown. And yet he was the only man she believed could.
A nurse bustled over with a tray of synth-skin patches and painkillers. Wyvern accepted them with a nod, pressing the patch to his side; the alloy glove dissolved back into his sleeve. Within minutes the bleeding slowed to nothing. Silvester kept pacing, still ranting—something about "hero rankings being a scam for pretty boys with capes" and "if I ever see that mask again I'm ricocheting a round straight up his—"
"Enough," Violet cut in softly, sitting up. The dizziness had faded. "We're all breathing. That's the win."
Silvester stopped mid-stride, grinned at her. "Yeah, yeah, Miss Stoic. But admit it—my entrance was cinematic. Ten out of ten. Should've filmed it."
Wyvern stood, rolling his shoulder once to test the seal. The wound was already knitting. "We're moving. And yes, it was pretty decent." He said while tossing Silvester a hidden camera that had been on his collar.
Silvester snatched it out the air with glee as he attached it to his phone and played through the footage while Wyvern got up and headed for the door.
He started for the exit archway without another word. Silvester and Violet fell in behind him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Oi, hold up, silent sword saint," Silvester called, jogging to catch stride. "Been six months since the three of us ran a proper op together. Seven Hells don't do lone-wolf shit—King's orders, especially after your bitch ass ditched us for that old man on more occasions than one, remember? Share the deets or I start singing the bat-shit story again. Loudly."
Violet kept pace on Wyvern's other side, purple mist flickering faintly at her ankles, ready. "He's right. You don't have to carry everything alone anymore, Alex."
Wyvern's steps didn't falter. "Mission's done. Just had to speak to the kings 'chosen one' and guess I wasn't the only one who wanted an interview. He Chased me across three sectors. World rankers… cut above the rest. Even with metal under my control, he read every feint. Nearly had me cuffed before you two dropped in."
Silvester whistled low. "One guy? The Monarch took you that close? Shit. Eastern top dog really does earn the paycheck."
They reached the hospital's outer corridor—rough-hewn stone lit by hanging lanterns. Wyvern paused at the junction that split toward the western branch tunnels. "Western Kingdom surface access. Tunnels still open?"
A passing medic overheard and shook his head without slowing. "Sealed last week. Cave-in at the old elevator shaft. Nexus patrols sniffing around the collapse too. Whole western spur's dark."
Wyvern exhaled through his nose—his version of a sigh. "Surface route, then. Caves. Old college exit."
Violet's hand brushed his sleeve for half a second. "We're coming."
He didn't argue. Just turned toward the maintenance hatch that led into the labyrinth of service passages snaking upward.
The climb took hours. Narrow crawlways slick with condensation, rusted ladders that groaned under their weight, caverns where glowing fungi painted the walls in sickly greens and blues. Silvester filled the silence with more stories—half of them exaggerated, all of them loud—while Violet teleported short hops to scout ahead, reappearing with quiet reports of clear paths. Wyvern led, metal from the walls occasionally flowing up to reinforce a crumbling rung or seal a crack that threatened to give way.
They emerged through a hidden panel behind a dusty storage closet in the basement of the old Northen Kingdom College of Applied Sciences. The door clicked shut behind them, blending seamlessly into the stone wall. Wyvern stepped into the hallway first, suit jacket straightened, tie perfect, bloodstains already absorbed and reshaped by his power. Students streamed past—late for afternoon lectures, backpacks slung, voices echoing off vaulted ceilings. No one gave the tall, dark-haired man in the tailored suit a second glance. Teacher. Obviously.
Silvester and Violet hung back twenty metres, keeping distance. Violet's mist flared once—quick, precise—and she vanished, reappearing thirty seconds later in a swirl of purple beside a supply closet two floors up. When she misted back to Silvester, she was transformed: a deep purple and crimson dress hugging her frame, modest collar, sleeves to the elbow. Hair pinned up in a neat bun, wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, a stolen leather teacher bag slung over one shoulder. She looked every inch the young adjunct professor returning from sabbatical.
Silvester had changed too—Violet had grabbed his outfit mid-teleport as well. Cobalt suit jacket and trousers, crisp white shirt. His silver-streaked blonde hair was damp and slightly tousled; apparently the supply closet had doubled as a water warzone between two students with spray bottles. He immediately shrugged the blazer off, tossing it into a trash bin and shrugging his battered grey biker jacket back on over the dress shirt. The contrast was ridiculous, but for someone like him, it worked.
"Looking sharp, Vee," he muttered, falling into step beside her as they shadowed Wyvern from across the atrium. "Glasses? Really? You trying to make the students swoon or what? Looking hot as always."
Violet adjusted them, eyes never leaving Wyvern's back two corridors ahead. "Blends better than bloodstained leather. And you smell like cheap body spray and regret."
"Hey, the kids doused me. Not my fault their aim's worse than a drunk junerug recruit."
Wyvern moved through the halls with purpose, nodding once at a cluster of students who parted for him automatically. Inside his chest, something itched. A scent threading through the recycled air—faint at first, then stronger. Copper. Rot. The unmistakable metallic-sweet stench of dismembered bodies and exposed organs left too long in warm air. Not the clean battlefield smell he knew from raids. This was deliberate. Surgical. Hidden.
He turned without breaking stride, pretending to check a noticeboard. "Lecture hall B-12 still in use?" he asked a passing freshman, voice low and authoritative.
The boy blinked. "Uh, yeah, Professor… uh, sir. But they moved the advanced metallurgy class to the back end after the flood."
Wyvern nodded as if that made perfect sense. "Thank you." He altered course, heading deeper into the older wing of the building, past trophy cases and faded murals of pre-war sky bridges. The stench grew thicker near the east stairwell. Students thinned out. Maintenance signs warned of "restricted access."
Violet and Silvester watched from the balcony above, mist curling subtly at her feet so she could yank them both to cover if needed.
"Something's off," she whispered. "He's hunting now. That walk—same one he had when he found the cult summoning."
Silvester's eyes zoomed in, powers locking on Wyvern's face from two hundred metres. "Metal in his hands is shifting. Gloves forming. Yeah, he smells it too. We shadowing or jumping in?"
"Shadowing. Let him lead."
Down below, Wyvern descended a back stairwell, footsteps silent. The stench peaked at a utility door marked "Storage—Do Not Enter." He tested the handle—locked. A thread of metal from the hinge melted and reformed into a pick. Click. Inside: dim emergency lighting, shelves of old projectors and broken chairs. But at the far wall, half-hidden behind a stack of crates, a basement hatch. Heavy steel. No markings. No map reference in any tunnel schematic he'd ever seen. The smell poured up from the gap around its edges like smoke from a chimney.
He knelt, fingertips brushing the seam. The metal responded, flowing into thin probes that slipped between the plates. Below: darkness. Echoes of dripping water. And something else—wet, meaty sounds that no maintenance tunnel should make.
Violet misted down beside him a moment later, dress whispering. Silvester dropped from the railing above, landing cat-quiet.
"Found something?" she asked, voice barely above breath.
Wyvern stood. "Not on the maps. Not ours. Smells like a butcher's floor after a long weekend."
Silvester's grin sharpened, eyes already maximum zoom Looking at the very cracks on the floors. "Well, shit. Looks like class is cancelled. You thinking what I'm thinking, boss?"
Wyvern's twin blades began to form at his sides—dark blue metal melting into shape from the metal in his sleeves, edges catching the weak light. "I'm going down. You two keep the hall clear. Students don't need to see this."
Violet's mist coiled at her ankles, glasses reflecting the purple glow. "Not a chance."
Silvester chambered a round in his rifle with a soft click. "I've been dying for something to shoot that isn't the Monarch's invincible calf. Lead the way, tin man me and Dorothy here got your back."
Wyvern looked at them both—really looked. The girl who had once dragged him through mist to safety. The loudmouth who had dragged him into the Gambit. The weight in his chest shifted, loyalty, a feeling he had missed.
He nodded once.
The hatch creaked open under his power. Darkness waited below, thick with secrets and the promise of blood.
The three of them descended together, the old college hallway sealing quietly behind them as if it had never been disturbed.