A flash of light passed through Flandre's hand, and she gently patted Clever's shoulder.
The girl immediately felt a refreshing, uplifting sensation bloom through her chest, completely erasing the heavy exhaustion from moments before. She turned to Flandre, her eyes wide with relief. "Thank you so much!"
Flandre skipped a small circle around her, tossing her head back. "If you feel uncomfortable, you should speak up sooner! What would you have done if you worked yourself into a total faint?"
Clever complained silently to herself. She had no earthly idea that Flandre possessed such incredible magic. If she had known, she would have mentioned her fatigue the second her brow started sweating. Still, it wasn't too late to benefit from the spell now.
As they walked along the wide road, Flandre marveled at the sheer density of the crowds. "There are so many people packed into this place!"
"Keep your voice down," Clever whispered, leaning in close to the group. "There are crowds here because this district houses the largest military foundry in all of Londinium—the Royal Dell Arsenal. It also happens to be one of the zones most strictly monitored by the Sarkaz garrison. We really shouldn't linger in any single spot for too long, or we risk drawing suspicion, which will cause massive problems."
The group walked at a leisurely pace, stopping occasionally while Clever explained the history of the local landmarks like a seasoned tour guide. Just as they turned a sharp street corner, however, her entire body suddenly went rigid.
Noticing the shift, Flandre quickly pulled her behind a stone pillar.
A dozen seconds later, a tall figure walked past their position, his features bearing the unmistakable traits of a high-born Sarkaz. Judging by his tailored attire, he was clearly no ordinary soldier. Most mercenaries could never dream of affording the luxurious, silver-trimmed coat he wore.
Once the man had vanished down the avenue, Clever turned back to meet the curious gazes of her companions, her voice dropping to a tense murmur. "That man is Manfred. He is Theresis's top disciple and his most trusted military enforcer. Did you see the intricate Originium Casting Unit he was holding? That is the Root of Teekaz, a legendary weapon guarded by the Military Committee. Theresis personally bestowed it upon him, and ever since he received it, Manfred almost never lets it leave his grip."
Clever spoke with a heavy trace of disdain, treating the commander as nothing more than a spoiled heir who relied entirely on his master's favoritism and a powerful staff to boss people around.
Remilia, however, had noticed something very different when the man walked past. She had caught the unwavering, firm conviction burning deep within his eyes. Individuals who possessed that specific look walked a path of their own making and were entirely immune to doubt. He was certainly not the shallow caricature Clever made him out to be.
That said, Remilia possessed zero interest in the political squabbles between Theresis and his sister, Theresa. In fact, she looked down on both of these so-called heroes of the Sarkaz race. According to the intelligence her mansion had gathered, these two were biological siblings who had allowed differing political philosophies to drive them apart, eventually turning their blades on one another and soaking the capital streets in blood.
To Remilia, who placed the sanctity of family above everything else in existence, such behavior was thoroughly contemptible.
As the group continued their sightseeing tour, the departed Manfred suddenly paused a block away, his brow furrowing as he looked back over his shoulder.
Something about those travelers felt incredibly strange. Their elegant, unbothered demeanor was completely out of sync with the tense, soot-stained environment of the industrial district. Even more unusual was the way they had looked at him. Their eyes entirely lacked the instinctive worry, dread, and deep-seated fear that ordinary citizens displayed whenever a Sarkaz military officer walked past. Instead, their expressions had been a mixture of casual curiosity and quiet appraisal.
He hadn't encountered a gaze like that in a very long time.
Of course, he had also caught a flash of genuine terror in the eyes of the last girl in their group. She had been afraid of him, which meant she recognized his face and his rank.
By the time Manfred pieced these anomalies together and marched back to the corner to investigate, Remilia's entourage had already vanished into the bustling crowds.
He immediately flagged down a pair of patrolling Sarkaz sentries, demanding to know if they had seen four women in their twenties passing through the sector—as Patchouli's Confusion Charm was currently operating at full strength.
The responses he received left him thoroughly stunned.
Both guards confirmed they had watched a group of four females walk past, but the descriptions they provided were completely irreconcilable. One sentry swore on his life that it was a gathering of young children barely thirteen or fourteen years old, while the other insisted he had clearly seen a frail old grandmother traveling alongside her three adult daughters.
After verifying the precise timestamps and locations, Manfred confirmed that the route and timing described by both men were identical down to the minute. The only variance lay in the physical appearance of the targets.
How could two trained sentries look at the exact same space at the exact same moment and see entirely different people?
Combined with the fact that his own eyes had registered four women in their mid-twenties, the tactical reality became blindingly clear. These intruders were shrouded in a specialized form of magic designed to distort human perception, making it impossible to verify their true identities.
Recognizing the security breach, Manfred summoned a relief squad to take over the post and brought the two bewildered sentries straight back to the command. He sought out Theresis and systematically laid out the entire incident.
"So you are telling me that while all three of you observed four females, each of you witnessed a completely different set of physical traits?" Theresis asked, his voice calm yet sharp.
Manfred nodded grimly. "Correct, Regent."
Theresis remained silent for a few moments, his gaze shifting toward an unremarkable soldier standing quietly in the corner of the war room. "What do you make of this? Have you ever encountered an Originium Art capable of such a feat?"
The soldier shook his head slowly. "No. But based on the description, it sounds less like a standard modern Art and more like an ancient form of witchcraft. It might be wise to consult a Confessarius; their order has spent centuries researching these obscure spiritual arts."
Theresis nodded in agreement. While a minor street encounter seemed trivial on the surface, any anomaly inside the capital during an occupation needed to be thoroughly uprooted. If an enemy faction could deploy this magic to mask their agents, the testimony of every guard in the city would become entirely unreliable.
Before long, the leader of Confessarius arrived at the chamber, having received the urgent summons. He listened intently to Manfred's detailed breakdown before falling into a lengthy silence.
"I have read records indicating that certain high-tier casters in Leithanien have experimented with a similar school of illusion magic designed to warp an observer's cognitive judgment," Qui'sartusa explained, unraveling the underlying theory. "However, I have never witnessed its execution firsthand, so I cannot draw a definitive conclusion. Furthermore, this spell does not leave a residual trace on the witnesses themselves. You are all merely secondary targets of the distortion; the magic is anchored entirely to the intruders."
The Grand Confessor pointed out that because the spell was active on the casting subjects, any observer's mind would instinctively warp its own data upon looking at them. Therefore, a medical scan of the guards' bodies would yield zero traces of rogue Originium Arts.
Nevertheless, the location of the breach was highly sensitive. As the heart of their military manufacturing, the Highbury District was a vital sector under constant surveillance. It was fortunate that the targets traveled as a group of four and managed to catch Manfred's attention; if a single agent utilizing this magic were to infiltrate the city alone, tracking down someone who could change their face at will would be an incredibly tedious nightmare.
Unbeknownst to the council, a Damazti had already quietly departed to comb the streets for clues.
Moments later, the heavy iron doors swung open once more as Duq'arael, the ancient Sanguinarch of Vampires, strolled into the chamber. Having caught wind of unidentified intruders slipping past the Highbury checkpoints, he flashed a sharp, amused grin.
"There is no need to overcomplicate a simple hunt," the Sanguinarch declared, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Leave this little project to the Blood Court. No matter how brilliantly these rats manage to alter their physical faces or warp your visual perception, they can never alter the biological scent of their own blood."
He adjusted his crimson cuffs, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "As long as I can lock onto the unique aroma of their life force, they can switch appearances a thousand times over, and I will still drag them out from the center of the largest crowd in Londinium."