The sky wasn't fully light yet.
Aiden walked along a dirt road north of the old district's gate. The earth was soaked with night dew, soft and slippery, each step sinking half his foot into the mud. He didn't look back. Not because he didn't want to, but because he was afraid that if he did, he wouldn't be able to move forward again.
Behind him, under the gray‑blue sky, a thin wisp of smoke still rose—like a black finger pointing at the heavens, silently accusing.
He had walked all night. From three in the morning until the eastern sky turned pale, from the east gate of the old district around to the north gate, from alleys to main roads, from main roads back to side paths. He didn't know where he was going—Old Karl had only said "go to the capital," but how to get there, how long it would take, he had no idea. He only knew the capital was north, so he walked north.
Three things were tucked inside his clothes.
Pressed against his chest was the ledger, with Old Karl's final words. The warmth of its pages had long faded, but the weight remained. Beneath the ledger were two damaged scrolls—old books he had salvaged from the edge of the second‑floor ruins before leaving. One was an old edition of The Chronicle of Tricolor Flag City; the worn groove on its spine was where he had first "seen" the memory of that fleeing man. The other was an untitled handwritten volume, its cover half‑rotted, the script inside almost illegible, but the few pages he'd flipped through gave off a strong resonance—something was hidden inside, though he hadn't had time to examine it.
In his right palm he clutched the ancient ring. Its metal had warmed to his body heat, no longer cold. The pattern of the two serpents on its face had left faint imprints in his skin.
He walked for about two hours, and the sky grew fully bright.
North of the gate lay open farmland. The wheat had already been harvested, leaving only knee‑high stubble and scattered fallen grain. In the distance, a few early‑rising farmers worked in the fields, bent over, their faces indistinguishable. Aiden lowered his head, pulled his hood up, and tried to look like an ordinary traveler up early.
He didn't dare take the main road.
From Tricolor Flag City to the capital, there was an official highway—two days on horseback, five days on foot. Along the highway were relay stations, merchant caravans, and Church checkpoints. Old Karl had said the Church had set up checkpoints on the highway. Aiden couldn't take the main road; he had to take the side paths—through the northern wilderness, over a low hill called the Gray Ridge, then follow an abandoned ancient road to the capital's east gate. Old Karl had drawn a simple map in pencil on the last page of the ledger: crooked lines, but the directions were clear.
The side path ran along the edge of the farmland, growing narrower and more desolate. Wheat stubble gave way to weed‑covered wasteland, with the occasional solitary oak standing by the roadside, its crown leaning in one direction from the wind, like a traveler forever hurrying onward.
Aiden quickened his pace.
Around midday, he reached a fork in the road.
A stone marker stood at the fork, its inscription almost completely worn away by wind and rain. The left road led to a sparse woods, beyond which rose the outline of Gray Ridge; the right road continued along the wasteland toward the distant plains.
Aiden crouched, opened the ledger, and compared it to Old Karl's map. The route marked on the map was left, through the woods, over the ridge.
He stood and took a few steps left, then stopped.
His ability was "speaking."
Not a real sound—a faint tremor, like someone tapping lightly on his bones. He had experienced this several times recently: whenever his body came close to an object with "historical resonance," his fingers would tingle, as if warning him: something is here.
But now his fingers weren't touching anything. The tremor came from the soles of his feet.
He looked down at the dirt.
At the entrance to the left road, the soil was slightly darker, as if recently disturbed. Aiden crouched and brushed away the loose earth. Beneath the soil was a stone slab carved with a symbol—
A straight line with a circle above it.
Not any symbol he had seen before. Not the Church's dove and sun, not the double serpents on the ancient ring. But the symbol gave him an uneasy feeling, as if someone were watching him.
Before he could examine it further, the sound of hooves came from behind him.
Aiden shot to his feet and spun around.
From the direction of the main road, a cloud of dust rose. Inside the dust, three mounted figures were racing toward the fork. They wore gray‑white robes with gold‑thread embroidery at the collars—not low‑ranking priests, but a rank above the Inquisitors: "Circuit Riders." Short swords hung at their waists, and rolled documents and coils of rope were tied behind their saddles.
Aiden's heart lurched.
They weren't passing through. They were looking for him.
He turned and ran into the woods on the left. The earth was soft, each step sinking deep, like running through mud. The hoofbeats grew closer, louder, shaking the ground.
"Stop!" A voice shouted from behind—not a request, a command. "By order of the Circuit Riders of the Holy Light Church, halt and submit to inspection!"
Aiden didn't stop. He ran into the woods, tree trunks flashing past, branches whipping his face, arms, legs. His breath grew ragged, his throat burning, but he didn't dare stop. He knew that if he were caught, he would be taken to the Holy Light Cathedral's dungeons—or worse.
"Halt!" Another voice, closer.
Hoofbeats entered the woods. The horses slowed among the trees, but they were still faster than he could run. Aiden heard shouts of "split up," hooves scattering in three directions, surrounding him from different angles.
His legs grew weak. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything all night; his strength was nearly gone. His vision blurred; tree trunks doubled; the path seemed to sway.
A mounted figure burst from the thicket on his right, blocking his way. A man in his thirties, face tanned dark, small eyes sharp. He looked down at Aiden like a rabbit cornered against a wall.
"Why are you running?" he said, a trace of impatience in his voice. "Just a routine inspection. Not an arrest. Take out what you're carrying."
Aiden tightened his grip on the ancient ring and stepped back.
Behind him, the voices of the other two riders grew closer.
"I said, take it out." The man's hand went to the hilt of his short sword. "I won't say it a third time."
Countless thoughts flashed through Aiden's mind—run, but which way? Fight, but with what? Hand over the ring and scrolls and maybe survive? No. Old Karl had said this was "the key behind that door." He couldn't surrender it.
His hand trembled.
The man's eyes narrowed, noticing Aiden's clenched fist.
"What's in your hand?" He dismounted and walked toward Aiden. "Open it."
Aiden stepped back until his back pressed against a tree trunk. The bark was rough against his spine, cold. He had nowhere left to go.
The man reached out, grabbing for him—
A flash of silver fell from the canopy, like lightning splitting the air.
The man's hand stopped a palm's width from Aiden's chest. Not because he stopped himself, but because a slender sword had pierced the air above his wrist, its tip burying itself in the tree trunk behind Aiden, the blade forming a silver barrier between his arm and Aiden.
The man froze.
Aiden froze too.
A figure dropped from the tree, soundless as a falling leaf. The moment it touched the ground, a hand seized the sword hilt, pulled the blade free, and in a perfect arc brought it to rest against the man's throat.
"Step back." A woman's voice.
Low, calm, devoid of emotion—yet each word hammered into the ears like a nail.
The man's eyes went wide. His Adam's apple bobbed above the blade; sweat beaded on his forehead. He raised his hands and retreated two slow steps.
The other two riders arrived but didn't come closer. They saw the sword, the hand that held it, and the eyes above the black mask—eyes like polished iron, without warmth.
"Who are you?" the man asked, his voice tight.
"That doesn't matter," the woman said. "What matters is that if you leave now, you'll still live."
"Do you know the penalty for assaulting a Church Circuit Rider—"
"I know." She cut him off. "But you are not Circuit Riders."
The blood drained from the man's face for an instant.
"A Circuit Rider's short sword has a silver hilt. Yours are bronze." Her voice remained steady. "A Circuit Rider's documents bear the Pontiff's red seal. Yours bear the black seal of the Judgment Hall. You are secret agents of the Judgment Hall, not Circuit Riders. And Judgment Hall agents have no enforcement authority—only investigative authority."
She tilted her head slightly.
"What you're doing now is illegal detention. If I killed you, the Church wouldn't even acknowledge you as its own."
Silence.
All three men's faces changed. They exchanged glances—something complex flickered in their eyes, a mix of calculation and fear.
The man who had dismounted slowly lowered his raised hands, stepped back once, twice. Without a word, he made a gesture to the other two. They remounted, turned their horses, and headed back toward the main road.
The hoofbeats faded.
The woods fell silent.
The woman sheathed her sword and turned to look at Aiden.
Aiden leaned against the tree trunk, his legs still trembling, but his eyes never left her. She wore a dark gray cloak, its hood pulled low, her face mostly hidden by a black mask—only her eyes were visible. Those eyes were dark brown, their pupils deep black, like bottomless wells. She was not tall, but she stood straight as a tree that had weathered the wind for years, all its branches growing in one direction.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
Aiden shook his head, then nodded, then finally said, "Thank you."
The woman looked at him, her gaze lingering on his face for two seconds, then dropping to his hand that still clutched the ring.
"That ring," she said. "May I see it?"
Aiden hesitated, then hid his hand behind his back.
"I'm not one of them," she said. "If I were, you'd already be dead."
She was right.
Slowly, Aiden extended his hand and opened his fingers. The ancient ring lay in his palm, the double‑serpent pattern gleaming faintly in the afternoon light.
The woman stared at the ring for three seconds, then raised her eyes back to Aiden's face. This time, something more appeared in those dark brown eyes—not curiosity, not greed, but something deeper, more complex, like recognition.
"Old Karl told you to find 'Annals'?" she asked.
Aiden froze.
"You know Mr. Karl?"
"No," the woman said. "But I know this ring." She extended her own hand—long fingers, nails clipped short. "My name is Sera. If you're willing, I can take you to the capital."
Aiden looked at her outstretched hand, then at the sword at her waist, then at those dark brown eyes above the mask.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked.
"Because Old Karl isn't the only one the Church has burned," Sera said, her voice soft but every word clear. "My father was, too."
She reached her hand a little farther.
"Let's go. They have more checkpoints ahead. We need to cross Gray Ridge before dark."
Aiden looked at that hand, hesitated for a second, then took it.
Her hand was cool, but strong.