8.

  The road to the capital was quieter than expected.

  Ganyu made a brief contract with a merchant caravan. In exchange for guarding the route through dangerous sections, he was offered a corner in the cargo hold and several meals. Few words were exchanged, but the contract was sealed swiftly. The bloodstains on his hem and the way he handled weapons were enough to keep the merchants from asking further questions.

  Before departing, he received a small envelope. Inside, sealed with black wax, was an identity pass prepared by the informant. With this, he was ready to pass the gates of Serna.

  A few days later, on a mist-clearing dawn, he arrived at the capital—Serna.

  Serna was a gray city stretching along the plains. The high stone walls were well-trimmed, but time had left its mark upon them.

  Sunlight spilled over the walls, and flags fluttered slowly in the breeze.

  At the city gates, wagons from merchant bands and dust-covered travelers stood in line. Though the gates were open, that did not mean they were open to all. Even amidst free passage, Serna was a city that remembered those who dared peer into it.

  Inside the walls, the first thing one met was a commotion—markets and inns, stalls covered with tarps, merchants shouting in every direction. Children ran about dripping with sweat, handcarts overflowed with vegetables, and the streets were marked by endless footsteps of weary travelers. But the deeper one walked, the more the city's tone changed.

  The dusty roads turned into stone-paved paths, buildings rose taller, and signs gave way to refined plaques. The attire of passersby became more orderly, their speech a mix of ease and guardedness. Guards watched from corners, occasionally checking the permits of those who passed.

  No one demanded formal papers outright, but an unspoken order flowed through this city.

  At Serna’s heart stood a grand bell tower and spires, and beneath them stretched long administrative zones and government offices. Along the streets stood stone buildings that resembled bookstores, archives, and research institutions, with heavy doors, silent courtyards, and opaque windows guarding what remained quiet in this city.

  Further inward, atop the highest ground, stood the Council Hall with its red roof. It was a place never spoken of aloud—a seat of power, silent yet sovereign.

  Serna was a city of light.

  But there were places the light never touched.

  In narrow alleys, between towering buildings, shadows settled, and within them, suspicious ledgers, whispered deals, and fleeting smuggling never ceased.

  This city did not divide light and darkness.

  Even under sunlight, shadows lived—and shadows themselves were part of the light.

  Such was the capital, Serna.

  Before the morning mist fully cleared, Ganyu made his way to the capital's administrative district. Beneath the red roof of the Council Hall, at the end of a corridor lined with heavy, thick doors, stood the National Archive.

  Several visitors were already in line at the entrance, presenting their identification to enter. Ganyu took out the ID prepared by the informant. The librarian checked it and nodded.

  “A level-3 seal. Your access purpose is verified. Please refrain from moving beyond the designated area.”

  She briefly placed the ID over a stamp and inserted it into a thin metal plate to confirm its engraving.

  The interior of the archive was quieter than expected.

  Long corridors, gray stone walls, dim lighting.

  Within them, documents were sorted by floor, but only certain areas were open to public viewing.

  Ganyu first went to the open-access section. Sitting at a reading desk, he skimmed through past records for hours—not merely reading, but searching.

  Patterns, symbols, names, emblems, connections.

  Documents from before the Religious Authority took over the archives.

  Records not discarded but simply neglected.

  Among them was a file titled “Symbolic Diagrams Used in Rituals.”

  Ganyu found a particular document, blinked, then studied it closely.

  A simple red-ink diagram—a spiral coiling around a three-pronged line. It resembled the mark on Shureik’s relic.

  The annotation was brief:

  “Imperfect formation. Third execution attempt failed. Ritual conductor found blind.

  Archive Reference Number: D-421 / Scheduled for division to the Religious Authority.”

  No further material was available.

  The item was already marked for Religious Authority transfer, with most contents relocated.

  Ganyu stood again. He wasn’t fully certain, but the symbol he had seen wasn’t a coincidence.

  It had been used in a ritual—and that ritual had failed.

  What was it meant to summon? What went wrong? The remaining records gave no answers. But he knew he would see that symbol again.

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  For several days, Ganyu wandered the alleys of Serna. His only condition—he sought a brewery that was closed by day and lit only in the evening.

  Matching that description was a small brewery tucked beneath a secluded hill. Its sign was worn, and its windows always shut. But every night, for precisely two hours, a light came on.

  Ganyu watched for two days as people entered and exited. On the third evening, he saw three men leave in succession. They moved discreetly, but their steps, spacing, and subtle glances betrayed something trained.

  Among them, a man in a gray coat caught Ganyu’s eye.

  As the wind lifted the man’s sleeve, Ganyu’s gaze froze.

  Tattooed on his wrist was a symbol—familiar. The same as the one from Shureik’s relic.

  Without delay, Ganyu turned and strode toward the brewery door, disregarding planned contact or protocol.

  If not now, he’d lose the lead.

  Inside was quiet. Cool air, damp scent of alcohol.

  And the informant, lifting his head slowly.

  “After lurking around for two days, you finally come in. I was wondering when you’d open the door,” he said quietly.

  Ganyu spoke at once.

  “A request.” He took a breath and continued.

  “One symbol. Its related sect, individuals, access to Religious Authority records, and…”

  He added without breaking his stare.

  “The man who just left. I want his background too.”

  “Quite the request.”

  The informant chuckled briefly.

  “Backgrounds, symbols, sects, Religious record access.”

  He spun a glass with his finger.

  “Any one of those is tough to get. You’re asking for a lot.”

  Ganyu said nothing.

  “I’ve got nothing for you now. I’ll check and get back to you.”

  He shut a drawer under the desk.

  “You know the drill. When you hear the words ‘black flag’—that’s our signal.”

  Ganyu nodded.

  “Religious Authority records don’t move easily these days. They track everything—who searches what. That symbol of yours, or those bearing it—they might be fragments that slipped from their grasp.”

  He muttered lowly.

  Ganyu turned without a word.

  The informant called out one last remark.

  “We’ll settle the price next time.”

  In the following days, Ganyu often walked the market roads, loitered near the National Archive, and moved between bookshops and inns. Then, one evening, a man he encountered in a narrow alley whispered a single phrase:

  “Black flag.”

  Without meeting his eyes, the man passed. Ganyu followed naturally. About a block away, a folded note was handed to him from a slit in the wall. The envelope bore no seal, no sender's name—only a short message inside.

  “Escort mission to a ruined temple. Tomorrow at dawn, wait outside the southern gate.

  Target: outskirts of District 9. Map attached.

  Upon mission completion, further information will be provided.”

  Ganyu checked the marked location on the map—an old temple site south of the capital. He recalled briefly seeing it mentioned during his archive searches. The record stated it held no historical or strategic value.

  “Then why there, specifically?”

  He reread the sentence once more and folded the envelope away. It was suspicious, but he didn’t need to investigate further. If he wanted the information, he had to complete the mission.

  At dawn, a small exploration party gathered outside Serna’s southern gate.

  About fifteen members. For a makeshift unit on a small-scale dig, they were surprisingly organized, though not as disciplined as soldiers. Several stood in the center holding documents, while briefcases and auxiliary gear were laid out nearby—leather-bound ledgers, bundled maps, measuring tapes, telescopes. Their gestures were practiced and their setup competent. The escort team, including Ganyu, consisted of six people stationed at the group’s periphery, silently watching.

  But several among the team caught his eye. Wearing faded cloaks or carrying no gear at all, their clothing varied wildly. Their faces showed no tension, but their movements were refined. Their steps were relaxed, but their gazes frequent. They bore habits that didn’t match their casual expressions. One rested a hand near his belt as he walked. Another kept checking Ganyu’s position.

  He didn’t say a word. He simply absorbed the flow.

  It should have been a journey marked by sweat and fatigue, yet the group was eerily silent. No jokes. No sighs. No grumbling.

  “Too quiet.”

  No wagons. No visible survey tools. A few jotted notes, but not many. The equipment was inconsistently distributed. It felt... off-kilter. Too loosely formed for an actual expedition—yet oddly orchestrated. Strange members. A wordless march. It could’ve been harmless—but the sense was familiar.

  Ganyu inhaled slowly and quietly moved his hand toward his waist. He didn’t fully draw the weapon, but his fingers already remembered its weight.

  Just before nightfall, the group arrived at the ruined temple.

  It sat halfway up a hill, half-buried in forest. The roof had collapsed, the walls cracked, and inside bore the marks of long abandonment. The exterior was dilapidated, clearly devoid of historical value.

  A few members entered to assess the space, while others silently prepared camp. One split firewood, another lit a spark. Someone jotted notes.

  But Ganyu’s eyes didn’t waver. A few slipped out of view—acting alone without explanation. Quietly scattering. And suddenly—unclear who was where.

  When night fell, one voice spoke in the clearing:

  “Let’s unpack first. It’s better to check the interior at dawn.”

  A token statement.

  That instant, a man at the front clutched his neck and collapsed. Knives flew from all sides, followed by short, sharp cries.

  Three behind them drew blades simultaneously. Two near the edge fell, skewered through their abdomens.

  It happened too fast.

  Before Ganyu could react, the real exploration team was already down.

  “They’re moving.”

  A low, firm voice rang out.

  At once, those with hands near their belts pivoted in sync—rushing Ganyu without a word or hesitation.

  Three. At once.

  Ganyu blocked the first strike and swung his axe. The blade grazed one attacker’s arm, breaking bone. The second flanked him.

  He dropped low and spun, drawing a dagger from a nearby corpse, slicing the next foe’s thigh mid-turn.

  Blood spurted. A groan escaped.

  But they didn’t stop.

  They were trained. Coordinated flanks, silent cues, precise pressure angles. As if they hunted humans—and nothing else.

  Ganyu clutched his axe, panting. More enemies closed in, sneering. And then—

  Crash.

  A brutal impact. His axe reverberated, nearly snapping.

  Something was wrong.

  “My axe…”

  The handle cracked violently. On the next swing, it shattered. He tossed the haft and leapt forward.

  He seized a curved blade from an enemy. As he gripped it, heat surged through his arm. The black steel glowed red, as if imbued with fire. It seared the enemy’s hand. A scream.

  Ganyu turned it in his grip and slashed the man’s neck.

  Blood flew.

  One, two, three.

  He breathed hard, closing in on the collapsing formation.

  Another opponent grabbed his shoulder. Ganyu slashed downward, breaking a knee. A second rushed his side. The blade tore his coat and grazed his ribs—blood welled.

  Gritting his teeth, Ganyu twisted and swung. The heated blade split flesh and bone. Smoke and blood burst.

  His thigh was slashed, and his shoulder marked.

  But he could not stop. He stepped toward the last foe.

  The man held a dagger with trembling hands, but Ganyu didn’t wait.

  Instinctively, he raised a hand. Heat flared from his arm. A force burst outward in a straight line, like an invisible hammer. The man’s chest folded inward. He flew back, coughing blood.

  Ganyu lowered his hand, stepped forward.

  His shadow fell across the man.

  “Who sent you.”

  The man gasped, barely raising his eyes. Blood stained his lips.

  “We… just took the job…”

  “From whom.”

  “Don’t know. Real client… we never knew… told you… just a contract…”

  He slumped. No more answers.

  Irregular breaths. Scattered weapons. Blood-soaked ground.

  And a slow, writhing heat in his arm.

  Ganyu felt it becoming part of him. The mark was forming a circuit—one that grew ever closer to his will.

  As night deepened, Ganyu returned to the alleys of Serna. Blood still stained his hem, and he carried a cold, darkened blade. Inside his bag were a broken axe handle, a torn coat, and bloodied bandages. His eyes were dark and deep, his steps unwavering.

  The brewery’s lights were still on, as if waiting for him. He opened the door and stepped inside.

  “You’re back.”

  A familiar face looked up quietly.

  “Mission complete? I haven’t heard word yet.”

  Ganyu didn’t answer. Instead, he walked silently inward.

  Clack.

  He set the blade down on the table. Only then did the informant fall silent.

  “…What happened?”

  Ganyu exhaled and spoke softly.

  “You said it was an exploration mission.”

  “It was.”

  “They’re all dead. The real exploration team.”

  The informant’s eyes flickered briefly.

  “So?”

  He stepped forward. The air shifted. Words were no longer needed to apply pressure—it was already suffocating.

  “I get that you don’t always know the info. But if you sent me there to be killed, you should’ve said so.”

  “Wait, that’s not—”

  Ganyu raised a hand. His fingers trembled with cold, and the informant finally straightened his back.

  “You know who I am, don’t you?”

  “…I do.”

  “Then don’t say anything stupid from now on.”

  Ganyu toyed with the blade. Silence fell.

  “Who sent the job?”

  The informant hesitated before muttering.

  “…Don’t know.”

  “Don’t know?”

  “It’s the truth. We’re just intermediaries. Contact points, costs, conditions. We don’t know the client—can’t know.”

  Ganyu said nothing for a moment, then slowly reached for the blade.

  “…The Reno? Synod.”

  The informant blurted in panic. Ganyu’s gaze wavered slightly.

  “I placed the request first. Why didn’t you reject theirs?”

  The informant gave a bitter laugh.

  “At first, I considered it. But… it wasn’t just the Synod. Pressure came from higher up. A very high place. Someone not from the ‘normal routes’ requested your intel. They knew you were digging, and the request came in. The organization’s higher-ups felt the heat. If we’d refused, I wouldn’t be here talking to you now.”

  Ganyu was silent again. Then he spoke quietly.

  “Don’t ever test me again.”

  Clack.

  He picked up the blade again.

  Sweating, the informant asked,

  “…So what’s next?”

  Ganyu turned slowly and answered.

  “The Religious Authority.”

  And with that, he stepped outside. The alley remained dark, and his shadow lingered quietly behind him.