Saving the school would have been easier as a cafeteria worker

Chapter 101

Lennard had to wonder if every rookie's first year was like this. Something told him the answer was a resounding 'no.'

The Federation agent sat with his back against a wall. The air was musty, thick with the smell of mold despite the open window above his head. He shifted slightly, and the wooden boards beneath him creaked ominously. Throughout it, his eyes remained steady, locked onto the day's paper he'd laid out on the floor beside him.

What was an eight‑letter word that ended in 'g' and meant 'so compelling you couldn't turn away'?

Astonishing? No, it was too long. Shocking? Maybe, but that had been used yesterday, and he trusted they wouldn't repeat an answer. The only other hint he had was the empty fifth letter box. It was the last letter in a six‑letter word meaning 'to restrict.'

He stuck with the eight-letter word, pressing his pencil's tip against the first letter box, hoping inspiration would guide his hand. The graphite snapped before it could, and his wrist slumped against the paper. It was a setback, and he would have abandoned the crossword puzzle if not for the stakes being too high.

The ends of the broken pencil tapped faintly against the paper, his fingers rocking the writing instrument back and forth.

"Cease," a voice he'd grown accustomed to ordered, "or I will finish it for you. Again."

The woman who threatened him sat on an upturned bucket, dark cloak spilling onto the attic's floor. Her shirt, once a pristine white, now had splotches of dirt, wood shavings, soot, and other stains he'd not care to speculate about.

"I was two times," he said under his breath while forcing his hand still.

The day had started ordinarily enough. He woke up two hours before dawn, peddled newspapers during the morning rush, and then hopped back to his part of town. There, he knocked back a few beers while waiting on the noon editions to get off the presses. Once they were, he'd be ready to start the whole cycle over.

It was a good routine, keeping him active and engaged—whether that was prowling the streets or listening in on loose lips around the bar.

Left uninterrupted, he would currently be enjoying a meat skewer from a corner stand he knew better than to look into. Instead, he'd been kidnapped and forced to make camp in a cramped attic.

A week ago, he would have been a bundle of nerves. Now? He did his best not to think about it.

Lennard placed the pencil in the crook between two floorboards and then drew his extended leg up. Grabbing the paper, he unfurled it before flipping through the pages, landing on a random section.

Maybe a small break would be what he needed to crack the puzzle.

His eyes scanned a page he'd read twice already.

Grain prices were on the rise, no surprise there. The crown was dragging their feet, but they'd be forced to intervene soon. Dead gods knew the Diet wouldn't help.

Politically speaking, Postremo Lux was an oddity in the Empire. By decree of the twenty-first emperor, who was in reality the first ruler of this iteration of the empire, it was beholden to no lord. Instead, it was governed by representatives of the crown, but unlike the crownlands, their hold here was loose. Apart from limiting the influence of the Empire's other factions, the city was mostly left to its own devices.

In the millennia plus since the Fall, it had worked out for them. Postremo Lux remained the most populous city in the Empire, and its standard of living exceeded that of the capital.

However, that same prosperity and independence ensured the Diet was reluctant to provide the city any form of relief.

Lennard's lips pulled to the side, finding it difficult to smack the paper and offer words of contempt. The Empire could say what it wanted about snakes like him, but no Federation city would have been put in a situation like this. Regional committees were designed for quick responses, and if that failed, the people wouldn't.

His aunt—the woman who raised him—had seven years' worth of food stored back home in their building's community pantry, and that was only because their allotted storage space wouldn't fit anymore. It was a solid two years more than the national average—a fact the old grunt was proud of.

A small smile made its way to his face, pushing aside his earlier agitation. It was funny to think about how he outranked his aunt, even if he was a lieutenant on paper only. Everyone in his squad held an equal or greater rank. It was for… practical purposes.

His foot started tapping against the weary floorboards.

What else was on here?

The delegation from Shirai had officially crossed into the northern reaches of the Empire from the Holy Enclave. They'd hug the coast for a while before disembarking at the capital. The Federation agent had heard rumblings of a change of plans, but confirmation of that was squarely outside of his department.

There was an interest piece on a new restaurant Lennard would never eat at. Then there was an announcement of street maintenance over by the merchant district and another detailing preparations for Founder's Day.

"Be still," the woman warned, eyes closed in concentration. "It's not a difficult concept."

Lennard studied her face, seeing his own stare back from the reflective mask she wore. Strands of her chin‑length hair, the color of burnt coffee beans, stuck to it, matted with sweat. Her red scarf dangled from her neck, its vibrant threads untouched by their environment.

His foot fell flat against the floor.

Arguing with someone who could unilaterally declare your execution was a tricky thing, and Lennard often deferred to her demands. It was not only the safer play but the smarter one too.

Having a Justiciar contact was an intelligence coup for a rookie like him.

His stomach grumbled loudly, protesting his lack of lunch. He put a hand over his double-buttoned coat, attempting to muffle the noise. The only thing it accomplished was making his palm itch, the cheap wool poking at his skin.

"Here," the Justiciar said, reaching for her belt while keeping her eyes shut. There were leather pouches there, and she popped one open, retrieving a bundle and holding it out to him. "Ration better next time."

Lennard took it from her gloved hand. He unwrapped the wax paper, revealing a bar of nuts bound by honey. Biting into it produced a crunch and dissatisfaction.

Rat meat or not, he preferred the skewers. They tasted better and would actually fill him.

The dried chicken strips strapped to his shin would have also been better, but pulling that out now would cause more problems than it solved.

His thumb tapped once against the bar, and he caught himself before he could tap it a second time.

It still wasn't fast enough.

"You have something to say," she stated without a trace of doubt.

In spite of his primary occupation, Lennard was too easy to read. A fact that his captain and Cassey wouldn't let him forget. Nor should they. Their survival was intertwined with his.

"Just that this isn't my usual crowd," he said, tugging at his collar.

The shirt he wore was of a finer cloth than his usual fare, and the wool of his purple vest didn't prick at him like the coat he wore over it. His rugged trousers had also been traded out in favor of some gaudy striped pants that would tear at the first sign of a hard day's work. Not even his boots had been spared, replaced with dull black dress shoes that clacked when he walked.

One of the perks of his chosen profession was not having a uniform. For good reason, no one informed the Justiciar sitting across from him of that. At least he'd managed to alter the shoes and make them quieter.

"You're a criminal," she said bluntly.

It might have been his imagination, but the distaste in her voice sounded a touch softer than when they first met.

"I'm a paper peddler," he said, offering a weak defense. "Who occasionally gets stern with unruly customers."

The nice thing about paperboys, or men in his case, was that they were found all across the city. People needed their daily dose of news, and he was happy enough to provide it. Most never questioned his presence, treating him as a convenient tool. A minority went the opposite route, driven by either loneliness or kindness to strike up conversations.

He enjoyed the last type. It reminded him of the folks he'd left behind.

"I'm sure," she said dryly, daring him to refute her.

Lennard would not, because underneath his workingman persona—the one who slept in a rented shoebox apartment, sold papers, and drank away his earnings—was a man who traveled to areas with remarkably low demand for newspapers.

Everyone needed a dirty little secret to uncover, and for Lennard, that would be his unofficial employment by the Rusty Boys, a street gang operating on the western fringes of the city. They were a small outfit, but were smart enough not to butt heads with the other seedy players in Postremo Lux. That amiable relationship allowed him to be rented out, completing jobs for other parties.

It was a good way to expand his network of unwitting informants, but the work itself was unappealing. Nine out of ten times it was debt collection, and that meant reminding people of their obligations while wielding a newspaper-wrapped club.

Definitely not what he signed up for, but they all needed to do their part. Cassey would even argue that she had it worse, having to dress up as a maid and clean up after lazy rich people.

"I collect debts for bookies," he admitted to the stern-faced woman. She was already 'blackmailing' him into helping her by using his criminal affiliation, so it wasn't a great loss. "That doesn't mean I hang around high-end casinos."

If he were to look out the window, on the opposite side of the cobblestone street was the Velvet Purse. It had dull brick walls, rising five meters. A slate-tiled roof hinted at wealth, but the windowless exterior was drab enough to have pedestrians pass the hidden gambling den without a second look.

Someone might observe all of that and assume it was an illegal operation. They would be incorrect. The place had the proper permits. Janice—erm, the Justiciar—had pulled them herself. They also paid their taxes, complied with local regulations, and had a clean name on the deed. There was almost no reason to be here.

Almost.

"We're only here because of your informant," she said pointedly, "and because you have a man on the inside."

His informant?

That was generous. He considered Cherry their informant. She was one of several working girls whom they interviewed together. They were a smart bunch and far more resourceful than people assumed. With their cooperation, Lennard and the Justicar had been able to connect Petro Lucerna to a wider smuggling ring. From Federation contraband, untaxed Anis delicacies, live magic beasts, and… people, the operation they stumbled on provided a wide gamut of services.

Infinita Nox was sneaky like that, and Lennard didn't believe for a second that they had the full picture. If today panned out, that image would grow clearer.

"Cherry only talked to me because of you," he said objectively, "and Reginald is just some guy I know. He might not even let me in."

Reginald happened to be an acquaintance of his and the Velvet Purse's doorman. The man had a good voice, singing better drunk than Lennard could sober. However, relying on him for access to an exclusive casino was, to borrow a line the captain would say, a gamble. There wasn't even a guarantee he would be on shift today.

"If she held onto your arm any tighter, you would have lost it," the Justiciar said with a twinge of annoyance.

It was likely unprofessional in her book. He'd normally be in agreement, but also couldn't argue with Cherry's actions.

"Because you were terrifying her," Lennard hissed, vividly recalling the memory.

Hells, she terrified him as well. If he hadn't been being held, he would have been doing the holding. Cassey would have laughed at him about it, but she wasn't exactly right in the head when it came to things like this.

"I said nothing to her," the masked woman replied, her voice clipped. "I merely stood there."

Stood there? Factually, that may have been accurate. However, Lennard would propose she did more than that.

She stood there menacingly.

It was a small but important distinction. Lennard didn't know what had gotten into her that day, but she was particularly irritable. Her presence and dead stare promised an exceptionally slow execution should either of them say the wrong word, and Cherry had reacted predictably, clinging to him as a human shield.

If he weren't so scared of her, he would have invited the masked lady to his collections.

Under the Justiciar's intense stare, Lennard stopped talking, focusing on his bar of nuts. He polished it off quickly and then thought of his puzzle again.

Lennard let the newspaper rest against his leg while retrieving his pencil. With his free hand, he reached into his right sleeve, pulling out a sleek, dull grey knife. It was smaller than his palm and lacked a handle, designed to be thrown rather than wielded.

He wielded it anyway, bringing it to the pencil and beginning to shave a new point onto it.

"We may need to sleep in shifts if this takes any longer," the Justiciar said, evidently not done with him.

The Federation agent looked up at her while continuing to whittle away at the pencil. There was zero chance he would be falling asleep close to her, and he knew the feeling was mutual. It was a ruse, and if his guard could get any higher, it would have.

His knife dug deeper, and he swore as it lobbed a part of his pencil off.

If his cover had been blown, the nuts she'd offered him would have been laced with poison. They weren't, and Lennard would know if they had been. In preparation for this deployment, he'd ingested every variant the Empire was known to employ, along with whatever the lab geeks back home decided to slip him. The feat had earned him the Iron Stomach commendation.

"She didn't happen to give you a timeframe, did she?" Lennard asked.

Needing to ask that at all was proof that Cherry wasn't his informant. If she were, the girl would've passed the information directly to him and not the Justiciar.

"No," the woman said with an undercurrent of frustration.

Lennard wouldn't blame the girl for the lack of details. They would have been convenient, but there was a limit to what she would be privy to. Cherry being able to provide any knowledge on one of the conspirators was fine enough for him.

Elizabeth, oh Elizabeth. She was one of the names his superior had ordered him to look into. Lennard hadn't expected her to be a regular at Petro's former brothel, and once he found out, he'd subtly steered the Justiciar toward the noble girl. Today might have them confirm her connection to Infinita Nox, fulfilling another part of his superiors' plan.

The Federation agent would have liked to be more in the know about that plan, but he understood the importance of information compartmentalization. More significantly, he trusted the younger prodigy to give him enough to succeed in the job at hand. That knowledge had made him less nervous of late.

Still, Lennard was not looking forward to meeting this Elizabeth character. If someone was willing to illegally trade in demon cores, there was no telling what they would do.

"I've told you all I know," she said in a biting tone. "Your informant claims the House Velmora girl is expected in the Velvet Purse today. We need to confirm if she's meeting with anyone."

Lennard thought the chance was high. This visit was a break in her pattern, and something was definitely up.

"And you can't go in there yourself?" he asked, repeating a point he had made when she first dragged him into the attic.

It was bold of him, but he really didn't want to have to walk in there. Besides, wouldn't it be better for her to get firsthand confirmation rather than rely on a scoundrel like him?

The woman kept her shut eyes pointed at the ground, but he could see the way her body tensed.

"I fail to see what is making you so reluctant," she said in a single breath. "You've done this before. All that's changed is the venue."

Exactly.

"That's what I've been telling you," he said, curbing the sharpness in his voice. "If this were a game of cards in the Leaky Tankard, I'm your guy. The Velvet Purse couldn't be more different. There's a decent chance there will be nobles besides Elizabeth there."

As a Federation spy, Lennard had obviously been trained on how commoners should treat nobles. They wouldn't send him here without drilling that and a thousand other scenarios. Anything less than that would be ridiculous.

But it wouldn't be the first time drills had failed him, and he would prefer to start off with something easier before diving in with nothing but an imperial for support.

"My presence would serve to warn them," she argued, "and I've seen you work. None will find fault with you."

She could just take off the mask. As far as he was aware, wearing it all the time wasn't a hard rule for justiciars. Maybe it was her tan lines she was worried about.

Lennard turned the pencil, evening out the cut. A few precise moves had him salvage what was left of it, and he raised it to his mouth, blowing the dust off. Now he could finally get back to—

"Her vehicle is here," the Justicar said, eyes opening. She gestured toward the window. "Confirm visual."

The Federation agent pressed his back further into the wall, sliding up. He craned his neck, peeking past a tarp they'd draped over the windowsill. Three buildings down, he could see a vehicle pulling away from the Velvet Purse's bland brick facade. He barely caught sight of blonde curls before they disappeared beyond the door.

"That's a partial," he said, upset at himself for being too slow.

He slid back down, confident the furtive action hadn't been spotted. His paper had slipped to the side, and when he looked to retrieve it, he realized his hands were still full—a pencil in one, a knife in the other. His eyes lingered on them, but it wasn't to last.

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Lennard tucked the pencil into his coat pocket, and the knife was pushed up his shirt sleeve.

"Stand," the Justiciar directed, rising to her own feet. "Let me look at you."

The Federation agent heeded her command, rolling his shoulder to remove the stiffness from sitting so long. He sent a pulse of magic through himself, bringing himself to a greater state of readiness.

"Lose the coat," she continued, critical eyes roving over him. "And let me see your hands."

Lennard reluctantly shrugged his coat off, draping it over his shoulder and sticking the paper under his arm before holding out his hands for inspection.

"I already washed the ink off," he explained, earning an inquisitive look from the woman. "It makes food taste bitter."

Newly pressed papers had a tendency to bleed, and it was said you could identify paperboys based on their black mitts. As a professional, Lennard knew when to clean it off.

The Justiciar held one of his palms, inspecting it carefully.

"Prudent," she offered after a moment. It seemed to take longer than it should, but she eventually gave his hand back. "I'll hold on to these."

Without asking for confirmation, she robbed him of his coat and newspaper.

"I'll leave the puzzle alone," she said peevishly. "You may stop pouting."

Lennard was not pouting… was he? He felt his face, fingers tracing his cheeks.

He really needed to get a handle on that.

"Don't damage my coat," he said earnestly.

Depending on the day of the week, it served as his pillow or blanket.

"It will be returned to you without harm," she replied with a blank stare. "You seem more at peace now. Have your doubts been eased? Remember, all we need is a description of the contact. We can work back from there. Do not risk yourself further."

Lennard could not say he felt ready, but there was work to do. His ancestors hadn't eked out an existence for him to cower in the face of their enemies.

"I'll be in and out," he said with a shrug.

All he had to do was keep his mouth shut and head down.

The Justiciar reached into her tight pants, retrieving a black cloth. She moved quicker than he anticipated, and before he realized what was happening, there was a noose around his neck.

"I presume you didn't know how to do this yourself," she said, manipulating the cloth with practiced ease before stepping back. She gave him a once-over before approaching again and tugging at parts of his uniform. It was strange looking at her from this angle. When they were further apart, she always seemed taller than he. "There, now you're presentable."

Aside from the constricting feeling around his neck, Lennard didn't feel any different.

"If the noble says so," he said, eyeing the unfinished puzzle, "and if you get bored, maybe fill in a box or two. Just don't go overboard."

It felt like he could use a hint.

Lennard stalked through the alarmingly clean back alley. It was bereft of rotten crates, skittering rats, and the stink of human excrement. He wished it weren't; the grime would have calmed his reignited nerves.

He spied the inconspicuous iron door ahead.

Walking through the front door had never been the plan, and he doubled back around the block before approaching what he knew to be the service entrance. With more swagger than he felt earned, he strode toward it, banging on it thrice.

"Reggie," he hollered, resting a fist on the door. "Open up already."

Words could not describe the relief he felt when the door's eye slit was opened, and Reggie's startled visage stared back at him.

"What in the hells are you doing here?" the man asked, suspicion creeping into his voice. "And where did you get that uniform? I know you aint working here."

Truthfully, Lennard didn't know where the Justiciar got her hands on it. He didn't ask, fearing the answer.

"Borrowed it," he said with a toothy grin, setting his palms on either side of the door and leaning forward. "Now let me in already. I heard a client of mine is in there."

Both of them understood what 'client' really meant. It was someone who owed his contractor a chunk of change.

"Yeah?" Reggie asked with a leery look in his eyes. "Why should I care?"

Lennard's grin didn't falter. If the man had folded straight away, he knew something would be up.

"Cause if they can't pay me, there's no chance they're worth whatever credit your bosses gave em."

Having hung around this type for as long as he could remember, Lennard saw the light of greed enter his counterpart's eyes.

"Who are they?" he asked a bit too eagerly. "I'll sort em out for you."

Lennard's smile grew nasty, and he leaned ever closer.

"I like you, Reggie, I really do. But I'm not letting you swipe my commission."

Stealing jobs was a time-honored tradition among his crowd. Everyone had to eat.

"Then piss off," the man said, starting to close the eye slot.

Lennard banged hard on the door, and the slit slowed.

"Hold up," he said urgently. "I'll give you ten points."

Ten percent of his imaginary take. It was a lowball value, but that was how these things were done.

Reggie knew the game as well, but he still managed to look offended.

"Forty points or beat it," he barked back. "And don't think you can pull a fast one on me. I'll check with the boys later to see what your commission was."

Forty was disgustingly high, and even though he was playing a part, Lennard decisively shook his head in denial. In reaction, the iron scraped as Reggie attempted to shut the slot.

Lennard moved to stop him.

"Wait!" Lennard exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch as his fingers were pinched between unforgiving metal.

Thankfully, the pressure abated, and he pulled back his hand, sucking on the throbbing digits. He was on track to gain nasty bruising, and with caution, he directed his magic to them.

Augmentation was never his strong suit.

"Thirty, but," he added before the slit could be slammed again, "I'll clear your tab at Lucky's whether I find em or not."

That was a more than fair deal, and Lennard did not look forward to shelling out for it. Sure, he could request funds from the captain, but a cover required discipline. That included using money you earned.

"Thirty-five," the man shamelessly countered.

Son of—no, it was fine. It wasn't like he was getting the commission, anyway.

"Deal," he gruffed, standing back from the door.

Reggie closed the eye slit before a series of clanks rang out. The door swung outward, pushing a breeze into his face.

"Come in quick," Reggie said, stepping to the side. "And if you get caught. I don't know you."

Lennard peered through the dark entrance before ducking inside. He came into a small room, more of a closet really. There was a pile of dirty boots on one side and a stool on the other.

"Down the steps and to the left," the man said, ushering him toward a rickety staircase. "Hurry up."

The Federation agent pushed more magic into his limbs before descending the narrow passage. As he reached another door, he pressed his palm against it, willing the anxiety in his stomach to disappear.

He entered into a hallway, far wider than the space he'd just left. The floor was soft under him, covered in an embroidered carpet. The walls were of a dark wood, with a finish that seemed to make them absorb the mounted lights.

Lennard turned left, straightening his back as he paced down the corridor. A man stepped out of the double doors to his right, and as they swung back and forth, Lennard caught the sound of animated yelling. Curious, he approached, sliding his foot into the crook to keep one of the doors propped open.

A sweltering heat hit his face, and he could see long tables arranged inside, piled high with meats and leafy greens. Men and women in white uniforms moved swiftly within, shouting at each other as they tended open flames, flipped pans, and diced produce. Two of them appeared to be in a standoff, their faces beet red as they consumed the limited oxygen in the room.

Lennard let the door close, continuing with a smoother gait. Apart from being a tad cleaner, that kitchen hadn't been any different from the bars he frequented.

At the end of the hall was another set of double doors, and a woman in a uniform like his kicked them open, entering with two massive serving trays in hand. They were so wide that, to navigate the hall, she balanced one in front of her and the other behind.

The Federation agent pressed himself to the side, allowing her to pass while keeping his eyes ahead. It was one of his lessons. Making eye contact increased recollection rates, but so did avoiding it. The trick was to appear absorbed with something else, like a destination in mind.

She passed without issue, and his eyes flicked to the second tray. There was a piece of steak there, calling his name. The aroma made him salivate, but he couldn't lift it without its missing weight being noticed.

Lennard sighed despondently, marching forward. Without preamble, he entered the casino floor, mapping it with a practiced eye. The door he came from was in the northeast corner, and to his right stretched a curved high‑top bar. Music met his ears, emanating from a raised stage in the center of the room. It was upbeat, energizing even. The trio of musicians responsible was difficult to see, obscured by rising smoke and dim lighting.

Inhaling, the flagrant scent of incense assaulted his nose.

Lennard repressed a gag, feeling sorry for the musicians who had to pluck their strings while in the middle of it. He preferred the smell of sweat and spilled drinks.

His eyes moved on, examining the variety of tables scattered around the main floor. Each was upholstered with purple felt and carved from a bright wood. Dice and cards flew across their surface, eliciting joyous cheers or slamming fists. The tables took either without complaint, which spoke of their quality.

Comfortingly, he noticed a group playing a game of Fingers. He'd never played it before coming to the Empire, but naming aside, he enjoyed the game of chance.

Before anyone could notice his hesitation, the Federation slipped away from the doorway, adopting the gait of a man across the room. With his hands folded behind him, he crossed the floor in search of blonde hair.

A spark of magic pinged off his senses, and his eyes locked onto its source. There he saw a pair of dice suspended, twirling in a ball of air. The dealer released the manifestation, letting them fall and decide the table's fate.

It wasn't an isolated case, and Lennard registered several minor bursts of magic. He hadn't sensed them from outside, but that was another area he could stand to improve on. The Federation focused on putting one foot in front of the other, pretending this was just another shift.

Halting mid-step, he avoided a drunken man in ornate robes stumbling past. An attendant with flowing red hair and a pretty smile trailed after him, carrying the man's remaining chits. Upon seeing Lennard, a flash of recognition passed through her eyes, but neither acted further on it.

Lennard knew her as one of Cherry's friends.

His canvassing of the room continued unimpeded, picking out what details he determined were relevant. When he'd traveled the length of five tables and roughly one half the eastern side of the room, history repeated itself, and he watched his target vanish behind a curtain and down a corridor.

Lennard would have followed her if not for the large man guarding the velvet draping. While they shared a uniform, the Federation agent didn't like his chances of bluffing his way past.

He had a choice now. He could wait here, blending in for an undetermined amount of time while he waited for her to reappear, or he could find a way past the bouncer.

Having the captain in his ear would be welcome right now, but a decision had to be made.

The Federation agent approached a table at random. He bowed slightly before gathering empty containers. To his relief, no one so much as said a word to him. He carried them away swiftly, moving back toward the bar while magic gathered in his palm.

The manifestation he'd chosen was crafted by the time he rounded the counter. There was a steel basin behind it, and he deposited his load there before turning, examining the rows of mounted alcohol behind him.

Every bar he'd been to had one of these, and the only difference was the quality of the brew and the shelving. Lennard didn't recognize the labels, but their gold leaf and pretentious naming sense told him all he needed to know.

He searched them, looking for the lowest-proof bottle. Finding one, he reached for it, pretending to correct its position. The palm holding his manifestation pressed firmly against it, and he resisted the urge to check if anyone had taken notice of the magic.

Lennard slipped away before one of the other workers could ask what he was doing, leaving an expensive bottle with no visible changes.

He was on a schedule now.

The agent methodically counted his steps, timing it so that he was near the protected hall when the first went off. Corks popped, glass shattered, and startled shouts bled into raucous laughter as bottle after bottle exploded, sending good drink everywhere.

Fermented alcohol had a habit of breaking free. He'd been to plenty of bars where something similar had happened. Only it was usually due to changes in temperature and not a manifestation.

DWER, or delayed water expansion relay, was what he used. It had its roots in a basic manifestation used to introduce new mages to the concept of influencing external pools of water. He could fondly recall filling his apartment's sink to practice and then soaking his aunt's curtains when the puddle expanded like a balloon.

After being inspired by a video of his idol in action, Lennard had personally modified the structure to include the delay and relay aspects. It had been challenged, and his colleagues at the time didn't know why he devoted so much time to it, but if they saw how he'd used it since, they would understand.

Bottles kept popping off, the magic jumping from one container to another. Some employees rushed toward them, ducking as glass and booze rained down on them. The bouncer's feet remained planted in his spot, but his head turned, observing the spectacle with apprehension.

Lennard kept close to the wall, keeping in the man's blind spot as he slunk past the curtain.

He pushed magic into his eyes, sharpening his vision in the already poor light. The hallway ran straight ahead, ending in a large decorative vase. Paintings depicting palaces and riches adorned the walls, providing a break between closed doors.

For a split second, indecision plagued him. He soldiered on regardless, striding to the first door and laying his hand against it. Its wards were dormant, and pressing his ear to the wood revealed no sound on the other side. Lennard moved to the next, working his way down the line of doors.

At the fourth, his magic hit a wall of active wards. He didn't press the issue, continuing down the line until every door had been checked. With only one set of wards active, Lennard considered his options before choosing a door adjacent to the room his target resided in. He felt for the handle, but a rudimentary lock barred his path.

Lennard gathered magic in his hand again, placing his thumb against the keyhole. The manifestation was quick to form, and his water pick had the lock click open. He entered the dark room, shutting the door behind him.

It looked to be a private room for gambling. There was a table already set up in the center, merely waiting for players to entertain. A sofa wrapped around the room's perimeter, and he approached it, resting a knee against its plush cushion.

Lennard placed his hand gently on the wall, feeling the wards that had scared him off before. Outside, he'd been exposed. Here, he could work in relative peace.

Sweat built on his brow as his magic carefully moved through the ward. He was no expert, but it was another area his profession demanded a basic level of proficiency in. Seconds turned to minutes, but eventually his magic breached the other side. He wasn't done there, and the strand of magic he wove through the ward split. Slivers of his magic attached themselves to key portions of the ward, and with one pull, he formed a hole in the privacy ward.

Lennard released a breath, taking a moment to steady himself. He felt his left forearm, where his full-length knife and focus resided. It was tempting to use it, but with ward breaking and manifestations already used, he didn't want to push his luck any further by disturbing the ambient magic.

In any case, the next part was easier, and he pressed his ear against the cool section of wood he'd made vulnerable.

He heard nothing.

The Federation agent ramped his augmentation up, directing it to his ear in increasing amounts until he began to hear voices from the other side.

"This quality is completely unacceptable," a feminine voice said, the words softened by wood. "Either resume the normal supply, or we will be forced to consider alternatives."

A dismissive laugh followed, low and blurred.

"What alternative?" a deeper, still feminine voice replied. "We're the only game in town, and you know it."

"That remains to be seen," the first voice said, its sharpness reaching him beyond the wall.

Something slammed, followed by the crack of splintering wood.

"You forget yourself," the deeper voice snapped. "Remember who's funding your experiments. It'll be straight to the execution block if he finds out you're trying to pull out."

A third party? One both of them knew about?

"Why should they care who supplies me?" the voice defended, her words being defensive while strained. "Without an influx of material, I'll miss my quota. Or would you like to explain that to them?"

Lennard swallowed, wishing he still had his pencil. This had to be an Infinita Nox representative. Now if only they could start using names.

"It won't be the same," the deeper voice challenged. "It has to be the ones we specially marked. Altering other cores will be useless."

Did the noble not know what she was playing with? They couldn't be that ignorant…could they?

"Then I'll never have enough in time for the dan—"

His stomach grumbled, roaring it's displeasure, and he hurriedly removed himself from the unwarded section of wall. He took a few steps back, and his shoes clacked on the last.

Lennard went stock-still.

There was no way they noticed that, right? The wood was naturally soundproof. Otherwise, he wouldn't have had to risk rupturing his eardrum to hear them talk. He was just being paranoid—

The Federation agent hit the deck as shrapnel from the imploded wall tore through the space he'd been standing in. He was back on his feet a second later, barreling through the door. He came out into the same hallway, seeing the bouncer's form pushing past the curtain.

Lennard flicked his wrist, palming two throwing knives before tossing them forward. They met their marks, embedding themselves in both of the man's shoulders. The Federation agent ran down the hall, leaping onto the wall to his left before extending a hand outward.

His manifestation, hastily assembled but ready all the same, took shape. Tendrils of water sprouted from his arm, streaking toward the bouncer. They wrapped around him before pulling, sending him to the floor, before their structure collapsed.

The Federation agent launched himself off the wall, flying straight through the curtain. He landed in a roll, and before he left it, he retrieved his focus, drinking in the ambient magic to bolster his strength.

Lennard ran, avoiding the main exit in favor of the one he knew about. The reaction to him was mixed. Most seemed content to watch, assuming it was a performance. Others scooped up their chits and retreated with their earnings. Neither group concerned him. What did were the ones spinning up circles, clientele and employees alike.

Mind working on overdrive, the Federation agent identified those preparing offensive magic. Knives left his sleeve, hitting hands, arms, legs, and chests. A few met their mark, while some clashed against active shells. He didn't bother confirming which were effective.

He heard a swoosh behind him, and he reflexively turned while bringing his focus/knife up. Sparks flew as his blade scraped against a knuckleduster, and his poor arm trembled against the force.

The woman's face was pinched, her grey eyes alight with excitement beneath a buzz cut. She had high cheekbones and a sharp chin, with tanned skin pulled taut over them. Bandages wrapped her arms, flexing as muscles ripped underneath. The rest of her frame was covered by a loosely worn azure robe, but he didn't have time to consider her attire further as her second fist threatened to take his head off.

Lennard brought his free hand up, forcing his magic to shift against its nature. A burst of wind was emitted from his palm, sending him hurtling away. His back hit a table, and he flipped harshly, landing in a heap of chairs. People screamed, now running for the exits in earnest.

His arm throbbed, the brief contest of strength going against his favor. Luckily, his shell had protected him from the rest, and he pushed himself from the debris, charging toward his chosen exit.

The woman didn't approve of that, sliding into his path with fists raised. They punched out, and he could see pockets of air rocket toward him.

Lennard called on his reserves, letting his shell saturate before water consumed his body. The mass grew large enough for him to float in the orb, and he sent it rolling forward, self included. Blasts of wind were absorbed by its thickness, and the woman hesitated before diving out of the watery boulder's path.

It crashed into the set of doors, wedging itself in and partially collapsing the hallway. Lennard was ejected from it, keeping his momentum as he tumbled across the floor. He forced himself to his feet, glancing at the boulder and willing his second manifestation to trigger.

The water iced over, buying him precious time. He did his best to use it, retracing his steps. He found the same rickety staircase and was prepared to deal with Reggie when he reached the top.

"Least one of us was smart," Lennard griped, taking ragged breaths as he examined the abandoned post.

He stepped back into the open city, feeling the sun's rays on his skin. From the depths of the hole he'd crawled from, he heard the sound of fracturing ice.

Lennard ran with reckless abandon, cobblestones beginning to blur underneath him. His eyes darted around, searching for a place to melt into the city. His sense of danger pinged again, and he registered the building magic in time to prep a proper defense.

A wall of water sprouted at his feet, blunting a burst of air from above. He traced its origin, seeing the woman dozens of meters high. She kicked off of nothing, descending toward him at a breakneck speed.

Lennard threw his right arm forward, sending the last of his knives to their doom. He didn't plan to follow them, and another manifestation bubbled to life below. His own magic was running low, and this one was almost exclusively formed with the help of his focus.

A tide, if you could call it that, rose, propelling him away from the scene. Running may have been faster, but he could feel his body cry at what it had already been subjected to.

He jerked the manifestation to the side, holding his hands out as he surfed around an exploding bit of cobblestone. More followed, and after the third, he was beginning to grow confident.

Then reality caught up to him.

Lennard was thrown from his manifestation, his shell dulling the impact. For what was becoming too common an occurrence, he rolled across the ground, jagged cobblestones digging into his sides.

Instinctively, his knife was raised, meeting her armored knuckles again. Her wild grin was on his face, and with a grunt, he summoned what strength he had left. The girl was knocked backward, her expression shifting to surprise and then disappointment. She skidded to a stop, remaining upright.

The Federation lurched forward, nearly collapsing as he felt the blood vessels in his arm burst. He caught his falling knife with his remaining good arm, and when he looked at his foe again, all he saw was her fist.

It was only through relentless drilling that he was able to re-summon his shell, preventing his skull from being caved in. His back hit an alley wall, and he slumped down it, landing with his head down.

Lennard tried to breathe, only to taste blood. He coughed it up, each convulsion sending hot spikes of pain throughout his body. His fingers grasped, mindlessly searching for his focus. He didn't find it, and a pulse of magic confirmed he wasn't in a good state.

For all he tended to second-guess himself, there was none of that now, and he scrounged what magic he had left, preparing for his final say.

At least Auntie could enjoy a lieutenant's pension.

His hand rose, feeling like the world itself weighed down on it. A circle flickered before it, growing more defined with each heartbeat.

He blinked, trying to find his target.

There were…two?

Without his enhanced eyesight, he couldn't process the blurring shapes before him. But he could hear them, weapons singing with each exchange.

Had the knights—

No, it was Janice.

Her morningstar lashed out, its brilliantly polished metal flashing under the sun's light.

Lennard's arm moved, trying desperately to get a bead on the other woman. However, they were moving too fast and too close for him to feel comfortable firing.

They were both enemies. As his final act in the Empire, hitting both would be fitting.

He didn't, holding out for a clearer target as strength seeped away from him. His teeth gritted, and his shoulder shifted in a vain attempt to cling on a little longer.

It didn't work, and his arm dropped, the circle fading.

Lennard fought to keep his eyes open, trying and failing to draw in magic. He shouldn't have prepared an attack. His augmentation was bad, but with the magic he had, he might have been able to patch himself up well enough to survive.

He was such an—

"Imbecile," a voice said. "What did you think you were doing?"

For a moment, he thought that it was his own voice. Bleary vision cleared, seeing a shattered mask in front of him. He'd often wondered what she looked like behind that mask. Her face was softer than he expected, concerned, dark eyes feeling more expressive than usual. It was counteracted by the scar sloping down her nose and across her cheek. The surrounding skin was silvery, almost as shiny as the mask she hid behind.

He laughed, producing more blood than anything.

"St–stunning," he ground out, a smile on his lips. "That's the word."

If only he could get to his pencil…

"Wha—no." She reeled back, nose flaring in obstinance. It made him laugh up more blood. "Eight across is riveting."

Riveting, huh? He would have gotten it eventually, if only he had more time.

His ruptured arm, which he'd lost all feeling in, somehow sent him rolling into fresh agony. He could feel hands holding him down, and a strained glance let him see the scarf wrapped tightly around his upper arm.

Lennard had never seen her tolerate so much as a speck of dirt on it.

"Endure it," she said, her gloved hand reaching into her mouth. She pulled out… a false tooth. "Stay with me."

Right, he had one of those two. He should use it in case they performed an autopsy. His tongue flailed uselessly, trying to dislodge the molar.

Her fingers wrapped around his jaw, forcing his mouth open. She dropped her false tooth inside, manipulating his teeth to crush it.

By all rights, he should have resisted, pointless as it may have been.

A bitter liquid met his tongue, evaporating swiftly. Warmth blossomed next, traveling down his neck and to his cold extremities.

Poison? He should…he should what now?

"Don't fight it," she said, wiping his curly hair from his face. "And six down is arrest."

He was under arrest?

"LX—" he slurred, mind drifting.

What was his number again?

He couldn't remember. Come to think of it, he was having trouble remembering a lot of things. Where was he? What had he been doing? Why did he feel so tired?

The man yawned, exhaustion settling in.

Something in his mind whispered that he couldn't fall asleep in front of this strange woman, but he couldn't remember why.

It couldn't be that important then. And sleeping next to a pretty lady didn't seem that bad.