Aers walked the dark street alone. It was now incredibly calm and silent after the lightning strike had put down every miscreant, stopping the chaotic brutality and the constant, scary noise at once.

  But even in the stillness, a different kind of dread hung in the air—heavy and watchful. Aers knew some of the villains were still lurking. Their numbers were unknown, but their strength and danger had already been made terrifyingly clear.

  He moved carefully, following faint traces and his own intuition about where they might be hiding. As he turned a corner into a wider commercial lane, he noticed a familiar figure standing across the way.

  It was Sera. She had just finished surveying the main market area—a place now utterly devastated, strewn with dead, flesh, blood, and shattered stone. Aers saw her sharp profile.

  He chose not to make himself known. He didn’t want her company right now. Quietly, he slipped down another path.

  What happened next felt like the result of that choice—a coincidence, or perhaps fate rerouting him.

  He entered the shopping arcade, a wide street lined with ruined stalls and silent shops. And there, standing in the center of the road, was a woman.

  She wore a formal black tuxedo, her back to him. Even from this distance, he could tell she wore some kind of helm or mask. His instincts, honed from earlier, went cold.

  That’s her. The one I saw before. The dangerous one I chose to avoid.

  But something was different now. Something held his attention, rooting him in place.

  Two of the numbered knights—members of the supposed task force—were with her. One stood silently at attention nearby. The other was speaking to her, his posture not of command, but of… reporting.

  What is going on? What are they talking about? This doesn’t feel right.

  A cold understanding seeped into him. This wasn’t a chance meeting. This was coordination.

  Should I risk trying to get closer? No. That would be too foolish.

  Instead, Aers looked around, assessing the terrain. With silent, practiced feet, he retreated into the shadows of a collapsed awning, then hoisted himself onto the low roof of a nearby shop.

  He moved like an insect, suppressing his presence, crawling across the tiles until he was just close enough to catch fragments of sound.

  He settled into the darkness of a broken chimney, blending with the night, and focused everything on his ears. Below, the faint murmur of voices began to reach him.

  K17’s voice was tense, clipped. “I have been unable to contact K2, K3, K5, K6, or K7. All of them have suddenly stopped responding.”

  Renda didn’t turn. Her mask, a grander, deeper cyan version of the Yellow Weaver’s, remained tilted toward the ravaged market square. “What was the last message about?”

  K33 answered, his tone formal. “K2 and K5 had located the possible copycat and had him cornered. That was the last update. After that, communications ceased. I assumed operational command in K2’s absence. I suspected the individual the Yellow Weaver mentioned—the one called Red Cape—might have been involved. However, I did not believe he alone could eliminate K2 so easily. I theorized they may have been trapped or ensnared. Since no bodies were found, I dispatched K3, K6, and K7 to locate this Red Cape, who may be working with the copycat, or may be the copycat himself. The last transmission I received coincided with the appearance of the city-wide blue light phenomenon. They reported visual contact with Red Cape and suspected his involvement. Now… I cannot reach them either.”

  K17’s voice was grim. “If we operate under the assumption all five are lost, then we are the remaining operational units. The situation is critical enough to require your directive before our next action.” She paused, a rare note of deference entering her voice. “I must beg your pardon, Your Highness. We have not achieved our objectives. I did not anticipate a threat of this caliber existing in this town. Had I known, I would have joined the Yellow Weaver’s… artistic endeavors directly, rather than maintaining this knightly facade. Our performance might have been more effective.”

  Renda let out a light, playful hum. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s no biggie.” She gestured gracefully at the surrounding carnage. “Just look. We have turned this boring town into such a wonderful state of art. As I walked, I felt so… amazed and consumed by the beauty of the violence. Causing all this riot was so worth it.” Her masked head tilted. “The only thing that saddens me is that copycat is still running around. Can you believe it? I placed all of you in the task force. We could have gotten so much more out of it. But… guess it is what it is.”

  She paused, her tone shifting to a casual, chilling certainty. “Though, I don’t think it was that Red Cape you mentioned.”

  K17 and K33 went still. “What do you mean?”

  “I fought that Red Cape,” Renda said, the words sweet and cold. “He was too weak to win against K2, let alone overwhelm three Weaver Club members. Not to forget, I made sure he was in a near-death state. The fact he survived means he has an ally. Someone strong enough to pose a threat to us. This is now bad. We have met a foe who may have killed our friends.”

  She clasped her hands behind her back. “ We have to take their revenge as well. Also, it looks like our dear Yellow is now captured. ” She turned her cyan mask toward them, the engraved features eerily serene. “Let’s free him first. Then…”

  K17 and K33 stiffened in shock. “What? When did this happen?”

  “My little mice who were watching over things told me,” Renda said, her voice a singsong whisper.

  A wide, terrifying smile was audible in her next words.

  “After the rescue, We’ll just burn this place up.”

  Aers’s mind reeled.

  What the hell? What did I just hear?

  His eyes widened in the darkness, disbelief locking his muscles. The Count’s knights… were the infamous Weaver Club? As an officer, he’d heard the whispers—a fanatical, murderous cult obsessed with the Green Weaver, linked to many atrocities across the region.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  What are they doing here? And why as Count Loren’s knights? No… it’s possible. They must have killed the original knights and taken their places.

  The implications crashed over him, cold and terrifying.

  What are they after? This is way bigger than expected. And who is this copycat? Or this Red Cape?

  Fear, sharp and acidic, flooded his veins. His anxiety spiked, his breath coming too fast. He had to move. Now.

  I have to get away from here. This is too dangerous. I have to inform everyone.

  He began to ease backward, silent as a ghost, his training overriding his panic. But as he moved, a new, horrifying thought clicked into place.

  Wait a minute. If all the knights are Weaver Club members… I just sent two of them to the main office. They’re alive. They’ll be cared for. And if they wake up… with that captured Weaver likely there too…

  Oh, shit.

  It was a recipe for disaster. Who was guarding the place? Tiger and a handful of low-ranking officers. They are no match for even a single, prepared Weaver Club member, let alone two.

  He frowned, the dread so thick he could taste it. In his distress, his heel came down on a loose roof tile.

  Creek.

  The sound was soft, almost imperceptible. But in the heavy silence, it was a gunshot.

  The wave of chill that shot down his spine was immediate, primal, and terrifying beyond words. The fear he’d felt before was nothing. This was the instinctual terror of prey sensing the predator’s breath.

  Then he felt it. A soft, warm breath on the back of his neck.

  A gentle, almost delicate hand rested on his shoulder, fingers curling lightly against his skin.

  And in his ear, a voice, sweet and humming with sinister amusement, whispered.

  “Oh my, my… A peeping tom? Would you believe this? Eavesdropping on a young lady this late at night… You are such a perv.”

  Renda.

  Aers’s soul almost left his body.

  Renda’s grip was gentle, almost intimate, as her fingers rested on his neck. “Who are you?”

  Under the grim, soul-crushing pressure, the answer tore from Aers’s lips without thought. “I am an officer.”

  “Ah,” she breathed, the sound a mixture of pity and amusement.

  In the same instant, her delicate touch turned to iron. Her nails—long, sharp, and glowing with a sickly violet light—dug into the side of his throat. Her expression didn’t change; only her eyes behind the cyan mask held a spark of cold delight.

  “Toxic Mana Surge.”

  Aers’s world exploded into agony. It wasn’t just pain—it was corrosion, a vile, spreading necrosis that burned through his flesh and mana pathways from the inside.

  Then, impossibly, the positions reversed.

  One moment, he was under her hand, dying. The next, he was standing where she had been, his own hand outstretched. In his place, now gripping her own slightly bleeding neck, was Renda. A thin line of crimson welled where her own nails had just been.

  Aers didn’t have time to waste. Survival screamed in his veins. He triggered the emergency talisman on his belt and launched himself off the roof.

  He didn’t get far.

  K17 and K33 materialized from the shadows below, cutting off his descent. Aers changed trajectory midair, landing hard on the slanted roof of the arcade’s central promenade and sprinting.

  The two knights followed without a word. Their speed was terrifying.

  K17 closed in first, her fist a blur of enhanced force aimed at his spine. Aers twisted, the punch grazing his uniform and shattering the roof tiles where he’d just been.

  He didn’t stop moving. A crescent of compressed air from K33’s swung blade sliced past his face, shearing off a lock of his hair and demolishing a decorative stone gargoyle behind him.

  K33 lunged, fingers curled like talons, aiming to rip his belly open. Aers sucked his stomach in and pull himself back, feeling the heat of the mana-charged strike sear his uniform.

  He used the momentum of his evasion to pivot and drive a steel-toed boot into K33’s face. The impact jarred his leg, but it knocked the knight back a step.

  It was all the opening K17 needed. She was on him, hands reaching to grab his shoulders and crush him against the roof. Aers dropped his weight, slipping sideways as her grip closed on empty air.

  He tried to form a spell—a simple binding glyph—but K33 was already behind him again, a fireball coalescing in his palm.

  Aers threw himself forward. The fireball detonated against the rooftop where he’d crouched, blasting a crater into the structure and showering him with splinters and heat.

  He rolled, came up running, his breath ragged. They are toying with me.

  Their movements were coordinated, effortless, forcing him into a frantic dance where stopping meant death. All Aers could do was dodge and answer with a few physical strikes.

  He was outnumbered, under relentless pressure, and fighting through fear and anxiety. Most importantly, the two of them were incredibly fast—so fast that Aers never had a moment to invoke his magic or launch any real offense.

  If he tried, he knew he would be on the ground in an instant. Their fighting style allowed no openings, no pauses—only constant motion and overwhelming force.

  Fury finally burned through K17’s discipline. She drew her sword in a fluid motion, the blade humming with contained power. She flashed forward, too fast to follow with the eye.

  Aers saw the blur, tried to lean away. Not enough.

  The sword bit deep into his shoulder, grating against bone. White-hot pain blinded him.

  And again, the world flipped.

  Suddenly, he was standing where K17 had been, her sword now in his hand, its hilt warm and foreign. K17 stood in his previous spot, her own shoulder now sporting a deep, bleeding gash, her face a mask of shock and rage.

  K33, who hadn’t seen the switch, saw an opening. His fists glowed with swirling, violent energy.

  “Storm Fist!”

  He launched the attack at the figure he thought was Aers—who was now K17.

  The technique obliterated the entire section of the arcade. Wood, stone, and tile vaporized in a concentric blast.

  A fist of condensed storm-force pierced through everything. K17 hastily raised her guard and narrowly escaped the trajectory of the attack. But Aers was not luckily enough, he took all the damaged possible.

  When the dust settled, the positions had reversed once more.

  Now, K33 was on his knees in the rubble, his armor shattered and strewn around him. Deep, weeping lacerations covered his massive torso, and blood poured from a gash across his brow.

  He was conscious, but barely, breathing in wet, pained gasps.

  Aers stood several yards away, swaying, Where K33 was, his body trembling with adrenaline.

  From her perch on a miraculously untouched section of railing, Renda clapped her hands slowly, the sound crisp in the sudden quiet.

  “Hmm… a role-reversal type of technique,” she mused, her voice a playful, humming melody. “Hehe… wow. How cool.”

  Unnoticed by Renda or anyone, a mere ten meters above and to her left, nestled within the deepest seam of shadow beneath a broken eave, Lucien observed the entire scene.

  His presence was utterly absent. He was watching the whole show with the keen, detached eyes of a predator not yet in the mood to spring.

  His gaze dissecting the reversal technique, its rhythm, it's trigger, its limitations.

  Interesting