Mr. Craft noticed the central figure of the operation: a burly, imposing man with a thick, salt-and-pepper beard and a dark leather eye-patch. The man was perfectly still near a fruit stand, watching the observers instead of the speaker. Every few seconds, a different person would walk by and perform a coded signal—a cough, an adjusted hat, a dropped apple—and The Bearded Man would subtly nod.

  The orator’s speech reached its fever pitch just as the City Watch began to push through the throng. The Watch’s visible arrival was the signal.

  The Bearded Man gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. He didn't run, didn't panic; he was already calibrated to the rhythm of this street. He smoothly began to walk, weaving against the flow of people who were either fleeing the guards or surging toward the spectacle, using the natural gaps and hesitations of the fleeing crowd as a shield.

  Mr. Craft knew this was his moment. He melted into the crowd a second later, maintaining a precise distance—close enough to keep the target in his enhanced vision, far enough to remain entirely unseen. He moved like The Bearded Man’s shadow, always placing a nervous pedestrian or a brightly colored stall between himself and his mark.

  The Bearded Man led him through a maze of narrow side streets and damp alleys, finally pausing near the heavy, ornate doors of the Grand Guild Hall. This was the very building Mr. Craft had originally intended to investigate.

  The Rebel didn’t knock. He waited, scanning the street one final time. A moment later, a nervous man in a guild uniform slipped out of a side door.

  The Bearded Man pulled the informant into the alley’s deep shadows. Their voices were low, urgent, and focused entirely on logistics and intelligence. Mr. Craft strained his ears, his Unwoven Eyes allowing him to focus on the slightest movements of their lips.

  "The Watch will be busy on the east side for hours. The distraction held. Messages delivered. How solid is the information on the North Gate garrison?" The Bearded Man asked, his single eye intense.

  "More solid than the garrison itself," the informant whispered back. "The Captain is still drunk every night. We have the patrol routes for the barracks written down. They are expecting the final tools—not weapons yet, but the maps—before the midnight bell. Tonight, at the usual location, we confirm the recruits."

  A Coup and the Bar Debrief

  That’s it. Mr. Craft felt the certainty flood him. The orator was the decoy. The corruption wasn't just in the taxes; it was in the systemic weakness of the city’s defense, which the rebels were exploiting. This was a coup in the planning stage.

  He had enough. He assumed The Bearded Man was the organizer, the Guild Informant his spy, and the operation centered around intelligence and recruitment. His new goal was to secure the Rebel leader's lair for a future visit.

  He tracked The Bearded Man with the precise, detached focus of a shadow. The Rebel moved with purpose, leaving the busy district and heading toward the quiet, forgotten section of the Lower Wards—a place of abandoned tenements and stale air.

  The Bearded Man finally entered a nondescript, squat stone building—an old, abandoned warehouse with dark windows near the river. There were no immediate guards, just the cold finality of a heavy, metal door closing behind him.

  Mr. Craft marked the building with absolute certainty. He didn't need to risk an approach tonight; he had the location. He had his starting point, and he had his secret.

  He moved quickly but without urgency, using the shadowed side streets until he was far from the warehouse. The weight of the truth—a planned coup—settled over him. He took a moment to let the cold air clear his head, then activated a low-frequency communicator in his mask, sending a single, coded message: 'Bar. Usual table. Feast.' The mission was done; the debrief could wait. Right now, he needed a moment of normalcy with his people.

  Mr. Craft pushed open the rickety door of the rundown bar where the Unwoven met. The transition from the chill of the outside world to the noisy warmth of the bar was a welcome shock. Gale looked up instantly from the reserved table, which was already piled high with the grilled meat his master preferred.

  "Oh, there you are, Mr. Craft. We've been waiting," Gale greeted him. "The table's ready."

  Mr. Craft settled into his seat, watching the room for a beat. "Locks, is the perimeter clear?"

  Locks smiled. "Calm, Master. Those unwelcome eyes kept staring at my legs when I was helping heal the wounded, but Skull made sure of that; as soon as he came to assist, all of them wandered off, scared of our brawny masked guy." Her sudden shift from mad to cute was a familiar double persona.

  Mr. Craft nodded, appreciating the subtle layer of security. "Good. Seeri, Cliff, did you have success?"

  Seeri nodded shyly. "Yes, and so did Cliff. We both found something... substantial."

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  Mr. Craft took a deep breath. "Excellent. But not here. Not tonight. The walls have too many ears, and my head has too many shadows. We discuss everything tomorrow at the staging house. For now, we celebrate success and exhaustion. Eat." The bitter, metallic tang of the coming revolution faded, replaced by the scent of the feast.

  The Demonic Aura and Skull's Sponsor

  The following morning, the taste of revolution was still sharp, but duty called. Mr. Craft returned to the throng of the assessment grounds. The previous day’s covert operation was history; today required focusing on the dungeon and the competition. He didn't have to look hard to find a new complication. His gaze swept over the crowd and landed on a distinct group also observing the others. He felt it instantly—a familiar chill that sliced through the mundane noise of the camp—a demonic aura.

  A member of the cult? They looked strong, having already passed the assessment. There were six of them: one looking like a towering warrior comparable to Jasper (Skull); another a seasoned soldier with reddish eyes and a sword on his kilt; and the others wearing various masks. Mr. Craft thought, They are just like us. More like, we exude the same strong and mysterious aura, and I hate to say it, but their attire is just like ours.

  Mr. Craft didn’t want to be noticed, so he stayed far from their sight but kept observing their actions. Are they here for a demonic ritual? No, I haven't felt any of that around. So maybe they are here to also investigate the dungeon. The demonic cult has been quiet lately. If they are going inside the dungeon, I’ll deal with them there. For now, I need to keep observing the others; they are, after all, my competition.

  ?? Skull Attracts Attention

  Meanwhile, in the main arena, Jasper—now known only as Skull—was executing the second phase of Mr. Craft's plan: becoming a visible powerhouse. Skull had just defeated his twentieth fighter of the morning. "The winner again is SKULL from the Unwoven Group!" the announcer bellowed. "Who else is brave enough to challenge him? Oh, no one seems to want to test their luck? Well, I can't blame you! Here, Skull, here is your prize money."

  The crowd cheered. Skull, with his mask on, thought, I guess that is more than enough for today. I hope I managed to attract what Craft said about the so-called “sponsors.”

  As Skull walked, planning to take a break, a man appeared. He looked like a scholar, wearing reading glasses and carrying a bag overflowing with rolled papers. "Mister! Mister! Wait, please wait," the man gasped for breath. "Please, I beg you, let me sponsor you!"

  Skull paused. This must be what Craft told me about.

  Clyne, still slightly breathless, pushed his glasses up his nose. "I apologize, I didn't introduce myself. My name is Clyne, and I represent the Gearing Mind School." He gestured to the papers rolling out of his satchel. "We study science and research modern and ancient technology. We believe the dungeon is a vital source of information and learning. Our school will pay you handsomely!"

  Skull said, "It is our leader who decides that. You can meet him later, but I won't guarantee it; there are others offering me their services, but I'll put in a good word for you."

  Skull continued to walk, but Clyne followed close behind him.

  Skull stopped and asked, "Why are you still following me?"

  Clyne stammered, "Umm, you didn’t give me an address. I thought you wanted me to follow you."

  Skull thought, He was right. "Listen, Clyne, just wait here. There are others wanting my attention too. I need to talk to them."

  Clyne replied, "Got it, Mr. Skull."

  Just as Skull thought, there were others keen on inviting him to be their sponsor or avail of their escort service. Some just wanted to make a good relationship with him after witnessing his martial prowess. "Ah, this is too much attention," Skull muttered. "Now I know why Lenka doesn’t like to talk to people."

  The Gearing Mind Proposition

  Over the next two days, the team continued their routine. Mr. Craft solidified his understanding that the rebel group had escalated into a coup by tapping into high officials. He had also been monitoring the presumed demon cult, noting they were merely waiting for the dungeon to reopen to raiders and were not performing any rituals. He now knew they were likely there to investigate the dungeon as well.

  Every night, they met at the same rundown bar to share their findings. Skull brought prospective sponsors, most of whom Mr. Craft declined, but he deferred his decision regarding Clyne until he could get a better grasp of the kingdom’s situation and its alignment with his team’s mission.

  The next day, Skull brought Clyne to the bar again. Clyne was sitting alone at a table when Skull told him, "Just wait here. I'll go back to my business. My leader will soon meet with you."

  Mr. Craft came in with his hollow mask on and his cowl drawn, exuding a powerful, mysterious presence. Clyne immediately stood up and offered him a seat.

  "Good day, Mr. Craft. Please take a seat. Order whatever you like."

  Mr. Craft declined. "I appreciate the gesture, but I am not here to fill my palate."

  "Oh, okay, to business then." The two sat facing each other.

  Mr. Craft removed his mask. Clyne wasn't expecting a young man behind the intimidating guise, having imagined an older, more imposing figure leading the Unwoven.

  Mr. Craft began, "What do you think of the oratory display of people crying for the kingdom's corruption? Do you think they are on point?"

  Clyne was startled by the unexpected question.

  Mr. Craft waved a hand. "Don’t mind that question. It just came out of nowhere. Do your school support the kingdom? I heard you try to go against them, refusing to show favoritism for noble sons and daughters, which cost you the kingdom's financial support. I also heard you have many scientific breakthroughs the nobilities want to get their hands on."

  Clyne, although surprised, was hesitant to answer and tried to change the topic. "Ah, Mr. Craft, I am here to offer sponsorship in exchange for your escort service for the dungeon exploration."

  Mr. Craft nodded. "Of course. But why choose us? There are more powerful groups out there with more influence. Wouldn't you be better off with them? There are groups directly linked to the kingdom—even part of the Royal Guard established their own teams."

  This line of questioning seemed to trigger Clyne. He spoke with conviction, "They were doing it to benefit the nobilities and the monarchy! None of their exploration is related to the development of this kingdom. The kingdom is ruled by greedy people." He quickly apologized. "My apology, I responded out of character. The truth is, we have checked your background and affiliation. We try not to seek escort service from someone aligned with the kingdom."

  Craft pressed him. "So you are hiding something from them?"

  "No, of course not! They will confiscate anything that fancies their eyes. I would come out empty-handed, silenced, or worst, I’ll be dead. Please accept our intention, we will pay you handsomely," Clyne pleaded.

  Mr. Craft gave a doubtful smile. "I'm not interested in money, but I'm sure we can agree on something else. I need information and some other cooperation on your part."