"How the fuck was that possible…

  I etched a glyph on a random bone—and it worked."

  The boy sprinted through the streets, breath ragged, words spilling under his breath.

  In the distance, sirens wailed. Screams followed.

  The Spires' image had to be maintained.

  Witnesses had to be silenced.

  What came after destruction was a bloodbath no one would ever speak of.

  But idle mouths still ran.

  "That mage lost… like a fire mage. Seriously? Not so tough now, huh?"

  A passerby stepped over a bleeding body and spat.

  "Lords above… these guys are monsters."

  "Shhh. I love my life. Shut the fuck up."

  Whispers bled through the streets as corpses were looted and desecrated.

  Back at the epicenter, Little Red still knelt, clutching what remained of his hand.

  Shock hollowed his face. His thoughts mirrored it.

  The fight had been wrong from the very beginning.

  Long-distance spells woven into instant martial techniques—impossible.

  Bizarre. Unnatural.

  None of his blows had landed.

  One moment the rogue was there.

  The next—nothing.

  Behind him, a crimson-robed man sighed softly, shaking his head.

  "Kid got his ego blown clean off," he muttered.

  "Idiot. Who uses wide spells on a rogue?"

  He laughed once—

  WOOOOOSH.

  And the alley emptied, leaving behind only ruin.

  Eylin hid beneath his worktable, shaking.

  "Hope the red's gone for good…" he murmured.

  Then the alley twitched.

  A disturbance rippled through the air.

  Eylin threw himself out from under the table, landing hard on the floor.

  "Good thing I cleaned up," he sighed.

  "Can a day just be normal?"

  He lay there, clutching the bone shard tight.

  His body trembled.

  His mind burned.

  Fear gnawed at him—the Spires would kill him if they knew.

  Yet beneath the fear, exhilaration pulsed.

  The glyph had obeyed.

  For once, the cracks bent to his will.

  And that meant the rules could be broken.

  The slums bled into silence as Eylin drifted north.

  Crooked alleys littered with broken bottles and flickering rogue glyphs gave way to pristine avenues lined with block walls and decorated stalls. The air itself changed—cleaner, sharper, humming faintly with mana.

  Here, mages walked openly.

  Their robes were pristine, color-coded by faction:

  Flame — crimson edged with orange, the air around them warm, heavy with smoke.

  Water — pale blue, hems damp with mist, their presence cooling the street.

  Earth — brown with green trim, roots breaking through pavement where they walked.

  Air — white with sky-blue accents, banners snapping in constant wind.

  Color intensity marked rank—faint hues for apprentices, deep saturation for adepts, radiant brilliance for masters.

  Above them, the Spires pierced the heavens.

  Four towers, spear-like, wrapped in living vines pulsing with mana.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Each bent the city to its nature:

  The Flame Spire radiated heat, its walls glowing at dusk.

  The Water Spire drowned its district in mist and enchanted streams.

  The Earth Spire made stone fertile, weeds bursting from cracks.

  The Air Spire stirred endless winds, carrying voices too far.

  Compared to the slums, this district was order incarnate.

  Glyphs hovered obediently—woven into lanterns, fountains, even the vines themselves.

  Citizens walked reverently, heads bowed.

  To rogues, the Spires were prisons disguised as monuments.

  To mages, they were sanctuaries.

  In one of the many halls, a hearing was underway.

  Little Red now stood as the accused.

  "What did you say, child?" an elder asked.

  "Presumptuous," another muttered.

  "Teleportation mid-battle?" a third bellowed, aura leaking.

  "Do we look like children to you?"

  "Y–yes, my lords," Little Red stammered.

  "The rogues are up to something. I can feel it."

  "We've heard enough," they said in finality, ushering him out.

  "If the boy speaks truth…" one murmured.

  "These heretics are planning something."

  Their voices died with the closing doors.

  Those who knew would later say the decisions made that day only added more souls to Myrrus Undone.

  At the Merchants' Guild, whispers brewed as always.

  Life went on. Coin exchanged hands. Tomorrow was ignored.

  "Today was too loud to sleep," Mercy complained, her gaze flicking toward an empty corner table.

  Everyone noticed.

  The Glitch wasn't around.

  Mike kept his thoughts to himself. Provoking Mercy never ended well.

  The atmosphere shifted as a hooded boy entered, moving straight for the counter.

  "Yo, Mercy… can we talk?"

  She stifled a laugh, shoulders shaking.

  "What's wrong, Glitch?" she teased.

  "We can talk right here. Private room costs extra."

  "It's serious," Eylin said quietly.

  The room stilled.

  Mercy studied him, then gestured toward the back.

  Her office.

  She swapped glasses, expression hardening as she sat behind the mahogany desk.

  Eylin tossed something onto the table.

  A bone.

  Bound in glyphs.

  Mercy froze.

  Her eyes widened—then fear crept in.

  "H–how?" she whispered.

  "This shouldn't be possible."

  Glyphs flared as she sealed the room.

  "I followed a mana trace," Eylin said shakily.

  "Old 8 left it behind. I just… tried."

  Mercy collapsed into her chair, rubbing her brow.

  "Kid," she muttered,

  "I am not paid enough for this."

  She met his eyes.

  "You have no idea what you've done."

  Books floated onto the desk.

  "Read these," she said.

  "Then you'll understand the waters you've stepped into."

  With a flick of her hand, Eylin vanished—returned to his room.

  Mercy exhaled slowly.

  "Amon…" she sighed.

  "What kind of child did you sire?"

  She leaned back, exhausted.

  "Such a troublesome family."