The vault-cell where they had imprisoned Zack was a labyrinth of iron and runes — sealed walls, containment chains, Amber sentinels mounted on tripods like small watchmen. The Tribunal dispatched a team for the first interrogation round: officers, clerks, Mira with her rituals, and two Tribunal judges to ensure formality. Kaito was present; the Station stood a reverent guard. The HUD flashed parameters with cold efficiency:
INTERROGATION_MODE: ZACK (HOLD) -> PHASE1 (PHYSICAL+RITUAL)
SECURITY: HIGH (REDUNDANT_AMBER) | RISK: EXTERNAL_INTERVENTION (VELARN_RESPONSE)
OBJECTIVE: EXTRACT_LOGISTICS -> IDENTIFY_PRINCIPAL_FUNDER (VELARN_LINKS)
What they always feared happened: Zack breathed with difficulty but smiled with his eyes. His lightning had been contained by Amber fields; the Black Bolt pulsed in small sealed shadows around him. Questions were asked with measured haste — answers came in fragments: routes, dates, names. Nothing Kaito did not already suspect, but material proof was being extracted and recorded.
Meanwhile, a stream of malicious communications began to cross the networks: small clips intercepted by Lio — images of a pair of black gloves, smudges of carbon, an old whispered symbol (“the Plague”). A worn poster rumored in coastal villages appeared: “Wanted: Black Fists — Bounty: 1B” — a rumor that sounded more legend than fact. Lio showed the file; the name made the HUD parameters vibrate a little harder.
INTEL_ALERT: RUMOR—BARAN (BLACK_FISTS) -> LAST_SEEN: 5y AGO
BOUNTY_EST: 1,000,000,000 GOLD
NOTES: CONNECTED_GROUP: THE_PLAGUE (UNKNOWN_OBJECTIVE) — HIGH_RISK
Conversations in the room cooled. Old officers recalled stories: “Baran toppled empires for coin,” one said. “He doesn’t fight like a man; he’s a phenomenon.” Kaito took mental notes: a man with such legend could unbalance the entire operation. But it was only rumor — and the Tribunal needed living proof, not fables.
The first night of interrogation brought a small victory: maps and names that would let Renna and Edran direct blockades. Kaito felt a lightness. Then — at the end of the watch, while Mira sealed paperwork in crystal — the ground pulsed. It wasn’t a quake; it was an air-impact, carrying a metallic smell and distant crackling.
External sensors logged an anomaly: small electrical discharges in villages up to 8–10 km away, accompanied by sudden outbreaks of pain among populations that had been recently touched. The HUD signaled:
ANOMALY: ENERGY_SURGE_RING -> RADIUS: ~9.2 km
REPORTED: CIVILIANS_WITH_BURNS (RANDOMIZED) / SYMPTOMS: CONVULSIONS, TEMPORARY_PARALYSIS
RECOMMEND: CHECK_MARKING_SIGNALS / ALERT_MOBILITY
At first no one in the room noticed the tiny marks — superficial scars — appearing on some civilians who came seeking help. Lio brought more data: night images from markets showed a figure touching people with a dark glove before disappearing down alleys. The mark was not runic: it was human, a touch.
Kaito tensed. “If this is what I think,” he murmured, “it isn’t just force — it’s an architecture of damage.” He ordered reinforcements and moved Zack under double guard to an even deeper cell. Night fell in taut silence; the clouds seemed to whisper. Rumors of Baran’s return circulated like crows: who would come to free Zack? And why?
The Crack of the Gloves
The next day began in panic. Reports came in from across the lines: outbreaks where people who’d been touched by a stranger within the last 24 hours suffered excruciating pain — and then, in random spots, other people collapsed with burns and fractures they had not received directly. The pattern was cruel: the damage afflicted bodies chosen at random among the marked. It was a dispersion — and someone commanded it.
Lio correlated the points: the damage coincided with places where, in the previous hours, cameras and informants had seen a man touch as many people as he could — in markets, at ports, in ration lines. The system indicated a marking pattern: human contact followed by remote activation of an effect. That matched the legends of the "transferer" — someone who made the world bear his blows. The HUD recorded the hypothesis:
SUSPECT_SKILLHIT: DAMAGE_TRANSFER_MECHANIC -> RANGE: 10km / MARK_REQUIRED: TOUCH
BEHAVIOR: MARK_MANY -> ACTIVATE -> DAMAGE_REDISTRIBUTION_RANDOM_WITHIN_MARKS
The name that kept surfacing in old files was Baran — Black Fists. Reward posters circulated in faded ink: face obscured, black gloves, fists that seemed to swallow light. The bounty was absurd, almost mythical: one billion gold coins. There was more: references to a group called The Plague, an obscure faction whose aim no one had decoded. Five years without trace — now signs.
The Tribunal sent reinforcements to villages; Kaito assembled a rapid-response force to bolster security around Zack’s containment and the routes carrying the recovered records. They suspected that if Baran were real, he’d aim for the most valuable prize: the prisoner proving Velarn’s ties. If he truly had the power, nothing would stop him from forcing the system to yield.
Late afternoon brought the first clear signs: a convoy escorting records toward the capital was destroyed — not by a conventional ambush, but because soldiers previously touched in villages began to bleed internally and their weapons discharged in panic; the damage redistribution created a short-circuit that turned an escort into carnage. The message cut like a dagger. Kaito understood the scale: Baran did not merely fight — he redesigned where pain would fall.
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That night, everyone waited for the inevitable. The alarm sounded at the Arc of Verin — not from external forces but because Zack’s prison itself trembled under pressure. Guards reported long shadows against the sky, the sound of leather cutting air, and then a single hollow impact that rippled through walls and chains. Security footage showed a figure crossing the yard with short, compact steps: black gloves, hands gleaming as if coated in oil. The chains had been scorched with black soot.
The confrontation was too fast to breathe.
Baran did not fight like a man. He moved like a thinking fist: small, direct strikes with absolute precision. Every defense that struck him fell like a ship against rock. A soldier jabbed with a spear — Baran brushed him and instantly a wave of pain surged through an officer on the opposite flank: his torso erupted in internal fire, and he convulsed. Baran kicked a column so forcefully the entire strut shuddered and an Amber shield shattered into shards of light.
Within five minutes the palace guard was unrecognizable: wounded not by direct attack but by the random reflections of Baran’s power distributed among those he had marked by touch. His technique was monstrously scalable: he had touched hundreds in the city in prior hours — vendors, porters, elders — weaving a human web to bear his fury.
What shocked most was his coldness. Baran didn’t merely cut guards; he strode through guild leaders who came to stop the chaos and swept them aside as if clearing a barricade. A royal captain advanced with a ceremonial blade; Baran sidestepped minutely and grazed the captain’s wrist — the captain’s damage rebounded as flame into a woman selling bread two streets over. It was absurd: orders died and the city paid with blood.
Zack was free. Baran spoke few words, voice low and stone-smooth: “I have a debt. I pay with interest.” He raised his arm and Zack — dazed — moved under the protection of his black gloves. There was no ceremony. The Plague moved in shadows: scouts, ropes, an impossible exit — they vanished down alleys Baran had marked with little black aerial signs.
When the dust settled and casualties were tallied, one fact remained: Baran had arrived like a hurricane, beaten every resistance, and taken Zack. The HUD logged the event with a coldness that cut Kaito:
EVENT: BARAN_INTRUSION -> ZACK_ESCAPED (RECOVERED_BY: BARAN)
RESULT: PRISON_BREACH_SUCCESS | CASUALTIES_CIVILIAN: HIGH (RANDOM_REDISTRIBUTION)
ALERT: BARAN_ACTIVE -> BOUNTY: 1,000,000,000 | THE_PLAGUE: CONFIRMED
Kaito stood amid broken Amber and blood. Nara vomited a silent rage, fingers dug in the dirt. “He rescued him,” she said as if repeating the absurd. “But at what cost?” Kaito had no answer. What he knew was that Zack — living proof — had become invisible again, and the Tribunal had lost not only evidence but authority.
The Price of the Gloves
Morning arrived like an accusation. The Tribunal convened emergency sessions; Renna demanded action; the Hammer of Iron vowed retaliation; the populace, traumatized, raised fearful barricades. Baran and The Plague had shown themselves long enough to seize Zack and dismantle defenses, then evaporated. Their seizure left the Empire with two wounds: the loss of the proof and the trail of random deaths caused by Baran’s technique.
Politics erupted. Velarn used Zack’s liberation as propaganda: “You protect nothing,” they proclaimed; allies withdrew trust. The Tribunal faced a dilemma: order an open manhunt for Baran and The Plague (risking more bloodshed), or withdraw and rebuild defenses while accepting losses. Kaito convened the council. On the HUD, the mission line pulsed with newfound urgency:
MAIN_QUEST_UPDATE: ZACK_ESCAPED_BY_Baran -> MISSION: PURSUE_OR_DECIDE_DIPLOMACY
TARGET: BARAN (BLACK_FISTS) - BOUNTY 1,000,000,000 GOLD
STRATEGIC_ALERT: VELARN_RETALIATION = IMMINENT | POPULATION_UNREST = HIGH
KAITO_PERSONAL: CORE_FRAGMENTATION = CRITICAL | ADMIN_USAGE = 31 (NO_MORE)
The first practical decision: protect civilians and treat the wounded. Mira ran the aid tents while Lyra organized patrols to identify the marked. They discovered something dreadful: the marks Baran left were not mere touches — they were invisible pacts, a living list. Marked people who fled carried the threat to other settlements. Baran had sown a structure of terror that transcended borders. The only neutralization method was locating the marked and treating them with complex runic antigens — costly and slow.
Kaito, furious and impotent, went to the Tribunal. He wanted answers, punishment, Zack back in a cell. But a cold fact remained: Baran had saved Zack. Why? Who paid? The answer did not come clean — only a trail of obscured contracts: a gold transfer from an anonymous account, a clause reading “confidential service — priority retrieval” — and The Plague’s symbol.
Nara, enraged and awed, touched Kaito’s face. “He wields a power that kills whole streets,” she said. “The Plague is not mere gang. It’s a tool.” Kaito thought of Baran’s stories: toppled empires for money. Who would now hire such a man to rescue a Velarn commander? The options were grim: Velarn might have financed a recovery of their asset, or a third party with a more complex agenda could be involved.
The political reaction was immediate: the Tribunal offered an extra bounty for information leading to Baran and The Plague. Renna supplied ships and resources for pursuit; the Hammer of Iron furnished runic pikes; Edran focused production on Antigens. Internally, Kaito realized the new truth of the game: a player existed beyond Velarn and the Station — an executor who disregarded borders: Baran.
That night, Kaito and Nara walked among the aid tents. He held her hand like a vital knot and thought of Zack, of Silas, of the records they'd recovered and the images of bodies felled at random. “Do we hunt him?” Nara asked. “Or do we protect people first?” Kaito closed his eyes. “Both. But not alone. I can’t use the Administrator anymore. Each use costs me more. We need human strategy — allies, espionage, to expose The Plague.”
The HUD updated a grim, pragmatic side-quest:
NEW_SIDE_QUEST: TRACK_THE_PLAGUE -> GATHER_HUMAN_INTEL / INFILTRATE_RECRUIT_NETWORKS
REWARD: POLITICAL_LEVERAGE / PROOF_OF_SPONSOR (VIP)
Kaito knew the world had shifted: they had fought a guild that used threads; now a player had arrived whose technique could make any crowd a sacrificial field. Baran did not seek cities — he desired well-paid contracts and results. The Plague made his action repeatable. And worse: whoever paid Baran had power — if not Velarn, then someone darker.
The chapter closed with Kaito atop a wall, watching trembling lights. He no longer had his father’s face to call to mind, but one truth remained — the next decision would decide not only his life but the Empire’s capacity to remain human. “We found The Plague,” he whispered at last, “and we tear up their contract. Or The Plague will crush us.” Nara rested her head on his shoulder, steady: “What if we can’t catch him?” He shut his eyes. “Somewhere there are people who fear him for coin. We’ll find them.”
Fate now had a name: Baran, the Black Fists — a living legend, astronomical bounty, the man who rewrites where pain will fall. The world was reshaping around this new threat — and Kaito, with his Administrator empty, could rely only on steel, alliances, and the stories Nara repeated to anchor the fragments he still kept.