The morning after the explosion, the city didn't even blink.
Velmira was too used to magical mishaps—too busy, too bright to notice the storm quietly building in its alleys.
But down in the lower wards, near the arcane slums of Sector 9, a different kind of energy stirred. Cold. Silent. Watching.
Caleb stood on a balcony overlooking the cityscape.
His body still ached.
His shadow clone had dissolved hours ago—but not before leaving a mark.
A whisper in the air. A trail.
Someone had found it.
"Target acquired. Suspected rogue. Initiating retrieval."
In the underbelly of Velmira's Central Enforcement Tower, an elite anti-mage unit known as the Arc Order activated.
Clad in reflective armor and powered by synthetic glyphs, these soldiers didn't use magic.
They erased it.
Leading them was a former top student of the Academy—Vanir Alkeim, now a sanctioned Mage-Hunter. Tactical, merciless, and once a classmate of Noir.
He never forgave Caleb for surviving the grant trials he failed.
"Shadow residue confirms Noir's presence. Orders are clear," Vanir said, as he loaded a null-sigil rifle. "We bring him in—dead or mindwiped."
---
Back at an abandoned tram station, Caleb sensed it.
The Book pulsed at his side, alerting him through a flicker in the shadows.
He turned—and the world blurred.
Glass shattered.
The Arc Order descended from above—four agents in a triangle formation.
Vanir floated at the center, his armor glowing with glyph runes designed to cancel shadow flow.
"Noir," Vanir said. "You were always the quiet one.
Never thought you'd blow up half the lab wing to get attention."
Caleb didn't speak.
His mind calculated fast.
Too many in the open.
Light-based glyph traps set on the rails.
No escape.
Unless...
He reached behind him.
His shadow split.
The glyph "Reshape" lit up.
From the rail's shadow, he pulled a weapon—not steel, but shadow-forged.
A curved glaive of mirrored black.
"Last warning," Vanir said. "Submit or I erase what's left of your name."
Caleb smiled.
"I already erased who I used to be."
Then the fight began.
---
He was outnumbered, but not outmatched.
Every strike from Vanir's men was met with shadow flickers—mirror jumps, clone feints, displacement pulses.
But each spell cost Caleb dearly.
Blood at the edges of his eyes.
His skin humming from overload.
Then came Vanir.
Fast. Ruthless. Predictive.
He fired a suppression bolt.
Caleb dodged. Second shot—direct hit to the leg.
Shadow flared in pain.
"You still bleed like a human," Vanir mocked.
Caleb gritted his teeth. "So do gods before they fall."
From the corner of his vision, he saw the Book flicker.
New glyph forming.
He focused.
The glyph "Split" appeared across his palm.
Two shadows emerged behind Vanir—both shaped like Noir.
One struck with a glaive.
One whispered a spell.
And Caleb moved with the third.
The Arc Order fell into chaos.
Vanir barely escaped—burned, furious, but alive.
Caleb stood in the wreckage, breathing heavily.
The tram station smoldered behind him.
His cloak torn.
His chest marked with three active glyphs now:
Observe
Reshape
Split
He looked up at the sky—bright, uncaring.
"They're coming now," he whispered to the Book.
And the Book pulsed in reply.