Just as the Yellow Weaver was ready to devour his last prey, the thunder of armored boots echoed.

  A full squad of the Duke's troops arrived. They did not wait for a greeting. With long swords drawn and fully armored, they launched a coordinated assault from all sides—front, back, left, and right.

  The Yellow Weaver’s retaliation was not a duel, it was a slaughterhouse ballet. In a single, blurred motion combining explosive speed and the razor-sharp claws of his metal gloves, he swiped through them.

  Guts spilled onto the cobblestones. None died instantly, left to groan in agony. It was a battle of speed they could not comprehend.

  He crushed a windpipe with his foot, using the body as a springboard to launch at the next soldier.

  He moved with brutal, unpredictable efficiency: goring from behind, pulling spines, breaking hips, tearing bodies open from the front. Sometimes, he granted a simple death, ripping off a head in a single strike.

  His movements were a wild, untamed sequence of swipes followed by sudden explosions, gouts of fire, or precise slashes. The trained troops were barely able to react to a target they could barely see. One soldier managed to parry a sword strike, only to find the Weaver suddenly perched on his shoulders an instant before his upper body was ripped from his legs.

  This carnage carved a path, but the Yellow Weaver had no intention of running. If anything, he was savoring it.

  "More! More! I want to paint the whole town in bright red!" he shouted to the sky.

  As if his wish were heard, another unit arrived, reinforcing the remnants. Among them was Dave. With a roar, the senior officer leaped from above, his sword intent on cleaving the killer in two.

  Their collision was met with a shriek of metal on metal, the impact creating a small crater in the ground.

  The Yellow Weaver crouched under the force, then side-jumped with impossible agility, delivering a brutal kick to Dave's head that sent him sprawling. The Weaver immediately launched an explosive beam into the surrounding troops, the detonation scattering bodies.

  The troops, however, did not hold back. They circled him, sacrificing themselves to deny him movement. He tore through them like a wild animal, limbs and lives the cost of containing him for mere seconds.

  Dave returned, bloodied but enraged. "Orchid Fist, Blunt Strike!" His fist connected with the Yellow Weaver's head, pulverizing the spot where he stood and driving him deep into the fractured cobblestones.

  The Weaver used his knees to propel himself back, meeting Dave hand-to-hand. Dave, grunting with effort, tried to wrench the Weaver's arms from their sockets, then used his grip to throw him down and drag him across the ground before delivering an aura-enhanced kick to his torso.

  As Dave prepared to break the body further, a magic circle flared beneath his feet.

  A voice cut through the chaos. "Fourth Circle Spell: Green Pillar."

  A wave of energy exploded upward in a brilliant, searing green pillar that towered over the street for a full thirty seconds. Dave barely survived the direct hit, forced to deploy multiple barrier spells in a desperate, instantaneous defense. He was thrown clear, his armor smoking, his body covered in blood.

  Stunned and vulnerable, he was an easy target. The Yellow Weaver grabbed him by the shoulder, fingers digging in to tear. But Dave was tougher than he thought. He spun in the grip, reversing it.

  "Orchid Fist, Mystic Bloom!"

  A barrage of empowered punches launched at the Yellow Weaver, who tanked them with wild, unpredictable movements. Dave threw another punch, this time, the Weaver let it connect, using the moment of contact to trigger a point-blank explosive spell right against Dave's chest.

  The two figures were swallowed by the blast, locked in a brutal, inseparable clash.

  As Dave fought, he heard another whistling sound—no, two or three—coming from different directions. Realization struck, he wasn’t alone. There were others like the Yellow Weaver. The danger of this mission suddenly became clear.

  He also remembered the Green Pillar spell, which hadn’t been cast by his current opponent. That single realization was enough to tell him just how bad the situation truly was.

  Red Cape’s situation was no better. He found himself targeted by a roving band of gang members thrashing the town, attacking recklessly without a single coherent thought. As he ran, more joined the pursuit, a growing mob armed with swords, pipes, and explosives.

  They hurled fireballs at his back. He didn’t break stride, simply pivoting and slashing his spear with lightning speed. The spell detonated midair with a concussive boom.

  "Will you stop? Can't you see it isn't working?" he growled, frustration edging his voice.

  Another explosive sphere flew toward him. He snatched it from the air, his mana crushing the unstable magic before it could detonate. Suddenly, a dozen more filled his vision.

  He couldn't ignore them, they were too close to civilian homes. He dealt with them all in the same, exhausting manner—a draining game of deflecting and dismantling their amateurish magic.

  The threat escalated. Gang members on rooftops now leveled artillery spells down the path, firing recklessly at anything they deemed an enemy.

  Volleys of fireballs tracked Red Cape’s every move. The attacks did little to him directly, but they made him the hunter instead of the hunted.

  He was forced to prioritize this immediate threat to people over killer, canceling their spells and swiftly taking out the artillery positions on the roofs before they could incinerate the residential blocks.

  Pushing into a new district, he sensed more activity. The chaos was multiplying. Gang members were using the anarchy as cover, raiding shops and homes to fulfill their own ulterior motives, creating a major threat to any civilians still trapped outside.

  The sound of clashing steel and explosive magic echoed from every direction—it seemed a dozen small battles were erupting simultaneously.

  "Will you guys keep it quiet?" he shouted over the din. "It's not good to make this much noise in the middle of the night!"

  A wave of lightning ran down his spear. He became a blur of motion, a pragmatic storm breaking legs and knocking goons unconscious, then unceremoniously dumping them into alleyways to clear the path. But as time wore on, the situation was becoming uncontrollable, even for him. The sheer, mindless numbers were a tide he could not hold back alone.

  The core of the problem was now starkly clear: the combined numbers of the guards and officers were far less than the total gang members. That was why even the official forces were being overwhelmed, unable to contain the bedlam.

  As Red Cape moved, the scenery shifted from chaos to slaughterhouse. The ground was littered with corpses—goons and guards alike—cleanly sliced into pieces.

  He halted, his senses sharpening. A careful examination revealed the cause. A web of nearly invisible, razor-sharp threads strung across the main road, alleys, and narrow lanes. It was a trap that had reaped a bloody harvest, ending lives before its victims even knew it was there.

  He carefully began clearing the deadly threads from the path with the tip of his spear, a cold realization settling in his mind.

  "So, he has shown up as well."

  "Aha, you mean the copycat?" A sudden, feminine voice, light and cheery, came from behind him.

  He turned slowly. A woman stood there, wearing a mask similar to the Yellow Weaver's, but grander and colored a deep cyan. Her attire was a formal black tuxedo with a white shirt, adorned with a green embroidered skull near the right shoulder.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  "So, do you know him or not?" she asked again, her head tilting with feigned curiosity.

  Red Cape’s posture relaxed into a deceptive calm. "Well now, who might you be, gorgeous? Did you come with someone, or are you just here to make the party brighter? Are you free by chance?"

  "Oh, you are such a silly," she giggled, the sound unnervingly cute against the backdrop of carnage. "But I am here together with my... what you may call friends. I was just strolling around. So, you can say I was free." Her voice was a melody, but the aura she emitted was pure, horrendous brutality.

  "That's good," Red Cape said, his grip tightening on his spear. "Would you care for a dance, then?"

  He launched forward, a blur of motion, his spear tip erupting with lightning as he thrust it with full intent to pierce completely through her skull.

  But as fast as he was, he was stopped dead at point-blank range. With a single hand, she caught the lightning-wreathed spear. Energy crackled and whiplashes against her palm, but she held it fast, unmoved.

  Renda’s smile was audible. "Sure, why not? Then, shall we?"

  A sudden, overwhelming force of her mana overrode his, flooding the spear. With a sharp crack, the weapon shattered in his grasp. In the same motion, she swung the remaining half, striking him hard across the helmet with a resonant clang.

  Before he could recover, her voice cut through the air, calm and precise. "Fourth Circle Spell: Green Pillar."

  The deadly circle flared beneath him. As he was consumed by the erupting energy, Red Cape managed to slam his hands to the ground, roaring, "Lightning Pillar!"

  A competing column of raw lightning erupted around him, clashing with the searing green energy. The forces met with a deafening, excruciating sound, culminating in a violent boom that threw him clear, his armor scorched and smoking. He jumped to the nearby rooftop to create some distant.

  "Wow! That was brilliant! To cut off my spell with your own!" Renda applauded, her smile widening.

  In the next instant, she was behind him. There was a wet, sickening sound as a sharp black metal rod pierced through his back, driven in by her.

  "Toxic Mana Surge."

  Agony lanced through him as corrosive energy flooded his body, seizing his muscles and clouding his vision. As he convulsed, still pinned, she ripped the rod free and threw him from the rooftop down to the street below.

  He had no time to recover. Another "Green Pillar" detonated on top of him, ensuring a direct hit from which there could be no escape.

  By the time the light faded, Renda was gone, vanished back into the shadows from where she came.

  Liam, beaten and broken on the ground, felt a despair deeper than any wound. It was the horror of the town itself—the screams, the explosions, the certain knowledge that the people he swore to protect were dying, and he was powerless to save them. The weight of it was crushing him.

  Then, a blur of motion. Someone lifted him and carried him away at impossible speed, dropping him unceremoniously in a new, quiet location.

  He struggled to open his eyes, his body refusing to obey. Through a hazy slit, he saw a cloaked man sitting on a chimney ledge, a rough notebook in hand, moving a pencil with swift, precise strokes as if documenting the chaos below.

  This was Lucien. Since the conflict began, this had been his method: observe, analyze, record. His sketches mapped the entire battlefield—alliances, combat styles, suspicious movements, the ebb and flow of power.

  He occasionally paused to sketch a moon or a particular scene that caught his analytical eye. He found he was enjoying the process of field documentation more than he had anticipated.

  "Who are you?" Liam rasped, his voice raw.

  "As I said before, think of me as just an observer."

  "Why interfere than? Why save me? Or whatever you're planning to do with me?"

  "I have no plans for you," Lucien stated, not looking up from his sketch. "But I wish to do something, and for that, your cooperation would be efficient. I am simply attempting to make a deal." He tossed a small potion vial, which landed precisely on Liam's chest. The healing magic seeped into him, knitting broken bones and staunching bleeding, restoring him to a functional degree.

  Liam pushed himself up, the fog in his mind clearing. "See, man, I'm grateful. For whatever reason, you helped me. I know you're not with those other guys. But I don't trust you. I'm pretty sure this 'deal' comes with strings. 'Become my blade,' 'kill this man,' 'do my dirty work.' I'm not into it. Red Cape is a free man of ideals."

  Lucien finally closed his notebook and looked down at him, his gaze unnervingly calm. "I have no business with the man you call 'Red Cape.' I am offering my deal to Officer Liam of the Pipra division. The lazy, crooked cop you play during the day."

  Liam froze, then scrambled back, his hand flying to the sword at his waist. Panic seized him. "How did you know? Answer me now!"

  "I told you. I am an observer. What made you think I would not find out?" Lucien replied, his tone utterly flat. "So, what is your answer? To assure you, my request involves none of the tasks you listed."

  "It should have been impossible," Liam whispered, his mind reeling.

  Lucien tossed the notebook down to him. Liam caught it, the pages falling open. He saw detailed sketches of the clashes—gangs against guards, troops cutting through everything, the intricate web of conflict consuming the town.

  As he flipped through, the sheer scale of the disaster unfolded. What was a manhunt had become a catastrophic, multi-sided war. He saw the vulnerable points, the civilian areas under threat, the paths of destruction. He saw, with dawning horror, that if this wasn't stopped immediately, it would become a genuine massacre.

  On several pages, specific points were marked with symbols, hinting more organized enemy presence.

  Before he could process it fully, the notebook was plucked from his hands and was back in Lucien's grasp, the movement too fast to follow.

  "I believe you live this double life to bring justice, correct? To protect people. To make a difference," Lucien stated, his voice cutting through Liam's turmoil. "Look at your town. It is about to burn. You still have a chance to save it, but alone, you will achieve nothing. You haven't even uncovered the mysteries at play. How could you, when you are so overloaded? The gangs outnumber you, the official forces are insufficient, and the outside help is preoccupied. The killers you hunt are powerful enough to have caused this state. So, what do you say?"

  Liam stared into the middle distance, the truth of the words settling like a stone in his gut. His ideals were worthless if he lacked the power to enact them. Finally, he met Lucien's gaze, his voice quiet but firm.

  "What is it you want?"

  Officer Monica arrived at the scene, her eyes instantly processing the chaos. She didn't raise her voice, her authority cut through the noise as she brought her communication talisman to her lips, her orders crisp and immediate.

  "Officers Sera, Lsaery, this is Feasta. Your priority is containment and protection. Establish a defensive perimeter around all residential and high-density civilian zones—prioritize the market square and the tenement blocks. Use non-lethal barricades and area-denial spells. Your objective is to push the unrest away from those areas and create safe corridors. You are authorized to engage and arrest anyone posing a direct threat to civilian life. You now have operational command of all Pipra guards in your sectors. If you spot the primary killer, do not engage. Observe, report his position to me directly, and maintain your perimeter. Understood?"

  A chorus of "Got it," came from Sera and Lsaery, their voices tight with focus before the channel went active with the sounds of them relaying commands.

  Monica switched channels. "Aers, your squad is on active suppression. I need you to target and neutralize the source of this artillery-grade spell fire. The gangs using fireballs and explosives are causing the most collateral damage. Contain that specific threat. Use your discretion on the ground."

  Aers' voice crackled back, the strain evident. "Understood. But what about the killer hunt? He's out here."

  "The killer has revealed himself and is clearly occupied," Monica countered, her tone leaving no room for debate. "He's a contained variable for the moment. The spreading chaos is not. The gangs and this collateral damage are the immediate, escalating threats. Your mission is to stop the bleeding. Prioritize civilians."

  "Copy that. But there's another problem," Aers continued urgently. "The Duke's troops... their rules of engagement are 'clear the path.' They're using lethal force indiscriminately. They've killed gang members, which is drawing gang retaliation onto our officers who are caught in the middle. There are also... unconfirmed reports of blue-on-blue. A few guards may have been caught in the crossfire and killed by the troops in the confusion."

  Monica absorbed this with a flicker of emotion, her mind racing through the tactical nightmare.

  "Acknowledged," she said, her voice dangerously calm. "Here's the adjustment. All guards are to transition to a strict defensive and evacuation posture. Implement the 'Turtle Shell' formation we drilled—hold the lines, surveil from a distance, and focus solely on civilian evacuation and medical assistance. I will formally request the Knights be deployed as a rapid reaction force to handle high-intensity clashes. Until then, tell them to maintain distance from the troops, the killer, and avoid gang engagements unless civilians are directly threatened. You and I will take on the major troublemakers so we can keep the situation under control. We have to prioritize civilian life."

  There was a brief silence as Aers processed the complex, grim orders. "Understood. I will pass the order to others."

  The moment her orders were given, Officer Monica Feasta became a force on the field.

  She distributed the bulk of her own squad to reinforce the faltering defensive lines, then moved alone.

  Her progress was a display of brutal efficiency. She disarmed looters and brawlers, removing anyone causing trouble. Each movement cleared the path with cold, deliberate force, never for show, only for purpose.

  As she turned into a narrow, smoke-choked alley serving as a shortcut, her instincts flared. Someone was on the other side. She advanced, hand on the hilt of her sword, her senses sharpened for an ambush.

  Just as she was about to cross the threshold, a man stepped out. They bumped into each other, a simple collision in the chaos.

  It was Scholar.

  Monica’s reaction was instantaneous and analytical. Her eyes, hard and assessing, scanned him in a microsecond—his posture, his clothes, his unnerving composure amidst the bedlam.

  Before he could speak, which he wasn't going to do anyway, her hand moved. She pressed a single, firm finger to her own lips, a universal and commanding gesture for silence. Her gaze remained locked on his, unblinking.

  Leaning in slightly, her voice dropped to a whisper that cut through the distant sounds of spell fire and clashing steel.

  "Who are you?"