Rain lashed against Boka’s face like needles.

The storm showed no sign of weakening—in fact, it grew fiercer.

Patrol lanterns flickered faintly in the distance.

*Avoid them*, Boka thought. Armed as he was, he couldn’t afford explanations. The south gate lay miles away. Normally no obstacle, but in this tempest, he could only sprint headlong into the gale.

If Albert and his sister moved tonight, they’d be lying low near the checkpoint, waiting to rendezvous with their outside allies. Dawn would seal their last chance.

Albion’s stone buildings stood unyielding—a necessity against summer storms like this. At least Boka needn’t fear collapsing roofs.

A flickering torchlight suddenly cut through the dark ahead. Boka’s poor eyesight, blurred further by the howling wind, only made out the patrol soldiers when they were nearly upon him. He rolled sideways instantly, crouching in an alley’s shadow.

The soldiers trudged on, their leader gripping two oil lamps. The storm’s fury blinded them too—they never noticed Boka mere feet away. He dodged several patrols this way. At one point, he pried open a sewer grate. Though visibility was nil, the roar of churning water confirmed it flowed toward the harbor’s floodgates. *Albert’s group must’ve abandoned the sewers by now*, he realized.

Yet when Boka finally reached the city gate, he froze.

Nearly two hundred guards stood sentinel before the checkpoint.

Motionless as statues under the lashing rain.

Boka scanned the area—no cover. Elevated watchposts lined every vantage point. *Impossible for Trena’s group to break through here!*

The Crown and the Institution weren’t fools. They’d anticipated this. Hence the blockade.

An arrow suddenly whistled toward Boka—but the storm snatched its force mid-flight.

*Spotted!*

At the sentry’s signal, guards surged toward him. Boka cursed and bolted. Trained soldiers chased him. Had he failed before even starting? Would he rot in a cell while Albert escaped?

*Where would they go?*

Not by sea—suicide in this weather.

*Wait…*

*The harbor!* If land was sealed, water was their only path. No one would expect an escape by sea from Albion!

But the harbor was too distant—and soldiers hounded his heels.

Gritting his teeth, Boka made his choice.

He ducked into an alley, vanished from sight, then pried open a manhole cover and plunged into the raging current.

Swept like a leaf, he choked twice before the water settled chest-high. He wouldn’t drown—but the torrent slammed him against stone walls again and again. *Is this how Baird got his fatal wound?*

He gagged on filthy water. At least the storm had scoured the sewers clean.

A junction loomed ahead—the confluence point!

Boka twisted mid-current, feet-first. He braced against the wall on impact, redirecting himself toward the harbor outflow.

The tunnel widened. *Almost there.*

With a muffled *thud*, he was spat into a vast pool.

Saltwater stung his throat. He surfaced gasping, catching a wave that slammed him against the harbor steps. He clawed onto the stone ledge. *One stronger wave, and my skull would’ve shattered.*

The harbor had two gates: the main merchant entrance—guarded day and night—and a smaller sluice gate for emergency use. Boka dismissed the main gate instantly. *They’ll be at the sluice.*

Ignoring exhaustion, he staggered toward the harbor’s edge.

***

Trena heaved two guard corpses into the churning sea. Rain washed the blood from their throats.

Only one small boat remained—enough for their four. To divert attention, their comrades had staged riots across the capital, drawing the Institution’s forces away.

Years of planning culminated tonight. Revenge. Toppling the ancient kingdom.

They’d lived as merchants, gathering secrets in shadows. For too long.

Now, they raised swords against Crown and Institution. Once Percy Pendragon—the unconscious boy beside her—read the confession letter abroad, exposing the royal atrocity, Albion’s people would rise as they had during the war. The regime would crumble from within. This was their vow. Their fallen comrades’ final wish.

Then Trena sensed movement.

The man stood not ten paces behind her.

*Boka…*

He doubled over, coughing violently, drenched and trembling.

“Made it… *huff*… finally…”

“Oh, Boka,” Trena smiled faintly. “Albert and I are rather busy. No time for guests.”

Albert drew his sword, face taut. “Run now if you value your life.”

Boka ignored him.

“Trena. Give me the letter. And Percy. Return him to me.”

“*Eh?*” She feigned surprise. “You know His Highness?”

“He’s my friend. Just a child. Don’t hurt him.”

“I meant no harm. He’s merely… assisting us.”

“He can’t help you.”

“Hmm…” Trena tilted her head. “I rather like you, Boka. Don’t make me dislike you now.”

“Please, Trena.” His voice cracked. “Leave the letter and Percy. Go. I’ll pretend I never saw you.”

Trena’s eyes widened. Then she bared her teeth.

“Are you *insane*? After all our dead? Years of planning? You expect me to abandon everything… because you *ask*?”

Rain streamed down Boka’s face. He didn’t blink.

“You started using me the moment you learned I worked for Duke Agnes.”

“*What?*”

“I agreed to help not just because of Cynthia’s words,” Boka said slowly. “Perhaps… because it was *you*.”

“*Eh?* Confessing your love, Boka?” She burst into wild laughter. “You’re even dumber than you look!”

“But I was wrong,” he whispered. “I made it too simple. You were right—I’m a fool. A hopeless fool.”

At Albert’s nod, two men lunged at Boka with axes. Former caravan companions. Now, their eyes held only death. To them, Boka was a stone in their path.

*Fwip! Fwip!*

Arrows pierced both men’s thighs. They crumpled, howling.

A third arrow nocked on Boka’s bow.

“Trena.” His voice was low. “I had nothing once. Now I have family. I have Percy. All here, in this country. Yet I tried to destroy it. I must fix this. I must protect Cynthia. I am just myself—but the people around me… they are my *everything*.”

Albert’s veins bulged on his forehead. He roared:

“You think only of yourself! What of us? Our parents? Our families? Butchered by the Crown’s schemes! By the masters they *served*! You preach justice to *us*? You shame our sacrifice?!”

“I’m sorry, Albert.” Boka’s jaw tightened. “I thought I understood your pain. But I was selfish. So I beg this selfish thing of you too. Or else…”

“Or else *what*?” Trena’s voice dripped scorn. “Tell me, Boka. Don’t be afraid.”

His eyes turned feral. Each word deliberate:

“I will kill you.”

“Oh, *that*.” Trena sighed. “I’d worried we’d never meet again.”

Boka drew his bowstring taut, unwavering despite the storm.

“But I’ve thought of a better way.”

Her rain-soaked crimson hair blazed like fire.

“I’ll take your head, Boka.” Her smile turned feral. “Preserve it in a jar. To look at… when I miss you.”

Time stopped.

A killing intent colder than the rain, sharper than the wind, seeped from Trena’s small frame. It slithered into Boka’s pores, carrying the stench of blood and the taste of fear. Even the storm couldn’t mask it.

*Not human. A devil from the depths of hell.*

She stepped forward. Slowly.

Boka stood frozen.

Her blade rose. Effortless. Like pruning weeds.

*Is this death?* Boka thought. *So… light.*

*Clang!*

A jet-black longsword intercepted the killing blow an inch from his neck.

Blood trickled down Boka’s throat. His mind snapped clear.

Rain hammered against obsidian armor.

Boka turned.

The black knight stood behind him.