Chapter Twenty-Six: Autumn After the Splendor

17:20, Weekday. First floor, City Hall, Beddingham Avenue.

"Number thirty-three."

The attendant’s call echoed in Richard’s ears as he rose from his chair, pacing with his hands clasped behind his back in the waiting area.

Only up to thirty-three...

He glanced at the ticket in his hand—fifty-four. At least twenty more people ahead of him. In other words, he’d have to waste one or two hours here, minimum.

But he couldn’t afford to waste them.

The merchant guild was urgently awaiting this administrative document, and Alice was expecting him home to celebrate her birthday.

What efficiency.

He felt irritation, as anyone would, but there was nothing to be done. Aware of his own imbalance, the middle-aged man exhaled a heavy breath, forcing himself to regain composure—at least outwardly.

Before his frustration could erupt again, he found a way to distract himself.

"Metropolitan Times! Metropolitan Times! The latest issue!"

A young newspaper vendor hawked his wares. It was nothing unusual; the city hall’s inefficiency was infamous, always forming a serpentine queue, the waiting area perpetually crowded. Boredom kept newspaper sales brisk—especially for the Metropolitan Times, leader of Hemtica’s publishing industry. Perhaps this paper was the greatest beneficiary of the city hall’s sluggish pace. He didn’t know how others passed the time, but for him, buying a paper before his emotions spiraled out of control seemed a wise choice.

"Ten copper coins, sir."

Two coins more than outside, but that was expected—the low administrative efficiency turned this place into a seller’s market. Richard, a merchant by trade, thought instinctively, then chuckled, shaking his head as he took the paper and returned to his seat, reading carefully.

"Armed conflict?" He raised his eyebrows at the headline. Though city hall’s efficiency was often criticized, he couldn’t deny that the upper district, under the Glorious Ones, was orderly and prosperous. Bloodshed hadn’t vanished entirely, but was rare these days, so he was intrigued and read the title. His brow furrowed deeply. "Twenty-seven dead? What were the patrols doing?"

"What’s the saying? The sheriff always arrives last," remarked a young man beside him, not yet twenty, evidently familiar with the day’s news. "But thanks to that tradition, the number of bodies reported might have been higher otherwise."

"Higher?" Richard echoed, realizing more details awaited in the article. After patiently reading it through, his expression darkened. "Died from disease... Twenty-seven dead from the same malignant illness—could it be that one has returned?"

The Black Sorcerer, Alfred—the most feared demon of the upper district. The great plague thirty years ago was a nightmare that haunted many.

"Yes," the young man confirmed, shattering Richard’s last hope, "Alfred has returned—he, or they, are provoking us."

After a pause, he summed up decisively:

"This is a declaration of war."

"Is it safe to speak of these things so openly?" Richard, shaken but quickly regaining composure thanks to years of business experience, caught many hints in the young man’s words. His tone instinctively became respectful. "Sir."

Respect was due to Hemtica’s privileged class, to the Glorious Ones.

"It’s fine," replied the Glorious One in a calm, firm voice. Yet his answer made Richard’s heart skip a beat. "Because... soon this won’t be a secret."

"Not a secret?" Richard repeated, instinctively sensing the implication. "You mean..."

"War," the young Glorious One brushed dust from his coat. "It’s already begun."

Already begun?

When, and where?

Staring at the composed Glorious One, a terrifying possibility dawned on Richard, his face blanching. "May I ask, sir, your purpose here..."

"To process a death certificate for a dead sister-obsessed friend," the Glorious One waved his hand, a bitter smile on his lips. "Annoying fellow—even in death he troubles me. But, what can I do? We’re friends."

Sister-obsessed?

The unfamiliar term left Richard’s mind blank for a moment, but he was soon shocked by the implications. "Your friend—could it be..."

"Yes," the Glorious One admitted freely. "If I’m not mistaken, he’s Alfred’s main target."

"My condolences," Richard said politely.

"No need," the young Glorious One shook his head, cutting to the merchant’s cautious thoughts. "You’re simply planning for your own safety, which I understand, and I must commend your cleverness—though somewhat by accident, you’ve grasped the truth."

Truth?

Could it really be...?

All color drained from his face. His wild guess had come true?

"Don’t do anything rash," the silver-haired youth seemed to sense his agitation and advised, "Though the Chaos cultists aim for city hall, this might be the safest place in the upper district right now. To uphold the council’s authority, the old men have invested heavily—not only layered defenses, but led by Samuel Alden."

"Lord Dawnfire?" Richard exclaimed.

Samuel Alden, known as Dawnfire, was a renowned figure in Hemtica. Not only clan leader of the Alden family, a senior council member, but also the chief of the Public Safety Directorate. Since the great plague thirty years ago, he’d relentlessly hunted the Black Sorcerer, driving the Chaos cultists into constant terror, and contributed crucially to the upper district’s prosperity and stability.

With him involved, there was little to fear.

His heart calmed astonishingly, and even the wait felt less arduous.

Time ticked by, the attendant called from thirty-three to forty-four. Richard put aside the newspaper, his mind full of the war between the Glorious Ones and the Chaos cult. Though long past the age of idolizing heroes, he had once been young himself; thirty years ago he was a fledgling merchant, and he’d idolized men like Dawnfire, who were his contemporaries. The tales of that hero battling darkness had captivated him. Even now, though his outlook had changed, hearing Samuel Alden’s name stirred his spirits and brought memories of that era flooding back.

How nostalgic.

Those youthful days.

But the middle-aged man’s reminiscence was abruptly shattered by sudden chaos.

"What’s happening?"

He rose, disgruntled, turning toward the source of the commotion—and was stunned.

Not far away, the city hall was engulfed in flames. Further off, entire towers collapsed. The bustling streets were now chaos, people screaming and fleeing, monstrous aberrations rampaged through the avenues, blood blossoming everywhere, painting the world in a shocking crimson.

"Ah..."

He tried to speak, but only his mouth opened, nothing coming out.

"The battle’s not as hopeful as expected," the Glorious One beside him had risen, patting Richard’s shoulder, his tone calm yet commanding. "City hall is the last and strongest line of defense. Stay here, don’t move—I’ll take a look outside."

His steady voice lent Richard a bit of courage.

But only a bit. All he could do was watch the silver-haired, red-eyed Glorious One stride away.

Or perhaps... more?

When the reassuring figure vanished, Richard glanced at the ticket handed to him, silent for a long moment, then resolved to wait.

"Number forty-five."

The attendant’s voice rang out once more, as if all remained in order.

But—

Some losses can never be recovered. Hemtica’s blossoms fell in a single autumn day.