The first clue was small — a note slipped under a table in a Harrow tavern: “Beware where they smile — the lines make them happy.” It was almost a joke, but whoever found the paper felt an unease they couldn’t name. That same day a supply convoy heading south turned back and attacked a bridge on the route that should have been protected. The coach windows burst from within, and the drivers rose like puppets, weapons in hand, eyes empty.
Lyra took the square in hours. “These aren’t ordinary looters,” she said. “There’s synchronized coordination.” Kaito’s HUD, in the background, aligned an investigative thread:
SIDE_INTEL: UNUSUAL_BEHAVIOR_CLUSTER — PATTERN: SYNCHRONIZED_MOTOR_ACTIVATION
SUSPECT_TAGS: PSYCHO-MANIPULATION / MEMORY_ERASURE_SIGNATURE
RECOMMEND: TRACE_SOURCE / SAMPLE_ANALYSIS
Mira examined the drivers’ pupils. “There are marks — tiny microscopic perforations at the base of the skull, but closed. And no recent memory: they passed two villages and don’t remember dinner. It’s not just violence — it’s capture.”
Kaito felt a code-like snap in his head — an anomaly the Administrator could show as metadata anomaly. He hesitated to use Access; the cost blinked:
ADMIN_ACTION_COST: MEMORY_FRAGMENT (MEDIUM). Instead he ordered Lio to collect runic samples from the wounds. Lio, hands shaking from his hearing damage, retrieved slivers of hair-thin metal wire embedded in flesh.
When the archer returned the sample, Mara ran readings: micro-runes of control combined with an archaic language — a pattern she faintly recognized from Black Chain bondage routines, but far more refined: motor commands, memory fabrics and replacement lacunae. “This is not mere slavery,” she murmured. “It’s direct will manipulation.”
Word spread: a summoned local judge left his hearing without remembering he had two children; a village teacher began to sing verses that weren’t hers. In every scene, the affected people showed the same small trait: a bluish mark almost imperceptible behind the right ear.
The first rumor named what no one yet knew: Ceifadores. Tavern excavations, whispers among smugglers and a market informant — a hungry kid trading favors for bread — brought a legend: men who served with threads and shadow, who sold “zorg” to rich patrons, and later “harvested” what they needed. The guild, he said, didn’t just sell services: it turned people into tools.
Meanwhile, something subtler surfaced: in the central market a grey-cloaked woman — seeming like a street vendor — offered “pain erasure” for a low price: “One night and the nightmare is gone.” A queue formed. Kaito realized someone was monetizing fear and anguish.
They decided to investigate carefully. A small team — Kaito, Lyra, Mira and two Watchers — followed the metal wire trail to a warehouse smelling of ozone and candles. From outside someone sang. The tune seemed to lure the puppets, and the chorus’ words were rune-coded.
The entry was stealthy. Lio stayed in the rear with orders to isolate escape routes. Opening a side door, Kaito saw a scene that stole his breath: dozens of men and women tied, motionless, with silver threads glued to their temples. In the center, a woman with long hands and thin fingers pulled tiny threads like a conductor — the bodies shivered, obeying. Across the hall a tall man with scar-cut features watched silently. He wore a cloak embroidered in black that seemed to drink the light. When he lifted his chin and light touched him, Kaito swore he saw — for moments — crimson lightning run from his chest as if he housed a storm.
The woman turned. Not old — young-looking, eyes sharp. She smiled faintly, as if offering wares. “Need someone to forget?” she asked without dropping the threads. She didn’t say the guild’s name. But Kaito’s HUD tag blinked on his wrist with a label the Station’s systems didn’t know: FACTION: CEIFADORES (UNKNOWN).
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They retreated quietly. No direct confrontation — not yet. The infiltration cost was practical: Lio heard a trapped sequence of notes that imprinted on his mind — for a fraction of a second he saw a child’s face his brain could not place. Mara had to burn rune residues to prevent traces.
Outside, Kaito wanted to use the Administrator to trace the wire’s origin. The HUD suggested:
ADMIN_ACTION_SUGGESTION: TRACE_RUNE_SOURCE -> COST: MEMORY_FRAGMENT (MEDIUM) / BENEFIT: IDENTIFY_CRAFTERS
Kaito_FLAG: USAGE_ADVISORY (AVOID_IF_POSSIBLE)
He closed the console. “Not yet,” he said. “We need to understand what they do and how they use people — and, above all, who funds them.” The guild already acted like a parasite: with threads and promises they rewrote faces and arrangements.
Night fell heavy. The word Ceifadores spread like black rain. Kaito slept little; when he shut his eyes he still saw the silver threads on motionless faces. He felt, as always, the weight of choosing between using power that would corrode him and training his body to cut those lines with steel.
Steel Training and Nara’s Face
A week later, reports of “puppets” in other towns convinced Kaito of one truth: he couldn’t always rely on the Administrator (its cost to memory was learned). He needed to be better with weapons. Not to become a legend, but so he could, when necessary, enter places where numbers and code could not, and answer with blade.
Lyra took responsibility. “I’ll train you,” she said, cold and without excuses. “You win with logic; we’ll teach you to win with your body.” Kaito forced a smile and accepted the humility of starting from zero: guard stances, basic footwork, grappling.
In the Station yard, amid wind and the scent of hot oil, the routine began: weighted runs, coordination drills and repeated cuts on dummies. Lyra introduced a set she called Chain of Bones — sequences intended to topple armed guards without killing: leg strike to unbalance; rotation to disarm; immobilization to render unconscious. “We want to restrain, not turn everyone into corpses,” Lyra explained. For her, victory that spared life was moral refinement — something Kaito needed.
During training Nara arrived.
She came as a scouting replacement sent by Renna: an archer with quick reflexes, short copper-dyed hair, eyes that cut through lies. She’d been on the roads — ex-merchant, then caravan ally — practical and seasoned. Many officers treated her with reserve; Lyra greeted her with respect.
Nara was assigned to joint patrols and practiced with Kaito in downtimes. The bow was her language; her eyes tracked body arcs and balance. “You stomp,” she said one afternoon. “That makes you predictable.” Kaito let out a short laugh. “Teach me to be light.” She met his gaze and, for the first time, he felt attention without calculation: simply curiosity.
Training with Nara differed. Instead of pounding technique she ran trust drills: falls, approaching with closed eyes, exchanging stories. Nara spoke of lost villages, of a brother sold onto a ship who never returned — a voice that snagged the chest. In return Kaito offered fragments: the taste of his mother’s coffee, the sensation of waiting for trains. Nara kept each shard like rare coin.
Between drills they talked. One night she brought a leather guard she’d sewn to protect the drawing hand. “I see you narrowing,” she said. “You think too much — it weighs you when you must release.” Kaito tried to let go. Something about her tone made him want to trust.
The first touch that changed everything was not a blade but a resting moment: Kaito sat to clean a small knife and their hands brushed while drying blood from a cut. A small shock, like a mild electric jolt. She didn’t pull away. He couldn’t tell if it was the result of memory loss or simple warmth. Her breathing was short; her eyes deep. “You don’t need to lose who you are to save others,” she said quietly. “You may lose memories — but not the right to feel.”
For the first time in a long time, Kaito felt someone willing to stay not for utility but by choice. The HUD updated subtly:
SOCIAL_BOND: NARA <-> KAITO — PROGRESS: +8% (TRUST)
COMBAT_TRAINING: KAITO -> UNLOCK: IMPROVISED_BLADE_TECHNIQUE (LEVELUP)
COST: PHYSICAL_FATIGUE -> XP +210
He smiled for the first time that wasn’t calculation. Training with Nara strengthened his body and drew up sensory memories the Administrator couldn’t take: the snap of strings, leather smell, the quiet laugh as she raised an arrow — things the system didn’t touch.
Out in the world nothing calmed. Reports reached them: villages reporting “people obeying without pain” — photos showed marks behind ears. Someone burned one rebuilding center. Ceifadores no longer hid; they moved where the State seemed weak.
Lyra summoned Kaito. “They use people as weapons,” she said. “They betray allies and take cities from within. We must find where they plant their lines.” Kaito nodded. “We’ll do it without relying on the Administrator every time,” he answered. “I’ve learned the cost.”
Nara squeezed his hand before they left. For a moment Kaito let that touch be a harbor. A simple gesture gave him enough warmth to face the darkness.