Section Eight: Farewell, Secret Agents of the Republic (Part Two)

When the moon rose above the treetops, a carriage hurriedly came to a halt in front of the residence of Hegel, Chief Technician of the First Affiliated Arsenal of the Ordnance Department. The carriage bore the insignia of the Ordnance Department on its roof, marking it as one of their official vehicles. As the door swung open, a man stepped out. He wore a dark-colored robe; despite being near middle age, his figure remained as agile as a youth’s, his hair meticulously groomed, his manner elegant and refined.

After alighting, he thanked the coachman and placed five Landean copper coins in the man's hand as a tip. Although rides in these official carriages were generally free, with coachmen paid a set wage by the department, the driver accepted the gratuity with pleasure, snapped his whip, kicked up a swirl of dust, and sped away.

The man glanced left and right before striding into Hegel's home.

No sooner had he entered than two men in close-fitting attire emerged quietly from a street corner, positioning themselves in the shadows to watch the house.

The taller of the two, seeing nothing amiss, spread his hands and remarked, “It all seems unchanged. Could the Intelligence Bureau have received false information?”

The shorter, stouter man shook his head. “But the order came from the Minister of Defense himself, issued to our own Surveillance Bureau. In any case, best stay cautious. This man is a treasure right now.”

“What exactly did he invent?” the taller man could not help but ask.

“They say he’s improved the matchlock. His innovation means muskets will no longer fail to fire in the rain, and soldiers won’t have to haul long, cumbersome match cords onto the battlefield. There are other functions too. The Minister is paying close attention to this man; the chief gave orders that we must watch him closely before the Minister or the Prime Minister summons him. If something goes wrong, it won’t be a laughing matter.” The man seemed pleased with the intelligence he had gleaned.

“You know quite a lot, don’t you?”

Both agents’ faces changed dramatically. Without a second thought, they rolled aside as a revolver slipped from a voluminous sleeve into a ready hand and two bullets were fired at the speaker. This revolver worked on principles borrowed from clockmaking, relying on a high-speed spinning wheel to generate sparks and ignite the powder—no match cord required. It offered rapid fire and ease of use but was expensive, complex, and difficult to repair, so it had never replaced the matchlock entirely. Still, certain special units continued to use them.

The bullets struck the man in black, but the sound was that of lead hitting stone. The agents, now deeply alarmed, realized they faced a formidable opponent—what they’d hit was merely an afterimage. Years of training had honed their instincts; rather than draw a second concealed revolver, they rolled in opposite directions for cover.

A black blade silently split the thick paving stones where they had just been crouching as though slicing through tofu. In the moonlight stood a figure in black, gripping the sword with both hands, a faint blue aura shimmering along its length—the telltale sign of wind-infused battle energy.

“Split up and run!”

“Do you think you can escape?” the shadowy figure sneered, preparing to pursue. But suddenly, his expression shifted as a longsword wreathed in red flame slashed toward his back. In an instant, the hunter became the hunted. Blue light flashed over his body as he dodged, while the fiery sword remained relentlessly at his heels. The two agents, spared by fate, slumped against the ground, exchanging terrified glances, knowing full well they had just witnessed the secret forces of the Surveillance Bureau.

The black-clad man darted and twisted, using his wind energy's agility to evade. His opponent wielded fire energy—deadly in its destructive power, superior to his own. With the element of surprise lost, he knew any direct confrontation would leave him at a disadvantage.

But when it came to speed, he was confident. He’d crossed paths with these secret unit members before. Though ambushed, as long as the chase continued, he could eventually break free. The trouble was, his mission was now compromised and his presence discovered—an unfortunate turn indeed.

He led his pursuer in circles over rooftops and narrow streets, hoping to find an opening to shake her off, then use the swiftness of his wind energy to eliminate her and complete his task.

The girl with the flaming sword grew impatient. If she could just land a blow, her fiery energy would break through his defenses and cripple him. Yet each time she closed in, she was a hair’s breadth too late.

Counting silently to three, the man in black resolved to risk injury for a counterattack. Though her strength was on par with his, her combat experience paled in comparison. He was confident he could avoid a mortal wound, trade blows, and finish her off—then deal with the two agents. At that critical moment, a tall figure suddenly appeared before him. With a deep, ox-like grunt, an invisible force field blocked his path.

“A monk!” The man’s eyes widened at the sight—a bald man with an askew collar, one side of his chest bare, bearing crescent-shaped scars on both chest and cheek, as if carved by the same weapon—a look that made him all the more fearsome.

Without hesitation, the man in black spun and unleashed his stored energy in a mighty slash at his pursuer.

“Soph!” the red-haired swordswoman called out in relief at the timely arrival of her ally. But in that instant of distraction, her own energy dulled. The black-clad man seized the moment, launching a fierce counterattack.

With a blue-tinged blade, he struck. The flaming sword met it, but this time the tables had turned. The woman, distracted, faltered, and her fire energy flickered. Her sword was forced aside; the man dodged the monk’s punch, though the invisible force grazed his back, sending a shudder through his body.

The flaming sword struck again, wielded by a tall, striking girl whose eyes blazed with fierce resolve. The man fended off her blow; the two energies clashed violently before he used the rebound to vault away, narrowly avoiding another strike from the monk.

He was nearly free when gunshots rang out—the two agents had reloaded and fired their revolvers. The man barely dodged a shot aimed at his vitals, but the second was unavoidable. Blue energy flashed as he desperately tried to block it, the bullet slowing as if hitting a resilient shield before piercing his side.

He vaulted onto a rooftop. The red-haired girl pursued relentlessly. “He’s wounded—don’t let him get away!”

The monk hesitated but, fearing for her safety, followed onto the rooftops. The three figures chased each other through the moonlight, vanishing like bouncing marbles into the night.

The two agents rose shakily to their feet, hearts still pounding. “It must be the Kamingnesen Revolutionary Group,” one whispered. “Thank goodness the secret unit was deployed.”

A chuckle sounded. “Then perhaps you two can rest easy in death.”

They turned, horrified, to see a cloaked figure standing in the shadows at the edge of the street, a short staff topped with a pitch-black gem in his hand. The taller agent fumbled for his spare revolver, while the stouter one lunged at the newcomer, hoping to give his partner a chance.

Their reactions were quick, befitting men trained by the Surveillance Bureau. But suddenly, their shadows shifted—twisting into an invisible hand that gripped their feet, or perhaps a jet-black tree whose branches coiled around them. The tall agent’s fingers brushed his weapon, but he could only choke helplessly as an unseen force squeezed his throat. The stout agent was lifted off the ground, his thick fingers clawing at his neck, but there was nothing there—only shadow.

“Farewell, agents of the Republic!”

The mage chanted a fiery incantation; two fireballs struck the agents, engulfing them in flames. But held fast by the shadow’s grip, they burned silently, unable to utter more than a whimper before perishing.

The mage snapped his fingers, glanced in the direction where the man in black and his pursuers had disappeared, and smiled faintly. “Well done, Comrade Gamio. I’ll report your self-sacrifice to the Leader. Now, to business.”