The dim glow of lanterns barely illuminated the upper chamber of the Adventurers' Guild, their flickering light casting jagged shadows along the wooden walls. The heavy scent of old parchment, spiced ale, and lingering embers filled the air. The rain from earlier had left the city damp, and the faint patter of water dripping from the rooftop echoed through the silence.
The Phantom Slayer remained seated at the worn wooden table, one arm draped over the back of his chair, the other resting lazily on the hilt of his golden sword. His long, dark hair fell loosely over his shoulders, framing the blindfold that obscured his eyes. He looked as if he belonged in the shadows, his presence both a warning and a promise of unseen danger.
Boots tapped steadily against the wooden floor, slow and deliberate.
Argent Mycroft stepped into the chamber, his long coat shifting as he leaned slightly on his walking stick. The soft glow of the lanterns reflected in his silver eyes, magnified slightly by the monocle perched over his right eye. He adjusted the brim of his brown hat, his weathered features locked in a deep scowl.
"I don't trust her," he stated flatly, voice edged with irritation.
The Phantom Slayer tilted his head slightly. A smirk played on his lips. "You never do, Mycroft."
Argent's scowl deepened. "That woman reeks of deception. Also I am a detective". He chided, clearly stricken with grief, this friend of his' recklessness. He sighed.
"Were", The phantom slayer shot back. "You were". Indeed, Argent was a detective but not any detective. He was the best the Solarian Empire could ever have. The master of detection, The one who bore the all seeing eyes of the gods. He was known as many names but none had done him justice now reduced to a vice-guild leader.
He knew it was for the best. But he missed those days. The mystery, the money, the murders, the influence and most of all… The.. women. Every man's dream, to amass riches and women. But they had been crushed because of his recklessness. One his friend and current master knew all to well.
"Most nobles do." The Phantom Slayer's fingers traced the pommel of his sword absentmindedly. "But if she has a lead on my brother, I'm taking it."
Argent shook his head in sadness and wrath, a mixture of an expected reaction towards The phantom Slayers recklessness, his grip tightened around his walking stick. "And what if it's a trap?"
The Phantom Slayer shrugged. "Then I spring it. You know I have never lost". He said, shadows around the room pulsing. Mana fluctuating everywhere.
A muscle twitched in Argent's jaw. "Reckless as always." His silver eyes glowing a sliver of brown light, his aura suffocating, but to the phantom Slayer it was a breeze. His physique darkened only a monstrous , dark brown aura remained. "And how does your 'Gaiea' think about all this. Betraying your oath". The phantom Slayer said smiling. The smile that showed now, would have sent shivers down anyone who saw it even Vivienne, no matter how spoiled she is, would have wet her skirts in fright.
Sparks flying around the room, the inevitable clash between the aura of a knight and the mana of a mage. In normal circumstances, this strong clash would wipe out the slums, But Argent and the phantom slayer used only a sliver of their abilities, limiting the clash of the shadow and the aura to that of the room.
"You are crazy.". Argent exasperated, placing his hands on his cap, putting it in place.
"Determined," the Phantom Slayer corrected, his tone unreadable. "I've been searching for decades. If there's even a whisper of truth in her words, I have to follow it." He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering. "If you don't like it, you're free to walk away, Mycroft."
Argent went still.
The rain outside had softened to a faint drizzle, the occasional droplet tapping against the wooden window panes.
A lesser man might have hesitated, but Argent Mycroft was not a lesser man.
He exhaled sharply and straightened his coat. "You're an insufferable bastard," he muttered.
The Phantom Slayer grinned. "And yet, you're still here."
Argent sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose beneath his monocle. His fingers were calloused—knight's hands, not those of a bureaucrat. He knew why he was still here. He owed the Phantom Slayer.
Memories surfaced, unbidden.
The scent of burning wood. The distant cries of the persecuted. The Imperium, no man who had seen the Imperium survived to tell the story. Even now all Argent could remember were images, blurs of crows, moving through the streets. A subtle sound, one that caused shivers, yes that was the sound of the Imperium's hunting dogs, A cicada.
That wretched group of fanatics had hunted him relentlessly, labeling him a heretic for refusing their doctrine—the belief that magic could only be explained through science, not the divine. To them, faith was ignorance, gods were myths, and anything beyond their understanding was meant to be dissected or eradicated. And anything else that stood in their way would vanish. Not a trace, left to be seen. The Imperium were so strong that they would be classified as the Royal Family of the Black Market. The trails spread throughout the world to the other continents. They have plagued the Royal family and nobles for decades. Leaving the King and the court no Choice but to coexist with them. As numerous operation have been done to eradicate them. Yet this man before him, a man who was searching for something as valuable as blood, stopped and saved him. he had now come to see him as his master and now his best friend.
They had come for him under the cover of darkness, torches in hand, their inquisitors whispering words of condemnation. Had it not been for the Phantom Slayer, he would have been one of the many nameless corpses buried beneath the city.
That debt could never be repaid.
A quiet knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
The stewardess, Grace, entered, balancing a polished silver tray in her hands. The scent of freshly brewed black tea curled through the air, mingling with the room's lingering warmth.
She moved gracefully, her brown curls tucked neatly under a simple cap. Her dress, though plain, was well-kept, a mark of quiet dignity. She placed the teacup in front of Argent with practiced ease, her hands steady despite the heavy silence hanging over the room.
Argent blinked, pulled from his melancholy. His fingers wrapped around the warm porcelain, the tea's faint steam curling upward.
He exhaled. "Grace."
The stewardess looked up, her brown eyes warm but unreadable. "Yes, sir?"
He studied her for a long moment. Then, in a rare instance of sincerity, he asked, "How is your family? And the others in the slums?"
Grace hesitated, then smiled softly. "They are well, sir. Thanks to you and the Phantom Slayer, the slums have seen better days than ever before. We are… grateful."
The Phantom Slayer tilted his head slightly, listening.
Argent took a slow sip of his tea, his expression unreadable. "Grateful," he murmured. His grip on the cup tightened slightly. "Good." All he needed to hear was words of appreciation, one his 'best friend' had never bothered to give. After all he had taken care of all his tantrums.
Grace hesitated, glancing at the Phantom Slayer before bowing her head slightly. "If there's anything else, sirs, please let me know."
She turned and left, her footsteps barely making a sound.
The room was silent again.
Argent sighed, rubbing his temple. "I hope you know what you're doing."
The Phantom Slayer chuckled, his blindfolded gaze turning slightly toward the door where Vivienne had left earlier.
"So do I."