The taller figure—Ronald—was sent reeling backward, leaning against the metal wall as he recovered.
His mask chipped, revealing a single blue eye behind it—as if Mark needed any more evidence as to the figure's identity.
As for the shorter figure, she stood still—indifferent to the squabble. That was until she flicked her wrist.
Metal instantly wrapped around Mark's body, hugging him tightly in place to the wall. He didn't resist.
This similarly happened to Ronald, though he squirmed in rebellion.
"I knew you weren't ready," the woman sighed in disappointment. "What has gotten into you?"
"This bastard dared to disobey the Cardinal's will," Ronald angrily sneered with his attention locked on Mark.
"Be silent," she replied, turning her attention back to their target. "You—"
"Mark di Abbott. What's your name?"
The woman froze—then she flicked her wrist once more. A metal blade manifested, nearly touching his skin.
"This is no joking matter," her cold voice threatened. "You will comply—without question."
Mark, afraid to nod, simply dropped his anxious smirk in reply, his gaze looming over his potential executor.
"Why did you ignore the Ironhold's message, Churchson?"
"I didn't receive any message."
"Bullshit," Ronald spat. "He's lying. He's betrayed the church, he even removed the tracker—"
Metal wrapped around Ronald's mouth, gagging him as it held his head in place.
'Is he a toddler on a monkey leash or something? Why is such an inexperienced and emotional Ironhold member out on the prowl?'
"Answer me," the woman stepped forward, taking hold of the floating metal spear and dragging the tip from throat to chin.
"See for yourself," Mark replied confidently. His head raised to protect himself from the sharp spear tip—his eyes looked down upon her. "Feel my Mana."
She tilted her mask in response, puzzled by his strange request. Yet in the end, she still humored it.
Releasing the spear—which returned to a threatening position in the air—the Ironhold grabbed Mark by restrained wrists.
A strange sensation filled Mark's body; a tingly warmth. But all the woman felt was…
"Nothing…" she exhaled. "Explain this."
"It's simple. My Mana Core is shattered."
The nobility within the Church of the Father communicated through specially taught signals using Metal magic—vibrations. One member could secretly communicate with another member from hundreds of meters away.
It was nearly undetectable, making it the Ironhold's preferred method of communication between Church members.
All noble members of the Father Church would have known the Iron Tongue—which meant Mark, a noble member, should know it. For this reason, he lied about his core.
'Though it's technically true. I have a flat 0 in my Arcane and Faith stats, meaning I have no way of actually utilizing Mana.'
"What happened?"
"Before the first day of the Academy, I was training," Mark fabricated a story. "Took too many Mana potions. The next day was quite… painful. I've been cut off since."
"Swear it upon the Father."
'Did she just tell me to put it on God?'
Swearing upon one's Patron was a method of determining accuracy within one's statements, with one's God acting as the arbiter of truth. If one told a lie while swearing upon their Patron, it would be considered a breach of Oath.
The subsequent result would be immediate comatose—with duration depending on the severity of said lie.
All of this, however, was predicated on the knowledge of the questioned's Patron.
And Mark was no follower of the Father. He was the Apostle of End.
"I swear upon the Father."
The woman glared in response, forced to accept his 'truth' as fact. Mark was quite relieved to see that he was still conscious and that his world knowledge was correct.
"And the tracker?" she asked.
"Evelyn Everett removed it," Mark stated. "And with my lack of a Core, I hadn't even sensed it. Ronald over there placed it on me, I assume?"
The woman's head snapped to the restrained Ronald, the open side of his mask had a raised eyebrow.
Vega stayed silent as she walked up to the restrained Ronald with a wrathful set of steps.
"Release me, Vega," Ronald demanded, though in context came off more as a plead.
Ronald's eyes raised in surprise even more as her hand dug through the collar of his neck.
She tugged, and Ronald's golden Ironhold chain emerged in her grip—which tightened in frustration as Vega seemingly resisted the urge to beat Ronald into a bloody pulp.
"Wearing this in public…" Vega shook her head. "Foolish boy."
She snapped back to Mark.
"You. You are treading a fine line, Abbott. Only by the Father's grace and this one's incredible incompetence are you not beheaded for knowing an Ironhold's identity."
Mark thought of replying, but such a conversation was a tight balancing act. He almost slipped up—revealing he knew Ronald's identity was not the brightest move, but it wasn't a total blunder, at least not yet.
"Your position within the Luikots Guild is quite valuable. That is why the Ironhold call," Vega announced.
Upon hearing the mention of the Luikots, Ronald's eyes widened even further—if that was even possible—before squinting into a furious glare.
She twisted her hand, and the metal tendrils that restrained him slowly crawled back into the wall.
Mark rubbed his bruised neck and stretched his aching joints, all while trying to appear non-physically-threatening to his new superior by maintaining a healthy distance and stiff posture.
"You will refer to him by his code name, Armalind," Vega explained, signaling toward the restrained—and angry—Ronald. "And Armalind will be your personal handler."
'Him? Ronald? He just threw a temper tantrum in front of your own eyes and you're gonna make him babysit me? He's the one who needs to be babysat!'
Vega released Ronald before quickly throwing him into a nearby wall. However, instead of viciously crashing into the steel wall, he instead sunk into it, disappearing out from the wall where they came.
'Like ooblek, just that pressure makes it liquid instead of solid… that's neat.'
But what was truly on Mark's mind was the message. The Ironhold wanted something to do with the Luikots, but what exactly?
"Hey, what—"
"We'll be in touch," Vega promptly turned around and left.
Mark was silent with disappointment. All that fuss just for him to not even learn what the message was?
With Vega gone, the metal tendrils retracted, and the changing room's walls returned to normal.
'Another leash to add to the collection…'
He resisted the urge to punch a hole straight through the flimsy wooden changing room boards; a tantrum wouldn't be productive at all, despite his unexpressed anger.
Despite that, a wave of relief washed over Mark as he took a true, steady breath, calming his beating heart.
Stepping out of the changing room, he pretended as if it was all business as usual.
"Get a good fit?" Ranni asked over her shoulder, her attention still trained on the vast collection of suits, even after all this time.
"Uh… no."
Her head turned, eyes glaring in irritation.
"So what have you been doing…" Ranni trailed off as her eyes slowly trained on Mark's bruised neck. "How the—"
"The ones that I took with me didn't fit," Mark shrugged. "Nearly choked myself out trying to button them."
Disappointment.