A middle-aged man, sturdy and broad-shouldered, with close-cropped hair and a thick stubble, stopped in front of an unremarkable building whose facade had been worn down by time.
Above the entrance, a sign painted with a goat, covered in faded blue paint, swayed gently on a creaking chain.
He studied it for a long moment, as if trying to discern some hidden meaning in this place, then slowly turned to his subordinates.
"Positions," he ordered curtly.
His voice was low and commanding, like the toll of a distant bell.
One of the soldiers, a tall man with rough features, immediately took up a position by the entrance, clasping his hands behind his back and standing with his feet firmly planted in an alert stance.
His companion—younger, with sharp eyes and a scar running across his left brow—moved to circle around the building. Both knew their roles well; no additional instructions were necessary.
"All clear, Commander Albrecht. You can enter," said the soldier at the door in a muted tone.
Albrecht smirked, the corners of his lips twitching upward slightly. He appreciated when his orders were carried out without hesitation.
With a practiced motion, as though for the thousandth time, he adjusted the crisp collar of his uniform and stepped inside, effortlessly pushing open the heavy door.
The bar was dimly lit. The smell of spilled beer and cheap tobacco mingled with the faint aroma of the wooden counter and tables.
Light flickered under the stained lampshades, casting long shadows on the walls. There weren't many patrons: two men played cards by the window, a pair of burly dockworkers argued animatedly in a corner, and a lone figure in a long coat sat at a distant table, seemingly detached from the world around him.
Albrecht strode confidently to the bar, where the bartender—a wiry man with graying temples and an old leather apron—stood wiping glasses.
His hands moved mechanically, as though he had been doing this his entire life.
The bartender glanced quickly at the newcomer, his gaze lingering on the military uniform, and tensed slightly.
"Whiskey," Albrecht barked sharply. The tone left no room for refusal.
The bartender, trying to mask his unease, retrieved a glass from the shelf and set it on the counter before Albrecht. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the bottle.
Meanwhile, Albrecht turned slightly, scanning the room.
His gray, steely eyes caught the smallest details: cracks in the floorboards, shoe marks by the door, even fingerprints on the nearest table. Each fragment pieced together in his mind like parts of a larger puzzle.
"Nice place. Cozy," he murmured to himself, his gaze sweeping over the darkened wooden walls. "Just what you need after a long day."
At the far table, the "man" in the coat stiffened slightly.
He didn't move, but his gaze, hidden beneath the wide brim of his hat, tracked Albrecht's every move intently.
In reality, it was Chelsea. Her Teigu allowed her to alter her appearance, and now she looked like one of those quiet bar regulars who came here simply to pass the time.
"Things aren't going as planned," flashed through her mind. "Mirzam's already covering the back entrance, and Difda is watching Albrecht's men outside. But they still have no idea I'm here."
Chelsea shifted her gaze to the soldier at the door, then to the bartender, who was pouring whiskey into a glass after opening the bottle.
The commander observed the bartender with a faint smirk, his entire demeanor exuding control over the situation.
"Good drink," Albrecht remarked after his first sip, his face twitching slightly at the bitterness. "You've got good taste, old man."
The bartender nodded awkwardly, wiping his hands on a rag.
Mirzam hid in the dense bushes near the back entrance, trying to blend into the surrounding shadows.
She intently watched a pair of soldiers who stood lazily exchanging words near the door.
Their massive frames resembled immovable boulders, but she knew these brutes could move with deadly speed if they sensed anything suspicious.
"Of course, they're here too! Even at the back door, they've posted guards. Unbelievable!" she fumed inwardly, clenching her teeth. "Fine, I'll observe a bit longer and retreat. No need to risk it further."
But her plans unraveled in an instant.
"Hey, what are you hiding here for, little girl?" came a rough voice from behind.
Mirzam spun around sharply, her heart sinking.
Standing before her was another soldier, towering and clad in standard imperial armor that gleamed faintly under the moonlight. His face twisted into a sneer that sent a small pang of panic through her.
"Well, big guy, you're right on time," she muttered through clenched teeth, slowly reaching for her bag.
"Don't even think about it, girl!" he snarled, drawing his sword.
But Mirzam had no intention of obeying.
Her fingers grabbed a handful of dirt, and before the soldier could strike, she flung it directly into his face.
Dust and grime clouded the soldier's eyes, eliciting a furious growl that turned into a pained hiss.
As he grabbed at his face, trying to quell the stinging irritation, Mirzam wasted no time and pulled several throwing knives from her bag.
"You shouldn't have interfered," she whispered coldly, hurling the blades in a swift, fluid motion.
The knives struck his neck, chest, and groin with a sharp thud. The soldier jerked violently, his massive body swaying before collapsing to the ground like a felled tree.
A guttural wheeze escaped his throat, morphing into a wet gurgle as blood filled his lungs.
His hand clawed weakly at his neck, the other instinctively gripping his abdomen.
"Glug-glug," came a faint, wet sound from his mouth before he fell silent for good.
Mirzam brushed the dirt off her hands and wiped the sweat from her brow with a swift motion. The thick vegetation around her swallowed her once more, as if shielding her from prying eyes.
"Damn it! Now I'll have to change position," she thought irritably and slipped away into the deeper shadows without a backward glance at the body.
Regulus sat on the roof of an old building, leaning back on a wooden chair that creaked with his every movement.
He appeared relaxed, but anyone who knew him better would recognize the façade. His nonchalance was a carefully maintained pretense.
A half-empty bottle of brandy stood on the table before him, next to a glass filled with the faint aroma of the strong drink.
"I need to drink less," Regulus muttered absently, staring at the glass. He raised it to eye level, studying the amber liquid as if searching for some hidden wisdom. "Drink less… less drinking…" His voice trailed off, but he repeated the words, almost testing their weight. "Drink less."
With that, he tipped the glass back and downed the contents in one swift motion. His face twitched slightly at the bitterness, but a faint smirk tugged at his lips.
He set the glass back on the table slowly and leaned on the armrest of his chair, gazing into the distance.
About a kilometer away, faint lights from the bar flickered. Even from this distance, the silhouettes of large figures stationed at the entrance were visible.
"Heh, if those mutts are here, then their master can't be far," Regulus said, narrowing his eyes. "Bet he's sitting in there, warming his ass, smug as ever. Probably sipping whiskey with that satisfied face of his."
He reached for the bottle, as if weighing his decision, and then exhaled heavily.
"Dammit… I only wanted a quarter glass. A quarter! And now it's almost half the bottle gone," he hissed under his breath, running an irritated hand down his face. "Why? Why always like this? Gotta drink less, damn it."
Regulus froze for a moment, his gaze fixed on the bar's lights. Slowly, his hand rose and extended toward it, his middle finger pressed against his thumb as if preparing to snap.
"With one snap," he murmured, his voice filled with quiet resolve, "I'll take him out. No one from our side will get hurt."
His eyes narrowed, locking onto his target as though he could see straight through the walls and figures. His thumb released his middle finger with a sharp snap that echoed through the night. Regulus smirked slightly.
"How do you like my gift, bastard?" he muttered, leaning back in his chair.
Regulus crossed one leg over the other, resting his fist against his cheek as he stared into the distance. With a single snap, he could erase everything. There was no one between heaven and earth who could rival his power.
Albrecht took a small sip of whiskey, savoring the instant warmth spreading down his throat. The bitterness made him wince slightly, but it was the kind of bitterness he relished. He reached for the plate, picking up a small piece of dried fish and biting into it with a crunch.
The man leaned back in his chair with satisfaction, glancing around.
"Not bad," he murmured to himself, a faint smile on his lips.
But in the next moment, everything changed. The world around him seemed to collapse. The floor abruptly came into view as a strange emptiness engulfed his body.
His gaze fell to the floor, where he… saw himself. Or rather, his body.
His head was no longer in place, and he realized he was looking at himself from a distance. Blood quickly pooled into a dark puddle, staining the worn wooden floor crimson.
"What the…?! What the hell?!" flashed through his mind. But there was no time to process it; darkness consumed him completely.
At the same moment, a deafening explosion echoed through the bar. The bottles behind the counter simultaneously shattered, their shards scattering across the room.
The heavy sound of glass breaking against walls and floors mixed with the screams of patrons.
Some collapsed, clutching their faces, while others scrambled for the exit, overturning chairs and tables.
The bartender, who had been calmly wiping glasses just a second earlier, dropped everything and ran for the door, ducking to avoid the flying shards.
Albrecht's henchmen appeared in the doorway of the bar. Their massive figures froze for a moment as they saw their commander's lifeless body. One of them, more experienced, quickly scanned the room, drawing his sword.
"What happened here?!" he bellowed, but no one could answer.
Chelsea, still in the guise of a man, rose slowly from her table. Her face remained impassive, but inside, she trembled with tension.
"Time to get out of here," she whispered to herself, trying not to draw attention. "What the hell was that?!" the thought pierced her mind.
Just as she took a step, Chelsea felt a sharp pain in her abdomen. Her eyes widened, and she instinctively clutched the wound.
When she lifted her hand, her palm was slick with blood. Her heart raced, and her breathing grew shallow.
Looking down, she saw a large shard of a bottle protruding from her stomach. The sharp edge gleamed under the dim lamp, and blood trickled down the glass.
Chelsea clenched her teeth to stifle a scream and pressed her hand against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.
She took another unsteady step, scanning the room for an escape route. The chaos in the bar gave her a chance, but her body was slowly failing her.
"Just need to get out… just a little farther, and I'll be fine," Chelsea reassured herself mentally, though her gaze fell once more on the shard embedded in her stomach, and she felt her strength draining away.