The Flash Phantasm

Beatrice entered the study—an inviting room with glass walls, a table lined with computer equipment and several bookshelves. These shelves were constantly restocked as the princess often consumed a month's supply of books within a single week. A monstrous binge reader.

The study leads into a home studio through large sliding glass doors. This studio is where Inara occasionally sketched and painted—her go-to hobbies for stress relief.

When Beatrice saw the princess inside the studio, the bodyguard couldn't keep her apprehension from seeping out. She stood before the door, her hand trembling, hovering over the glass surface as she recited, 'You can't let your feelings get in the way.'

She had to return to Inara's side. But unless she properly concealed her emotions, the princess would easily realize something was wrong.

Fakers are able to discern sincerity with pulse rate reading. But for Inara, it was much more than a simple lie detector. Her ability formed a connection between her and her target, making her understand not only their emotions but also what they were thinking at the time as well as how they thought.

This rare gift played a huge hand in discerning White Mask's true identity. It was also how she had unraveled the masked woman's deception—how she knew that her words about war and Latio Deathbringer were nothing but lies.

Beatrice knew all too well about this gift—that was exactly why she needed to keep her emotions at bay, albeit easier said than done.

"You can come in, I'm not gonna bite you, you know?" Inara's voice cut through the silence, jolting Beatrice into instant panic.

'How did she?—' It was unthinkable. A D-ranked Faker shouldn't be able to detect an S-ranked Driver, especially one specialized in stealth. But there was no time to think. Quickly get a hold of yourself.

Beatrice slid the door open and entered, her steps slow and cautious. The princess didn't look her way but the moment the bodyguard walked in, she spoke.

"Your heartbeat and footsteps are audible all of a sudden, is there something wrong?"

Beatrice's jaw tightened. She forcefully held her breath, reining in control over her emotions.

"No... it's nothing... must be the weather..."

"I see..." Inara gently dipped her brush into the ink, then traced smooth, deliberate strokes against the canvas. "You must think I'm strange, don't you?"

Beatrice kept mute, unsure of how to respond and a brief silence ensued.

"You see," Inara began, her tone calm but heavy, "Even before I learned to walk, I was taught about the Eternal Blood-War—the world's hatred for Deathbringers."

She exhaled softly, as if bracing herself.

"But it wasn't until I turned seven that I learned the fate of any Deathbringer who sets foot on this continent."

"That they are executed for any crime committed, no matter how petty." She took a pause before continuing.

"You know, pope Hoover described it as 'a necessary measure to ensure the blades of the seven stars don't lose their edge,' that I'd only come to understand when I'm older."

"But even after digging into the past, after discovering that it was a case of mutual hostility, that it all began long before the war—my thoughts still remain the same as they were back then."

The princess' gaze settled on the ink-stained brush.

"Times have changed. Even the cross-border movement restrictions were lifted long ago by Ariel Leonidas."

Beatrice's brow lifted slightly. It wasn't the statement that caught her off guard, but the way the princess said his name so plainly. For most, he wasn't just a man—he was the sole ruler of the Ancient Dell Empire.

Inara carried on with her words.

"He forbade Dellilans from killing Deathbringers without justifiable reason. But the killings never stopped. And they won't unless an outlier steps up and puts an end to them."

"I've chosen to be that outlier even if it means betraying the expectations of those who raised me." Inara exhaled deeply. "But more than anyone else, I know how powerful the Ancient Church are, and what it means to oppose their will." Her eyes met Beatrice's.

"Beatrice, the choice is yours to make. Are you still going to stand beside me?"

Beatrice's shoulders tensed. Was this a test?—she wondered if the princess was already unto her.

In that case, maybe the truth was the right answer. 'You're making a huge mistake, death is far too kind a punishment for those fiends.' But—

No kidding, there was just no reality where she would say that.

"O-of course, my princess..."

What am I doing?

"With you all the way..."

What am I saying?

"Your wish is always my command... looking forward to your guidance as always," her voice wavered.

The princess cast her an unreadable glance for a moment. A single moment. An eternity.

Inara then released a short sigh, a charming smile breaking through.

"I was worried you were gonna say no for a second." She chuckled, turning back to her painting. "So glad to still have you on board."

Silence fell. Beatrice squeezed her fist. Perhaps this was an opportunity. She had to grasp it.

"My princess, if I may," She started, pulling Inara's attention. "It wouldn't be ideal to trust that earthworm with such an important task. You could use me instead, I..."

"It's fine, Beatrice," Inara interrupted, her voice calm and reassuring. "I need you here... by my side." She gave a warm smile.

Beatrice hesitated.

"And besides, there's a mastermind behind Milan Rayleigh. Whoever it is, they shouldn't have a problem getting them out."

"Then why..."

"I only sent Andel as a countermeasure," Inara cut in again. "Milan's backer might be powerful but the thing about pope Hoover is he always plays a wildcard."

Beatrice tilted her head, still confused. Inara took the hint and continued.

"The Ancient Church classifies outsiders into two categories. The first is the SS category, which consists of S-rankers with low ranking Gavels. While the other, known as the SSR category includes all those who can only be put down by, or with the special aid of—a high-ranking Gavel."

She paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle before continuing.

"Naturally, the SSR category should consist of only members of the core Deathbringer bloodline and some irregulars like lord Invel. But there is an exception—someone the Ancient Church ranks as SSR, despite not being a Deathbringer or a Gavel user." She paused again, suspense threatening to engulf the bodyguard.

"The wielder of the Toymaker's Flash Phantasm, who within a second, single handedly purged over a thousand Tartian gang members eight years ago. The one known as the Silver Slayer, Helburk City's Grim Reaper—Crescencia Senesio."

***

As they exited the Forbidden Thicket, Keres released a sharp breath, a wisp of white escaping his mouth. The air outside the forest was lighter, free from the dense, organic scent of wood and thick greenery. It was refreshing.

But the relief didn't last long. A trickle of uneasiness crept in, overriding his comfort. Out here, there were no 'keep out' notices, no restriction systems or anti-prana fields. Nothing standing between him and hostile chakra users.

Milan did vow to protect him but even she admitted to her strength being rather limited.

He began walking forward.

"There's traces of battle," Rolan's voice emerged as he hopped down from the watchtower, landing weightlessly on the snow. "A group of at least twenty up against a single opponent. A woman, most likely a Faker." He dropped into a crouch, examining the prints in the slush.

Milan approached, inhaling through her mouth to dull the biting cold. "Were there… any casualties?"

"Hard to tell," Rolan murmured, continuing after a short pause. "But there are no bodies, no blood trails. And no signs of anyone leaving or being taken away. That means someone—probably a space-time manipulator—transported them somewhere safe."

Milan released a sigh, relief washing over her.

"Then we better get out of here before somebody comes back."

Silence fell. And Rolan gave her a curious look.

"What?" She asked and he replied.

"It's nothing."

Keres kept walking forward, reaching the capital's boundary—a point where the land abruptly reached its end. The mountain range loomed ahead, jagged and broken, like ruptured spines.

Anxiety gnawed at his skin. But as he scanned their surroundings through the seventh dimension, a small measure of relief seeped into his heart.

He hadn't really lived with caution. However, it was the first time he felt the urgency of his life truly being at stake. It was like walking blindfolded on a tightrope, completely unaware of the bottomless chasm beneath him, patiently waiting to seal his doom.

"Lizzie…" His fingers trembled with dread.

Yes, the uncertainty of his family's safety was killing him. At least here, the only immediate threat to his life was the abyss below—the bloodthirsty cliffs and ledges eager to turn a single misstep into his end.

He would die if he fell, no doubt. But that was a thousand times less liklier to happen than the possibility that his family wasn't safe.

Keres' heart quivered as horrifying images of Lizzie's torment invaded his mind. He saw her strapped to a chair in an empty white room, her eyes wide with terror.

Then, a man walked in holding a small, dark metal, resembling a hollowed-out fruit with a collection of petal like sections at its base.

Next, he shoved the strange metal down her throat, slowly turning a screw. He wore a twisted smirk as he watched her writhe, scream and choke, pleading for mercy.

He wasn't after answers, her mouth could no longer function even if she had something to say. This was nothing more than his own pure, sadistic pleasure.

And at this point, Keres was trembling like a volcano about to erupt. If it were possible, he would have traded his soul to see the face of this monster his mind had crafted.

And then he saw it.

Invel.

His heart shattered into a million pieces. Pity, rage, and self hatred crashed mountains upon his back and shoulders. He was on the verge of drowning in despair—until he heard Milan's footsteps crunch in the snow.

Being a noble family's golden egg came with its share of perks and burdens. One of the greatest advantages was unrestricted access to the highest-quality chakra technique manuals and scrolls.

Yet, when Milan was younger, her teacher had insisted she focus more on meditation than attack techniques. She hated it. Sitting still in an empty room, clearing her mind as the temperature went from extremely high to extremely low and then extremely high again. None of it felt like real training.

But it was this unique training method that cultivated her instincts, awakening a tendency to subconsciously react to even the slightest and most sudden shifts in atmospheric temperature.

Milan was unaware that this mind training had paid off. If anything, she resented that woman—not just for being a terrible teacher but for the countless other sins she had committed.

"I'm sure you'd hate it now," Milan's teacher would say, wearing a smug, remorseless smile. "But maybe later, you'd come to appreciate me for this."

However, years had passed. Milan still hated her.

And gratitude had never once crossed her mind.

"I'm sure you'd hate me now, but maybe later you'd come to appreciate me for this."

She wasn't sure why those words echoed in her mind as she reached the edge of the escarpment, standing beside Keres.

"You good?"

Keres hesitated. He couldn't possibly voice the gnawing insecurity in his chest, so he swallowed a breath and gave an unconvincing nod.

"We wouldn't want to draw any attention, so traveling on foot is our only option. That alright with you?"

"I already agreed to come along. Not like I can back out now, can I?" he muttered.

After a short period of silence, Milan spoke again.

"If you ever feel tired or hungry, please say so," she paused, before resuming with a reassuring smile. "Oh and, if any trouble comes up, I'll do everything possible to handle it. So don't you worry about a thing."

She placed one hand on his shoulder, warm and gentle.

In all honesty, Keres dreaded the idea of being under protection. But the truth was undeniable—he wasn't strong enough to fend off his enemies alone. What other choice did he have?

"I'll do my best to not be a burd—" His breath suddenly seized, a shiver ran down his spine.

The seventh dimension allowed him to sense his surroundings in the form of a virtual landscape beyond the realm of visual reality. Meaning that even the slightest finger lift, left a trace of infrared hues that only he could perceive.

And right now, he felt it.

"Milan, you..." Words devoured his voice. But it was already too late.

"I'm sure you'd hate me now," Keres' life flashed in an instant. His foot had slipped. No, that wasn't the case. He had been pushed.

"But maybe later, you'd come to appreciate me for this."

Breeze drowned his ears, his lungs squeezing as he tumbled through the empty air, succumbing to gravity.

He twisted and turned, trying to grab something, anything. But there was nothing. Only the gray of rocks, the white of snow and the blue of sky. Colors he couldn't even see.

His heart went numb from the cold feeling of betrayal, his mind reeling, wondering—just why?

No answer arrived. Just the chilling certainty that in less than a second, he would crash into his stony funeral, facing pain and death all because Milan Rayleigh had pushed him.

"MILAAAAAAAAAAA—"

THWACK—a deafening crash resounded.

And then there was silence.