Chapter 11 - Trouble

Daglan drew in a slow, measured breath as the blindfold's darkness enveloped him. The rough fabric pressing against his eyelids. The murmur of the crowd swelled around him like waves against a shoreline.

He let his energy unfurl like morning mist, reaching out to meld with the world around him. Through the darkness, his other senses heightened until every sensation became a vivid splash of information. The subtle shift of air against his skin. The creak of tent poles straining against the wind. The collective heartbeat of hundreds of spectators, their breaths held in anticipation of what was to come.

Relax. You can do this. The mantra echoed in his mind as sweat beaded at his temples, threatening to soak into the blindfold. Two styles. Soaring Sky, just like Motis, and Flowing River. The world continued to pulse through his expanded consciousness. Every minute vibration. Every whispered gasp. Every metallic clink from the audience's implements – it all flooded his awareness in a dizzying rush that threatened to overwhelm him.

"That 'Flowing River' technique you showed Mortis looked quite interesting." During practice, Azrael's fingers had spun the dual katanas with unnatural precision, chains whistling from their hilts at inhuman speeds. "Looks like it'll be real hard to mix it with those Serkan techniques." The memory of that broken-tooth smile beneath the bandages made Daglan's skin prickle.

Now, in the suffocating darkness of the blindfold, he could perceive Azrael's form from every angle. The way his cloak rippled like disturbed water. The precise angle of his arms as he began the deadly dance of his chain-linked katanas.

The performance tent fell so silent he could hear the oil lamps flickering overhead. Even the usual creaks and groans of the audience's metics seemed to still. As if the entire crowd held one collective breath.

To master Lechi is to be able to mix all three styles seamlessly. Daglan reminded himself, muscles coiling in anticipation. I should be able to do two at least.

The first blade sliced past Daglan's face before he had time to take a stance. Hot blood trickled down his cheek, each droplet vivid in his expanded awareness as it traced a path along his jaw. He jumped away from another whistling blade, the motion carrying him into a hasty duck as another carved the air where his throat had been.

His perception painted a perfect picture of the danger. Blades coming from every angle. Azrael's form rippling like smoke as he launched attack after attack. But knowing wasn't enough if he was too slow.

Soaring Sky and the Serkan techniques demanded rigid focus, a crystalline awareness of every detail. While Flowing River required him to empty his mind, to move like water around obstacles. Trying to use both styles at once was like trying to freeze and boil water simultaneously.

"The kid's just scrambling!" The shout cut through the tense silence.

"Yeah, you're gonna kill him!" Another voice joined in, panic evident in its tone.

I'm fighting for my life out here! Daglan thought in protest, his heart hammering against his ribs as another blade whispered past his ear. Then reality crashed back in. The stage under his feet. The heat of the lights. The crowd watching.

Another blade sliced into his arm and Daglan could feel what Azrael was telling him. A blade swung for his throat, and he backflipped just in time, barely catching his balance before another slice forced him to sidestep. He worked to make every movement look natural, fluid. This isn't a fight. It's art. They came to see a show. I've gotta give them something unforgettable.

The crowd's roar intensified, their excitement wrapping around him like a current. His fear transformed, growing to confidence as he let his body fall into a rhythm of broader, exaggerated movements. Azrael's slash cut toward him, and Daglan ducked with a dramatic sweep, throwing the crowd a defiant grin. I'm doing it! He let himself feel the momentum, feel their energy—until.

A blade sliced clean across his forehead mid-flip. Hot blood poured down into the fabric tied across his brow. Daglan staggered, but quickly righted himself, drawing out the stumble just enough to keep the crowd on edge.

Wait… is he moving faster?! Despite the wound, Azrael's onslaught didn't waver. But Daglan responded with flair. His dodges a mix of agility and showmanship. Bloodied but resolute, he became the eye of a storm, moving through the strikes with a blend of skill and desperation. He could hear the gasps and cheers, feel their energy. So this is performing at the circus, he thought, it's exhilarating.

Azrael's relentless onslaught reached a fevered pitch. His movements blurring with impossible speed as the chained katanas hissed and whirred. Their deadly arcs almost melding together even for Daglan's heightened awareness. 

Daglan's breaths had become ragged. Muscles taut with the strain of every dodge, every roll, every movement. His blood slicked the floor, each droplet falling with heavy finality, adding to the mounting tension in the air.

As the final blade swung across a deadly arc, Daglan felt a surge of energy rise within him. A final, desperate burst to close the act on his own terms. Planting his feet, he gathered every last reserve of strength and leapt into the air. Twisting his body into a fluid, spinning arc above the stage. The crowd gasped as he soared. Limbs extending in perfect, graceful flight, blood tracing faint lines through the air like ribbons.

Mid-spin, he caught a glimpse of Azrael below, his expression unreadable, but there was something, a flicker of what looked like approval.

As Daglan landed, a triumphant grin spread across his face, turning to face the audience with bloodied defiance. The tent erupted, the roar of the crowd cascading over him like thunder, sealing his victory. Azrael gave him a quick, subtle glance, before bowing deeply to the crowd. Daglan mirrored him, bowing in time with Azrael. 

He had done it, they had given the crowd something unforgettable, and in that moment, Daglan felt he understood what Azrael was trying to do.

The roar of the crowd still echoed in Daglan's ears as he wiped blood from his face, the cuts stinging in the cool night air. His muscles ached from the performance, but curiosity burned brighter than exhaustion. He found Azrael behind the main tent, methodically cleaning his chain-linked katanas by lamplight, the metal singing softly as he worked.

"You use something like the Flowing River Style, don't you?" Daglan asked, touching the still bleeding cut on his forehead.

"What makes you say that?" Azrael replied, though the smirk growing beneath his hood betrayed his interest. The chains clinking softly as he set the katanas aside.

"I... I don't know exactly. But whatever you were doing while you were swinging your swords, it was... familiar. Like what I felt when I saw Mortis's show. I didn't catch it during practice, but with the blindfold..." He paused, remembering how the darkness had heightened his other senses, revealed the subtle rhythms beneath the deadly dance. "It was like seeing currents beneath a surface."

Something shifted in Azrael's posture—a tension, or perhaps recognition. With deliberate slowness, he reached up and pushed back his abyss-like hood. Revealing for the first time his full visage. Tufts of hair jutted out at strange angles between the wrappings, like wild grass through broken stone. His teeth were even more broken and disfigured than Daglan had initially thought. They created a jagged landscape behind his twisted smile. But it was Azrael's eyes that caught Daglan's attention. One an animalistic yellow that seemed to glow in the lamplight, the other a pale green like the grass of the wastes.

"Beneath this ugly mug is an Oroan through and through," Azrael said, his voice carrying a hint of pride beneath its usual gravel. "And you're right, but where I come from, it's known as the technique of warriors." His mismatched eyes studied Daglan with newfound intensity. "You rarely see it outside Esalas, let alone used by a non-Oroan. But then again," he added with a knowing tilt of his head, "I hear all Marisians are fast learners."

Before Daglan could even open his mouth to question what he meant, Azrael stood. The chains of his katanas whispered against each other as he gathered them.

"The wind is essential to the techniques of warriors," he said as he turned to walk away, disappearing into the shadows between the tents. 

Daglan stood alone in the lamplight, mind racing. He lifted his hand, feeling the night air move against his palm, remembering how the world had felt through his blindfold—the way Azrael's attacks had seemed to ride the very currents of the wind itself. Another piece of the puzzle that was Lechi had fallen into place, but somehow it only made the mystery deeper.

Fresh bandages pulled tight against Daglan's cuts as he left Vega's tent, the sharp smell of antiseptic still clinging to his skin. The circus grounds had fallen into the twilight rhythm of performers preparing for their nights. Perfect cover for what he had in mind.

As much as Vega had made Daglan fear venturing into the city with Kento, he knew better than to let him go alone. His friend's knack for finding trouble was legendary among the troupe. However Kento would slip away regardless. And if Daglan went solo, he'd likely stumble into his own breed of misfortune. It's best if we go together, he reasoned, touching one of his fresh bandages. At least then we can watch each other's backs.

As if summoned by the thought, Kento emerged from between two nearby tents, moving with the exaggerated stealth of someone trying too hard to act casual.

"Hey, I've been looking for you!" Kento's voice was barely above a whisper, his eyes darting between shadows like a startled cat."What's Vega doing?"

"Just finished patching me up. He's probably about to start dinner prep."

Kento's face split into a grin that spelled trouble. "Perfect. Everyone will be too busy cleaning up and getting ready for the night. The timing couldn't be better."

The evening unfolded like a well-rehearsed act. During dinner, Kento maintained their cover with his usual antics– juggling bread rolls, making the older performers laugh. Generally ensuring that when they did slip away, no one would remember exactly when they'd last seen them.

When the moment finally came, they snuck away between shift changes, using the cover of gathering darkness and general post-dinner commotion. But nothing could have prepared Daglan for his first glimpse of Bolgue.

Three massive structures dominated the skyline, their peaks lost in the thick smog they belched into the night sky. Despite the perpetual murk, light blazed from countless windows and street-level lamps, casting an eerie glow through the haze. Below these towering monoliths, buildings jumbled together like poorly stacked crates, their shapes barely distinguishable in the artificial twilight.

"Would you look at that," Kento breathed, his usual mischief momentarily replaced by uncertainty. "I've been too afraid to go into any of these big cities alone. Seeing it up close..." He trailed off, eyes wide as he took in the imposing sight.

Daglan nodded, unable to tear his eyes from the strange mirage before them. The city's glow painted the underside of the smoke clouds in sickly shades of amber, while strange mechanical sounds echoed through the warren of narrow streets below.

"Well," Kento said, that familiar troublemaker's grin returning to his face, though Daglan caught a slight tremor in his voice, "shall we go see what all the fuss is about?" He was already moving forward to which Daglan couldn't help but follow. I'll find you Vilrux, Rozeree.

As they drew closer, a stone wall encircled the city, its weathered surface marked by centuries of repair and modification. The ancient stonework reminded Daglan of Graybarrow's walls, though these were smaller and studded with strange mechanical additions. Strange how similar yet different it feels from home, Daglan thought, a familiar ache tugging at his chest.

"To keep out Yokai?" He asked, eyeing the wall's worn structure.

"And people like us, if I had to guess." Kento gestured upward, where mechanical eyes sprouted from rusted brackets bolted into the crumbling stone. "Security cameras." His voice carried an edge Daglan rarely heard from his usually carefree friend. 

Kento led them along the wall's perimeter, away from the main gates where guards stood watch. This is exactly the kind of trouble I was worried about, Daglan thought, his heart beginning to race. Yet he couldn't deny the thrill of adventure mixing with his fear. After a few minutes, Kento stopped at what looked like an old drainage tunnel, partially hidden behind overgrown weeds. "Found this earlier when I was scouting," he whispered, already crouching down to enter. "Guess they can't watch everything after all."

The tunnel was cramped and dank, forcing them to crouch as they made their way through. The smell is even worse than I expected, Daglan thought, feeling something squelch beneath his shoes with each step. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness ahead, echoing off the stone walls. The sound of their breathing was unnaturally loud in the enclosed space.

A faint glow of artificial light beckoned at the tunnel's end. Kento moved faster, seemingly eager to escape the claustrophobic passage, but Daglan found himself hesitating. What if there are guards waiting? Or worse - what if we get caught inside the city with no way back? Still, he pressed on. I can't let Kento go alone. And I need to find a lead on Vilrux and Rozeree.

They emerged into what appeared to be a narrow alley between two buildings. They seemed to be homes stacked precariously atop each other. The buildings leaned inward as if sharing secrets, leaving only a thin strip of the smoke-stained sky visible above. Strange pipes and cables crisscrossed between them like mechanical vines.

"We made it!" Kento's whisper was triumphant, though he kept glancing over his shoulder. "Now what?"

Now what indeed, Daglan wondered, realizing they hadn't actually planned anything. The sounds of the city pressed in around them - distant clanking, the hum of machinery.

"You two outta hide now." The voice crackled through the alley like splitting wood, making both boys jump. Through the dim haze, they made out a figure hunched on a dilapidated porch. An ancient woman whose flesh seemed to hang from her bones like poorly draped cloth. Her metics ground against each other with each subtle movement, the sound like stones being crushed underfoot.

"Ya deaf or what?" The old woman's metics screeched as she held up her cane, using it to push open a door that looked as weathered as she was. "The knights'll be coming soon. That there tunnel's rigged for intruders."

Daglan and Kento exchanged panicked glances. The mischievous light in Kento's eyes had dimmed, replaced by cold fear. This is exactly what I didn't want to happen! Daglan thought, his jaw clenching as he reached out with his energy as fast as he could.

The sensation hit him like a physical blow—the rhythmic footfalls of armored men approaching their position. The mechanical whir of enhanced joints, the subtle vibration of weapons being drawn.

"Kento, let's go." Daglan commanded, his voice carrying none of the uncertainty churning in his gut. He grabbed his friend's arm and pulled him toward the stranger's open door. The darkness beyond looked far from inviting, but it beat facing whatever was coming for them.

The old woman's metics creaked a discordant symphony as she ushered them inside, her movements carrying an urgency that belied her decrepit appearance. The door closed behind them with a soft click that seemed to echo with finality, leaving them in a darkness broken only by flickering, broken lights.

As they closed in, the picture became clearer for Daglan. Four large men in armor similar to the collectors, but their plates gleamed newer, thicker. Two of them cradled rifles against their chest plates. The others gripped battle axes, humming with barely contained energy.

A knot formed in Daglan's gut, cold and dense, crawling slowly upward until it choked his throat. If we were lucky we could take one of them... but four? I hope this lady doesn't just hand us over... He clenched his fists tighter, half-willing the tension to quiet his fear. 

He glanced over to see Kento, fingers trembling, clutching his shirt with white-knuckled desperation. Kento's wide eyes met his, silently pleading. Daglan gave him a reassuring nod, trying to mask his own terror.

"Grenna." One knight stepped onto the porch, looming over the old woman, helmet mere inches from her weathered face. "An alarm went off at this emergency tunnel, you happen to see anything?"

"A couple youngins came by a playin', I shooed 'em away." She said matter of factly, never breaking eye contact from the knight's faceless visor.

"She's telling the truth." He said bluntly before lashing out with an armored boot, sending her cane skittering across the warped porch boards. "Old hag." He spat before they made their way away. Daglan's pulse hammered in his ears, his fists trembling as he watched them leave. What bastards! To treat a defenseless old woman like that!

"Ya outta be alright comin out now boys." Grenna's voice wheezed through the paper-thin walls.

"No, not yet" Daglan whispered back, his energy painting a perfect picture of the knights still lingering around the corner. Two of them broke away from the group, their heavy footsteps echoing off the cramped alley walls as they approached Grenna's porch again.

Daglan watched as one knight produced a small pistol-like weapon, the metal singing with an energy that made his skin crawl. The moment it appeared, Grenna's entire demeanor transformed.

"NO! NO ANYTHING BUT THAT! I TOLD YA'S IT WAS JUST THE YOUNGIN'S!" Her screams ripped through the air, the genuine terror in her voice making Daglan's muscles coil like springs. He shot Kento a look of pure determination, his body tensing for action, ready to explode through the door at the knights.

"You filthy old freak." The knight's voice dripped with contempt as they turned away, their laughter echoing metallically through their helmets. Daglan's hand clenched the doorknob until the metal groaned in protest. Did they come back just to harass her?! His grip tightened further, the mechanism threatening to shatter under the pressure.

Kento's hand shot up, wrapping firmly around Daglan's arm. "Calm down, its gotta be almost over. They are walking away again." His whisper carried a steadying weight.

Daglan released a long breath, stepping back from the door. "You're right." He closed his eyes, though he didn't need to - his energy was already painting the scene in perfect detail. The knights were kneeling by the emergency tunnel now, and the one who had terrorized Grenna held that strange weapon before him. As Daglan focused harder, sitting down to better concentrate, the horrifying truth revealed itself.

What he saw sent a chill down him like nothing he had ever felt before. The gun was shooting a stream of flames, turning the metal around the grate into smooth, solid barriers where gaps had been. Daglan shot up and snatched Kento's shoulders, eyes wide with fear.

"They're closing off the exit. They locked us in!"