The Final Report as the Lamps Fade

Miranda stepped into the dimly lit cellar, her gaze sweeping the room before resting on her younger brother slumped against the wall. Joseph's ankle was twisted at an unnatural angle, and the sight made her frown in concern.

"Joseph..." she said quietly, kneeling beside him. "Is your ankle dislocated?"

"Miranda?" Joseph raised his head, surprise flickering in his eyes. "How did you even get here?"

She didn't answer right away, gently probing the swollen ankle. "I happened to come across a big group heading to this old Hamilton Mansion," she replied at last, tearing a strip from the hem of her dress for bandages. "They looked like they were expecting trouble, so I followed."

"Stay still." Her hands moved deftly, maneuvering the misplaced joint back into a better position with a firm but careful touch, then wrapping it snugly.

Joseph bit back a groan, trying to keep from jerking away.

"You thought it was some dangerous group?" he asked, his voice tight from pain, hoping conversation might distract him.

She gave a terse nod, smearing the salve onto his ankle with practiced caution. "I'm a Major General—I have to keep an eye out for potential threats. Once I got here, I realized it was an official operation." She paused, glancing up to meet his gaze. "Looks like I arrived just in time."

Joseph let out a quiet chuckle, even though pain still shadowed his expression.

Footsteps echoed on the staircase. Charles led a party of medics and Arcane Science Division members down into the cellar, who split up instantly to do their tasks. The medics rushed over to treat Joseph's injuries, while the Arcane Science specialists carefully inspected the music box, setting up special equipment to contain the cursed artifact.

Everyone bustled about. One group secured the unconscious, wiry captive with the twisted body; another checked on Simon.

Despite the mission's completion, Simon still stood guard before the large mirror, unblinking. His entire body trembled from exhaustion, sweat rolling down his face and neck. He refused to look away, mindful that some within the mirror's dimension might still need rescuing. Until told otherwise, he wouldn't risk a single glance away from that glass.

"You can rest now," said one of the Arcane Science agents, stepping up to him. "I'll keep watch."

Simon gave a slight nod but kept his gaze fixed on the mirror. "You're ready?" he asked, his voice rasping with fatigue.

"All set."

Only then did Simon slowly step back, letting the agent take over. The new guard stared into the mirror without blinking, and once Simon was sure the handover was secure, he finally allowed himself to slump against the wall, giving in to his exhaustion at last.

The assault was finished, but the aftermath was grim. Both sides had suffered losses—several Script-Decipherers were dead or injured, and the Suppression Division had paid a steep price as well.

As the captured members were led away, some cursed and shouted defiantly:

"You made a mistake!" one roared.

"We were doing it for the world's sake! For survival after the end!" another cried. "We did nothing wrong!"

But their voices went unheeded, drifting like spent echoes. Charles walked past them, barely noticing, too focused on one particular goal: checking up on Joseph.

He limped closer, wincing whenever he put weight on his left leg—still sore from the music box ordeal. He had half a mind to tease Joseph's injuries, but that notion faded at the heavy atmosphere. Many officers grieved fallen comrades; the mood was far too somber for levity.

'I'll save that for later,' Charles thought. He approached Joseph at a normal pace.

"How are you holding up?" Charles said, lowering himself beside his friend.

"Better," Joseph replied, shifting his bandaged ankle a fraction. "Though I'll be off my feet for a while."

"At least you won't be chasing criminals anytime soon." Charles gave him a faint grin.

"Yeah..." Joseph nodded, then changed the subject. "I heard from my sister that you saved a kid earlier?"

"Oh, right."

"Strange how kids ended up here in the first place."

Charles sighed. "I asked around. Turned out they were the Hamilton family's children, plus a friend or two. They sneaked in to play hide-and-seek not long before we surrounded the mansion. Luckily, none of them got hurt."

"Hopefully, now that the Script-Decipherers are gone, Michael Berg will show himself," Charles murmured. "If he was hiding from them, maybe he can safely come out now."

Joseph hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah, I hope so. But at least we managed to put these lunatics away."

He trailed off as his eyes flicked to a pair of figures approaching them. "Look—Miranda and Edward."

Charles looked too, spotting Miranda walking beside a tall man whose brown-gray hair was marked by age and scars—Edward Cavendish, Joseph's uncle and the Investigation Division chief.

…

Some distance away, in a narrow alley, a lone woman blended into the shadows. Her face was half-hidden by the gloom of the towering buildings and twisted trees overhead. Each step came with a subtle limp, betraying concealed injuries.

She paused to rest, leaning against the cold stone wall. For a moment, she gazed at the distant silhouette of the old Hamilton Mansion, standing stark against the moonlit sky. Then, with caution, she shrank back from the street, mindful of passersby.

Gradually, she slipped away into the darkness—unaware that something had fallen from her person. A pointed crystal with transparent facets clattered softly onto the cobblestones and rolled into a dark corner of the alley. Under the moonlight, it glimmered with an eerie sparkle.

Moments later, a middle-aged man walked by with his young son. A glint caught his eye from the alley's gloom. 'Maybe it's something valuable,' he thought, stepping closer.

He stooped to pick up the clear crystal, holding it up toward a flickering lamplight. Inside, something tiny churned—like a droplet of living liquid. Sometimes it appeared spherical; sometimes it stretched into angles, then split into two parts before merging again. The man watched in fascination, his entire consciousness drawn to its bizarre movements.

"Dad!" the boy's voice startled him. "What are you doing? You walked over and picked up... but there's nothing in your hand, right?"

Frowning, the father asked, "You don't see what I'm holding?"

The boy shook his head. "No... your hand's empty."

A moment's silence passed. He realized now that his child couldn't see the crystal. "Oh... sorry, it's nothing," he said, quickly pocketing the object. "Let's go home—it's late."

As they resumed their walk, he felt the mysterious weight in his pocket... and wondered about the secret it concealed.

…

In the wake of the operation against the Script-Decipherers, Charles and the other officers busied themselves organizing the aftermath. Clerks sat at makeshift desks under oil lamps, scribbling down statements. Others sketched diagrams of the battle sites, while Arcane Science members painstakingly catalogued each artifact.

The large mirror was sealed beneath special sheets embroidered with runes, while the cursed music box was packed into a wooden case lined with etched wards. Red wax seals were pressed at every edge to hold it firmly.

Outside, horse-drawn wagons rolled over gravel, chains clinking. Surviving members of the Script-Decipherers were loaded up, bound for the underground cells of the Suppression Division. Their vehicles varied in design—each to contain a different ability—escorted by at least four armed guards apiece.

Charles eased onto a creaking chair and dipped a quill into dark ink. The candlelight reflected off the crisp parchment before him, its surface soon filled with careful handwriting.

He wrote beneath a dim oil lamp in a makeshift office area of the mansion. Soft murmurs and the scratching of quills surrounded him as he composed his report:

"...Two primary cursed objects were discovered at the scene: a large mirror capable of generating a pocket dimension, and a music box with the power to manipulate bodies. Both were utilized by the Script-Decipherers against us. Survivors number a total of..."

He paused, lifted his pen, and looked around. He caught sight of the Arcane Science team carefully wrapping the music box in layers of black silk inscribed with gold runes. Each layer had to be aligned so the runic patterns matched precisely. Then they placed it into a carved wooden trunk lined with crimson velvet.

Across the room, a cluster of clerks meticulously drew sketches—some depicting the cellar's layout, others detailing the artifacts. Every illustration had to be accompanied by thorough annotations and at least two official signatures.

Heavy footsteps echoed outside, along with the rattle of chains. Injured adversaries were being marched to specialized transport wagons. The groans of the wounded mingled with the grunt of medics hefting them onto stretchers. Some were made to ingest sedatives to keep them from lashing out en route.

Charles set his attention back to the page. "...Damage to the mansion includes scorch marks from combat and structural harm, particularly in the cellar where I engaged them. The Arcane Science Division recommends sealing off this section for at least a month to prevent residual effects from the cursed artifacts from causing further incidents..."

He heard a pained cry ring out from beyond the room—an officer being carried to a medic's carriage, white bandages stained with blood. Herbal remedies gave off a pungent odor, some receiving potions to lull them to sleep during transport.

"...We also recorded the number of injuries and fatalities..." He halted again, a weight pressing on his chest. Then he took a deep breath and forced his pen to continue, committing those grim figures to paper. Though just numbers, they felt heavier than any iron chain.

Finishing that section, Charles set his quill aside and gazed through a window at the night sky. Moonlight spilled over the ruined grounds, where wagons and shackles creaked in the gloom. Wearily, he ran a hand over his face, the residual ache from the music box's torments still ripping through his muscles. But that was nothing compared to the ache in his heart—knowing how many had fallen, how many people had lost friends.

"Get some rest," Joseph's voice came from behind him. "We've done enough tonight."

Charles glanced back, seeing Joseph leaning on a crutch, as exhausted as anyone. "So do you," he said, rising to his feet.

Together, they left the makeshift office. The final oil lamp glowed faintly in the gloom, quills still scratching at parchment as scribes recorded the last details of this harrowing night—one that saw the Script-Decipherers toppled, though at a steep price in blood and sorrow.

At last, the lamp's flame guttered low, leaving only moonlight and a silence heavy with remembrance. It was as though a curtain had fallen on the fierce struggle of this long, brutal evening.