Chapter 26 — Schemes and a Clown

The back courtyard of the Salvation Temple seethed with life.

Street vendors hollered, men argued over prophecies, and women rocked sleeping infants beneath the harsh midday sun.

In the heart of the noise, Sartor stood, listening to the booming voice of the portly preacher.

— "See that man?" someone said. "He's a priest from the Salvation Sect—a faith that's gained popularity in recent years. They preach of a coming prophet who will free the world from its misery... and speak of something they call the 'Miracle Dust'."

Sartor sank into his thoughts.

Since ancient times, religions had always been a fundamental part of human life.

Moments later, his attention snapped back. The voice he'd heard didn't belong to any of his companions.

A flicker of suspicion passed over Sartor's face—just before Yasmin let out a furious cry, kicked backward, and spun around.

— "Impressive. You really are a difficult lady."

The man leapt away, sniffing his hand as he retreated, a strange expression twisting his face.

Sartor turned to find Mordred staring, eyes flicking between Yasmin's backside and the man's hand, clearly confused.

Only then did Sartor truly notice the man.

— "What did you just do to my maid, stranger?"

The man didn't respond. His bizarre smile simply widened.

He looked to be in his mid-forties, with a neatly trimmed mustache and short beard. His clothes were polished, matching shades of blue from head to toe—blue cap, blue shirt, blue pants, even his shoes were blue.

He hadn't forgotten to dye his hair blue either.

But it was his eyes… those deep, pitch-black eyes that unsettled Sartor. They hid something unnatural. Something... inhuman.

Sartor ignored the unease. Once he understood what had just happened, he slipped a knife from his sleeve and hurled it.

— "You dare touch my maid, you filthy pervert?!"

The man dodged right, narrowly avoiding the blade aimed at his face.

But the weapon had a mind of its own. It spun midair and chased him.

It clipped strands of his hair, slicing a shallow cut across his cheek before circling back.

Sartor yanked the knife back by the nearly invisible thread tied to its hilt—then threw it again.

— "Stop dodging, pervert! Just die already!"

He kept throwing, fury flooding every fiber of his being.

The man danced between attacks, still calm, even amused—like he was enjoying a game.

Yasmin watched as Sartor defended her, blade flying left and right. But joy was the last thing she felt.

Inside, her mind spiraled:

(I promised my mother I'd protect him… That was my vow. My life. I lived through wars with my father, stacked bodies with my own hands…

Could it be that my instincts have dulled? That peace made me soft?

He dodged my kick. By the time I turned around, he'd already stepped back.

Have I rusted? Let some scum sneak up on me?

Even the boy I swore to protect—he's the one protecting me!)

It wasn't just frustration she felt—it was humiliation. She saw herself as his shield. But now he stood shielding her.

He hadn't managed to defeat the man, true—but neither had she.

The stranger laughed mockingly as more men began to gather, drawn by the noise.

— "Is that all you've got, boy? You can't even protect your maid with that toy of yours. A cripple like you couldn't protect himself, let alone anyone else."

Sartor ignored him, blade still slicing the air, uncaring of the growing audience or the preacher's fading sermon behind them.

He kept attacking without pause.

One man hunted with deadly intent.

The other danced, delighted.

Behind them, Mordred stood still, uninvolved, but a strange sense of duty made him stir.

He turned toward the women in the religious crowd and called out:

— "Hey you! Why are you harassing women? That deserves a thousand deaths!"

His voice hit like a thunderclap.

The women turned—snapped out of some kind of trance.

They had been frozen in place. Passive. Observing.

But the word "harasser" set them ablaze.

They surged toward the scene, wild-eyed.

The moment they saw the blue man, they dropped whatever they were holding and lunged at him.

— "Careful!" Sartor shouted, recalling his blade, afraid it might strike one of them by mistake.

The man didn't resist. He let the furious women descend upon him, fists flying.

He was buried in blows.

When the mob finally felt satisfied, they left him sprawled on the ground—dusty, swollen, bleeding.

Then, just as calmly, they returned to their husbands in the crowd, where the preacher continued rambling about salvation—unfazed, as if this were all part of a daily routine.

— "That was painful," the blue man muttered.

He adjusted his clothes, wiped the dust and blood from his face.

— "The women of this city… fierce. But I did manage to catch a glimpse of their undergarments.

I'll count that as a win."

He chuckled cheerfully.

No one in the group had the energy—or will—to demand an explanation.

Yasmin sighed and flicked a needle that hit the man's hand with precise accuracy.

— "Master Sartor, I apologize for this incident. Let that needle serve as my penance. I'll make sure it never happens again."

Her pleading tone made Sartor pause. But inwardly, he thought:

(I don't know why I let him go, Yasmin…

But know this, you filthy freak—

You may have escaped my hands today…

But I'll make sure you regret it one day.)

As the group turned to leave…

The blue stranger called out:

— "Don't you want to know… what the White Dust really is?"

At that moment, in a nearby alley, a woman leaned against a wall, watching them silently.

She clicked her tongue, turned her back, and walked away—

leaving them all in the blue man's hands.