By 7:30 p.m., all four teachers had been fetched from their homes: the etiquette and language teacher who also taught Betty, an arts instructor, a swordsmanship master, and the knight-etiquette teacher who had filled in that morning.

The news of the missing girl hit them like cold water.

Wayne's gaze swept the room. "About this transfer student," he said at last. "Did anyone check his paperwork?"

The knight-etiquette teacher rubbed his neck. "I assumed Madame Rova had already processed him."

"I didn't come to school today, Sir Xavier," Madame Rova snapped, glaring at him for his laziness.

Wayne turned to the headmaster. "Bring me the full list of Class Three students. All names, including any transfers."

Minutes later, the headmaster returned with the register. Wayne flipped through it. No such name. No transfer at all.

He raised his eyes. "Did anyone even ask his name?"

"I think…" the arts teacher began slowly, "…his name was Gacy."

The swordsmanship teacher nodded. "I observed him during class. Talented boy—defeated some of our top students in sparring. And Betty was speaking with him after my class this afternoon."

"How does he look?"

The teacher paused. "Black hair. Green eyes. A cat followed him around. I even told him not to bring it inside the academy tomorrow."

Wayne shut the register and moved towards the gate. The rest followed him in uneasy silence.

Two youngsters and their parents were entering the school with the police officers. After quick introductions, Detective John Wayne listened to the two classmates fidget before him. Shoes squeaked on the tiles; eyes darted to the floor.

"They only started talking after lunch break, sir," one boy murmured. "We… we didn't know him before."

"Nothing else?" Wayne asked.

Both children shook their heads. Nothing useful—just that a black-haired boy with green eyes had appeared at midday, friendly as an old friend, and walked out with Betty after class.

"He didn't talk to others?" John asked.

"No, sir. Even when another girl tried to talk to him, he ignored her," the boy added.

"We thought he was someone Betty already knew," said Anna.

Wayne exhaled slowly. This looks more like a targeted kidnapping.

He turned to George. "According to the watchman, they went off in the direction of her house. Only two streets between."

Detective John Wayne stood apart, hands clasped behind his back, eyes half-lidded but alert. His dark overcoat brushed the cobblestone; his hat brim shaded the sharp glint of his gaze. To the staff and parents, he seemed lost in thought. In truth, every detail—scuffs on a shoe, a tell-tale twitch of a hand—was sliding into place inside his mind.

A carriage rolled up. Lantern light spilled across three figures as they stepped down.

The first was a silver-haired woman in her mid-twenties, her coat cut like a duelist's jacket, a faint scent of herbs clinging to her gloves. The second, a raven-haired woman of thirty, eyes faintly luminous as if lit from within. The last, a young man of twenty with long snowy hair and bluish eyes like winter rivers.

George leaned in. "Who are they?"

John Wayne didn't answer immediately. Instead, he glanced once at the silver-haired woman and spoke as if to himself. "Ravenshield or Blackwater?"

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The woman blinked. "Excuse me?"

"There are only two houses in the Empire that produce an alchemist's hands like yours," Wayne said calmly. "The Ravenshield household and the Blackwater line. But your stance—left foot angled to free the wand holster—marks you as a wind-type wizard. The Blackwaters favour fire and poison. That leaves Ravenshield. Combine that with the crest hidden under your lapel—yes, I noticed the faint threadwork—and you must be Anastasia Ravenshield, manager of the Mystic Cauldron in the capital."

Anastasia's brows knit. "You're frighteningly well-informed for someone who's never met me."

Wayne allowed himself the faintest smile. "You've come to help with the kidnapping case. You may stay."

She stared at him. "Just like that? You don't know me. How can you take in strangers?"

"On the contrary," Wayne said mildly. "I know you perfectly. You're an expert alchemist and a wind wizard trained under the Margrave's house. If you meant harm, you wouldn't walk through the front gate under escort."

His eyes flicked to the young man beside her. "And you, sir. Daley Findlay of the Northern Territory. Judging by the stiffness of your left shoulder and your habit of watching window ledges rather than faces, you're the one rumoured to have dropped out of the Crow's Misery academy. A loser, they say—but the way you moved just now when that door slammed in the wind tells another story. Quick reflexes. You're not a failure; you're a man who left on his own terms."

Daley's lips parted in astonishment.

Then Wayne's gaze shifted to the raven-haired woman. His eyes dipped briefly to her wrist as she adjusted her glove.

"A scorpion tattoo crossed with an X," he murmured. "At first glance, Red Sepoy Army—their mark is a single-tailed scorpion. But yours has two tails. No one adds that unless there's a reason. Meaning: you were a Sepoy once, but now you're outside their ranks. There's only one mercenary group operating independently under their shadow these days. You must be one of the Sepoy mercenaries who made her own badge."

The woman stiffened. "How—"

"—did I know?" Wayne's tone stayed mild. "Because no serving Sepoy would risk drawing attention with a false mark. Only someone on the periphery would. The two tails are your own cipher."

For a heartbeat, all three stared at him, courtyard noises fading.

John Wayne finally turned back toward the gate, eyes sweeping the street beyond. "Now that introductions are over," he said, "shall we catch a kidnapper?"

Selene's answer was clear. "You are an amazing detective, Sir John. Yes, we're here to help catch the Mysterious Kidnapper."

George gave a humourless laugh. "We've been trying for nearly a decade. Not a single clue."

He folded his arms. "And this isn't one of his cases. We've always believed the Mysterious Kidnapper was some goblin that steals children at night. But this—this is a boy. They probably went to his house."

Wayne shook his head. "Inspector, we've never seen what he can truly do. We've caught him red-handed twenty times. He still slipped away and took over a thousand children in two decades." His gaze lifted to the darkening sky. "Why only children between ten and fifteen? If he's so skilled, he could take adults in broad daylight. He could kidnap from small villages, but he doesn't. He knows if he follows the same pattern, we'll surround him. That man is smart and lucky."

"We suspect there's a reason," Selene said quietly. "Our lord once said what happened at Azmar Town was the result of a sacrificial ritual. That's why not even a corpse was left. He also said the goblin might have taken human form to infiltrate the town before sacrificing the people. What if this kidnapper is like that—taking human form?"

"Thomas Holmes?" John raised his eyebrows.

George snorted. "Demons? Madam, there's no such thing. More likely a magical beast. Stop believing old tavern stories."

Wayne didn't answer. He'd read the same stories, and in them, demons always traded souls for power. Selene's words slotted too neatly into his own private theories.

"What do you suggest we do?" he asked at last.

Selene's reply was crisp. "Lock down the entire city. Station guards and police on the walls. If it's the same entity, it'll hide until after ten, then try to escape with the girl."

Daley's voice was softer but steadier. "He's only struck villages and small towns before. This time, he's come to a city with walls. That's why we think this is no ordinary abduction."

Selene added, "High chance he's evolved—maybe even gained shapeshifting."

Wayne's eyes widened. He turned sharply. "Sub-Inspector, inform the City Mayor. We need full lockdown clearance."

Anastasia stepped forward. "Include our names in the request. With Ravenshield and Findlay backing, the City Lord will grant it."

The sub-inspector saluted and ran off.

"We'll also search separately." Mary decided to look for her daughter on her own.

Meanwhile, Wayne began issuing orders. "Inspector George, take the constables to the garrison. Muster every available patrolman in the city square. I want fifty on each gate and two dozen mounted riders ready to sweep the inner streets. Anyone leaving after dusk must be questioned."

"Yes, Detective." George strode off.

More orders rolled from Wayne's tongue. Messengers sped to the watch posts. Bells clanged.

By 9 p.m., the city square churned with motion: police in dark coats, city guards in steel caps, and a column of night-watchmen with lanterns swinging from their poles. Horses stamped and blew clouds of breath in the cold air.

"Divide them," Wayne instructed. "North, South, East, West walls—no gaps. Send squads through the alleys, door to door if necessary. Tighten the ring. No one gets out unseen."

A sergeant barked the commands; squads peeled off, boots striking cobblestones. Within minutes, the city was a living net, its walls bristling with guards and its gates barred. Lanterns winked on along the parapets.

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