Inside the inn, it felt as though the building itself held its breath. The faint flicker of lanterns hanging from the wooden walls cast trembling shadows, their dim light painting the room in hues of gold and amber. The silence was thick enough to cut with a knife, save for the occasional creak of old timber beneath their feet.

Nyxander sat like a king on an unclaimed throne, his figure relaxed yet commanding. His right leg was crossed over his left, forming a loose figure-four lock, while his left arm draped lazily over the armrest of the wooden chair. His right hand, however, was anything but idle. The steady, rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the chair's armrest echoed through the tense room, each beat a metronome of silent authority.

Across from him, the three ambushers knelt on the floor, their hands bound tightly behind their backs, their faces lowered in reluctant submission. Behind Nyxander stood Kal, his gaze sharp and unforgiving, boring into the captured men with a look that could carve stone. Bako, standing next to him, was visibly unsettled, his eyes darting nervously between the prisoners and his comrades. Meanwhile, Bili's attention was fixed on the angry red wound on his right palm, his left thumb tracing gentle circles around it in an attempt to soothe the persistent itch of healing skin.

Nyxander's voice, when it came, cut through the oppressive silence like a blade through silk. "It seems you're still as aggressive as ever when dealing with people," he said, a faint smirk playing on his lips, his tone light but edged with irony.

The three ambushers exchanged uncertain glances, their eyes flickering with confusion and fear. Finally, the leader summoned enough courage to lift his head, his voice trembling slightly as he spoke. "Ha… ha… sorry to ask, but have we met before?" The leader's question hung awkwardly in the air, his forced bravado doing little to mask the undercurrent of dread in his tone.

Kal, already teetering on the edge of restraint, took a threatening step forward, his voice a low growl. "Who gave you permission to speak?" But before Kal could move any further, Nyxander's right hand rose in a silent command, his fingers slicing the air with effortless authority. Kal froze mid-step, retreating behind Nyxander with a glare that promised retribution.

Nyxander adjusted his posture, gripping the chair's wooden handle and shifting slightly before resuming his rhythmic tapping. His gaze, cool and unblinking, locked onto the ambusher's leader. "Sure," he said with casual indifference, "but let's start with your name."

The leader swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly as he spoke. "Sorry about that. My name is Theodric," he said, his voice now void of the earlier bravado. He gestured to his right and left, respectively. "And they are Wulfric and Wystan."

Nyxander nodded slowly, as if savoring the names like pieces on a chessboard. "Alright, Theodric," he murmured. "Yes, we've met before, coincidentally, on a night almost two weeks ago."

The moment the words left his lips, a spark of recognition ignited in the eyes of the three men. The memory of that unforgettable night, a night painted with blood and terror, came rushing back like a tidal wave. Their bodies stiffened, and a dead chill crept over them, raising goosebumps on their skin as their trembling forms bowed deeper toward the ground. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, trickling down their faces and splattering onto the wooden floor below.

Nyxander's voice broke through their panic, smooth and unhurried. "So… anything more to say?" Theodric opened his mouth, but his voice hung in the air, hollow and weak. "Ha…" he stammered, but the courage he had summoned earlier had evaporated like mist under a rising sun. "Nothing more to say," the three replied in unison, their voices barely above whispers, as if speaking any louder might invite the wrath of fate itself.

Nyxander's hand rose once more, this time with a casual flick of the wrist, as if dismissing an invisible speck of dust. "Free them," he instructed, his voice calm but carrying the weight of finality.

Without hesitation, Bili and Kal stepped forward, their hands moving with the practiced efficiency of men accustomed to both war and mercy. The ropes binding the ambushers' wrists were loosened and cast aside, their freedom granted with the same ease with which it had been stolen.

Nyxander's gaze, however, remained locked on Theodric, piercing through him like a dagger through parchment. "Since you've clearly heard the rumors about us," Nyxander said, his tone shifting into something darker, heavier, "you must know why we're here. So… what's your take on that?"

Theodric hesitated, his eyes flicking nervously to Wulfric and Wystan on either side of him. Their faces were pale, their expressions mirroring his own desperate uncertainty. For a heartbeat, the room was swallowed by silence, the tension stretching so taut it felt as though the air itself might shatter.

Then, as if the decision had been wrenched from the very marrow of his bones, Theodric lowered his head. Slowly, he raised his left foot, planting it firmly on the ground while his right knee remained pressed against the cold, solid floor.

"Please," he began, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and hope, "forgive us for our crimes… and accept our loyalty." The words barely left his mouth before Wulfric and Wystan followed suit, mirroring his posture without hesitation. The weight of submission settled over them like a heavy cloak, their pride surrendered in exchange for mercy.

The lanterns flickered, casting long shadows across the room as Nyxander's expression remained unreadable. The only sound was the gentle tapping of his finger against the wooden chair, a rhythm that now seemed to echo the pulse of fate itself.

Nyxander rose from his seat in an instant, his motion sharp and sudden, slicing through the tension like a blade through silk. The abruptness of it pulled the gazes of everyone in the room toward him, their eyes widening reflexively in surprise, as though gravity itself had shifted.

"Let's clean and arrange the inn the way it should be," Nyxander commanded, his voice calm but carrying the weight of undeniable authority, like a ripple moving through still water.

Without hesitation, Kal's squad and Theodric's squad responded in unison, their voices blending into a singular, unified sound, as though their differences had been swept away in the tide of Nyxander's presence.

Theodric's squad took on the responsibility of repairing any damages the inn had sustained during their earlier clash, while Kal's squad set about scrubbing and tidying, their movements precise and methodical. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and wood polish, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood that still lingered in the corners of the room.

Nyxander moved among them like a silent overseer, his footsteps soft against the wooden floorboards as he inspected every corner, every beam, ensuring that no trace of the night's chaos remained. The lanterns burned low, casting elongated shadows across the walls as the hours dragged on. The night stretched thin, its silence broken only by the sounds of scrubbing brushes, the occasional grunt of effort, and the faint creak of the inn settling around them.

When the work was done, Theodric's squad was dismissed, their figures disappearing into the pre-dawn darkness, leaving Nyxander and Kal's squad to spend the night in the freshly restored inn. The walls, now polished and pristine, seemed to whisper secrets to the quiet night, hiding the violence that had unfolded just hours before.

The next morning, the daylight rose reluctantly, its light spilling over the rooftops and creeping down into the narrow streets. In front of the inn, a restless crowd had gathered, their voices a swelling tide of frustration and anger.

At the forefront stood Dunstan, the Astro leader in charge, his sharp eyes scanning the agitated crowd as their voices rose around him like a tempest building at sea. "The whole district turned upside down yesterday!" one man shouted, his face flushed with indignation.

"Yes! I was there when they started tossing weapons like madmen!" another chimed in, puffing out his chest as if reliving the chaos. "If not for my excellent dodging skills, who knows where I'd be now!" His words dripped with exaggeration, yet the crowd roared in agreement, eager to fuel the fire of the narrative. "Yes! They turned the entire district into chaos! Seek justice for us!" they bellowed, their cries echoing off the buildings like thunder.

Dunstan raised a hand, his voice cutting through the clamor with the sharpness of a commander accustomed to order. "Alright," he said, his tone steady and measured. "But we need evidence before making any decisions." The crowd didn't waver, their frustration boiling just beneath the surface. "No problem! Open the door!" they shouted in unison, their demand ringing out like a chorus of discontent.

Caelric, the owner, and Beruh stepped forward. Their faces were tight with worry, but they obeyed, unlocking the door with a hesitant creak. Together, they pushed it open, revealing the interior beyond.

Dunstan stepped forward, his boots thudding against the wooden floor, followed closely by the crowd, who pressed inward, their curiosity sharp and eager. But what met their eyes was not the chaos they expected.

The inn looked pristine, almost unnaturally so, the wooden walls gleamed, the floors sparkled as though freshly waxed, and the lanterns flickered softly, casting a warm, inviting glow. Not a single chair was out of place, not a scratch marred the polished tables. It was as if the night's violence had been nothing but a shared hallucination.

The crowd fell into stunned silence, their eyes darting around the room in disbelief. "But… we're sure things got intense here," Beruh stammered, his voice barely above a whisper as he scanned the spotless inn. "Everyone was running for their lives…"

Dunstan's brow furrowed, his sharp gaze narrowing. He stepped closer to Caelric, his voice low but firm. "You said they booked rooms to stay the night, right?" Caelric nodded quickly, his face pale. "Yes, that's true." He slammed his right fist into his left palm, as if trying to anchor himself to the reality he remembered. "Please, follow me. They should still be asleep by now."

With hurried steps, Caelric led Dunstan up the creaking stairs, each footfall echoing ominously in the silent inn. He flung open the door to the first room, and froze.

The room was immaculate, the bed neatly made, untouched, as though no one had ever laid their head there. The air inside was crisp and clean, lacking even the faintest hint of human presence.

Caelric's face went pale. "No… that's impossible." His voice trembled with disbelief as he rushed to the next room, flinging the door open. The same sight met him, an untouched room, empty and silent.

Room after room yielded the same result. It was as if Nyxander and his squad had been nothing more than phantoms passing through the night, leaving no trace of their existence behind.

Meanwhile, far from the district, Nyxander and his subordinates were already striding down a dusty path toward their next destination. Their purpose unwavering as the morning bright light glinted off their weapons, casting long shadows as they made their way toward their next destination. The Flame Astro Station awaiting their arrival.

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