Luke moved through the streets, slipping past wandering eyes as he made his way back to his hideout after leaving the square. Bartholomew's little parade had been a silent spectacle—and dangerous. The man walked like there wasn't a threat in the world. Exposed. Confident. Untouchable. Luke had watched him for a while... but he knew better than to stare for too long. Staring got you noticed. And noticed got you killed. He bailed before anyone noticed him.

Back at his hideout, Luke shoved open the lid of his storage chest and started unloading his haul. The fresh vegetables went into one corner—tomatoes, carrots, potatoes. After that, he grabbed spare scrap, worn cloth, and a few useless odds and ends. The kind of junk that made you look like just another broke scavenger.

For a moment, his eyes landed on the two healing potions. Valuable. Rare. Powerful. And dangerous if anyone caught wind of them. He considered bringing them... then shook his head. Not worth the risk. Not if he planned to keep poking around Bastion.

They went back in the chest. Even the weapons he'd looted from the orcs—he pulled them out of his storage item with a sigh and tossed them into storage chest. Swapped them out for something far less conspicuous. A pair of basic knives. Old. Worn. Rusted at the edges. If someone stopped him and demanded a storage check... he'd look like nothing more than a mediocre scavenger trying to survive. Looking irrelevant was his best weapon.

He sealed the hideout, making sure the entrance was well-covered, and climbed a narrow back alley. The sky was already shifting, painted in orange and deep purple. Dusk settling in. Curfew was closing in. Luke paused. Looked up. The air was cooler now, quieter. Whatever few birds still lived here were already gone, tucked away for the night.

It was time to head back to the Haven. Not because he cared about the curfew. Not because he was scared of Bartholomew's patrols. But right now... starting a fight was the very last thing on his to-do list. He drifted through the shadows like smoke. Quiet. Invisible. Mind already racing with the next move.

***

As Luke approached the Haven, something immediately felt off. The entire camp surrounding the old hotel was silent. Completely. No hammering. No sawing. No chatter. Not even the usual cursing about the cold. Everyone stood frozen, facing the same direction. Luke quickened his pace. And as he got closer, he saw why. Soldiers. Dozens of them. And among them—two faces he knew too well. Oswald. Kruger.

Kruger stood like a shadow, cloaked in black and hiding behind his skull mask.

"This is Bartholomew's decree!" Oswald's voice thundered across the camp.

Luke slipped into the crowd, head down, blending into the noise without being noticed.

Terrible timing to show up.

"You are no longer allowed to hunt freely. From now on, you'll be given one day per week. That day will be set by us."

A ripple of outrage spread through the Haven. Angry murmurs. Fists clenched. But the soldiers outnumbered them—and worse, the mages stood ready, hands glowing, fire swirling above their palms.

"Some of our storage crates keep getting raided. Soldiers have been killed. Bartholomew's patience is over. This is an insult to the Safe Zone—an insult to everything he built."

Angelica stepped forward, fists clenched, fury written across her face. "This is bullsh*t! We've given you everything you demanded. We have nothing to do with the Renegades!"

Kruger took a step forward. Silence. Heavy. Suffocating. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

"Yes. You do."

His voice was ice. Sharp. Absolute. "I haven't forgotten the words of that prisoner. He said the traitor is among you. You've had more than enough time. You've done nothing. You're in the way."

Angelica's jaw tightened. "How are we in the way? We've followed every order."

Kruger tilted his head. "The rat is one of you. Where is he? Where's his head on a spike?" His voice sharpened further. "The very fact that you exist outside our control... is a problem."

He turned toward the soldiers. "Burn it. Nothing remains of the crops."

The silence shattered.

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"WHAT?!" Angelica yanked her axe free, voice cracking in disbelief. "We bled for that. Months of work. You can't—!"

Kruger's voice was a steel blade. "Is this how it's gonna be? You really want to see where this goes?"

"Who ordered this?! What moron thinks this won't push us into open rebellion?!"

A new voice answered. Cold. Commanding.

"I did."

Boots echoed against stone. The soldiers parted like water. Silence tightened like a noose. A figure stepped forward—broad shoulders, sharp beard, eyes that didn't blink. And atop his head... a simple, heavy, black crown. Bartholomew.

Angelica stood her ground. "We're not responsible for any of this."

Bartholomew's gaze dropped on her like a hammer. His voice was absolute. "Oh, but you are. Two factions exist within this Safe Zone. But only one has been sabotaged. Only one is being attacked." His eyes narrowed. "And now we've confirmed there are Renegade collaborators among you."

He extended a finger. Straight at Angelica.

"You are just as guilty as they are."

The soldiers moved.

Tents collapsed under boot heels. Crates shattered. Supplies were kicked, stomped, destroyed. A man tried to shove a soldier back—he took a punch to the face that dropped him instantly.

"STOP!" Angelica roared, shoving toward them, trying to force her way in. "STOP! This took months! People died for this! You can't—!"

It was like screaming at stone.

Kruger stepped in, his shadow swallowing the ground.

Hidden within the crowd, Luke clenched his fists. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

He could step in.

But... would that make it worse? Would fighting now save anything? Or was it smarter... to wait? To move when it mattered?

The mages of Bastion raised their hands. Fire coiled, spun, twisted—ready to scorch the crops to ash.

"NO!" Angelica screamed.

Jonathan and several others stepped forward, weapons drawn.

"If you do this... there's gonna be blood," Jonathan shouted.

A thick, suffocating silence fell over the camp.

Bartholomew stared him down, taking slow, deliberate steps toward him. "Are you challenging me?" His voice was ice.

Jonathan didn't flinch. He gripped his sword tighter. "If that's what it takes... yeah."

The black crown atop Bartholomew's head pulsed. A crack of lightning split the air. The flash was blinding. Jonathan's body flew backward, twisted midair, sparks scattered across the dirt. The sharp stench of burnt hair, ozone, and charred cloth filled the camp.

Bartholomew exhaled, gaze cold, calculated. With a lazy flick of his hand, he spoke. "Arrest him." His tone wasn't a shout. Wasn't fury. It was the tone of a man resolving a logistical problem. "If he resists... kill him."

Soldiers surged forward. Ruthless. Angelica threw herself between them and Jonathan, axe raised, eyes blazing. Luke watched, fingers tightening around the hilt of his kukris. He knew—if this escalated any further... it was war. And the Haven would lose. But even knowing that... his grip tightened. He was seconds from stepping in when—

"STOP!" The voice tore through the camp like a sudden thunderclap.

Every head snapped toward it. Not Angelica. Not Jonathan. Allison. She strode forward, steady, her face set like stone. The static around Bartholomew's crown flickered, reacting to her presence, the pressure thickening in the air. Soldiers shifted, gripping weapons, unsure whether to block her or run.

"These people," she said loud and clear, "are under my protection."

Bartholomew tilted his head, mildly amused. "Oh? And who exactly... are you supposed to be?"

"Allison. Allison Rhiannon."

Silence. Dead, heavy silence. A few people exchanged confused looks. Luke frowned. But Bartholomew... Bartholomew understood. His eyes sharpened. His jaw tensed—as if her name alone weighed a thousand pounds.

"For some," Allison continued, "that name means nothing. But you... you know exactly what it means."

Kruger was the first to snap. "She's lying!" he snarled, lunging with a knife. "There's no way she's a Rhiann—"

Metal groaned.

The knife froze mid-air, stopped cold by a pale hand. Smooth. Precise. Deadly. Nobody saw where she came from. She simply existed now, like a dagger drawn from thin air. A woman with jet-black hair. Crimson dress. Eyes like cold steel.

Erza Grimhart.

Kruger stumbled back, eyes wide.

"I confirm it," Erza said, voice as sharp as a judge's gavel. "She is a Rhiannon. And if you touch her... you are declaring war against the World Government."

Bartholomew's entire posture shifted. More cautious now. He turned to Allison, carefully measuring every word. "Then... allow me to extend an invitation. You are welcome in Bastion. My quarrel is not with you. It's... with them."

"I can't allow that," Allison shot back, chin raised.

Erza sighed, exasperated. "My protection applies only to you, Allison. If you insist on standing in their way... then you're forcing my hand. I'll have to intervene. And frankly... it won't change anything."

Allison clicked her tongue, frustrated. Her fists clenched at her sides.

"Fine," Erza muttered. "Proceed."

Bartholomew turned to his soldiers. Raising his hand, weighing an invisible scale, his gaze swept over the crowd.

"Burn half the crops."

Soldiers moved instantly. Flames burst to life, licking through the dry fields.

Bartholomew adjusted his crown, eyes scanning every face in the camp. "You have one month," he declared. "Bring me the traitor... or I'll decide this Safe Zone doesn't have room for more than one faction."

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