Damien sighed, huddling underneath the ledge of the roof, a pencil in his hand, a notepad in the other, and nothing to note. He wasn’t a writer but he felt like he had writer’s block. This was one interesting way to experience a mental block, that was for sure. Oh once, he had a muse and that muse took a hammer to his non-existent passion and smashed it. That muse's name was Pereyra.

Team Luster and Alba were the first to set off to their locations. Although Damien planned this with everyone, he thought he drew the short end of the stick. He was all alone with Problem, the mysterious figure with an unknown gender, identity, character, but above all, they were a smartass. Personally, Problem was most likely a man given their snarkiness but he’d rather not assume.

At least their fight was easy. Problem did all of the work, stating that they “had better things to do”. Now, taken to the rooftops, the genius ritualist was doing something. They had condemned the Pleun devices, stating that even if they could measure mana concentration, it provided little practical use.

Whatever, Damien enjoyed doing nothing. He was lazy like that.

“Problem,” chimed Damien, legs stretched out, his stave relaxing like he was, “do you really think you can find Pereyra with…”

They levitated black chalk, drawing some sort of ritual circle onto the roof. He noticed glyphs and smaller circles and runes and general geometry, all things he read in textbooks in ritual-crafting, but this was beyond him.

He made an odd gesture. “That? With that?”

Problem scoffed, letting the chalk spin in the air. “I estimate a twenty-percent chance to determine Pereyra’s general location. Before you ask, this is a detection ritual which will systematically spread mana through wind currents. Do you know what a PET scan is?”

Damien nodded; he was no idiot. “A medical scan that uses radioactive tracers, yes.”

“It’s something similar. The mana, in simple terms, is dyed ‘black’ due to the ritual. It will drift along the wind, searching for magical anomalies such as Pereyra. It’s classified as a ‘Comet’; that’s as anomalous as one can get. Through a mana detection skill, I’ll be able to see the dyed mana and follow their trail.

“I say it’s a twenty-percent chance due to the time it takes and the variables in place. Considering all factors, it is quite a high chance considering all things. Though with other factors in place and the situation is ever-changing, it is realistically quite low.”

“...What are the chances now that you described the ritual to me? Since Pereyra is probably watching us?

Problem paused, stared at Damien, then looked down at their chalk. “I estimate we have a one-percent chance of success. At most.”

“Fantastic. You are truly…” Damien sarcastically blew a kiss, “...a mind of the century.”

“Hmph. I’ll finish the ritual in any case. Alert me of any threats. Including birds. If you see any, shoot them down.”

“That’s animal cruelty,” joked Damien, turning his eyes up to spot any rats-with-wings. Only a few, all too far to care about. They must be living a nice life; at a moment’s notice, they could fly away from danger.

Problem continued to draw. “Or they ruin fifteen minutes of my time. I may excel in ritual-crafting than most, but it takes time to mentally calculate the proportions in accordance to my intentions. Plus, when we become desperate, birds will make for a decent meal. If you ignore the taste.”

Damien refused to think about that. “If you say that again, then I might find Kreutz myself and end him. I would eat literal dirt rather than pigeons. Who knows what they’ve been feeding on since the disaster began?”

“You’ll be surprised how quickly your standards fall as your body does. Well, whatever standards your body has. I’ve read several scientific articles and watched documentaries about how far humans are willing to compromise when faced with extreme circumstances such as hunger, cold, thirst, isolation—”

“And rambling?” asked Damien, ignoring the implication they had made.

“A torture technique, not exactly an extreme circumstance. Well, I’m wrong. Torture is, by technical definition, an act to bring extreme circumstances. Though, I’m not quite sure how effective torture is when achieving its goals—”

Damien was flabbergasted.

Problem sighed. “What? I wanted to bore you to death, you low-class conjurist. Or whatever demon or imp you are. I can’t tell, and I’m the ritualist here. It’s exactly my job to know a wide berth of magick.”

To think that this troublesome person joined Glory. Well, the stereotype around Glory was this: nothing but prideful, arrogant Slayers who cared about nothing but themselves. Problem, in a way, fit the profile.

“That’s rather offensive,” said Damien, “I might be an E-Rank Slayer, but I’m a capable conjurist.”

“So that’s what you say,” Problem replied, accusing. Damien didn’t like where their line of thought was heading already. Besides, he was a trained conjurist. “There is a reason why I was paired with you. You think we wouldn’t notice? High-rankers have the natural ability to process finer modes of energy. Archknell was personally concerned about you.”

“Heh, and why are you telling me this? I’d assume you would launch a secret investigation about me, not tell me that I’m being investigated. It seems counterproductive.”

“Normally, yes. However…” Problem raised their chalk and pointed it at him. “...I am the second-strongest in Luster, believe it or not. I am nearly an S-Rank; although we’d need to explain this to Shen and the others, I am prepared to end you. If you prove to be a threat to humanity.”

Damien scoffed. He wanted to laugh but it’d attract attention. Really though, he was amused. To think Archknell himself would offer the possibility to Problem. “Why, I wonder what makes me more important than Alex?”

“Your friend has promise. You, on the other hand, have danger. There is nothing inherently good about you, Fayer. I suppose I have to give you my respect.”

“Hmm?”

“I mean it. You at least adapted into normal society. It takes a greater effort to become good rather than be good.”

“Well, I don’t consider myself ‘good’ at all,” Damien said.

“You haven’t killed us.” Problem shrugged. “Yet.”

“Fair point.” His [Protector’s Stave] shimmered. He had replaced the mana crystal earlier, but it was low quality. A pity. “I’m still not a low-class conjurist.”

Problem dismissively raised their hand. Or their sleeve to be more exact. “You pale in comparison to your father, the greatest flamemancer there is. Firebrand did always want to fight him, I hear. You met him yourself, haven’t you?”

Several times, but Damien was in no mood to recall each counter. Firebrand was loud, brash, extroverted, and oftentimes embarrassing. He had no shame while Damien had lots of it. They mixed as well as oil and water. “Unfortunately.”

“Ha, I understand the sentiment. Archknell did mention something to me, about your father and your younger brother, Latham,” commented Problem.

Damien knew what it would be about. He allowed Problem to answer.

“Your brother’s the normal one, isn’t he?”

Damien nodded. “Latham’s the purest. That’s why he’s called ‘Dawnfire’ while my father’s ‘Duskfire’. My mom loves the contrast. Phoebe couldn’t care less. I barely care at all myself.”

The ritual circle began emitting a low dark glow. Problem seemed to smile. “I wonder what brings you to Ordo then, considering you’re the ‘impure’ son of the family.”

“Would you believe me it’s exactly the same reason as Alex and Leo?” That was not a lie. “My father forced a civilian’s life on me. I guess that's the most you can do and hope for, considering our circumstances."

“I see. We are alike, believe it or not. I was not always this short. I used to be charming. Beautiful. Handsome. I flirted with anything that had soft skin and was cute,” Problem rambled, bringing a tinge of disgust from within Damien.

“I didn’t need to know that.”

“Heh. I thought you would enjoy knowing something about me, a mystery.”

“I regret being curious.” Damien crossed his arms, firm in the face. “I’m here to defeat Pereyra, that’s all.”

Problem chuckled, accepting his answer. “Then I hope you are willing to work with us, Fayer. Whatever mystery you have inside you, I suggest aiming the barrel away from us, though I believe you are not in control of that. Whatever’s the case, let’s have a mutually beneficial relationship, low-class conjurist.”

Damien frowned. “Hmph. You’re one odd Slayer.”

“The others called me a ‘problem’.”

“That’s how you got your name?”

“No, I got it after my enemies began calling me that too.”

~~~

Leona slid the flat of her blade against her sleeve and wiped the dark blood off, then returning to subspace. The building was now clear of its present threats with little injuries on her side. E-rank monsters, some mutated monkey-things that were the size of wolves. Coupled with red eyes and an appetite for flesh, they made for an interesting encounter. The worst encounter. She hated monkeys now.

Her partner tidied up, burning the carnage from his ax. Out of the two, he was the cleanest; Leona was unfortunately drenched in blood again. First goblins, then invisible gray-things, and finally monkeys. Why did it always have to be something so ugly?”

“It’s safe to say Pereyra isn’t in the apartment complex. Or anywhere near here,” Leona said. It wouldn’t use E-rank enemies as guards, let alone monkeys. It was too prideful to use literal monkeys, even mutated monkeys from a child’s nightmare.

“Agreed.” Montana opened a blue screen, the [Map] presumably, checking something. “It might be a good idea to search for survivors, but…”

He stared at the halls ahead where the monkeys had barreled through like rats in a barrel. Or monkeys in a barrel. From wall-to-wall, corpses. Dismembered and gutted and smashed, burnt and chopped to pieces. The fighting had attracted virtually most of the population to the ground floor, with some even coming through from the open elevator shafts.

“Montana?” Leona called.

“I thought I saw some sort of intercom system in the lobby. Could use that. Attract the rest of the monkeys and maybe some people if we’re lucky. But we prioritize our mission first.” Montana heaved his axe, resting the shaft on his shoulder, blade turned back. “Sweeping the place will take too long.”

“Yessir,” replied Leona. Personally, she felt that it was worth the time. Sweeping the building, that was. Unless they checked every inch, turned over every flower pot and looked in every closet behind the clothes, then they could say they searched. But Pereyra. Pereyra was the priority; otherwise, all of Pillar Dawns would be slaughtered like Vesper.

She shook her head, but the thought remained. As she walked, the thought dwelled, rising with every step, twice more when the blood began drying on her skin, thrice when the smell hit her nostrils. Archknell said that at least a thousand personnel was stationed in Vesper from defense to maintenance: Army, staffers, Slayers, volunteers, all killed. Most perished when the Pillar collapsed; the rest were found and killed in the aftermath.

Like Firebrand and four other S-Rank Slayers.

She hadn’t realized she reached the lobby until the night beamed in from the open, torn open doors. The little rays of moonlight struck her calf, cutting through at an angle. Cool wind came through. It wasn’t relaxing. It was another reminder that Hell was here to stay. At least there weren’t any monkeys here, nor anything to be afraid of. Yet. She had to be alert, always.

Montana was in security, a small room with an electronic panel of levers and switches. A cot was shoved in the back corner; besides that was a trash can with empty cigarette cartons and bottles thrown in. Whoever worked here did not live a satisfying life, she imagined. Leona watched Montana anyhow, seeing him fiddle with the devices before finding the circuit breaker to the entire building.

She leaned against a wall, observing the state of things outside without being told to. Nothing exciting happened, other than watching plastic tumbleweeds drift by. It smelled like blood and tears; it was like that everywhere she’d bet, everywhere, and nowhere was exempted.

A clicking noise beetled above her, then an excited “Ha!” came after. “Testing testing!” said Montana, both in the room and in the system above. “Thank God for electricity. Alright! Members of Glory Guild are present in the lobby. I repeat: Members of Glory Guild are present in the lobby. If you are hearing this, come down. It’s safe for you.

“It is safe for you.”

The clicking stopped. Montana walked out dusting his hands. A big and bold smile flattered him. Honestly, Leona shared his elation. Having power was a pleasant surprise. She supposed everyone needed that today: pleasant surprises.

“Now we wait,” said Montana. “Leona, if you see anything, call out. We’ll handle the division from there.”

“You got it,” she replied, sighing after. She scratched her neck, feeling an irritating itch there. Then crawled to the back. Something. The physical feeling faded into a mental itch inside her skull. Something. There must be something everyone was missing, about Vesper, about Kreutz, about this attack. There had to be something. Some of the world’s greatest minds were here, so they must’ve known at least one thing about this mess.

If not…

“Montana,” she voiced, “have Seraph and her team figured out how Tewfik was able to destroy Pillar Vesper? They received the video footage, haven’t they?”

Montana shrugged. “They should by now but things aren’t looking so great, lemme be honest. If Kosmos is our ace in the hole, then I think Tewfik is theirs. It did some sort of a magic trick, a little sparkle and down came one of our Pillars. What are you thinking, Ahn?”

“I was just curious. I don’t have an education in magick or any worthwhile field, so I don’t have any good theories,” Leona said. “But I can’t imagine that Tewfik did something so simple to ruin us: cutting down the Pillar like a tree. Then…” She sighed, swiping her hand across the air. “Then killing our people.”

“We’ll get the bastard,” assured Montana, rapping his ironclad knuckles against the staff of his weapon. “That’s what we do. Can’t let Tewfik do the same to our Pillar.” If that happens, then Ordo is lost, I’d imagine. Two pillars in two days, that’s a devastating blow to our morale and forces.

More of a devastating blow to her morale. Leona would respond, but the vents groaned above her. No one said anything, only speaking in gestures: a firm ax-grip, the brandish of steel, and watchful eyes systematically searching. Ten, fifteen seconds passed and nothing happened. Yet. No action yet.

Montana eased, sighing. “Seraph’s devoting her energy into Pereyra and Tewfik. Personally? If we got nothing by the end of this mission, we’ll be put on Pillar guard duty. It’d mean we gotta do it the hard way ‘cause we couldn’t find any easy ways. Jesus…” He cracked his neck, groaning after. “All I wanted to do was make some money, now look at me. Knee-deep in the world’s worst outbreak to date.”

“You wanted to make money?” Leona asked, amused.

“I’m from Montana—”

“I see that.”

“Yeah.” Montana thunked the butt of his ax against the floor. “I wanted to be someone massive, alright? Thought I’d be a Slayer, make it big, move to Ordo, join a guild, lookit now. Did everything I wanted but God has a funny way of testing me. Don’t regret it though. Luster’s a second family, even Problem.”

“That’s how my parents felt about Angels. They were apart of First Cherub,” said Leona. Mom and Dad told her a hundred stories and more. Angels Guild might’ve been the most reputable folk in Ordo, the most recognizable anyway, but internally, they were just as wild and eccentric as college students.

Leona still kept in contact with most of them, Seraph and Sage especially.

“Good people,” Montana said. “Must be thinking about ‘em now, aren’t you?”

“More than ever. They loved me too much to encourage their way of living. I’ve learned from an early age that a Slayer’s life isn’t all glamorous as they make it out to be. Seeing how Ordo is in the throes of it, it beats all expectations. Most definitely…” Leona recalled System Articles, Black Paladin Station, and the current travesty. All occurring within a single day with meager rest.

She thought back to the days where she preferred staying at Alexander’s than her own apartment. On her walls, left and right, were pictures she stared at for far too long, and shelves with literature she hadn’t read and would never get around to reading, and trinkets that she did nothing to earn. The table was hers though: for studying and for work, the forlorn ambiance filled by the stereo playing gentle music. A beeping came from the kitchen, signaling that her microwave dinner was finished. It didn’t taste nearly as good as Mom’s cooking, nor Alexander’s, and there was no one to talk to other than the TV, playing the latest additions to whatever streaming service she was subscribed to. That were her days then: eating thinking about tomorrow, brought back to the past, about what could’ve been. In that moment, her phone buzzed as if an answer. Her lock screen illuminated and showed her two horribly silly faces alongside a text.

Alex 💕:

you busy?

Leona smiled. She didn’t hate her apartment but wasn’t fond of it either. If it blew up in a freak accident or caught on fire, she’d grieve only for the pictures. But Alexander’s place, she’d grieve its death like it was a real person. What would it look like? Its modesty would be ruined. War had gaped the walls and cold, wet air stained the floor and left it moldy. There’d be a mess. And there wouldn’t be a kitchen either. It’ll be black and burnt and ravaged like a carcass. She remembered all the times she pestered Alexander while he cooked, working up the courage to ask him if she could stay over.

She loved those days.

Then, yesterday happened. She felt how a frosted edge bit into soft flesh. She tasted metallic blood. Everything came down. She had undervalued her blessed, privileged life, where she didn’t have to worry about death. Or the death of the people she loved. From a single night, she understood the meaning of the word “peace”. Peace meant fried rice, and bento boxes, and hot pot.

That was the peace Mom and Dad wanted to teach her.

“Ahn,” called Montana. “You okay? You’ve been standing there for a while.”

“Have I?” Leona said with a small laugh. She had. “Sorry, I was thinking to myself. I—”

There was rumbling in the floor above. This time, enemies were guaranteed.

“Contact,” she called just as ordered.

“Yup.” Montana lifted his ax.

Saying not a word, her stance spoke. I’m sorry, Mom, Dad. Your little girl can’t live a peaceful life after this. Not since you left.