The people in the square cleared without a word, dozens of wary eyes forming a tight ring around the coming storm. In the centre stood Richter, unmoving, breath caught in his throat. Cold steel kissed his neck, and the point of a longsword hovered inches from his chest.

  "Give me one reason not to end you right here," Sarah hissed, her voice raw with fury and something deeper, grief barely held together. "We know what you did, you coward." The blade at Richter’s throat vanished as Jon stepped back. A moment later, Sarah slammed the flat of her sword against his ribs, sending him sprawling to the ground with a grunt and a thud.

  "What are you talking about?" Richter gasped. He managed to get to his hands and knees, only for Sarah’s boot to slam into his side, dropping him again. "Please... stop." Pain flared hot through his ribs. But the worst part wasn’t physical. It was the confusion. Cold, suffocating. What the hell had he supposedly done?

  "Did he beg you to stop? Did my brother plead for his life?" Sarah snarled, each word striking like a whip. "Did you finish him off there, or save it for later?" Richter’s eyes shot wide, Liam. His stomach lurched. The last time he'd seen him, Liam had been heading toward a green beacon, alive and smiling. What the hell had happened?

  As she lunged for another blow, Richter snapped his hand up, summoning a barrier that flared to life just in time. The impact sent Sarah stumbling back, buying him a precious second to stagger upright, planting his staff into the dirt for support as he caught his breath.

  With his back pressed to the rough stone of a nearby building, Richter now faced both Sarah and Jon, their eyes blazing with accusation and wrath.

  "You want to know how we know?" Sarah snapped, eyes blazing as she stalked forward. "Doc, a reliable alchemist from the town. He was there. He said he saw it happen. Heard you say it. Heard you laugh about it. Said you didn’t even try to hide it. Just stood over Liam like it meant nothing." She raised her sword higher. "He told us what your scar really means. Heard you taunting Liam about it. You're a murderer, Richter. And even the System marked you for it."

  She didn’t wait for an answer. With a snarl, she surged forward, a blade of water spiraling into shape where her missing arm had once been. Richter barely had time to react. He didn’t want to hurt her, he couldn’t. So, he layered more barriers around himself, healing magic already surging through his frame.

  A flicker of movement caught his eye, Jon, closing in from behind. Richter twisted just in time to see the glint of a knife, its edge gleaming with a dangerous, pulsing black light.

  Before Jon could close the distance, a red-hot feather of flame seared through the air, forcing him to leap back with a startled curse. Jean emerged from the crowd, her wand still smoking. Mal wasn’t far behind, he charged in with a roar, raising his shield just in time to catch Sarah’s descending sword in a thunderous clash of steel and force.

  "What the hell is going on, Richter?" Jean demanded, appearing at his side with flames still licking the edge of her wand. She narrowed her eyes as Jon and Sarah regrouped in front of them. "Who the hell are these two supposed to be?"

  "They’re the ones who brought me here," Richter said, his voice low, torn between defence and disbelief. "They think I did something to their brother. Someone told them about my mark, twisted it into something worse. About... the murderer stuff." He searched Jean’s eyes, but even as he spoke, he knew the truth wouldn’t matter. Not to Jon. Not to Sarah. Their rage burned too hot for reason.

  Mal stepped back, tightening their formation just as more figures poured into the square, each one clad in the distinct uniform of the town's guard, their expressions unreadable as they closed in around the gathering storm.

  "Why are people fighting in my town?" The words cut through the tension like a whip crack. Nan stepped through the line of guards, her presence commanding in a way no armour could match.

  Three figures followed close behind, Emma, Sarah’s sister; a man in his early thirties with a lean, practiced stance and twin pistols resting at his hips; and another, taller and gaunt, clad in a pristine white robe that hung like a lab coat. His wire-framed glasses gleamed beneath the sun, giving him the cold, clinical air of someone used to scrutiny but not confrontation. He looked like he belonged in a sterile workshop, not in the middle of a brewing conflict.

  Jean’s entire posture shifted at the sight of him, rigid, alert, like a trap snapping shut. Richter didn’t know the man’s name, but he didn’t have to. That was the manager Jean had spoken of, the one who had sent people after her. And from Sarah’s accusations, it wasn’t hard to guess what people called him now. Doc.

  Mal had also gone still, his frame coiled like a drawn bow, not with fear, but fury. His eyes locked on the pistol-wielding man with a glare that promised violence. Across the square, the man reacted in kind, recognition flashing across his face, his hand drifting closer to one of the pistols at his hip. A look of shame passing his eyes.

  "So, you found a safe little hole to crawl into, Ren," Mal growled, stepping forward as his shield lowered slightly, not in surrender, but in bitter recognition. "Where are the other three cowards who left me to die?"

  Mal had told Richter about the first group he’d been thrown into the System with, how they’d abandoned him in the middle of a fight with a boar and left him to die.

  Richter activated his Identify skill. The results were just as strange as the [Bondsmith] he'd seen before, another Legacy profession, but with a race-locked tag. It reminded him of what Jean had told him about her phoenix skill, something not meant for humans. Yet here it was, bound to a man Mal clearly hadn’t forgiven.

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  The profession was called [Soulforge Gunsmith], a legacy craft tied to a race Richter had never heard of, Shadeborn. It specialized in forging weapons from soul energy, and it was clearly no idle trade. Glancing at the twin pistols holstered at the man's sides, Richter felt a chill. Where the chains of a Bondsmith were meant to bind, these weapons were built for one purpose, killing, clean and final.

  "They all died... the day after we left you," Ren admitted, his voice low, the weight of guilt dragging at each word. "Another one of those boars came. We had no frontliner, just spells and arrows. It tore through us, picked us off one by one. I was the only one who made it out."

  Mal let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "Figures, you ran from that fight too. And now here you are, swaggering around like you’ve got something to prove. Do us all a favour, Ren, go ahead and run again. It’s the only thing you’re good at."

  While Mal and Ren exchanged words, Jean never took her eyes off the man in the white robe. Her glare was sharp, unwavering, predatory. The one now called Doc leaned in close to Nan, seemingly unbothered by the rising tension around him. He whispered something in her ear, calm and quiet, as though the chaos unfolding didn’t concern him at all.

  "Enough," Nan snapped, her glare pinning Ren in place and forcing him a step back. Then her eyes shifted to Richter, sharp and unyielding. "So. You came back. Tell me, Richter. My grandson isn’t hiding somewhere in that little group of yours, is he?"

  She swept her gaze over the trio with cold calculation. Richter could see it in her eyes, she’d already been told a version of the story. Doc had made sure of that. He was already cast as the villain.

  "I don’t know where Liam is," Richter said, his voice strained. "I wouldn’t have hurt him. We separated; he went off to follow a green beacon." He looked her in the eye, pleading not just for belief, but for a chance to explain. At least she was speaking to him, that was more than the others had done.

  "I want to believe you, but I'm not stupid, Richter. Things line up too neatly. No witnesses. No explanation. It’s not a story that gives me peace." Nan’s eyes narrowed. "I know you were one of Doc’s old patients, just like your redheaded friend here." She stepped forward without hesitation, fearless despite the tension hanging thick in the air.

  "What lies has that bastard spun for you, old women?" Jean snapped, her fear burned away, replaced by blistering fury. "We worked together in a prison; I know exactly what kind of man he is. Whatever story he’s feeding you, it’s a web of bullshit and manipulation."

  Richter caught a flicker of doubt in Nan’s eyes before her expression hardened again. "He said you'd say stuff like this. Your name’s Jean, right?" Somehow, she’d conjured a stool and sat down with deliberate calm, a still center in the rising storm. "We’ve had a few like you come through, Doc’s old patients, from the psych ward."

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd, something was happening behind the scenes, and this wasn’t the first time.

  Richter’s attention snapped to movement at the edge of the square. A woman slipped deftly through the gathering, placing objects with quiet precision. Glowing purple crystals.

  [Crystal Attuner], not a legacy profession, but clearly attuned, pun intended, to her craft. Each crystal pulsed faintly as she placed them in evenly spaced positions around the square. It wasn’t random. It was a pattern. A perimeter. She was setting a trap, and Nan was buying time. This was rehearsed. They’d done this before.

  "It's a trap!" Richter shouted, snapping into motion. Jean and Mal followed his gaze as chaos erupted. Purple threads of light burst from the crystals, connecting in a pulsing web. The woman who had placed them froze as she realized she’d been spotted. She raised a staff shaped like a massive tuning fork, and it emitted a piercing, high-pitched screech that cut through the square like a blade of sound.

  The barrier pulsed faster now, each surge of light synchronizing perfectly with the shrill resonance of the tuning fork. It was nearly complete. Richter’s blade shot forward, a streak of steel aimed at the nearest crystal node. A heartbeat later, Jean’s crimson feather followed, streaking through the air like a flare of defiance.

  They couldn’t be trapped. Not like this. These people had the wrong idea. And if that barrier sealed, if Nan and the rest of Lakeside truly believed they were violent criminals, Gods only knew what would happen next.

  Richter spun just in time to see Mal locked in a fierce clash with Sarah, their weapons flashing in the growing chaos. Behind them, Doc and Nan had already slipped behind a shimmering barrier conjured by Emma, its translucent surface pulsing faintly with energy. Jon was circling around, blade drawn, eyes locked on Mal’s unguarded flank. Richter summoned his scroll with a snap of magic. He didn’t want to kill, but if they pushed him, he’d do what he had to. He only need to get them off Mal.

  He surged mana into the scroll, and three crimson projectiles burst forth, duller than Jean’s phoenix flames, but no less potent. They screamed toward Sarah, not to kill, but to draw attention. Richter wasn’t aiming to win, he was counting on Jon’s reflex, on the father leaping to protect his daughter.

  One of the crimson projectiles struck Jon square in the shoulder, a spray of blood arcing into the air as he staggered back with a grunt. The other two lances curved at the last second, one slamming into Sarah’s leg, sending her off balance, and the other cracking against Emma’s barrier in a burst of red light. None of the hits were lethal, but they did exactly what Richter intended: they broke the formation. Mal seized the moment, vaulting back toward Richter and Jean with practiced speed.

  Jean lifted her wand, sending forth her flame wall, to protect the groups back as they dealt with the purple barrier they now stood within.

  "They tricked us," Mal panted, catching his breath. "Kept us talking just long enough to spring the trap."

  "We can't fully blame them. That rat's filled their heads with every kind of lie," Jean growled, her eyes locked on the barrier. "They think me and Richter are dangerous patients. And you, Mal? Give it a minute, he’ll have a story for you too." She didn’t glance back as she spoke, focused entirely on sending feather after burning feather into the barrier, each one fizzling out on impact. No success. Not yet.

  Richter spotted faint cracks spidering through the barrier, thin as hairlines but growing with every hit. Jean’s focus was surgical, each feather struck the same precise point, again and again, her wand trembling slightly with strain. Sweat beaded at her brow, but she didn’t waver. She was carving their way out, one ember at a time.

  Too slow. The group beyond Jean’s fire wall had regrouped, wounds mended, fury rekindled. They were searching for a way around, and at the rate things were going, they'd find it, long before Jean could break them free.

  A sharp hiss cut through the noise, precise, deliberate. Then a sound like glass cracking under pressure. Jean gasped.

  Richter turned in time to see her freeze, her wand slipping from her fingers. A thin, needle-like dart jutted from her neck. Dark veins spread rapidly beneath her skin, crawling up her throat.

  The flames flickered.

  She collapsed.

  Richter caught her before she hit the ground, her breathing shallow, unconscious. The fire wall faltered.

  Doc stood calmly just beyond the barrier, lowering a slender wand, more syringe than actual wand. “Sedative,” he said softly, as if offering reassurance. The group moved closer still cautious of the remaining pair, they were out number.