Westridge Hollow Settlement had not changed much in the days since Aston last stepped through its boundary paths. The sun still cast its thin, ash-colored rays through its mist-veiled streets. The air smelled faintly of damp bark and soot. Yet today, the settlement felt different.

More tense. More watched.

The SX-C74 mission had officially commenced.

Four fourth-year students—donning high-function clothes laced with Spirit Reinforcement Emblems—walked at the front of the caravan. Their aura flared in controlled pulses, and each carried an Imperial-marked token at their belt. Behind them were two handlers from the Imperial Watch Bureau, their faces masked, their presence like still blades.

This wasn't just a mission. It was a statement.

They weren't here to search quietly. They were here to seize.

At the rear, the support relay unit maintained records, spirit signal triangulation, and tactical routing. One of the fourth-years—a pale-haired girl with a long spear strapped across her back—occasionally relayed field updates to the IWB officers with clipped precision.

And everywhere they walked, Westridge Hollow watched.

Eyes behind foggy window slats. Faces half-hidden by woven curtains and smoke-hazed doorways. The townsfolk didn't speak—but the air itself seemed full of murmurs.

They began with the southern sector—where the older warehouses lined the dried leyroot trench. One of those had once contained the silver-threaded crate Aston had tagged. A crate no longer there.

Still, the resonance lingered.

The lead fourth-year knelt near the base of the warehouse threshold, fingertips glowing faintly with scanning glyphs.

"Trace confirmed," he murmured. "Residual imprint. Essence imprint… red-tinted. This is where the crate was stored."

The IWB handler nodded but said nothing.

"Fresh trail?" the spear girl asked.

"Negative," came the reply. "Nothing strong enough for a live pursuit."

The group fanned outward in formation. Inside the warehouse, spirits flared along the walls—activated glyphs revealing footpaths, dragging marks, and a faded trail of crystal residue leading west.

"Follow the path," the handler finally said.

They moved in silence. No one questioned the route.

Westridge's roads narrowed the farther west they traveled. The terrain grew rougher. More twisted with root bridges and hollowed paths, many of which dipped underground in looping ridges.

Here, where the public rarely wandered, the trafficked routes flowed under the very soil.

The fourth-years stopped before an overgrown tunnel lined with essence chisel marks—barely wide enough for two side-by-side.

"This is it," the lead scout said.

They entered without hesitation.

For ten minutes they traveled through the hollow, their lights casting prismatic glints across the carved stone walls. The echo of their boots was muffled by the pulse of underground leylines.

Then, they emerged.

Into a cavernous storage chamber veined with dormant crystal roots.

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It was a trafficking den.

Empty, but not untouched.

Racks once used for sorting enhancement elixirs and siphoned cores had been cleared. Only traces remained—an uncapped vial here, a shattered containment scroll there, as if whoever ran this place had packed in haste.

But they hadn't left unguarded.

The first attack came from above.

A cloaked figure dove from the rock shelf, blade laced with darkened spirit light.

It didn't land.

The spear girl stepped forward once, her weapon spun up in a tight arc, slicing through the space between them like a cyclone. The attacker fell, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Three more emerged from the shadows. Two spirit-bound fighters—essence glowing sickly from over-tapped core markings. A third sent forth a corrupted beast—thin, skeletal, its fur matted and aura twisted.

The fourth-years moved in unison.

One raised a wall of compact spirit earth, redirecting the beast's charge. Another summoned three phantasmal chains from her belt, pinning the corrupted fighters mid-air.

It was efficient. Precise.

The defenders didn't stand a chance.

Within two minutes, the battle ended.

The corrupted beast lay still, neutralized with spirit suppression seals. The two fighters slumped, unconscious but breathing. The final figure, the one who had attacked first, was already being scanned by the IWB handler.

"They were left to stall us," the officer said flatly. "Cores drained to nearly unstable levels. Disposable."

The fourth-years shared grim looks.

"They're loyal," one muttered. "To someone who didn't stay behind."

"Linna," the spear girl said.

The handler nodded.

They fanned out again—searching the remaining alcoves.

In one chamber, tucked behind a false glyph ward, they found it:

A spirit crate.

Not the same one Aston had tagged—but nearly identical. Coated in silverroot threads and sealed with mimic locks. But the tag Aston had placed was long gone—removed, but not before it had done its job.

The lead fourth-year knelt again.

"This one hasn't been touched for at least a day. Could be a decoy."

He cracked the seal and opened the crate.

Inside were only frost-stored blank core shells—empty, yet genuine.

But that wasn't the only thing inside.

Taped to the inner lid was a slip of paper—slightly curved, edged in what appeared to be sigil-burn.

A note.

The handler took it, scanned it for essence traps. None. Then unfolded.

The handwriting was elegant.

—

You came faster than I thought. But not fast enough.

I've already moved. These shells were left to slow you down.

I appreciate the attention, though. It means he did his part well.

If the Empire truly wishes to find me, they'll have to do better.

And if you bring another squad, I'll consider it a challenge.

Until then, I suggest you watch your borders. You're not the only ones tracing veins.

LV.

—

The air in the chamber grew colder.

The handler read the message twice, then folded it neatly and tucked it into his coat.

"She's moving operations," he said.

The fourth-years looked grim.

"This entire den was a timed illusion," the chain-wielder muttered. "She probably activated a redirection trail the moment we stepped into Westridge."

The handler didn't disagree. "We'll notify central. This location is now compromised."

"What about the crate?"

"Scan it, then destroy it."

The lead scout sighed, stood, and activated a sigil pulse that began unraveling the silverroot threads.

The crystals dimmed. The crate dissolved into clean frost.

A message had been sent.

And not just from Linna.

From the Empire, too.

They came. They saw.

But they were too late.

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