Web of Chaos - Chapter 26: No Justice

Detective Evan Trask stood in the middle of Silver Court, scanning the crowd of protestors as they marched through the dark mist.

"Form a line!" he called out.

Rows of officers spread across the street, blocking the intersection with walls of protection mana that rose twenty feet into the air. Rain misted around as they worked, and their helmets gleamed in the street lights.

The crowd filled the space between the buildings, at least two thousand strong. Their unmarked faces shone in the darkness, defiant and stubborn as always. Most were Novices and Apprentices, but Trask spotted a few dozen Artisans in their midst. Their chants echoed down the streets, growing louder as they approached.

This crowd came from the Zenith Church, an extremist group who refused to alter their bodies in any way. Trask didn’t know the details of their doctrine, but it went back to the Primordial Age, pre-dating Angelism by more than three thousand years. 

They were selfish fools, regardless of their reasons. Storm’s Eye had already attacked this city once, and its spawn had lingered for half a year, killing dozens of Trask’s officers. They’d fought and died for their city while the civilians locked their doors and cowered inside. Trask had attended fifteen funerals in the past three months alone. Fifteen coffins draped with Espirian flags. Fifteen families broken beyond repair.

But did the civilians of Koreldon City appreciate their sacrifice? Of course not. They ignored the KCPD until now. Now, when they’d been inconvenienced by the mayor’s new order.

The was truly no justice in this city.

The worst were the Artisans and Masters who acted like they were above the law. People like Akari Zeller and her team. They’d obviously stolen that quantum computer from the Artegium library, along with the time technique manuals. Trask had told his father as much, but as usual, the man demanded proof before they acted.

Prime Minister Moonfire had promised them better security, and the means to deal with those who gamed the system. But people fought their new leader every step of the way, clinging to their precious rights.

What good were those rights of Storm’s Eye came back?

Trask cycled mana to his head, sharpening his thoughts and dampening his emotions. He wore the cold like a second suit of armor; it gave him the strength to do what needed to be done.

"This is your final warning!" he called out through his megaphone. "Disperse immediately or face arrest!"

The crowd responded with jeers and taunts, and several Novice Missiles smashed against the shield wall.

Trask passed his megaphone to Captain Calderon. “Get me the water artist.”

Officer Riveros stepped forward a minute later. The young Artisan was new to the force, barely a year out of the academy. He’d also been there at the Mirage Nightclub when Zeller’s team broke into the library. “Orders, sir?”

“Will this barrier slow down your techniques?” Trask gestured to the wall of protection mana between them and the protestors. “Or do you need higher ground?” He glanced at the parked van behind them.

“This is fine,” Riveros replied. “The technique will be weaker from this angle, but—”

“Good enough for now,” Trask cut in. “Start with medium pressure at the front. Target the leaders.”

Riveros hesitated as he glanced through the semi-transparent barrier. “There are kids out there . . .”

Trask followed his gaze toward the fringes of the group. “Avoid them if you can help it.”

The young man gave a slow nod, still looking uncertain.

“These people made their choice,” Trask said. “They put those kids in danger by bringing them here.”

Riveros swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

“Now it’s time to do our job,” Trask continued. “Can you handle that, officer?”

Riveros straightened his spine and stopped staring past the barrier. “Yes, sir."

“Good.” Trask gestured toward the center of the crowd with his chin. “Knock them back on my signal.”

Riveros fell into a combat stance and cycled water mana to his outstretched hands. His mana spun around him like a coiling serpent, mingling with the surrounding mist. Several seconds passed until the liquid serpent was thicker around than his legs. It rose into the air until it loomed over the shield wall in a silent threat.

Still, the protestors didn't retreat.

“Now!” Trask shouted.

Riveros thrust out his arms, and his mana arched over the barrier in a concentrated jet. The instigators flew back like rag dolls. A woman's scream cut through the air as she slammed into a parked car. More screams erupted as the others recoiled from the blast. Some slipped on the pavement, while others turned to flee.

The water artist looked ready to stop, but Trask shook his head and made a sweeping gesture with his finger. If they eased up now, the protestors would regroup with defensive Constructs. He’d seen it happen before. Better to press their advantage now and save more lives in the long run.

Riveros swept his technique from side to side, knocking more protestors off their feet. A young boy—no older than eight—flew from his mother's grasp as the water struck them both. Trask cycled his mana and forced away the first signs of guilt.

These protestors were endangering this city. He and his officers were protecting them.

Mist billowed upward where the water struck asphalt, creating an eerie fog beyond the barrier. Riveros aimed higher with his technique, forcing them farther back.

Trask nodded as the crowd made a full retreat. Riveros stopped his technique and Trask jogged forward.

“Shields down!" he ordered. The walls of protection mana faded with a soft hiss, and Trask stepped over the shield generators. Adrenaline and mana flowed through him as he charged into the fray. “Let's go, boys!"

Their footsteps sounded like thunder as they ran. Trask raised his hands and shot two tendrils of ice mana at his targets. They soared through the air like flying chains, wrapping around the nearest ringleader. The man’s legs buckled, and he collapsed on the street with a splash.

No sooner had he fallen than Trask released another volley of techniques, catching two more of the church’s leaders. His officers followed suit, streaking the night mist with lines of pale blue mana. Barely five seconds had passed, and they’d already taken dozens of prisoners.

Good luck leading another rally after this.

Trask couldn’t fix this city overnight, but he could still make it a safer place. One mark at a time.

Movement flashed to his left as three officers jogged toward an alley between two brick buildings. Trask followed them for several steps, and his instincts screamed a warning. Fire escapes hung over the narrow space, and dumpsters made choke points along the path. 

The perfect place for a trap.

Trask tried to stop his officers, but he was too late. They followed the protestors into the dark alley, launching more Missiles as they ran.

“You two.” Trask stopped two more men and gestured toward the alley. “With me.” He’d spotted dozens of Artisans in the crowd, but they’d all vanished in the retreat. These might be noncombatants, but any Artisan posed a threat to his officers’ lives.

Trask stepped into the alley and prepared his Ritual technique. Ice crystallized on his armor, spreading like frost on a window. Puddles froze around his boots, crackling as they solidified. His thoughts sharpened in the same moment, revealing whispers of his enemy's intention.

Yes, this was definitely a trap. He felt his enemy’s rage like a physical thing, a fire that threatened to burn his soul.

The civilians reached the opposite end of the alley, and a shield of pure mana sprang up to guard their retreat. It filled the alley from edge to edge, and his officers’ techniques broke against its bright blue surface.

The shield vanished an instant later, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man in the mouth of the alley. He wore dark armor from head to heel, and a pitch-black visor covered his face.  Trask opened his Silver Sight and saw . . . nothing. The man must be using sigils to hide his mana.

The first two officers struck together, unleashing a volley of ice Missiles.

Blades of pure mana formed in the man’s hands. They spun through the air like propellers, cutting the attacks to mist. One officer tried to close the distance, but the spinning blade sliced off his hand at the wrist.

Trask was about to unleash his Ritual technique when the black-clad man struck in a blur of motion. Two Missiles flew from his hands, striking the officers with bone-breaking force. Their bodies flew back more than a dozen paces, skidding against the concrete when they landed. Another Missile flew toward Trask, and he barely dodged in time.

Damnit. This was no ordinary civilian; this was a professional fighter, far beyond their level. He might even be a Master.

“Retreat,” Trask said to the others.

Silence followed. The black-clad man stared at Trask, as if he were waiting for something to happen.

Trask spun around and found his other officers lying on the ground, unconscious or dead. A thin woman stood over them, dressed in the same black armor as the man. Her head barely came up to Trask’s chest.

“Zeller?”

It had to be her. Trask couldn’t see her soul through that armor, but he felt her intention through his aspect. It was the same rage he’d felt during their confrontation on Cliff Street.

And if this was Akari Zeller, that must be Kalden Trengsen behind him.

Trask felt a surge of confidence as he fell into a combat stance. These two had ranked among the Artegium’s best students, but they were still just students. No, not even students anymore. They were dropouts.

He’d lost to Zeller that day in class, but only because he’d held back. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Ice mana swirled around the alley like a tornado, crystallizing the air itself. The air grew colder, and Trask's breath emerged in puffs of white mist as he began his Ritual technique. This would freeze the ex-students in place, slow their thoughts, and cut off their retreat.

Even their portals wouldn’t save them now.

Trask pressed the cloud of ice mana against Zeller, filling it with every ounce of his power. The girl didn’t even try to run or defend herself. She couldn’t. The mind freeze was—

Zeller stepped forward, undaunted by the technique. His mana seemed to unravel in midair, fading to mist around the girl’s body. The vapor spun around her like a whirlpool, vanishing into her soul.

What? How? This wasn’t just an Artisan. This was something else—something he didn’t understand.

Zeller stretched out her right hand, unleashing a wave of raw power. Trask flew backward, and his spine slammed into the nearest dumpster. Zeller followed him with slow, deliberate steps.

Trask tried to fight back, but his mana flowed backward through his body, leaving empty channels in their wake. His soul burned with a pain he’d never felt before.

“What—what are you doing?" His voice sounded hollow and distant in his own ears.

His attacker said nothing. Even her rage had faded, replaced with cold focus and determination.

The burning reached a crescendo inside Trask’s soul—sharp and hot like burning blades. He tried to scream but no one came to help. He tried to cycle but his channels were dried up riverbeds. A final surge of pain tore through his chest, followed by an indescribable void. His body felt heavy and weak, as if he'd just aged thirty years.

Trask slumped to the wet pavement. Rain splashed around him, but he barely felt it. Everything felt dull compared to the hollow emptiness inside him.

"Why?" he managed to ask.

“You picked the wrong side,” Zeller replied. Her voice sounded deep and robotic, as if she were speaking through a modulator. 

When Trask opened his eyes again, his attackers were long gone. He lay there on the wet pavement, staring up at the misty sky between the buildings. He reached inside himself one last time, searching for a spark of his former power, but nothing remained.

His soul was broken. His mana was gone.