“His leviathans breach the Grand Duke’s inner sanctum.” Coal smoke drifted down from the stack above, coating the wet cobbles in black grease. If Hectas dragged me to the pyre at noon, the mob would chew through the spectacle while his brutes cracked open the Grand Duke's vaults. “So running is off the table,” I said, tapping the charcoal stick against my thumbnail. “The Holy Conclave won't balance accounts once Hectas takes the seat. They'll drop the torch on my kindling and call it justice.” Lucera tucked her hair behind an ear. “He’s using you as a lightning rod. The public outcry over a heretic’s burning will be enough to blind the populace to the true target. It buys him crucial hours.” “Crucial hours we don’t have,” Zinon added, brushing at a smudge of soot on his immaculate Academy tunic. He looked absurdly out of place, a beacon of pristine white in a world of rust and decay. I eyed his fastidious habits with a raised brow. “You know, that uniform is practically a homing beacon down here, Golden Boy. Did you consider a change of attire?” “A tamer of my standing does not stoop to rags, Galderos,” Zinon declared, puffing out his chest. “My loyalty is to you, but my appearance reflects my inherent superiority.” [Sub-Par Sartorial Decisions detected. –2% Stealth Affinity for all linked entities.] “See?” I gestured at the holographic text. “Even the System thinks you’re a walking target.” Before Zinon could retort, a metallic *clang* echoed from the mouth of the alley. Three figures, clad in the somber, reinforced robes of the Inquisition’s Enforcement Division, stepped out of the swirling mist. Their helmets were dark, faceless visors, and their gauntlets glowed with faint mana-sigils. Each carried a mana-powered repeater rifle, its housing humming with suppressed blue discharge. “There they are,” one of them rasped, their voice distorted by a voice modulator. “The Heretic Galderos Muntaz, the Rogue Investigator Lucera Valmont, and the Traitor Zinon Castra. By order of the Holy Conclave, you are to be apprehended or eliminated on sight.” “They found us fast,” Lucera muttered, her hand going to a concealed vibro-knife at her hip. “Must have been Zinon’s lack of stealth affinity.” “My uniform is pristine!” Zinon barked, unhooking his mana-whip, a shimmering coil of crackling azure energy. “They simply possess advanced tracking capabilities!” I didn’t wait. My fingers flew across the sketchbook, a frantic scrawl of charcoal. A burst of ink coalesced beside me, forming a crude, squat Golem of Grime, its stony fists already reforming from the alley’s filth. It lunged, a low growl rumbling from its ink-lined throat, smashing into the first Inquisitor with surprising force. The long rifle discharged harmlessly into the sky as the Golem slammed its target against the corrugated iron wall. The other two zealots opened fire. Bolts of raw mana shrieked past my collar, chewing craters into the grimy brickwork. I ducked behind a derelict refuse container, sketching furiously again. This time, I conjured a pair of nimble Ink-Weasels, their lithe, shadowy forms darting through the debris, aiming for the Inquisitors’ legs. Zinon, surprisingly, wasn’t just standing there. His mana-whip cracked like thunder, lashing out to deflect a incoming mana-bolt that would have clipped Lucera. “Stay behind me, Investigator!” he shouted, a flicker of genuine protectiveness in his tone. He parried another shot, then lashed out, its tip wrapping around the barrel of an enemy's weapon, wrenching it from gloved hands. From behind the patrol, six iron-shod paws scraped the stones. The quadruped stalker bore bristled rust fur and slabs of muscle across its flanks. Its head was a blunt, armored wedge, and its eyes glowed with predatory intelligence. An Alpha Hound of the Holy Conclave, an elite tracking beast, rattled a copper collar as its throat vibrated. “The Heretic is mine!” the beast's handler bellowed, pointing an armored finger at my chest. The beast leaped, a blur of feral power, clearing the distance to my hiding spot in a single bound. Its serrated teeth clacked shut an inch from my nose as I kicked backward, slicing my elbow open on a rusted drum. The Alpha Hound landed heavily, tearing a trench in the ground. It pivoted with terrifying speed, its eyes locked onto me, sensing weakness, sensing fear. It lunged again, a guttural snarl ripping from its throat. I scrambled back, my mind racing, too slow to sketch anything substantial enough to stop it. Just as its massive paw, tipped with claws like obsidian daggers, arced down towards my head, a voice cut through the chaos. “*Cease!*” It was Zinon. He stood exposed in the center of the alley, his mana-whip now coiled at his side, his hands raised in a gesture of absolute command. His eyes, usually filled with self-importance, now held a strange, unwavering focus. A shimmering, gold-tinged aura, faint but undeniable, emanated from his body, a visible manifestation of his perfect capture rate. The air crackled with raw, untamed authority. The Alpha Hound, mid-pounce, froze. Its body trembled, a low whine escaping its throat. Its glowing eyes jerked sideways toward Zinon. Its panting rasped against the wet brick, corded flanks shivering under invisible pressure. [Absolute Dominance Protocol Initiated. Subject: Inquisition Alpha Hound, Designation: Ironfang.] The gold aura around Zinon flared. He took a single, deliberate step forward, his gaze never leaving the creature. “You are no longer bound by the will of these fools,” he declared, his voice ringing with an almost divine clarity. “You are bound to *me*.” [Capture Rate: 100%.] [Optimal Synergy Achieved. Ironfang (Class: K-9 Inquisitor, Tier: 4) has been bound to Zinon Castra.] With a final, broken whimper, the Alpha Hound’s glowing eyes faded, replaced by a dull, docile amber. Its massive frame relaxed, and it slowly, almost hesitantly, lowered its head, then nudged its snout against Zinon’s leg, like an oversized, eager puppy. The transformation was instant, absolute. The handler stumbled back against the wet brick, mouth hanging open. “No… impossible! The bloodline has never broken!” “It has now,” Zinon said, a smirk returning to his face, though it was tempered by a newfound, dangerous confidence. He patted the Alpha Hound’s head. “Show your *former* keepers the error of their ways, brute.” The now-tamed beast let out a low growl, but this time, it was directed at the remaining Inquisitors. The hound lunged, slamming the handler flat and snapping the stock of his dropped rifle under its pads. The last patrolman broke off from my mud golem to bolt toward the thoroughfare, only for an ink-weasel to latch onto his greaves and bite through his brass comms module. Silence returned, broken only by wet steam venting from the cracked weapons. Two zealots lay pinned, the third slumped cold against the fence. “See, Galderos?” he said, preening slightly. “Not so useless after all. A 100% capture rate is rather effective, wouldn’t you agree?” “It was… surprisingly efficient,” I admitted, rubbing my scraped arm. “Alright, Golden Boy. You’ve proven you’re not just dead weight. Now, what’s the plan, Lucera? We’re out of time.” Lucera, who had been calmly surveying the defeated Inquisitors, reached into a hidden pocket in her investigator’s coat. She pulled out a roll of thick, grease-stained parchment, unfurling it carefully. It depicted a complex, multi-level structure, riddled with schematics and security protocols. Faint mana-tracers glowed along certain conduits. “This isn’t just about stopping Hectas’s Grand Duke assassination,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s about crippling his entire operation. This is a blueprint to his personal, highly guarded facility beneath the old Chronos Docks. It’s where he cultures the chimera strains for the city waves. If we want to stop him from doing this again, we have to infiltrate it tonight. Or we all burn tomorrow.”

Hostile Takeover