Lyra dashed toward Retterford—the age-old tactic of being the closest Sentinel paying off once again.
Retterford gave her a thumbs-up, officially approving her team to handle the Ouroboros case. A case of that scale was any Arcane officer's golden ticket to multiple promotions.
The depth—and danger—of such a case only occurred to Retterford after Diva stretched her leg out and stomped on his foot with all the wrath her bloodline was known for.
Retterford's thumb quickly turned into a fist… and then flipped upside-down.
A thumbs-down.
Lyra's celebration came to a screeching halt.
"Ahem!" Retterford coughed sharply into his palm, pried his foot loose, and tried—but failed—to mask his pain. "Such high-profile cases are… extremely sensitive. Hard to solve. Time sensitive. Fragile. Delicate. Bureaucratically complex…"
He kept listing. When he ran out of legitimate reasons, he started recycling the same ones with different wording.
"Hey, I caught that!" Lyra complained, pouting—her bubbly charm trying to melt away Retterford's backpedaling.
If only she knew: the chief wasn't being stern.
He was scared.
Scared of misreading his wife.
"Is it wise to put two rookies on a case like this?" Hem asked, eyebrow arched. He didn't challenge his chief outright—he questioned the idea. "Losing even one Arcane officer to a 'Wonder' would be disastrous for our precinct. Section 1–2N might cover for you, but 2–1S will steal at least a dozen stars. Not to mention—"
Diva froze. Something in Hem's voice made her pause.
Was that… worry she heard?
Since when did that brat give a Joot's ass about anyone?
Yes, he could read a Wanderer at a passing glance—his published script was evidence enough of that. But he never felt another's pain. Never tapped into his own emotions, either. A natural observer. An unnatural empath.
And that's why he was always in the crosshairs of those he saw too clearly.
One could be right, but they needed to know when and how to claim that truth.
After all… not everyone can be a Diva.
Mrs. Ford nearly nudged Retterford again, but thought better of it. No need to startle him into yet another reckless decision.
"—We get it," Lyra interrupted, stepping in front of Hem. "You're scared."
She puffed her chest with pride. "Leave the case to me. I can handle this with my rookies. And yours."
"We technically aren't rookies," Seris and Serys chimed in, speaking together in that slightly-too-synchronized tone.
"Oh, shut up!" Lyra barked at the boy twins.
"Yeah!" Hem frowned, glaring at the girls.
"AHEM!" Diva tapped her nails against the counter.
With each sharp click, her nails grew longer. Sharper. Deadlier.
"I hate repeating myself," she said, stretching with feline elegance, her attention fixed on her newly acquired Mystica—now coiled over her fingers like crystalline predators masquerading as nails.
Beneath the precinct, the Znoxes Mystica scattered in terror.
Their abrupt absence caused the surrounding air to shift. Heat surged. The vibrancy of the room spiked, shimmering with raw tension. And yet, with a steaming Diva at the center and forty terrified souls awaiting judgment, the entire precinct began to exhale thin streams of vapor.
Inside, her entourage of officers dared not gulp—there wasn't enough saliva left in their dry mouths anyway. It was just one more reason they stood frozen, stiff, and wide-eyed, hanging onto every tap of her clawed fingers.
Diva assessed the room with deadly calm. Her silver hair hovered, suspended midair, weightless in the falling temperature. Her rage was crystallizing. Everything was cooling—too fast.
Outside, the sudden drop in heat first felt like a blessing.
Then silence fell—dead silence!
It was enough to send seasoned citizens of 221N into immediate simulation mode. They rehearsed evacuation drills on instinct—mentally packing their bags, plotting escape routes, prepping homes for the journey ahead as if this were the real deal. They didn't know what had happened, only that the usual chaos had been replaced with the wrong kind of quiet.
No one feared vapor leaking from the precinct. If anything, most assumed Mrs. Ford had jumped into the internal thermal pool to cool down.
But when the doors remained sealed, and no announcer rushed out with a battle-horn and emergency scroll, eyebrows raised.
Instead, something far more alarming happened.
Several Arcane officers began crawling out of the precinct.
Some clambered down from the roof using what little Mystica they could muster. Others just… jumped, landing in a heap, groaning in silence as they scrambled to their feet—too afraid to cry out in pain.
Every single one of them was pale.
And every single one of them moved with excruciating slowness—deliberately quiet. As if each step made noise that might trigger the Diva inside.
People stared, baffled.
It wasn't until a stranger—a smart one—put two and two together that things clicked. They copied the officers, tiptoeing away from the precinct without a word. Then another followed. And another.
No one questioned it. They simply obeyed the unwritten rule: when a Diva might be about to explode, you leave. Slowly. Silently.
Because everyone knew: An emergency stampede might leave you with a broken rib.
But if a Diva caught you interrupting her rage in the wrong way?
You'd beg for death.
The rush of one's heart thumping in their mouth with every deliberate, calculated, gentle step can age a person by a decade before they reach safety.
And still, that is nothing compared to facing a Diva's wrath head-on.
"Did you forget your position?" Diva hissed, her eyes boring into Retterford.
"Your pending assignments."
She flicked her wrist. A gust of Mystica pulled open the corner drawer of Lyra's desk, revealing a mountain of untouched case folders.
"Your job."
Her glare made Hem bow out of reflex.
"Common sense."
The rest of the precinct gulped as one.
Only after Diva breathed did air return to their lungs. 221N returned to its usual chaos—subtle, scattered, and bubbling just under the surface.
Diva then whispered the final blow into Retterford's ear, voice smooth as velvet laced with poison.
"You have no choice. The higher-ups stretched our officers too thin. You will control what happens here, while Hem handles the Ouroboros case."
Retterford tried to appear thoughtful. He tilted his head, scratched his chin, and made low noises of reluctant contemplation. All for show. He knew—as did everyone—that once Diva had a plan, that was the plan. She simply let you stumble through your own for the drama.
Her hand landed gently on his shoulder. She leaned in close, her smile devilish, her voice dripping with glee.
"Your career is now in Hem's hands. A stuck-up, ill-reputed, rule-bender… with two newbies destined to mess everything up. Because someone paired them wrong."
She laughed softly. "Now this is top-notch drama."
Retterford panicked. And in his panic, made the second-worst decision of his entire service.
"I give all of my powers to Hem for this case," he blurted, not even consulting his wife—or his brain—before letting the words fly.
Digging the grave deeper, he reached behind his Sigil and removed the 'Pyronyx - Ore,' and handed it over to Hem without hesitation.
"Do what you have to. I just want results. Loosened-less… results."
A flicker of defiance sparked in his eye, pushing him toward what history would remember as the first-worst decision of his career.
Retterford had always believed Hem and Lyra were his best Sentinels. And Diva? She never let him forget how that belief alone had cost him promotions, peace of mind, and possibly his hairline.
In the early days, Retterford had been proud of them. Together, Hem and Lyra solved more cases than entire departments combined.
But Diva's words proved prophetic once the politically sensitive cases began pouring in.
Hem—infamously—opposed the Queen during a royal trial and lost the assessment without once taking responsibility.
Lyra—tearfully—becomes the face of 221N by crying alongside murderers, claiming she understood their pain.
And now, here they were again, staring down the Ouroboros case.
Retterford, caught in the swirl of it all, raised his fist in triumph and denial.
"We'll be the first to solve a case on the Ouroboros!"
The precinct followed his lead, cheering wildly.
"First! First! First!"
As their voices echoed, Mrs. Diva Ford leaned back, smirked, and whispered to herself. "They're all perfect... fools."
"There's a reason everyone dumped this high-profile case onto us," Diva declared, her voice cutting through the chant and crushing everyone's spirit like a glass under heel. "Being unsolvable is the least of our worries."
She sank back into her molten chair, which melted further into shape, cradling her in a throne of controlled rage and elegance.
"The cowards who passed us this flaming curse will use our faces to conduct their investigations. Any slight clue they uncover will be their great triumph. Only solving the entire case will count as ours." She turned a scorching look toward Hem. "Not to mention his gift for creating more cases inside the case we give him."
A ripple of defeat swept the precinct. Officers slouched to the floor, vigor evaporating like steam.
Hem considered speaking up… but stopped.
For a fleeting second, he had cared what others thought. The unfamiliar feeling made him uncomfortable—itchy. So, naturally, he crushed it with a glare at Lyra.
She shrank into herself, more embarrassed than the rest.
"Our Ornyx and Mystica will get a boost inside the Ouroboros," Diva continued. "But none of our usual readings can be trusted. Everything will be warped—unstable. Add to that: limited time, backlash from failure, surveillance from above..."
She went on, ranting with increasing sharpness until Retterford cut in with a nervous chuckle.
"We can't be held accountable for failing the Ouroboros case, right?" he asked, hopeful. "I mean, we can do whatever...?"
Diva sighed like a goddess worn down by mortals. "Start being more involved in current politics, dear of mine. At least the kind aimed at kicking Dreadmornes out of power."
"Still our duty," Hem muttered, echoing Diva's own words from earlier.
"True," she smiled—wide, warm, and terrifying. "So we better be the first. Otherwise—"
She didn't finish. She didn't have to.
The implications were clear as blood on snow.
"I always give my best," Hem said with a casual shrug.
Retterford blinked slowly, finally realizing the magnitude of the blunder he'd committed.
"Lock!" Lyra called out, trying to pump him up.
The precinct followed her lead, cheering with forced energy.
"First! First! First!"
"Shut up!" Hem snapped. "We don't have time."
"True," Diva nodded. "You've got a week—and that's 'me' being generous."
Everyone deflated like popped balloons with that comment, while Hem grabbed the twins and stormed off. Diva and Retterford followed close behind, all the way to Station N-147. They needed urgent prep before they could access the Ouroboros, but speeding up the process meant investigating the second crime scene immediately.
Garry, the poor soul posted at 147, knew his luck had officially turned.
Chief of Arcane. A Diva. Hem Lock, the human question bank. And an Enforcer who could be in two places at once? Maybe they are twins... Garry stopped questioning the abnormal since it became his new norm.
The top dogs all arriving together made him give up and accept his bad luck.
Garry stared at the ceiling, then flopped into the bed that doubled as his office chair. "Why did I even question you? My forever partner. My bad luck." He stretched, welcoming it with open arms.
Hem noticed that the station master, Garry, had turned his office into a personal living space. He accepted the explanation without comment and shelved the observation for later.
From a leather pouch fastened near his thigh, Hem pulled out a rectangular Whisper Leaf. He preferred Ornyx over Mystica for most tasks. Chanting and coaxing a moody Mystica to listen was a waste of time—time in which a few good questions might slip away forever.
"Shh..." Hem silenced the room, holding the leaf between his index and middle finger.
"Garry. Coach. Seventy. Not married. Lives in the office due to Ouroboros traffic. For comfort. Saves time. All his words. Not mine."
As he spoke, the Whisper Leaf crumbled at the edges—its soft fractures capturing each word inside its folds.
Each note struck Garry like a slap.
Every completed leaf dragged him further into the exhausted embrace of his bed-chair.
Even Diva found Hem's method a bit cruel—but she didn't intervene. This was his case. His jurisdiction. In this room, Hem Lock held more authority than Retterford, and even more than the Queen—if she had dared to be present.
Hem wrapped up his note-taking with clinical detachment.
"Accomplice, at the very least. Or possibly... the brilliant mastermind."
Garry wailed, "Isn't there anything in between?!"
"Shh..." Hem repeated, gently but firmly.
It was too late, though, as the leaf recorded his plea with another crackle.
From another pouch, Hem drew golden-brown strands of Arcane hay. He folded and stretched them into structured folders, locking the leaves inside like pressed confessions.
"Want to read them now?" he asked, holding a file out to Retterford.
"I'm good," Retterford said, taking a step back, his eyes still bleeding for poor Garry.
At times like this, he almost wished Lyra had the case. But on second thought, she'd waste an entire day consoling Garry and singing empathy songs until his pain subsided.
Hem was better. For now.
He glanced at Diva to gauge her reaction.
She wore that same look: "You're going to regret this one day."
She'd had it on since they left the Precinct. And from experience, Retterford knew it would stay until she was proven right.
Both outcomes sent a shiver down his spine.
Aurochs help him if she ever was.
"Is it because of the sun?" Diva asked, tone laced with concern—one of those casual sparks that always ignited a fresh argument.
Hem ignored them both, their presence nothing but an unnecessary distraction.
In the far corner of the room, something stirred from within the shadows, eight legs rose—fluid, quiet, seamlessly folding into the shape of reality itself.
Hem didn't react. Not yet.
He held back his spiraling thoughts until the creature stepped into the light—into the rays of the revealing sun. Only then could a wanderer's eyes truly see.
One mystica often turned into another, its appearance bending to its whims.
The eight legs spread wide, then crawled inward—attaching themselves to a sleek, double-coned body.
"Arachnivis," Hem whispered with a rare smile.
The Arachnivis was a sleek, enigmatic mystica of midnight hues. Its elongated body shimmered faintly, like polished obsidian kissed by dim light. Delicate in build yet exuding quiet menace, its segmented frame bore intricate, luminescent patterns that shifted like living constellations.
From its slender form extended multiple ethereal filaments, each glowing faintly in soft shadow-tones, weaving effortlessly through the air. Its movements defied gravity—silent, gliding, hypnotic.
Its unique ability lies in its filament threads, which it spins at astonishing speeds to form intricate, translucent screens. These screens capture and replay images or events with astonishing clarity, as though the threads themselves absorb and project memories.
Despite its modest size—small enough to escape an untrained eye—it carried a presence both commanding and otherworldly.
Scholars and guardians sought it alike—for surveillance, for storytelling, for reliving the past. But the Arachnivis was a creature of solitude. It thrived in silence, weaving its mystical visions far from the interruptions of man.
"Cool!" the twins echoed, jaws hanging loose. "Why are we looking at that mystica again?" they asked each other, equally confused.
Hem gawked—genuinely speechless at their ignorance.
The twins copied his expression, trying to gauge whether it was a test... or a trick.
Glances kept exchanging between the trio until Hem glanced at Retterford, quietly wondering:
Is this some prank? Did the Chief even vet them? Or worse—Is this a test? Of me? My patience?
Does he think this is what working with him feels like?
Short on time, Hem shut the thoughts down. No room for complaints. No time for better options.
He would have to work with the tools he had—even if those tools were two clowns masquerading as Enforcers.
Enforcers—the most basic muscle within every Arcane department. They were given surface-level knowledge across the board, allowed to pick a specialty only after grinding through the basics. Even then, no instant promotions. Just a new title: understudy—sent to shadow a Sentinel, earning stars toward ascension.
And in this case?
Hem was the one expected to give those stars.
Hem understood the dire consequences that had led to the mass recruitment of Enforcers at the end of the Third Era.
"This is still… so wrong," he muttered, exhaling a long sigh, forcing out the swarm of questions in his head and reluctantly choosing to accept the twins for what they were.
Two utterly clueless Wanderers.
He divided his bundle of Whisper Leaves into three piles, already certain these two had either wasted their initial stock... or eaten them by mistake.
"Do you know how to use these?" Hem asked dryly.
Jorik and Jorek grinned at each other, snatching the bundles from his hand. "Of course we do!" they chimed, turning and holding the leaves between their fingers.
They had just seen Lock do it. So naturally, they copied him like a Mime mystica. "Mime see, Mime do!" they said proudly—and immediately, the leaves began recording.
"Oops! It's recording everything we say—NO! STOP!"
The leaves crunched in response, curling into tight, crumbling balls as the twins panicked. "No! We didn't say the magic word yet!"
"…Which is?" Hem asked, though the answer had already dawned on him.
"SHH!" they shouted.
Every remaining leaf in their hands disintegrated into dust.
"Huh," Hem grunted, smacking his forehead.
"Can we have some more…?" the twins whimpered, eyes welling up. "We don't have any. Please don't kick us out—we don't have any other options."
"What gave you the idea that you had this one?" Hem narrowed his eyes.
By now, he'd figured out the basic mechanics of their inner lock system, so he reworded the question: "You meant this Precinct, not the job of an Enforcer… right?"
They nodded.
"No other talent whatsoever?"
More nodding.
"Got this job by sheer dumb luck during the Crisis of the Third?"
They nodded faster.
Hem stared at them in silence, calculations running wild behind his deadpan eyes. Then something clicked. "You seem to have… some connection to the Mime mystica."
That line—Mime see, Mime do—was a little too natural. And the way both of them instinctively shot their hands behind to cover their butts, confirmed it.
"More than one?" Hem gasped, scandalized.
They shuddered, nodding with pain as they rubbed their bottoms.
Learning from his mistake, Hem handed them one leaf each. "No sound. No movement. Nothing around you. Focus. Or you'll lose this one too."
They nodded—expressions blank as paper.
Hem winced. He knew that look. The look of imminent disaster. But time was short. So, with zero optimism and negative confidence, he leaned into their absurd logic. "…Fine. 'Mime see, Mime do,'" he said, performing the correct motions himself. Because if he were stuck with clowns, then he might as well run the circus.
Hem took a Whisper Leaf and pointed to its central folds, pressing gently between his index and middle finger to activate it. He didn't go into specifics—no need to overload the twins' already fragile attention spans.
Yes, he fully assumed they shared a single, tiny brain.
"Press, record. Press, record," Hem said flatly, wasting an entire leaf in the process. It folded neatly, preserving only those two words.
He didn't bother explaining the deeper mechanics of Ornyx—no mention of their origin, nor even a hint of the Whisper Leaf's lineage. That kind of knowledge would only confuse the twins further.
Next, he pulled out his badge—the 'Prismark Sigil.'
An elite-tier Ornyx granted to Arcane officers, the Prismark Sigil was among the highest creations of any Specialist. Its presence alone demanded authority.
Hem held it up, allowing the light to catch its surface. The shimmering metal glinted with shifting hues, each movement of his wrist revealing a new color along its sleek, circular face. It was forged from the essence of a mystica called 'Camelyth,' and it held a sliver of that creature's power still.
At the center was the Wanderlust insignia—a circle etched with delicate wings and spiraling lines, all reaching upward, as if grasping for the source of all things. Surrounding it were rune-like rings, faintly glowing, powered by the 'Ore' embedded behind the badge.
Every officer had a unique variation of the Prismark Sigil, and their authority was determined by the Ore they carried within.
The standard issue was 'Nexalt Ore,' designed to absorb surrounding mystical energy and weaken a target. Effective for arrests and containment.
But during moments of crisis, when pure force was necessary—when an officer needed to bypass a personal Ornyx's deflection or force entry into a protected Mystica's domain—only one Ore was powerful enough: Pyronyx. The strongest Ore known to wanderers.
When a Sentinel activated their badge—just a tap to the center—the Sigil let out a soft, resonant hum. That sound was universal. Recognized by every Mystica in existence. It was a call to pause. To submit. To comply.
Lower-tier Mystica responded instantly, freezing their processes and awaiting orders. Once acknowledged, they offered their full cooperation: memory playback, sealed compartments, hidden functions.
In the case of an Arachnivis, that meant unlocking its recorded threads—moments from the past, perfectly preserved.
Small enough to fit in a palm, the badge carried more weight than any weapon. When worn on a uniform by chain or clip, it declared one thing: Arcane Authority. And respect—real, tangible respect—followed in its wake.
Each 'Prismark Sigil' carried a unique number and enchantment, making it both a symbol of trust and a vital tool for maintaining law and harmony across Wanderlust. As such, all officials were required to wear the proper attire during office hours—layered robes etched with shifting mystic threads, part armor and part tradition, varying slightly depending on their kingdom of origin.
And everyone did, except for Hem.
He preferred his Sigil tucked into one of many crudely sewn pockets on his traditional 'Khaki and Black' uniform—a fusion of stubborn practicality and a general disregard for rules that didn't serve his needs.
Hem held out his badge for the twins to see. Etched in delicate runes below the Wanderlust insignia was the inscription: "SH–404B2🌟"
He doubted they even knew what that meant. The letters, numbers, and the final symbol weren't just random—they decrypted into Hem's division, ranking, and overall influence within their society. A whole life encoded in a single line.
Jorik immediately leaned far too close to get a better look, breaking every acceptable rule of personal space.
He blinked at the badge. "I can't believe you're ranked that high... and after three strikes from the Queen?"
Jorek jabbed his brother in the side with his elbow. "I can see what you see. Stop poking me." He shoved Jorik away, puffing out his chest. "No wonder Sir Lock is so skilled."
Then, in an abrupt show of discipline, Jorek straightened up, clicked his heels together, and raised his right hand in a proper officer's salute—palm flat against his forehead, facing Hem.
'Not bad,' Hem thought. At least they know how to salute.
"Talent beats politics. Every time." Retterford said with a shrug of admiration.
"Too bad someone has neither," Diva jabbed back.
"Or just gets too good, so no one dares take his stars," Retterford fired back.
Hem pointed his shimmering badge toward them both. "You lovebirds—take your squabble outside."
His tone left no room for argument.
They had to obey. Begrudgingly. With synchronized frowns.
"This is your fault," Diva muttered, elbowing Retterford in the ribs.
He yelped, nearly biting his tongue. "Ow—!"
"Already forgot who gave him that power, didn't you!?" she snapped, grabbing him by the ear and dragging him toward the exit.
Back inside, Hem focused once more on the twins, who had returned to their neutral—slightly confused—state.
"First of all," he began, commanding their full, undivided attention. "This stuff is basic. Foundational."
He launched into a ten-minute lecture, the twins' postures slowly wilting under the weight of his words, their confidence draining with every sentence.
"…And that's not even the reason I pulled out my badge," Hem finished, tapping his Sigil once more.
"Every Ornyx has a trigger. One or more. Just like you press two points on a Whisper Leaf to make it listen, this—" he held up his badge, resting its lower edge on his thumb and steadying its broad top with his index and middle fingers— "is how you activate the Prismark Sigil."
No flourish. Just precision. And for once, Hem didn't wait for them to ask questions.
He had learned—questions only led to disappointment. Instead, he leaned forward and said, "I'm going to ask you very direct questions now. You'll answer clearly. No whining. No miming. Understood?"
The twins nodded like guilty puppies.
Hem narrowed his eyes. "Good," he said, and asked—"I ask, and one of you answers," he ordered, his badge still facing—and intimidating—the twins. "Answer truthfully. Don't ramble. Take turns."
After receiving a pair of affirmative nods, Hem slid the badge into his sleeve, pointing at Jorek. "What is an Ornyx?" he asked.
"A tool, weapon, or instrument made from one or many mystic essences."
Hem remembered a similar explanation from his first year at Mystic School. That sentence was the word-for-word definition of an Ornyx.
Bless Miss Shreya for drilling the lesson into his head.
"Miss Shreya Patel?" Hem inquired.
"YES!" both of them yelled, their postures straight yet trembling, barely containing their excitement.
"Only she has that kind of effect," Hem chuckled. "That must make us fellow dunce heads." He scratched the back of his head. "She was my Guru too."
"No way!"
"Yup." Hem leaned back, reliving his childhood—Miss Shreya patiently sitting with him after school hours, explaining the ways of Mystica, while he pestered her with questions about her weekend. "I couldn't tell my butt—sorry! My 'rare'—from my face back then."
"Ma'am did hate curse words," the twins chuckled among themselves. "Even though some words weren't that harsh."
"Ma'am considered the word 'curse' to be a bad word," Hem added, joining in their laughter.
If only the duo—Retterford and Diva—were here to witness this miracle. They wouldn't believe Hem actually laughed, even if Arachnivis spun the tale, and allowed them to relive that long-gone moment.
Sadly, the shared laughter didn't last long. The twins grew quiet, a hidden anger overtaking their jovial mood.
"We... We!" Jorik started, but couldn't finish.
"We didn't see you at... at the..." Jorek tried next, but even he faltered.
"Funeral," Hem finished for them, understanding their anger. "I was elsewhere..." His words hung in a long silence, his eyes unable to meet theirs. "Being a coward."
"Keep moving forward," the twins said in unison, breaking the silence and lifting Hem's spirit. "We didn't understand back then, but now it makes sense. Ma'am meant those words for you!" They cheered, tears streaming down their faces. "Ma'am predicted all of this and handed us the key to your lock!" They hugged each other, hopping with excitement. "Miss Shreya is the greatest guru of the greatest Sentinel that ever lived."
"But how?" Hem gawked at the twins.
At that exact moment, Retterford and Diva re-entered the room, worried about the lapsing time. But upon seeing their stone-faced, cold-hearted Sentinel expressing a level of shock they'd never imagined, they turned to each other, the same thought racing through both their minds:
"How?"
The twins had somehow pulled off the most amazing feat yet—something neither Retterford nor Diva had managed to do since meeting Hem.
After finding out the specifics from the twins, who refused to stop hopping around, the duo realized and accepted their defeat. A teacher of the highest degree—a Guru—Hem's Guru—was perhaps the only one who could accomplish such a feat from beyond the grave.
"I'm sorry to break the moment," Retterford smirked at Diva, "but I'm a huge part of what made this happen." He gestured at Hem and the twins. "This!" He circled the twins twice more. "And—"
"—A fluke!" Diva cut in, making Retterford panic.
"We're short on time," Retterford whispered to Hem. "Get back to work." He cleared his throat, trying to sound more manly.
"We're better off outside," Diva muttered, dragging her husband out of the room.
The display snapped the twins out of their excitement. "What was that all about?"
"Something we should—but couldn't—pursue," Hem muttered. He scribbled a quick question for the Chief onto a separate leaf, then turned back to the twins. "Back to the Q and A at hand." He slapped his cheeks lightly, returning his face to its usual expressionless state. "What are Ornyxes used for?" He pointed at Jorik.
Instead of answering, Jorik asked, "How did you know my brother answered the first question, Sir Lock?"
"I placed a sticky note to tell you two apart," Hem said, unwavering.
Hem's quick reply made the twins squeal in excitement. "You are Madam's greatest—"
"—Thanks," Hem cut them short. "But flattery won't get you anywhere, especially when we're short on time."
"Yes, sir!" they saluted with a proper military phrase.
"You two have immaculate salutes. The best I've ever seen."
"All thanks to our teacher." They fist-bumped each other.
"True." Hem raised his fist to join in on the action.
"For those who can't request a mystica, convince them to help out, or tap into their full potential—or at all…" Jorik answered, their fists still connected. "The Ornyx helps us harness their power in a different, controlled way for everyday use."
"Pressure points?" Hem shifted to face Jorek, their fists still touching.
"Activation points." Jorek bumped Hem's fist harder. "Instead of chants, these points activate the hidden power within an Ornyx."
"Chants?" Hem raised an eyebrow.
"A way to communicate with the Mystica—to ask for their help."
"Good." Hem relaxed. "We'll pick up lessons from time to time. For now, use my badge to break down Arachnivis' guard." Before the twins could raise their hands like eager students, Hem preempted their question. "Official badges and Runes are too advanced. I'll explain them later. Also, don't squeal at every reveal. Save it for the big ones." He winked.
Hem handed them a few whisper leaves and headed toward an Arachnivis in the opposite direction.
The twins split up to cover more ground, their actions still mirroring one another. They flashed their unique Enforcer badges to override the station master's authority—the faint pulse from the badge easing the mystica into submission, radiating a false aura of a superior mystica.
As the words "Vetrax Unveil!" echoed through the air, the Arachnivis shuddered, its sleek, obsidian body quivering in acknowledgment.
The silk glands beneath its abdomen pulsed, and with eerie grace, it began to spin. Strands of shimmering, silver-threaded web unfurled in midair, weaving themselves into an intricate, translucent tapestry.
At first, the threads appeared random—but as the web tightened, ghostly figures and flickering images emerged. Scenes from the past played out as if caught in the strands of time itself.
The footage moved fluidly, shifting between angles as the Arachnivis rewound and fast-forwarded with delicate twitches of its limbs.
The twins stood transfixed, the gossamer screen reflected in their wide, dark eyes.
Every movement, every whisper was captured in the web's fibers—replaying reality like an artist etching memories onto silk. Then, with a final ripple, the strands collapsed into nothingness, leaving only silence... and the truth, unveiled.
"That was so cool..! Let's do that again." The twins gasped, giggling and booing at the film as the Arachnivis continued replaying the footage.
After reviewing and noting down every available frame around the station, the investigation team regrouped with Chief and Diva, who were waiting for the Centi that had carried Jefferson from Ouroboros to this station.
D'Las approached the group just before the rumble of an approaching Centi.
"My–my, aren't you stunning this lovely morning!" she said, bowing low as a flower bloomed on her crown.
She plucked the flower and handed it to Diva. "Are you with these gentlemen?" She had recognized the Sentinels.
"Unfortunately," Diva giggled. "Thank you for the flower, Miss...?"
"D'Las, my lady." She lifted her flowery frock, bowing deeply. "And you might be?"
"Diva."
"Ah..." D'Las stood stunned, words fleeing her mind.
"That's her name too," Retterford chimed in. "Along with everything else that revolves around her." He rolled his eyes so hard they nearly disappeared into his sockets.
"Creepy," Hem commented, pushing between the couple to move forward. "Can you tell me more about the approaching Centi?" He pulled out a leaf, holding it close to D'Las.
D'Las pouted, her green lips taking on a reddish hue. "They are beastly, ugly, and unnecessary…" she let out a low growl—eerily reminiscent of a Mystica.
Hem crushed the leaf and threw it away. "I'm not the press. I don't need your political views," he warned D'Las. "Keep answers you don't know to 'no,' and the ones you do, to short, well-thought, politically neutral sentences."
D'Las stood in awe, unable to decipher this enigmatic Sentinel who not only unraveled her strategy, but did so with such precision—it was as if he'd known her for years.
Awestruck, she didn't deflect the accusation. Instead, she stumbled over her words. "Who… what are you?"
Hem flipped her his badge, answering the question with his rank.
"That badge does him little justice," Retterford chimed in. "He's more than qualified for the rank above." He polished his badge, only to realize too late that his Ore was missing.
D'Las settled down, a smile curling at her lips. Those ranks are no joke, she thought. "I don't know much about mystica," she admitted. "Not even the ones I work with day in and day out."
"Why?" the twins asked in unison.
"Do not answer that," Hem cut in, stepping between them with both hands raised to block their view. "Everyone sticks to my questioning. Debbie-dabble when I'm gone. Let's head toward the carriage Mr. Jefferson used." He gestured for D'Las to lead.
"Toward the end, near the hole," D'Las said, pointing. "I remember Gar-Bear mentioning something about a private chamber."
"Private cabins are usually at the end?"
Diva noticed D'Las shrug in uncertainty, so she answered instead. "Officials usually prefer privacy. So, cabins at the end or front of a Centi are assigned depending on their direction or urgency of arrival."
"You would've known that if you used your Quincil and authority for comfort and class once in a while," Retterford joked.
"How could he?" Diva snapped back. "He wastes all of them on the Queen." She chuckled. "And they're not even a thing."
This made Retterford laugh harder, while Hem only sighed, ignoring the duo—aggravating Diva and putting their boss on the spot, both at once.
Hem inspected the Centi's thick, segmented body—lined with a tough exoskeleton that provided both stability and strength. Its insides were hollowed out, creating expansive, cavernous chambers where people could sit, rest, and travel in relative comfort.
These chambers were transformed into moving homes or transport carriages, designed to carry passengers across kingdoms with the second-fastest known means of land travel.
The sheer size of the Arborcentis allowed for luxurious interiors—plush seating, overhead lighting powered by bioluminescent veins, and wide windows offering breathtaking views of the landscape beyond.
Yet Jefferson had his windows covered and lights dimmed, relying solely on the Centi's bioluminescent veins to navigate the cabin's interior.
Hem sent the twins to investigate the other cabins. Some were interconnected, and he wanted to know if anyone could've accessed Jefferson's supposedly sealed chamber.
Diva assured him it would be impossible—not to mention suicidal—on an inverted Arborcentis moving at terrifying speeds.
While the ride was joyous for children, who treated it like a rollercoaster transporting them from one zone to the next, the elderly preferred cabinets designed to rotate on a different axis from the Centi's body.
Several twists and mystic forces could rip a Wanderer limb from limb if they attempted to travel between cabins. Even the twins knew that much.
From the outside, all chambers looked alike, with only exclusive cabins displaying name tags. It defeated Jefferson's attempt at privacy, but Diva explained that the tags were more for the "cabin boys" who prepped the spaces, not the passengers.
The twins reported back, raising more confusion—and Hem's suspicion. The internal pathways and interconnected compartments varied wildly, shaped by the diverse needs of the passengers. Some cabins were modest; others, palatial.
This meant, depending on the creature's size, form, and purpose, cabins could be tailored accordingly based on the amount of Quincil spent. And yet, Mr. Jefferson had poured more resources into darkness than discretion.
"Pre-planned," Hem declared with a nonchalant nod.
Diva disliked that Hem's entire deduction was based on a name tag—something she was sure the cabin crew simply forgot to remove. But without proper authority in this case, all she could do was punch her husband and warn him about the doom soon to befall his career.
Before she could fully recover from that humiliation, Hem challenged her again—this time regarding the hole caused by fire.
Tree spirits, along with several natural mystica, had developed countless ways to counter calamities—whether mystic-based or nature-wrought.
But fire… fire was different. It held the first, and most dangerous, aspect of claiming a tree spirit's life.
During the First Era, a leftover spark from that forbidden mystica's breath—a name that still made both Wanderers and mystica shudder—had the tenacity to spread and grow, turning its victim's energy source into fuel.
The horror of it scared the spirits into devising desperate tactics. Among them, the most reliable: sacrificing entire sections of infected cells to save the rest.
The cold grip of time claimed that forbidden race of mystica… but the spirits continued the technique ever since.
A technique once used to subdue the fiercest fire-attuned mystica had proven just as effective against the cold grasp of ages. But Hem had found a flaw in that same system—fueling the fury of both Diva and D'Las.
"Hug a Znox," Hem waved them off. "I've got no issue with the technique. I asked about the size of this hole." He reminded them, again.
The tree spirits had sacrificed multiple roots, creating a massive gap—far too large for a fire that shouldn't have burned that intensely. Not against an ancient Oak.
Hem treaded carefully around the hole's edge, one wrong step from a forty-foot drop down to the Oak's colossal trunk.
D'Las had already lost favor with the tree spirits after convincing them to preserve the hole for officials to examine. Now, a Sentinel dared to question the Oak's judgment?
One push. She yanked on her hair, restraining the urge. "You're too close for your own good," she warned, trying to sound calm.
Hem held back a retort and tried once more to explain. "Four people could fit through this. Why would the tree sacrifice so much of itself for a minor fire?"
"She calculates better than any of us," D'Las snapped back, still defending the tree.
"It's been three eras since anyone's seen a fire strong enough to harm an ancient Oak," Hem said, almost tempted to invoke the name of that forbidden mystica—if only to prove his point in flame and fury.
Diva stepped in to support D'Las. "Let's say they did overreact. Anyone safe for that long might panic. Overcompensate just to be sure." She turned to Retterford. "Right?"
Retterford frowned, stepping beside Hem to inspect the edges. "I trust you, Hem. If you think something's off, follow it. But remember—we've only got a week."
"This is important," Hem insisted, cutting him off. "Crucial to solving—"
He stopped midsentence, his gaze drawn past the others to a lone Arachnivis, roaming freely outside the Centi.
"Does an Arachnivis… roam?" Hem muttered, mostly to himself.
But the group, misreading his curiosity as condescension, lashed out.
"Of course they don't!"
"What do you take us for, a couple of idiots?" D'Las snapped.
Diva, insulted but eager to gang up on Hem, added, "Even first-years know Arachnivis prefer dark, indoor corners."
"We didn't," the twins said together, stealing everyone's attention.
Before Diva could snap at her husband for hiring the twins—or fire them under the clause of not knowing the basics—the boys dashed toward the Arachnivis wandering along the platform.
"This little guy came with us inside the Centi too," said Jorek.
"So that means they do roam outside!" Jorik lifted the Arachnivis triumphantly for everyone to see.
"Right!?" they asked the group in unison.
"I... I almost forgot about that thing!" D'Las laughed nervously. "What? Don't look at me like that—I assumed the fairies dragged it out during their mischief. Why didn't it go back in right after?"
"Vetrax Unveil!" Hem called, locking eyes with the Arachnivis.
The mystica stared back, unblinking.
Hem revealed his badge with a flick of his sleeve—an elegant maneuver, the badge gleaming with rank. The Arachnivis tilted its head, intrigued, its many eyes sparkling with wonder. Yet, even in awe, it did not begin to weave.
But that wasn't strange—not even to the twins. Everyone knew you couldn't command a mystica. At best, you could request a favor. And that was why the very first Specialist had invented the Ornyx.
What stunned Diva and Retterford wasn't the Arachnivis' refusal, but Hem's next move: he called for a Specialist.
No Ornyx could convince a mystica to obey, and Hem had always hated involving others in his investigations. Not out of pride, but out of precision. Outside interference rarely removes locks from a case. If anything, it added more.
Hem had once sought an Ornyx powerful enough to override the whims of mystica. But he'd never found his footing in the fake Oru'Ma—not to mention the real Xavier's Market.
Calling a Specialist was a necessary evil.
Specialists were top-tier officials within the Mystical Force—an elite class devoted to studying mystica and their cryptic behaviors. From devising chants to communicate, to forming long-term pacts, everything Wanderers knew about mystica began with them.
Unlike the Arcane Force, with its strict hierarchy and segmented divisions, the Mystical Force operated without rank—unified under a single, elusive goal: understanding the unknowable.
Yet despite this lack of formal structure, Specialists often held more weight than their peers. Many believed they stood closest to the Queen and King, unofficially claiming the third-highest seat in the realm's power structure.
Some even joked they deserved the second place.
Because really, you can joke about the King… if the King happens to be your friend.
Murky waters, it may as well be. Still, a friend's foe is your foe by default—making the Specialist hate Sentinel Hem Lock and his subordinates by default.
The Queen herself holds no hard feelings against the public who defy her reasoning. In matter of fact, she encourages everyone to come up with clever ways to oppose the new rules. Only then can she reevaluate, reform, and cook up a new way to satisfy everyone.
But who would go against her if they knew they wouldn't get any help from the Specialists later?
No one—except for Hem Lock, who simply didn't acknowledge anything except the lock he had to open before bedtime. Otherwise, the Loch Ness monster would haunt him for the entirety of his dream.
This self-imposed bond between the Specialists and the Queen made them sworn enemies of Hem.
"Is he that desperate to prove me wrong?" huffed Diva.
"He's not that kind of person," Retterford deflected. "With the limited time he has, Hem is breaking his stubbornness to solve the case."
"Or maybe solving this case will place him back on top," Diva countered. "A special Sentinel whose previous claims could be right... by default, making the Queen wrong."
"Okay, that makes more sense!" Retterford agreed.
Unfortunately for them—and the approaching Specialist—Hem's default expression made him appear inarticulate.
Mimado Balg, the Specialist appointed to Precinct 221N, hated the entire department's defiance.
While the entire precinct considered Mimado—or Simon—to be Hem's only rival, if you asked Hem, he would ask you in return, "Who?"
Everyone knew Hem's signature trait—which he considered a curse—was seeing a lock everywhere. Yet no one seemed to understand that this trait made him disregard the mundane.
Which, in this case, was all the constant drama people needed in their lives to make them feel meaningful.
A few locks a day were enough entertainment and accomplishment for Hem.
Mimado had more bones than skin or muscle. Some considered him a new race of Wanderer, but he was just too skinny, with an irregular build.
Retterford often joked that the Aurochs made him from leftover bones stuck in its teeth, only remembering at the last moment that Wanderers require other essentials.
Constantly having to look down on everyone made Mimado's neck stiff, and his elongated yet crooked nose was a perfect representation of how he always poked his nose where it didn't belong.
Mimado hated Hem more than the other lower forms of flesh. No one dared oppose the Queen, let alone find new ways to defy her. He had tried to sabotage Hem by giving him a false analysis, but Hem was too cautious to be fooled.
Mimado didn't have enough time to prepare, as Hem caught on to his devious intentions by the second attempt, barring any future sabotage.
With a shortage of Specialists and Mimado's clever invention of phrasing everything as a question, he managed to stay assigned and delay every case given to Hem Lock. These delays dropped their ranking and blocked Chief Retterford's promotions. Mimado even tried pulling strings to have their leader replaced, but no sane precinct wanted Retterford, and no Chief had the insanity to manage the peculiar officers of 221N.
While his initial plan failed, Mimado shifted the mind games inward—trying to turn the officers against each other. Yet all of them stayed a bunch of weirdos—their allegiance and thoughts only moving when Chief Retterford or Hem gave the signal.
How could they not? Chief Retterford had a reputation for collecting misfits, and Hem, naturally being at the top, became their default leader.
Mimado wasn't given any details of the case, as was customary for any investigation he was consulted on. By law, by the Queen's orders, he had to visit the site when summoned and provide an assessment. An assessment he had learned to delay by hiding answers behind countless questions.
Mimado concocted a delay tactic at first sight of Lock, but fearing his intellect, he convinced himself to acquire the solution before retaliating.
He settled on the floor—legs crossed, arms forward, eyes scanning the Arachnivis. In all his years as a Specialist focusing on Arachnivis, he had never seen one exploring during broad daylight.
Cold-blooded creatures preferred the dark and damp—he should know.
Mystic science should still apply to an irregular mystica, so Mimado ran through the checklist one by one.
The width of the pupils under a magnifying Ornyx held between Mimado's fingers told him the Arachnivis was excited. A disproportionate midsection meant the mystica had a hefty breakfast. A sudden twitch upon hearing the chant meant it was responsive. Yet the unyielding aspect made no sense.
How could a mystica acknowledge, not defy, and yet still not cooperate with the request?
Hem Lock caught the slight deviations in Mimado's mortified expression, which, according to others, was just his default setting trying to act normal.
"He's got nothing," Hem declared.
Moments later, Mimado confirmed Hem's declaration by quoting his favorite line.
"Mystic science isn't child's play. It's hard work, with countless variables leading to unimaginable outcomes."
"Then why do we have a Specialist?" asked the twins.
They were genuinely baffled—nonetheless, their question forced the others to chuckle, and caused Mimado to inflate with anger.
"Thanks to us, people like you get to enjoy the tantalizing wonders of Wanderlust," Mimado sneered, looking down on everyone.
"We don't have time for this..." Hem Lock began, then countered himself with an explanation directed at the twins.
"Wanderers who cling to luck-of-the-draw and coast through life, claiming their ancestors' findings. There haven't been any real revolutionary developments since the end of the Second Era. And based on current standards... I highly doubt there will be."
On cue, the twins "Oooh'd" at Hem's wisdom—elevating his speech while mocking Mimado at the same time.
They were shocked Hem had retaliated, only realizing later that he was lecturing them because they had the same guru.
D'Las wanted to suck up to the new, higher-ranking official. But with Hem subtly dethroning Mimado's position—and revealing his lack of practical skill—she wasn't sure how to proceed.
Hem noticed D'Las shifting her stance. A slight move, but enough to make him wary of the drama about to unfold. At moments like this, he wished Lyra were around. She had a strange power to keep everyone on the same emotional ride, with all their feelings intertwined and under her grasp.
The worry on the twins' faces pulled Hem back into the moment. His next declaration would give Mimado the ammunition he needed to dissolve the entire precinct.
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