Chapter 74: Cathedral, Kobolds, and Chaos

The plaza was packed. People moved in all directions, voices overlapping in a constant murmur. Makeshift tents lined the square—stretched under patchy tarps and stitched-up banners flapping in the wind. The air was thick with the stench of leather, sweat, and metal.

Anna and Cecília were already heading toward the fenced-in area near Bastion’s military fortress when a soldier in light armor stepped into their path, barely glancing at them.

“Line starts there,” he said flatly, jerking a gloved thumb toward a cluster of weary-looking survivors.

Luke watched from a distance, leaning on a broken stone pillar. At the end of the line, he spotted Oswald—tall, broad-shouldered, and severe as always—inspecting the resources people brought in: skins, handmade tools, jagged monster teeth. For some, he handed over ration tokens or nodded toward the food tent. For most… just a stiff nod and a dismissive grunt.

Bastion’s tribute system was simple.

A weekly offering in exchange for the basics:

One room.

One hot meal per day.

One barrel of clean water.

That was the deal.

They accepted almost anything. Beast remains, scavenged scrap, usable gear. It felt weird at first—kill a monster just to trade it for food? But Luke had figured it out.

People hunted in groups. Everything got split. And even if you could eat the raw meat… a real cooked meal? Something hot, seasoned—prepared by someone who actually knew what they were doing, not just boiled meat and burnt roots?

That was worth more than just calories. It was a return to normalcy. To dignity. A reminder of what it felt like to be human in a world constantly trying to reduce you to something else.

With the tribute paid, you were entitled to a room in one of the inns, houses, or buildings surrounding the Bastion fortress—and that meant real protection. A safe roof over your head, guaranteed security, and, of course, a shield against the frequent monster invasions.

If a person alone craved that kind of safety in such a chaotic world, imagine how much more it meant for someone with a family. A father, for example, could venture into the Wild Zone to gather resources with peace of mind, knowing his wife and kids were safe in a room at the heart of the Safe Zone.

Those who didn’t have goods to trade?

They worked. Sweeping alleys. Guarding gates. Carrying supplies.

In this world, staying alive had become its own kind of currency.

Then Luke saw him.

Kruger.

Leaning casually against the stone wall near Oswald. Cloaked in black, skull mask locked in place. Arms folded. He barely moved. But his presence?

Like a shadow that thought. Watched. Waited.

The Phantom Assassin.

Nobody really knew what Kruger did. Only that when he appeared… things ended. Fast. Always.

When will I be that strong…?

The thought hit Luke like cold iron. But he knew the truth.

To get there…

He’d have to go deeper.

Far deeper.

And maybe leave something behind.

***

A few days later. The bell rang.

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6:00 a.m.

Its metallic echo rolled through the ruins like a funeral toll for the night. Luke stood on the roof of an old building at the edge of the Safe Zone. From up there, the city unfolded like a dying labyrinth—blocks of crumbling stone, weeds cracking through every gap, trees clawing through windows long abandoned.

This was how he scouted. He climbed. Watched. Marked churches. Listened to bells.

Luke narrowed his eyes. In the distance, the Midnight Wardens returned from their patrols—tall, black-armored knights moving with unnatural precision, leaping from rooftop to rooftop like wraiths in metal. He tracked them with care as they scattered across the ruined district. Some vanished into cracks between broken buildings. Others descended into the dark mouths of underground tunnels.

“Three dens… all near the border,” Luke whispered.

“Three… just in this sector alone.” He exhaled slowly, memorizing every movement. Every route. Every entrance.

This is it.

Then he noticed—he was missing his bag. The one he used to carry everywhere. Papers, pens, hand-drawn maps. Bought with effort, built over weeks, just to map out Bastion and its surroundings with precision. But today… none of it.

Down below, on the cracked street level, Princess Charlie stood waiting. The red-bladed greatsword on her back caught the faint light of sunrise, casting an ominous gleam across the stones at her feet.

Luke turned from the rooftop. “Time to visit the church.” He jumped. A branch cracked under his foot, but his body moved fluidly—rooftop to rooftop, wall to ledge, landing with a precision no untrained human could match. His reflexes had sharpened. His body had adapted.