The streets near the warehouse district were quieter than usual. Too quiet.
Luck followed a few steps behind Rook, head tilted slightly, listening. He didn't need to see the buildings to know they were old—stone and steel with warped acoustics. Sound echoed wrong here. Voices doubled back. Footsteps twisted around corners before they arrived.
Perfect place for someone to try something stupid.
"Looks like his stall's already been packed away," Rook murmured, stopping at the edge of a shadowed wall. "They probably started clearing out hours ago."
Luck turned his head slightly. "Hearing a lot of movement past the third building. Fast footsteps. Metal clinking. Maybe six or seven people."
"Scrambling," Rook said. "Which means we're right on time."
He motioned for Luck to follow and darted into the alley. They passed a pair of crates stacked sloppily outside a back door—still reeking of smoked resin and wet linen. Traces of magical residue clung faintly to the air. Luck wrinkled his nose.
"Someone tried to cover their trail," he muttered. "Didn't do a good job."
Rook nodded. "They're scared, and scared people make mistakes."
Rook crouched low near a side entrance, his hand hovering above the rusted latch. He didn't open it yet,just listened.
Luck stood beside him, head angled toward the door, focusing on the layering of sounds. Metal scraping on wood. Quickened breathing. A shuffle of cloth. One voice-low and tense. Two more overlapping in argument.
"Three inside this room," Luck whispered. "One's by the window. One's pacing. The other… sitting, maybe. Talking about a shipment."
"Good ears," Rook said, voice barely audible. "Probably guarding what's left. We need a distraction."
Luck reached into his coat and pulled a small pouch. "Got two smoke beads left."
Rook smirked. "Make 'em count."
He moved to the edge of the wall, keeping out of the light spilling from a cracked window overhead. Luck crept the other way, fingers brushing the uneven brick as he counted steps. Seven paces. Slight dip in the ground. He stopped, then flicked a bead down the alley in the opposite direction.
Clink.
The smoke burst with a sharp hiss.
Yells erupted. Shadows flickered inside the warehouse. Someone cursed, boots pounding toward the noise.
Rook moved.
He swung the door open and slipped in without a sound. Luck followed.
Inside was chaos.
One guard rushed past them, coughing as smoke bled through the far corridor. Another had just turned toward the noise when Rook's elbow found his jaw. He dropped before he could shout.
The third, a younger man barely older than Rook, grabbed for his weapon—but froze when Luck stepped forward.
He hesitated.
That was all it took.
Rook slammed him into the wall and let him crumple beside the first.
Luck's breath came slow and even. His heartbeat didn't spike anymore. Not during jobs like these.
"You good?" Rook asked, already moving toward a locked cabinet at the far end.
"Yeah. Quiet again," Luck replied, crouching beside one of the crates. He ran his hand along the lid. The edge was sealed with mana tape—low-grade security enchantment.
"Found the stash," he said.
"Break it," Rook called. "We're short on time."
Luck nodded. He reached into his jacket again, pulling a slender spike laced with a soft core of nullmetal. Pressed to the tape—it fizzled. Cracked. Popped.
The crate hissed as it opened.
Inside Luck felt multiple vials. Dozens. Some faintly warm. Others completely cold.
"I think it's blackstrain," Luck said. "More than last time."
Rook exhaled sharply. "Damn. He's been stockpiling. Maybe even trading out of Lowspire"
Luck pulled out a second crate. "And this one's heavier."
Rook crossed the room and popped the lid. Inside—scrolls. Sealed, coded, mana-wrapped.
Rook's smile faded. "No way."
Luck tilted his head. "What?"
"These are officially registered scrolls. Someone was trying to smuggle legal enchantments into an illegal business."
He reached for one. "These alone are worth more than the stash combined."
"Are we taking them?"
Rook paused.
Then nodded. "We're taking them."
Luck moved to help, sliding one scroll into his coat lining. Then another. He moved like he'd done it a hundred times—because he had.
But just as he tucked the third into place—he froze.
"Someone's coming," he whispered.
Rook looked up sharply. "Where?"
"Outside. Fast steps. Heavy boots. Four of them."
Then—boom.
The back door slammed open. Light flooded in.
"MOVE!"
Rook grabbed the crate of vials and dove. Luck followed, ducking behind a stack of barrels as the first bolt of lightning magic lanced through the room. It scorched a line across the stone floor, cracking tile.
"Magic corps!" Rook hissed. "They're early!"
"Damn it Rook! You said they were coming tomorrow morning!"
"That doesn't matter right now! Make sure you cover your face with something, like a shirt or cloth."
Luck didn't hesitate. He yanked off his shirt and wrapped it around his whole face, tying it tight.
A second bolt slammed into the crate beside them—vials shattered, spewing smoke and alchemical mist. The floor hissed as the mixture ate through the stone. Luck coughed, pulling the cloth tighter over his mouth.
Rook pulled a dagger from his belt, eyes sharp. "They're trying to flush us out."
Boots pounded outside the room. Luck heard the telltale hum of a suppression rune activating—like static crawling under his skin.
"They're boxing us in."
A figure stepped into the doorway. Clad in sleek black mage-armor inscribed with glowing blue script, the enforcer raised a gauntleted hand. His face was hidden behind a mirrored helm.
"Drop your weapons and surrender the contraband," he said calmly. "You are surrounded."
"An enforcer...he's at least C rank." Rook didn't blink. "Luck. Go."
Luck didn't move. "Not without you."
The enforcer stepped forward. "Final warning."
Rook hurled the dagger—straight at the enforcer's face.
It bounced off the mana shield with a dull clang.
The enforcer chanted. "Strike. Lighting bolt."
Lightning surged from the enforcer's palm, but this time Luck was ready. He threw a handful of dust— ash from the shattered crate and the burnt vials that it held—into the air. The bolt hit the ash mid-flight and burst into a harmless flare of light.
Rook grabbed a fallen crate lid like a shield. "Split now!"
But the enforcer moved fast—too fast. He swept his hand in an arc, and the entire entrance lit up with runes. A barrier sealed them in.
"No exits," the enforcer said, stepping through the doorway.
Luck's heart pounded. His breath came short.
Rook tensed like a coiled spring. "I'll hold him. You find another way out. Go!"
Luck hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him to run—to survive. But something else clawed its way up his spine.
'I'm not letting him go. Not like this.'
His fingers brushed the pouch at his side. The vial clinked against his knuckles. Cold. Swirling. The BlackStrain variant. Rook told him never to touch it.
"Only in desperation," he'd warned. "And only if you're ready to lose something."
Luck's jaw clenched.
He uncorked it.