Unrepentant

The Director moved through the night-cloaked streets of Sichal, his orange vest and brown trousers catching the faint glow of streetlights, lending him a theatrical, absurd air.

A dark cloak draped over his shoulders, swaying with his steps, adding a flourish to his every move. His mustache twitched in rhythm with the sprightly tune he whistled, a melody that felt out of place in the stillness. He tapped his cane lazily against the cobblestones, each click echoing through the empty streets he walked.

To anyone else, the slums might have felt suffocating, a tangle of decay. To him, it was a stage.

The city’s rhythm always pulsed around him, an intricate symphony only a Dancer of his caliber could perceive. The rustle of a rat, the distant murmur of a drunk, even the creak of a wooden sign—they all merged into a seamless melody.

As a third-step Dancer, he could sense this hidden music, choreographing his movements with effortless precision. Each step, each flourish of his cane, synchronized with the world’s heartbeat, guided by an unseen orchestra.

Despite the recent chaos at the theater, his spirits were high. Tonight, the music was lively, its tempo brisk yet controlled.

There was something exhilarating about it, hinting at a thrilling performance to come. He had come to the slums seeking retribution, to hunt down the creatures that dared disrupt his plans—those who had killed one of his Aspirants and injured two others, including Miranda’s sons. Not that he cared for them particularly, his nostalgia was reserved for Miranda, one of his best students.

Their injuries were more his doing than the slum dwellers’. But this was about principle, about reminding those who thought themselves clever that every performance had a Director, and he would not tolerate discord on his stage.

He turned down a narrow alley, eyes gleaming with a predatory glint. The buildings here loomed closer, shadows stretching across the path like skeletal fingers. The air was thick and damp, heavy with the stench of rot and sweat, but to him, it was just another layer to the symphony—a deep, rumbling bassline accentuating the sharper notes.

The Director’s steps slowed as he ventured deeper, his cane tapping lightly. The music in his mind swelled, a powerful melody echoing the confidence in his stride. He had reached the pinnacle of his art—the third step.

A peak that no Dancer had ever surpassed, yet it felt far from a limit. If anything, it was freedom.

He was a one-man army, his power as precise and deadly as a blade, his rhythm unbroken, even in chaos. Who would dare stand against a third-step Dancer? Certainly not anyone in Sichal.

The residents knew what he was capable of. They had seen glimpses—subtle hints beneath his charm and easy smile. Over the years, he had lulled them into complacency, his menace softened with humor.

He was the Director of the Traveling Orchid, after all, a man who knew how to keep the world entertained. But complacency bred forgetfulness. Someone had dared to kill one of his Aspirants, disrupt his rhythm, injure those under his charge.

Unacceptable. He would remind them—remind everyone—of the respect due to his craft, his talent. He would reassert his presence, make them see he was not to be trifled with. Even if it set back his personal goals, even if it delayed his efforts to win over his son.

The thought made him pause, his mustache twitching with irritation. The boy was a problem, a stubborn piece that refused to fit into the dance he had choreographed.

His son would rather whore himself out than acknowledge him, treating the Director like just another faceless customer. The memories brought a tightness to his chest, a throb at his temple that nearly cracked his calm. He could still see the boy’s smirk, the way he looked at him—defiant, immune to reason.

The Director’s fingers clenched around his cane, his composure slipping for a moment. But then he exhaled, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. He began tapping a gentle, soothing beat against his thigh, calming himself with the rhythm. Stubbornness like that could be useful.

It was a kind of resistance that could be shaped, directed, if only he could find the right way to bend it without breaking it.

His thoughts drifted back to a conversation they had a few months ago. Another attempt to convince the boy of their relation, to draw him in. The brat had the audacity to make a demand—one that would have made anyone else laugh him out of the room. "Bring me something to preserve my youth," he had said, "keep me beautiful. That’s what you can do for me, old man. Because this face—" he had touched his cheek, tilting his head with that insufferable grin, "—is my moneymaker."

The Director had indulged him. He procured two of the rarest herbs on the continent, just to prove a point, to show he could.

It was absurd, and he knew it, but he did it anyway. Because the dance was not over, and sometimes, a performer had to improvise. Sometimes, you had to let the melody lead you to places you hadn’t planned. At least, that was what he told himself.

A sudden caw broke the tune, sharp and jarring. The Director glanced up, catching sight of a crow perched atop a streetlamp. It ruffled its feathers, tilting its head as it watched him with glistening eyes. The Director’s lips curled into a smile, a flicker of amusement passing over his face. Just another player in the night’s performance, he thought, dismissing it.

With a flick of his wrist, he twirled the cane, letting it spin before catching it effortlessly. The smile on his lips widened, irritation melting away. He was back in control, his rhythm steady and unbroken.

The monsters would be dealt with, his son would come around eventually, and everything would fall into place. It was just a matter of time.

The Director resumed his stroll, the music in his head rising to a gentle crescendo, each step perfectly aligned with the melody only he could hear. The slums grew quieter as he ventured deeper, the sounds fading to a low, steady hum.

The music shifted, growing darker, more intense, the notes sharper, violent. The dissonance was close, a rough, discordant sound grating against the back of his mind.

He could feel it, the source of the disturbance, lurking just beyond his reach. His fingers tightened around the cane’s handle, a thrill running down his spine.

“Monsters hiding as men,” he mused, his voice barely louder than a whisper, yet cutting through the night. “What a delightful little game.”

He stepped forward, the darkness enveloping him, and the melody in his head swelled, rising to a fevered pitch. The world around him seemed to shift, shadows thickening, the air colder.

He felt the city bend to his will, drawing into the rhythm he was about to create. For a moment, everything was in perfect harmony, each note, each sound, falling into place.

Then, there it was again—the discord, sharp, grating, refusing to be silenced. His smile widened, a gleam of madness flickering in his eyes. Whatever dared defy him, he would bring it to heel, or he would crush it.

Tonight, the slums would dance to his tune, and he would ensure every step, every movement, was perfect.

Nyx glided silently over the slums of Sichal, wings slicing through the cool night air. Below, the city sprawled, a patchwork of shadows and flickering lights. He had debated whether to report back to Silas—so much had happened, much of it unexpected.

But curiosity kept him aloft, urging him to continue his investigation. There would be time to share later, once he understood more.

He dipped lower, drifting above narrow alleys, over rooftops, retracing earlier paths. His sharp eyes scanned the rooms he’d scouted before, and what he saw was... odd. The spaces he had emptied earlier were now close to deserted, yet routines remained.

Conversations continued, people laughed, despite missing companions. A woman set down plates for invisible diners, her face twisted in a silent scowl, as if expecting thanks that would never come. In a different building, a pantless man thrust into empty air, slapping down at missing flesh with his hands. Apparently, a lack of partner meant nothing to him.

Nyx perched on a clothesline between buildings, his talons gripping the wire. Hanging upside down, he scratched his chin thoughtfully. It felt unnatural, the way these people moved, like actors repeating lines even after the stage had been cleared. It suggested strict, rigid routines, as though they’d been instructed to maintain motions, even with gaps in their numbers.

He mulled over the thought, imagining how it might be done. Simple commands: wake up, work, show no joy, follow the crowd. Keep to your tasks, avoid conversation, discourage attention.

Watching it unfold below, it felt absurd and disturbing, like a puppet show with missing strings. Whoever was behind this wanted the illusion to continue, even if it faltered.

Nyx watched the scenes around him, a tiny spark of amusement in his eye. There was a strange beauty in the deception, a precision that kept ticking away, regardless of how many pieces were missing. He found it intriguing, not troubling. The deeper he delved, the more he appreciated the complexity of this mechanical charade.

But then, a sharp sensation brought his focus back. His eyes snapped open, clear and alert. There was a presence nearby, a danger that demanded his attention.

With a swift motion, he flipped upright, wings spreading as he dropped onto a nearby lamppost. He dimmed his energy, blending into the shadows of the night.

He scanned the narrow street below, tracking the source of that warning. Then he saw him—a man in a bright orange vest and brown trousers, strolling along, twirling a cane. The clothes clashed with the gloom, but his steps were light, deliberate.

To anyone else, he would look ridiculous, a harmless eccentric. Nyx knew better. He sensed the power beneath those easy movements, the subtle energy radiating from the man.

Nyx’s eyes followed him, sharp and unyielding. This was a third-step cultivator, and that made him dangerous. The man moved with an unbroken rhythm, his cane spinning in precise arcs, each step tuned to an unseen beat. Rarely did Nyx see someone so confident, so in control, and it sharpened his curiosity.

Those who broke the limit of the second-step were rare and worth keeping track off.

Without much thinking, Nyx let out a sharp squawk. The man stopped mid-step, his cane halting, and looked up. For a moment, the street fell silent, and they locked eyes. Nyx didn’t flinch, his gaze steady.

The man’s lips curled into a slight smile, hinting at understanding. He studied Nyx a moment longer, then resumed walking, the cane spinning, rhythm unbroken. It was a casual, dismissive gesture, but Nyx caught the subtle shift, the acknowledgment of something seen, then set aside.

Nyx’s feathers ruffled slightly as he watched the man continue. This wasn’t just anyone. "Interesting," Nyx thought, satisfaction in his eyes.

Nyx pushed off the lamppost, gliding silently after him. He kept his distance, moving from rooftop to rooftop, wings barely stirring the air. Shadows weren’t needed now, he would follow as a simple crow, unremarkable and unnoticed, yet ever watchful.

He had a reason to stay close, and not just out of curiosity. For he had realized, this man was their final target within Sichal, the one who held the ingredients Silas required.

As Nyx drifted above the darkened streets, his gaze fixed on the twirling cane below, a familiar thrill rose within him. Another game had begun, and he was ready to play.