Chapter 183 – Meeting a Witch Hunter

In the uneasy quiet that followed the clowns’ disappearance, the courtyard transformed from a battleground into a forensic zone. University Enforcers in their white robes fanned out, establishing a wide perimeter, their voices firm as they redirected gawking students and faculty away from the scene. The air still crackled with residual magic and the coppery scent of Grom’s spilled blood.

Mitra Mayumi was at the center directing people, her green hair a vivid beacon amidst the white. She moved between clusters of senior officers, her voice clipped and clear, issuing directives, demanding initial reports, her emerald eyes missing nothing—the shattered wall, the acid-pitted stones, the scorch marks from Alan’s deflected lightning.

In a relatively undisturbed corner, away from the worst of the debris, Joe, Alan, and Grom had gathered. Grom sat on an overturned stone bench, his massive frame looking uncharacteristically weary. A professor from the Silverwing College, her hands glowing with the gentle, golden light of Vitos-aspected healing magic, was carefully working over the worst of his burns and lacerations. Joe stood with his arms crossed, his detective’s gaze sweeping the organized chaos, while Alan hovered anxiously nearby.

The golden light pulsed, knitting seared flesh and coaxing bruised tissue to mend. Color returned to Grom’s ashen skin, and the terrible, ragged wounds began to close into angry, but stable, scars. After several minutes, the healer withdrew her hands, the light fading. She gave Grom a final, professional assessment.

Healer: “I’ve stabilized you and patched the critical damage,” she said, her tone brisk but not unkind. “You are in no immediate danger. However, you must report to the university hospital today for a full diagnostic scan and a proper treatment regimen. Lightning magic causes deep tissue and nerve damage that my field healing can only partially address.”

Grom: “Thanks,” he rumbled, the word carrying genuine gratitude.

The healer nodded and moved off to arrange transport, her pace efficient but unhurried—Grom was no longer bleeding out.

Once she was out of earshot, Alan turned to the Goliath, his face etched with guilt.

Alan: “Grom, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know my attack would be turned against you, I—”

Grom raised a large, now-bandaged hand, cutting him off. He shook his head, the movement slow but firm.

Grom: “A warrior does not apologize for the enemy’s skill. He learns from it. Your only mistake was not knowing the technique. Now you do.”

Alan swallowed hard and gave a solemn nod.

Grom: “Besides,” he continued, forcing a grin that looked painful, “we’re all walking away. Well, most of us.” His expression sobered as he glanced toward the building where the professor’s body lay. “That was their doing, not yours. And none of us saw that sword-wielder until it was too late. It was a well-coordinated ambush.”

Joe stepped closer, his voice low.

Joe: “All things considered, we got off light. Someone who can combine Blade Storm with Savagery magic… that’s a nightmare combination. They were seconds from turning this courtyard into a charnel house.”

Grom nodded grimly in agreement, the motion pulling at his new scars.

Alan looked back and forth between them, confusion plain on his face.

Alan: “Um, excuse me… what are Blade Storm and Savagery magic?”

Both Joe and Grom stared at him. Grom’s surprise was the most pronounced, his eyebrows rising.

Grom: “You’re from Gix, right? You’re telling me you don’t know Gixian Arcane Swordsmanship?”

Alan: “I left when I was very young,” Vexal admitted, a familiar old shame coloring his voice. “I know stories… but not the specifics of the fighting styles.”

Grom: “But surely you’ve seen it demonstrated? Even in passing?”

Alan shook his head.

Grom’s frown deepened, but then a spark of opportunity lit in his eyes—the chance to be the senior, the teacher. He leaned forward, wincing slightly.

Grom: “Well, that clown with the sword was using it. The technique that stole your lightning is called Aether Sword Reversal. A skilled swordsman can absorb certain types of magical energy directly into their blade and rebound it. And Blade Storm…” He gestured vaguely toward the scorch marks where the ethereal swords had been. “…is exactly what it sounded like. A swordsman manifests spectral copies of their blade, which they can control independently. It’s a hallmark of high-level Gixian swordsmanship. The number of blades is a direct measure of their aetheric control and power. Creating two dozen, as that clown did, is the mark of a true adept.” A competitive gleam entered his eyes. “The most I’ve ever seen was thirty-two, from a friend of mine, Johannes, during a sparring match.”

Alan’s head jerked up.

Alan: “Wait, you know Johannes?”

Grom’s pained grin returned.

Grom: “Yeah, we’re good friends. We spar whenever our paths cross.” He flexed a bandaged arm, the determination clear. “He wins most of the time, but one of these days… Anyway, the point is, if you want to understand what you’re up against—and maybe learn to counter it—you should ask him. I’ve heard your friends are with him. Since you lack the foundation, having someone like Johannes tutor you in Gixian Arcane Swordsmanship would be invaluable. He’s a walking library of sword techniques.”

Alan had carried a deep-seated, instinctive wariness of the noble class since childhood, a sentiment forged in the crucible of Gix’s oppressive hierarchies. Johannes’s selfless act of saving his life had forced a crack in that prejudice, proving nobility and decency could coexist. Yet, knowing Johannes was a good man and actually bridging the social and experiential chasm to speak with him were two different things. Alan still found himself holding back, their interactions limited to polite, occasional exchanges, the ghost of his old biases and his own displacement creating an invisible wall.

Alan: “I’ll… keep that in mind,” Alan said, his voice noncommittal. “But what about the other thing? Savagery magic?”

Grom simply shook his head, his knowledge of the subject clearly limited. Both young men then turned their expectant gazes to Joe, who had named the sinister power.

The detective’s expression grew complicated, a mix of professional distaste and grim memory. He was silent for a long moment, as if weighing how much to reveal.

Joe: “I’m both surprised you don’t know about it, and not surprised at all, because it’s not something they teach in polite classrooms.”

As the silence stretched, Alan pressed.

Alan: “Well, what is it?”

Joe let out a short, humorless breath.

Joe: “The simplest way to describe Savagery magic is that it’s the magic of murder. Some eggheads at headquarters once called it ‘the seventh element,’ which is both clinical and utterly missing the point. I’ve only encountered it once, in a serial murder case. It’s not common, but it’s common enough.”

Alan: “Magic of… murder?” his brow furrowed. “Is it a type of Black Magic?”

Joe: “Technically, no,” he said, his tone flat. “It behaves more like an elemental force. You can infuse it into other spells or objects, which is why it gets compared to an element. When active, it manifests as a crimson energy—a red, crackling aura that looks like lightning. But its nature is purely destructive amplification. If you’re hit by a fireball, you get burned. If you’re hit by a fireball infused with Savagery magic, the fire might also liquefy your bones, trigger catastrophic internal hemorrhaging, scar your psyche with visions of the caster’s past violence, and leave a toxic residue that resists healing. It takes any attack and refines it, focuses it, into the most efficient instrument of death possible.”

Alan: “By the Light…” he whispered, horror dawning in his eyes. “All that from one infusion?”

Joe gave a grim nod.

Joe: “It warps even healing magic. Trying to mend a wound tainted by Savagery is like trying to wash off oil with more oil; it’s incredibly difficult and often makes things worse. It’s a… frowned upon power among those who know of it.”

Alan: “I suppose that makes sense,” he said, trying to grasp the logic. “Given how dangerous it sounds, I guess even here at the university, it wouldn’t be taught in a normal class.”

Joe: “Let me correct myself,” Stricker interjected, his voice dropping. “I said ‘frowned upon,’ but that makes it sound like a matter of taste or danger. The reason it’s reviled is the price of admission. You cannot learn Savagery magic from a book or a teacher. There is no school, no theory. The only way to gain the ability to wield it… is to kill. To take sentient life. Repeatedly. As you do, you build a kind of… innate resonance with the concept of violent death. The serial killer I caught had slaughtered many people before he started manifesting the red energy in his torture rituals.”

Alan felt a cold nausea rise in his throat. The sheer, grotesque economy of it was appalling.

Grom: “That’s… really messed up,” he grumbled, echoing the sentiment with a disgusted shake of his head.

Alan: “It’s horrific,” Vexal breathed. “Why isn’t it labeled Black Magic and banned outright?”

Joe: “Because the source isn’t considered inherently corrupt,” he explained, though he clearly disagreed with the distinction. “A soldier on a battlefield, killing to defend their homeland, can theoretically develop it. Witch Hunters, in their relentless war against cults, have been known to manifest it. The reason for the killing doesn't matter in learning this magic, only the act itself. But make no mistake—if you see someone using that crimson energy, you are looking at someone who has ended many, many lives. The group most synonymous with its use is the Endless War Cult. For them, slaughter is common.”

The name hit Alan like a physical blow.

The Endless War Cult.

The words echoed in his skull, drowning out the background noise of the investigation. The color drained from his face. The flames of his burning home, the screams of his neighbors, the feeling of helpless terror as a child—memories he kept locked in a deep, dark chamber of his mind erupted to the surface. The enemy that had shattered his world, the reason he stood here in a foreign land, striving for a strength he didn’t yet possess… they were connected to this vile, red magic. The clowns weren’t just random assassins. The nightmare from his past had just reached out, in a new and terrifying form, and touched his present.

Alan: “Does that mean those intruders are part of the Endless War Cult?” the name tasting of ashes and childhood terror.

Joe: “Not necessarily. That magic is a tool. Anyone who’s paid the… price… can wield it. But it’s a hell of a calling card. It tells you exactly what kind of person you’re dealing with—someone whose soul carries the weight of countless ended lives. The more pressing question is: why was a squad of that caliber, with that particular skillset, inside the university at all?”

Alan felt a cold nausea rise in his throat. The sheer, grotesque economy of it was appalling.

Grom: “And why were they dressed like clowns?” Rockjaw added, gingerly touching a newly healed burn on his forearm.

Joe: “...Yes. That is also a question,” Striker conceded dryly, filing the bizarre aesthetic choice away for later analysis. “But if we apply logic and strip away the face paint, their target was likely forbidden knowledge. They infiltrated the Grayscale College, which specializes in studying and containing dangerous, restricted magics. My bet is they were after something specific: an artifact, a sealed text, or perhaps a unknown source of Black Magic kept under lock and heavy wards here. Something worth killing a professor in cold blood and fighting a battle against Enforcers to obtain.”

Both Alan and Grom nodded slowly. Joe’s professional deduction cut through the lingering adrenaline and horror, providing a plausible, if terrifying, motive. It made the chaos feel less random, and therefore, in a detective’s mind, more solvable.

As they were mulling this over, the orange-haired elf who had intervened with her blazing bestiary finished her conversation with a senior enforcer. Her amber eyes scanned the organized chaos of the courtyard before settling on their small, battered group. She approached them, the quiet authority in her movement causing several nearby junior enforcers to subtly give her space.

Elf: “Hello,” she said, her voice clear and carrying a faint, Gixian accent. “I’m glad to see you three are still standing. That final volley was… well-constructed. It would have been dangerous."

Joe: “Yeah,” he said, offering a curt, professional nod of respect. “Thanks for the assist. We’d have been decorative stains on the cobblestones. Your timing was impeccable.”

Sofia: “Of course. It is my duty and purpose as a Witch Hunter to protect others,” she replied, though there was no arrogance in the statement, only simple fact. “I should introduce myself properly. I am Sofia Firemane. An elite operative of the Witch Hunter order, and a disciple of Betty Vo.” She gave a short, formal bow from the waist, her fiery hair swaying like a captured sunset with the motion.

Alan was momentarily taken aback. His limited experience with elves, mostly gleaned from his grandfather’s stories, painted them as arrogant, aloof, and disdainful of “lesser” races, despite them being human themselves. Sofia’s straightforward politeness and the lack of any condescending air dismantled that crude stereotype completely. Here was an elf who fought with them, not above them.

Joe, however, was stuck on a different part of her introduction. His mind, a repository of useful and obscure facts, latched onto the name like a hook. He straightened up, his pain and fatigue momentarily forgotten under a wave of pure, professional astonishment.

Joe: “Hold on a second. You’re a disciple of Betty Vo? The Betty Vo? The legendary Witch Hunter who dismantled the Cult of the Twisted Mirror single-handedly? The Archmage whose foundational texts on cultist network analysis are required reading in the police force? The scholar who was also one of only four living individuals recognized as a Sword Saint? That Betty Vo?” His voice was a mixture of awe and sheer incredulity, the list of titles tumbling out as if he were checking them off a mental file.

Alan’s eyes widened further. He might not know the scholarly achievements or the specific cults, but ‘Sword Saint’ was a title that resonated deep in his bones. In Gix, it was the highest possible honor for a warrior-mage, a symbol of near-mythical sword skill recognized across the continent. It spoke of a mastery that transcended nations and politics. To learn that this woman was the final disciple of such a figure was staggering.

Sofia’s composed expression softened, a touch of profound melancholy dimming the fierce light in her eyes.

Sofia: “Yes, that Betty Vo. I was her… final disciple. Trained in her last years. Before she passed.” The words carried the weight of melancholy.

Grom: “What’s someone with your fame doing here?” he asked, his curiosity overriding his pain for a moment. “Shouldn’t you be leading continent-wide purges of cults or something?”

A faint, wry smile touched Sofia’s lips, though it didn’t reach her eyes.

Sofia: “I wouldn’t call myself famous. The fame, the legend, belongs to my teacher. I was merely her student, trying to uphold her standards. As for my presence… I came to Graheel to consult with the university’s archmages on matters of grave importance. Unfortunately, my order’s reputation has… suffered a catastrophic collapse lately. They declined to grant me an audience.”

Joe: “The Purifier killings?” he guessed, his tone flat.

He’d read the bulletins—a splinter group of Witch Hunters gone rogue, their brutal “purification” campaigns blurring the line between heretic-hunting and outright massacres.

Sofia: “Yes,” the elf confirmed, a flash of cold frustration tightening her jaw. “The schism within our order, and the atrocities committed by those calling themselves ‘Purifiers,’ has poisoned our name in the well of public trust. No government official will see us, as they can’t tell a true Hunter from a murderous fanatic waving the same banner. Some Union states now have standing orders to detain us on sight for ‘questioning.’ When I attempted to secure a meeting with Archmage Lazarus Vaal to share critical intelligence, I was turned away at the gate by a nervous clerk citing ‘security concerns.’” She gestured with a gloved hand to the scarred courtyard, the shattered wall, the bloodstains. “I was on my way out, contemplating my next move, when I heard the commotion and saw your fight. Engaging a clear and present threat,” she said, a hint of steel returning to her voice, “seemed a more immediate and unambiguous way to be of service than arguing with bureaucrats.”

Joe nodded slowly, processing Sofia’s explanation. The bureaucratic stonewalling was a familiar song to him, albeit with deadlier verses.

Joe: “Well, if it’s that critical, I can act as a messenger. I have a direct line to Archmage Dakka. He’s pragmatic, and he listens when the evidence is solid.”

Sofia’s amber eyes brightened with a spark of genuine hope.

Sofia: “Would you? That would be invaluable. There is a convergence of shadows approaching Golgotta. The great mages here need to be made aware.”

Joe: “Consider it done. And if it’s a matter of public safety, I’ll loop in the proper channels at the precinct as well. Get everyone on the same page.”

A flicker of hesitation passed over Sofia’s face at the mention of the local police, a subtle tension in her shoulders.

Sofia: “Yes,” she said after a beat, mastering her reaction. “I suppose a coordinated response would be most effective. Thank you.”

Joe: “By the way,” he began, his tone shifting to a more deliberate, professional cadence. “Depending on how busy you are, I have a… situation. A police investigation. A murder, with elements that are… outside standard procedure. They might fall within your area of expertise. I could use a consult.”

He left it open-ended, an invitation rather than a demand. He was painfully aware he had no official authority to requisition her help, only the gravity of the case and the hope that her oath meant something.

Sofia regarded him for a moment, her amber eyes assessing. He saw no offense, only a quiet, professional consideration.

Sofia: “Of course,” she said without hesitation. “I swore an oath to aid those confronting the darkness. A murder investigation that draws your suspicion is precisely the kind of darkness I am meant to confront.” She gave a small, pragmatic shrug. “And my schedule, for the moment, is unfortunately clear. I will be staying in Graheel for some time. I’m awaiting the arrival of allies while I petition for potential assistance. Assisting you would be a more productive use of my time than being repeatedly turned away at doors.”

“Score,” Joe thought, a rare spark of optimism cutting through the ever-present grind. Having a Witch Hunter of Sofia’s apparent caliber—a disciple of a legend, no less—consulting on the Rob Anvil case was an unimaginable break. Her insight into curses, cult methodologies, and strange magic could be the key that finally turned the lock.

But his planning for the future was interrupted by the immediate, violent present. His gaze swept over the battlefield courtyard—the acid-pitted craters, the scorch marks from Alan’s lightning, the gaping hole in the wall, the blood slowly darkening on the stones. The sheer, brazen audacity of the attack here, in the heart of the University’s power, was staggering.

Joe: “It also bears asking,” he said, turning his full attention back to Sofia, his voice dropping. “In your travels, have you heard anything about a group of killers… dressed as clowns? It sounds like a bad joke, but after today, it’s a deadly serious question.”

A faint, grim smile touched Sofia’s lips.

Sofia: “You are the second person to ask me that in the last ten minutes. And as insane as it sounds… yes. I have intelligence. Before the schism crippled our order, we were monitoring reports of a strange, nomadic circus operating in the war-torn regions of Gix. It was a minor entry in a long list of anomalies—wherever this ‘Carnival’ pitched its tents, a pattern emerged. Local populations would report missing persons after the circus had moved on. Easy to blame on the general chaos of the Warring States. One of our agents flagged it as worthy of deeper investigation, suspecting it might be a front for trafficking or a cult using the spectacle as cover. But then…” she gestured vaguely, encompassing the collapse of her order, “…we lost the resources to pursue it. The agent who was interested… she went her own way when the Purifiers split off.”

Joe listened with intense focus, his mind racing. A traveling circus. A pattern of disappearances. A cover for something darker. It fit a chilling profile.

Joe: “Does that mean your order suspected cult involvement?”

Sofia: “It is precisely the kind of darkness my order was created to hunt,” she affirmed, her voice hardening into the tempered steel of her vocation. “But suspicion is not proof. The schism stole our chance for a proper investigation.” She straightened her shoulders, the Witch Hunter’s mantle settling visibly upon her. “However, if the killers we faced today are connected to that carnival… then I swear on my honor and the legacy of my teacher, I will help you burn it to the ground. Especially for the sake of the people who vanished.”

Joe, ever attuned to shifts in tone and unspoken gravity, caught the dark undercurrent in her words.

Joe: “What kind of people went missing around this circus?” he asked, his instincts narrowing in on the critical detail.

Sofia’s gaze grew distant, looking past them to some grim ledger only she could see.

Sofia: “The pattern was… specific.” She took a slow breath, as if steeling herself to recite a grim roll call.

As she listed them, a chilling feeling fell over the three men. Alan’s breath hitched. Grom’s jaw tightened, the muscles standing out like cords of stone. Joe’s face, usually a mask of weary pragmatism, went utterly still, his lips parting slightly in a silent, horrified understanding.

The image she painted was one of profound evil.

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the weight of this new, ugly truth. The battle in the courtyard had been loud and violent. But, what Sofia described chilled the blood far more deeply.