Incursion (I)

Magic was the manipulation of a system's information using mana—an ambient energy composed of informational quanta capable of interacting with and altering reality. While humanity's understanding of mana was limited, they could shape its effects based on their own personal frameworks.

All forms of magic could be broadly categorized into two types: Psionic and Etheric, with the latter being the rarer of the two. The categories reflected the extent to which a deviant's mind had diverged from the norm. Psionic abilities were more common across spectrum, where deviants manipulated the world's rules rather than bending them outright—which is the case for their Etheric counterparts.

Deviant powers were shaped by their Cognitive Affinity Index. As the number increased, so did the distortion in their perception of reality—eventually, it gave rise to law-bending abilities that projected their warped understanding of the world onto reality itself.

For example, a psionic enchanter heals intuitively by stimulating rapid cellular regeneration, which, at best, only helps to close wounds.

Etheric abilities, by contrast, operate on loosely defined rules—they 'just work' based of how deviants rationalize them. Etheric enchanters perceive healing as the restoration of the body's natural state, allowing their powers to bypass certain limitations and regenerate entire limbs—something psionic powers cannot achieve.

In that sense, etheric recovery abilities were more akin to 'deleting damage' as opposed to standard healing techniques because of how far they pushed the bounds of recovery. It was virtually unheard of for anyone to be inherently immune to such law-defying abilities for no apparent reason.

"Sounds like quite the condition." Yelena spoke up calmly, her voice blending seamlessly into the flow of conversation, completely unaffected by the fact that she had remained silent for the past few minutes.

"It's not all bad." Despite the fact that he was behind her, Cyril still performed a shrug. "Psionic healers did a good enough job for it to fade considerably-"

A sigh interrupted him. Looking over to the next seat, he saw Angelica press a hand to her chest and take a few deep breaths, clearly exasperated. "Honestly, I don't even know what to say anymore. As much as I'd love to be sincere about this, you make it sound like it doesn't bother you at all."

"Hm... Fine. Let's drop the serious talk for now. I've got a few questions I'd like to ask you as well, Angelica."

Though a flicker of guilt passed through her as her mood brightened so suddenly, she gratefully accepted the change of topic since her teammate had already offered it.

"Ask away," Angelica said with a polite gesture, and the conversation naturally continued.

Soon enough, the tinted luxury vehicle rolled up at the foot of his dorm. After exchanging goodbyes, Cyril stared up at the multi-story building, groaned once more and began his completely normal trek up to the top floors.

As expected, his room was empty and dark, the late hour making the space feel even more solitary. He had only a few minutes before Ravenspurn's inevitable curfew would take effect. Once he finished freshening up, Cyril sank into the soft sheets and let his consciousness drift away.

[The host's mental restraints have been lifted, low risk of cognitive interference. Estimated time until the host awakens: 6:56:44. Executing procedure, commencing deep memory scan. Acquiring date – June 15th, Year 118—Day of incursion incident. Subject of interest: Marcel Phoenix, Victor, Cocytus. Initiating scan in 3... 2... 1...]

June 15th, Year 118, P.R.E.— Day Of The Incursion Incident

6:23 P.M.

Dark clouds loomed overhead.

England was well known for its dreary skies and wet seasons, they were fairly uncommon at this time of year and yet, somehow, the murky weather still managed to persist against the balminess of summertime.

Had some subtle climate changes taken place over the last century?

That question never crossed Cyril's mind. He was far too preoccupied with sorting his belongings as he moved along the cluttered streets. Currently, he was at an intersection in Ravenspurn, right below the canopy of a nearby cafe, ham-fistedly sifting through his backpack in search of something.

Being in uniform made him far more conscious of the nearby pedestrians—umbrellas already in hand—passing him by with an air of conspicuity, stealing glances as they walked.

The crooked smile he was struggling to maintain was already nearing its limit, threatening to tilt completely to one side. Every so often, he received the occasional greeting too, which he returned in a voice about half an octave lower than usual.

In truth, it wasn't that he stood out in a particularly bad way. Nothing about his appearance was very eye catching—he was a simple teenage boy with jet-black hair and affable features. It was the uniform—the sleek, collared blazer paired with matching trousers and the Jioistic crest emblazoned on his chest—that caught their eyes.

His school, Newgate Academy, had earned a reputation thanks to the headmaster's storied track record. Even within Babylon, it was considered exclusive, catering to fewer than a thousand students. The place was practically a paradise for any young deviant hoping to hone their abilities—hunter-bound or not.

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Its moderate student body allowed for a bit more room for personal vocation and growth.

"Ah! Here it is!"

As if it were deliberately on cue, his declaration was met with a rumbling sound from the heavens, followed by the quiet approach of the evening's drizzle coming down by the billions.

He quickly sortied his belongings and pushed a small button the cylindrical object in his hand, the shaft extended, opening with a dull flap that projected a miniature blue dome above his head to shield him from the dribbling raindrops.

As he moved off, silently thankful that the crosswalk's light had just turned green, Cyril unloaded a heavy breath. The school day officially ended hours ago, but certain circumstances had kept him there for reasons he was already lamenting.

Before he even realized it, his gaze had already dropped about thirty centimeters, settling on the sword at his hip. A few decades ago, it would have almost been unthinkable to see a typical high school student walking around with such a thing, even more so because it was real and not a replica.

And yet, not a single soul batted an eye.

Students enrolled in practical combat courses were required to participate in live exercises twice a month. The programs allowed them to face off against low-level monsters captured specifically for that purpose. But even outside of those sessions, there were no regulations against carrying artifacts for personal protection.

When not in use, the school required students to store their weapons in one of the many armories on campus—facilities built expressly for that purpose.

It was a different story beyond the walls of Babylon—but inside, such precautions were second nature. The same applied to the city's peacekeeping force: every member of Longinus' patrol units was heavily armed, not necessarily to engage, but to discourage.

In a city where eighty percent of the population could use magic, deterrence was everything. The risk of reckless violence always carried the looming threat of mutual destruction—if not outright death.

He was almost at the end of the term and yet the days only seemed to be growing more hectic for Cyril. His predicament didn't stem from any of the classes he was enrolled in, it was more so about the glacial rate of growth poisoning his proficiency as a deviant.

He was by no means lacking in skill, but an index of appropriate caliber was needed alongside it for a deviant to truly hone their proficiency. Trudging through the somber rain shower, he recalled the face of a certain someone that demanded he stayed back yet again for 'remedial tips' as she called it.

Truthfully it was nothing more than a fancy excuse to have him run errands for a few hours, one of the many odd situations he found himself being tangled up in after enrolling at Newgate academy. By the time his weapon was finished undergoing maintenance at Vulcanus, the evening sun had already been covered by a sea of dark clouds.

Something rattled in his pocket, and Cyril reacted immediately. He pulled out his phone to examine the contents of the message displayed on his screen, his lips lifted into a small smile at the sight of the message's contents.

The first was a series of coordinated messages from Liz and Henry, who were checking in on him simply because of the bad weather. Their exchange went something like this:

Liz: "I really do hope you have an umbrella Cyril, knowing you, I bet you think it's fine to just trot home in the downpour."

Henry: "One time he actually did it, saying something about how it was faster because all the trains get too full when it starts to rain. As much as I love a good laugh, we all know what would happen if your dorm manager caught you trying to scale the building again."

"You're making me sound like some kind of delinquent. "I wasn't scaling the building, I was just… optimizing my route."

Liz: "You are a delinquent. Just one with weirdly good grades and a strange obsession with rooftop shortcuts." Her message made him physically flinch, even without actually seeing her in person, he could still visualize his friend delivering that comeback with a stately attitude.

Cyril wanted to groan.

"I'll be fine; besides I'm going home today, its closer than the dorms." defeated, he found himself typing the message vindictively.

Liz: "Have some tea when you get home."

Henry: "Don't forget Cyril, the elevator's also an option if you don't particularly feel like climbing all those stairs today."

"You're doing this on purpose aren't you?"

Alas, the conversation wouldn't end naturally until someone got in one last jab. No matter how prim she liked to appear, Elizabeth was clearly enjoying herself. The same went for Henry—he'd just sent a string of laughing emojis, easily twelve times the amount of amusement Elizabeth had shown over Cyril's predicament.

Cyril sighed and shook his head, a bit disheartened but nonetheless satisfied.

"At least someone's making the most of this miserable weather." He muttered, glancing up at the swarthy skyline. Just as he went to put the device away, another jingle sounded from his mobile, the screen lighting up with a sudden sense of urgency. Upon moving the device closer to his face, Cyril's lips parted with a small smile, one stemming from admiration as opposed to amusement.

Purely because of how Cyril had saved this particular contact, the message came across as both serious and slightly ridiculous at the same time. It read something like this:

The Steely Maiden: "Something came up Cyril, the Longinus convoy is having some issues. I'll need to regroup with the main force over in Wharram to see what's going on, so I probably won't be there when you get back. But hey, don't forget – there's leftovers in the fridge, and yes, cake. I swear, if you touch my ginger beer though, I'll know, and I've been saving that for two weeks! Consider it sacred."

"Roger, I'll do you a favour and keep my hands off your ginger beer. It'll save you £3."

A glare emoji popped up in response, radiating all the intensity of a thousand judgments. Underneath it, the words "See you later" were typed out, with just the right amount of passive-aggressive finality.

Cyril chuckled and put away his phone, the sudden smile apparently overwriting his mood.

"Alright, it's not far from here," he said, stretching his arms as he trotted a bit further down the road. Mere moments later, every ounce of mirth inside him was blown away by the sound of an impending collision.

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