The knock became a hammer.

  “Open this door,” Alven roared again. “Or I’ll open it for you!”

  Karl stared down at the heavy front entrance, frozen.

  Then he heard it.

  Steel unsheathing. Leather boots pounding the stairs. A shout—familiar and furious:

  “Protect the NPC!”

  ---

  The door burst inward.

  Alven’s royal guards surged into the foyer, axes raised, shields up. Their armor gleamed under the villa’s chandeliers, polished and proud. They expected disorganized panic. Maybe frightened servants. Certainly not—

  “Formation A!” someone shouted from the second floor.

  A table flipped sideways. Arrows flew.

  One embedded itself in a guard’s shoulder. Another bounced off a steel helm.

  The guards were surprised.

  Then the players charged.

  ---

  The villa turned into a battlefield.

  Ten players, armed with spears, iron kitchen knives, firewood clubs, and stolen short swords, clashed with the surviving royal guards. The players had no armor. No formal training.

  But they had numbers.

  And they had excitement.

  “This is it!” shouted one with a bloodied face. “A real boss fight!”

  “Cover the prince!” yelled another. “Main questline trigger—get him out of here!”

  Karl barely had time to open his mouth.

  Two players grabbed him, dragging him through the hallway.

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  “What are you—”

  “No time, sir! Extraction protocol initiated!”

  He flailed. “Wait, what protocol?!”

  ---

  Back in the foyer, chaos reigned.

  A player leapt from the second floor balcony with a war cry, tackling a royal guard to the floor. Another swung a chair like an executioner’s axe. A spear shattered against a breastplate. Blood sprayed across the marble tiles.

  And at the center of it all, Alven roared like a beast.

  “You think I won’t kill you all!?”

  He cut down a player in one swing. Another stabbed him in the thigh—he didn’t even flinch.

  “Where is he!?” Alven bellowed. “Where is Karl!?”

  But by the time he reached the upper floor, Karl was gone.

  The back door shattered. A pair of players covered the escape, one holding a pot lid like a shield, the other bleeding from the side.

  “Go!” they yelled. “We’ll hold them!”

  Then the flames began.

  ---

  Karl didn’t remember running.

  Just shouts. Smoke. Footsteps. A hand pulling his sleeve.

  They ran through alleys, down stone stairways, across a dried aqueduct.

  Behind them, the lights of the villa burned. The fire hadn’t been planned. But the result was the same.

  His home in Aurelia was gone.

  ---

  At the same moment, the Ravens received the call.

  They expected a confrontation. They did not expect casualties.

  “Eight dead,” the messenger panted. “Two more critical. Prince Alven wounded.”

  Captain Maldran’s eyes darkened.

  “Target?”

  “Escaped.”

  “Which one?”

  “The younger.”

  He said nothing.

  Then he stood.

  “Lock down the noble quarter,” he ordered. “Seal the gates. We find him.”

  ---

  In the palace, the report reached the Emperor.

  He read it once.

  Then twice.

  He placed it on the table beside his wine.

  A courtier awaited his order.

  The Emperor spoke without looking up.

  “Support the older brother,” he said.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Kill the younger one.”

  The courtier bowed and vanished into the hall.

  ---

  Meanwhile, Karl crouched behind a fruit stall, panting.

  “Are they... are they chasing us?” he asked.

  The player beside him was grinning, blood on her chin.

  “Absolutely,” she said.

  Karl blinked at her.

  She smiled.

  “This is the most fun I’ve had in years.”

  Another player peeked from behind the cart. “We can’t stay here long. They’ll be combing the district in minutes.”

  A third adjusted his stolen guard cloak. “Time to split up?”

  Karl grabbed one by the arm.

  “Why did you do that?” he demanded.

  The player tilted his head. “What?”

  “You attacked my brother!”

  The man frowned. “Wasn’t that... the quest?”

  Karl stared.

  “No,” he said.

  There was a silence.

  Then someone muttered, “Oh.”

  ---

  Back at the villa, the fire was under control.

  The dead were being counted.

  Alven stood, blood on his armor, wrapped shoulder throbbing. His surviving guards numbered six.

  One knelt, reporting the last casualty.

  Alven turned to the Ravens as they approached.

  “Did you see that?” he growled. “That’s what your pacifist prince caused.”

  Maldran didn’t respond.

  “Find him,” Alven said. “I want him in chains. Or in pieces.”

  Maldran nodded once.

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  ---

  Across the rooftops of Aurelia, the city lit with torches.

  The wolves had been loosed.

  And the hunt had begun.