A ray of meticulously filtered sunlight sliced through her window, catching the massive bronze bell visible atop the central skyscraper. "Ahh, good morning to you too," she muttered, talking to the massive construct as if it were a companion.
She moved with quick, disciplined energy. Her worn bunny slippers met the polished steel floor as she walked to the dining table for an early coffee sip.
"Skipping breakfast again?" Her brother, Jonas, asked, pulling on a thick, slightly stained work jacket.
"You know it is better to skip breakfast than eating more than twice a day," Joan replied, taking a small, focused sip of black coffee.
"Whatever, freak!" Jonas retorted, grabbing a piece of nutrient bar. "Anyways, I'm off. Be home early tonight, I'll bring us Roseteri Chicken. I don't want my skinny ass sister becoming a ruler for a figure."
Joan smiled, a genuine flicker of affection crossing her face. "I'm toned from my exercises, and you should do the same."
Jonas, with his large arms—muscled beneath a layer of protective fat common to heavy laborers—flexed a bicep. "See this? These are the arms that build the Empire, sis! I’m off to Sector Gamma. Development doesn't stop for peace."
Joan retaliated with her skid remarks, "Sure, sure, sausage arm. Be safe out there. Love yah!"
Jonas grinned, tossing a salute. "Right back at you! Be safe, informant."
Joan Marn, a failed candidate for the Soldier Corps due to minor CDE instability, now channeled her fierce loyalty into a career she believed still helped the Emperor: Field Support for the Sunshine Daily. She wasn't a journalist, but an information gatherer, paid to spot anything unusual. Her loyalty to the Red Empire was absolute.
She raised her coffee cup just as the city’s omnipresent radio broadcast interrupted all existing communication channels. Everyone in the city froze. Soldiers on patrol snapped to attention. Construction vehicles halted mid-lift.
The announcer’s voice was smooth, commanding, and imbued with an ethereal quality of CDE-enhancement, echoing from integrated speakers on every building:
[Radio Voice, Smooth and Commanding]: "Citizens of the Red Empire, rise! With the dawn comes the Emperor's truth. Let the light clear your vision. The future is forged in perfect order. Recite with conviction!"
Joan set her coffee down, her stance snapping rigid, her voice joining the city-wide chorus that rose from every skyscraper and street corner:
[City-Wide Chorus]:
"We pledge our Stability—for it is the Emperor's gift and our shield against the savage world!
"We pledge our Duty—for it secures the Eternal Peace under His Divine Will!
"We reject Chaos—for it is the continent's disease and the destroyer of all progress!
"We give our best today: for our children, our friends, our family...
"For the Emperor, the Divine Architect of Peace...
"And for the Empire!"
Joan finished the final line with her fist pressed to her chest, her conviction absolute. "For the Empire!"
The air inside the offices of Sunshine Daily was thick with the acidic smell of fresh newsprint and the low hum of networked CDE relays.
"Good morning, Cathy. Good morning, Joan," said the administrative assistant, placing a stack of documents on a nearby desk. "Please drop by the table two drafts of your reports from yesterday."
"Will do, thanks, Cathy," Joan replied, moving quickly.
Cathy added, "And don’t forget to tell Wesley about Demon Benny."
"Oh, it's second cycle now? We are on letter 'B' already?" Joan sighed. "Okay, Cathy, will do."
Joan found Wesley, the main journalist in charge of the Mystery and Demon related news section. He was a man with a thick, salt-and-pepper beard but a perpetually clean-shaven upper lip, his eyes as sharp as his will to make breaking news.
"Hey, boss, here's the info for Demon B... I mean, Benny," Joan said, tossing the data chip onto his desk.
Wesley barely looked up. "That's late news, Marn. We are already on Demon D. We have to be ahead right now, the other teams are beating us on this—and those teams are best for cullinary! We are getting beaten by chef writers!"
"Don’t worry, boss, I'm on the case!" Joan’s eyes glinted with competitive fervor. "See that trophy there?" She pointed to a dusty, participation ribbon from a previous year. "We're going to win this year's Best Investigative Team award. With just the two of us, we are unstoppable." Joan leaned close to Wesley’s ear, echoing the word with conspiratorial drama: "Unstoppableeee."
Wesley rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Anyway, look at this."
He pulled up a digital schematic: crime scene photos and faint CDE residual scans overlaid with sharp red lines connecting each location. "Right before Demon Zeta appeared last week, and the three cycles before that, we got zero details aside from the Hunters' reports." (The Hunters were the uniformed, Empire-accredited guild ordained to ensure citizen safety). "Do you recall the previous cycle from A to G? No trace, no residue... not the Hunters' signature."
Joan nodded, throwing a small dart across the room at a mysterious head drawing marked with a question mark. "And there's our mysterious guy. He seems like the missing piece. Find him, and we get our trail, we get our news."
Wesley's expression turned serious, his focus sharpening. "Ah, I like you to play it safe this time, Marn. It seems we are traversing a dangerous path. Even the Hunters are wary of this guy or group. We also have news about a mysterious cult—well, possibly some cult—driving up the Mafia murders in the city. Crime seems prevalent lately..."
"Oh, Boss," Joan interrupted, crossing her arms impatiently. "We focus on our true objective: the demons. Listen to me, the demons," she insisted, tapping the dartboard drawing. "You know I can handle myself. You need not worry. Though I failed the Soldier program, I am still very capable. My Energy Resonance Level—our official term for CDE potential—is higher than most normals.
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"Listen, Boss," Joan continued, leaning on the desk, her voice dropping into a passionate, instructional tone. "CDE is everything. It's the Emperor's gift; it's the invisible engine of this perfect city. It powers the Peace Enforcers, runs the transport lines, and enables the miracles of the Crimson 10. Our CDE is stable, ordered, and Empire-aligned.
"I failed the Soldier program because I had a minor flicker—a moment of resonance instability that the system deems unacceptable. But my capacity is still high. That means I can detect and track the raw, UNSTABLE CDE signatures those real demons and those chaotic cults leave behind better than any civilian tracker. We stick to the demons, Wesley; that's where the real power—and the real story—lies."
Wesley seemed more worried, the lines around his eyes deepening as he rubbed his heavy beard. "Look, I know what you’re capable of, Marn. I’ve been in this business for a long time now, even before the cleanup."
Joan bounced the rubber ball off the ceiling, catching it effortlessly as she lay casually across the small, worn office sofa. "The Red Empire built this city ten years now, Boss. Don’t talk like an old guy who remembers the savagery of Elarith before the peace."
Wesley ignored the dig. "I know that. Still, the demon appearance rate has increased rapidly this cycle. I don’t think this is something we can lowball-play this time."
Joan caught the ball again, tossing it higher. "Ah, Boss, do you think it’s time we finally got a new member? If you’re worried, maybe someone with a high CDE Stability Level, or a real Red Soldier this time?"
Wesley rubbed the idea away instantly. "Who would want to be a journalist, or field agent, when you can be just a soldier with infinitely better benefits? It was sheer luck—a stroke of administrative error—that a reject like you ended up in my office."
Joan stopped throwing the ball, sitting up with a smirk. "This reject made you jump the rank, so you're welcome, old guy."
Wesley softened slightly. "Of course, I’m well aware. Just be extra cautious out there. I want you focused on the periphery of the major incidents. Don’t try to engage. Scoop and snoop, then run. Bring back the raw CDE residual data—especially if it doesn't match the standard demon signatures. That's the only way we find your mysterious guy."
Joan grabbed her worn satchel, double-checking the charge on her CDE residual scanner. She knew exactly where her first stop had to be. If chaos was the quarry, the first people to contain it—and fail to report the true details—were the Red Police (RP).
She met her contact, Grif, near the busy Central Transport Hub in Sector Delta. The Hub was a dizzying mix of modern transport lines and perfectly disciplined crowds, all monitored by hovering sentinels. Grif, wearing the crisp red uniform of the RP, stood casually beside a perfectly manicured public park bench, pretending to monitor the flow of foot traffic.
"Any info for me, G?" Joan asked, slipping a neatly folded credit chip into Grif's palm with a handshake that was practiced and fast.
Grif’s eyes darted quickly across the plaza, ensuring the nearby Peace Enforcers were focused on their patrol patterns. He slipped the chip into a secure pocket before handing Joan a small piece of folded, cheap synth-paper—the kind civilians used. The paper contained a scribbled address and the cryptic note: "Riot. Bar. Sector R."
Joan glanced at the note and frowned, a wave of disappointment washing over her. "You know I'm into demons and mysterious things, not some gang brawls or local crime, Grif. That's for the Social Justice beat."
Grif leaned in close, his voice a low, urgent whisper that barely reached Joan's ear over the gentle hum of the city's CDE power grid. He didn't relax his posture, still maintaining the facade of monitoring traffic.
"This is classified, Marn. Look, I processed the scene myself," Grif whispered, his eyes wide with a genuine fear that contradicted his tough uniform. "The official report says 'severe blunt force trauma from a disorderly conduct incident.' But the death of those guys... it isn't normal. I have seen it with my own eyes. Those weren't wounds a normal human would inflict. There was no CDE weapon residue, but... the way the bodies were broken? It felt wrong. Unnatural."
He pulled back slightly, his eyes holding hers. "Trust me on this."
"Okay, G," Joan conceded, her intrigue sparking back to life. "Thanks as always."
As Grif nodded and returned to his surveillance, Joan quickly pocketed the address. This might not be a direct lead to the Demon Cycles or the mysterious masked individual—the one Wesley feared was a cult leader. But if the crime was truly supernatural and hid beneath the facade of a simple riot, it was a scoop worth investigating. The true threats to the Empire always started small, disguised as local disorder.
The address Grif had given led Joan deep into Sector R, a bustling, older district of Redwave City. The neon glow of various entertainment establishments—bars, arcades, and holographic performance venues—painted the narrow streets in a dizzying array of colors. Even in this vibrant district, the usual Red Police patrols were visibly augmented, their presence tighter than standard for a mere "riot."
As Joan approached the specific bar, a surge of adrenaline sharpened her senses. The crime scene was cordoned off, not with the simple yellow tape of a domestic disturbance, but with a vibrant crimson energy barrier, humming with a distinct CDE signature. This wasn't just a police investigation; this was a Hunter Corps operation.
"Hunters," Joan whispered, a thrill of professional excitement mixing with a prickle of unease. They only deployed for genuine demonic incursions. "Well, what do you know, G. This ain't normal. I'm definitely on for a scoop."
She slipped past the outer perimeter, using a subtle CDE-pulse scrambler discreetly built into her satchel—a trick from her soldier training that no civilian should possess. The interior of the bar was a scene of controlled devastation. Tables were overturned, chairs splintered, and the air still carried a faint, acrid smell that wasn't stale beer, but something metallic and burnt.
Investigators in standard RP uniforms moved methodically, but it was the Hunters, clad in their distinctive heavy, black CDE-reinforced armor, who truly commanded the scene. Their aura suppressors made their CDE signatures almost invisible, yet Joan could feel the raw power of their presence.
Joan's focus wasn't just on the physical damage. She activated her internal CDE resonance tracker, a highly sensitive bio-implant unique to her, part of the system that had both identified her high potential and flagged her minor instability. Most individuals could only passively sense strong CDE. Joan could actively see minute CDE fluctuations, like ripples in a pond.
As her internal scanner came online, her vision momentarily blurred, and the world twisted. The faint CDE residue clinging to the splintered wood and shattered glass wasn't just generic demon energy. It was a signature of chaotic, yet impossibly precise, force.
Then, a sudden, jarring flicker in her mind.
[Flashback: Three Years Ago]
Joan was a new recruit, assigned to a night patrol in a quiet sector of the city. The clang of the Capital Bell for midnight had just faded when she saw it. Above a darkened alleyway, a figure floated silently. He was cloaked in dark robes, a cowl covering his entire head, yet his face... she couldn't seem to focus on it, couldn't recognize it. It was as if some mystical force prevented her from identifying any distinguishing feature.
From his right hand, shadowy, almost-corporeal tentacles emerged, coiling around a screaming, struggling figure suspended mid-air. The tentacles tightened, stretching the man's limbs, yet not breaking them. Joan felt a primal dread, a violation of the ordered world she was sworn to protect.
The cloaked figure wasn't just killing the man; he was draining him. As the victim's form shriveled, a small, intensely glowing crystal began to coalesce in the air before the faceless man's chest. He reached out and grasped it, its light pulsating in his hand.
Then, just as the crystal was secured, the faceless man’s head tilted slightly. Joan instinctively knew he had noticed her. Their eyes met, or rather, his gaze met her and she felt a chilling void. A profound darkness seemed to engulf her mind.
[End Flashback]
Joan gasped, the air catching in her throat as she snapped back to the present, her fingers digging into the worn fabric of her satchel. The residual CDE at the crime scene, while not identical, carried a terrifying echo of that faceless man's power—that precise, unnatural chaos.
She hadn't told Wesley about the flashback. She couldn't. She wasn't even sure if it was a dream or a buried memory. But since that night, Joan had been obsessed with finding the masked man, the man whose face she couldn't see. She'd always dismissed him as a potent, unclassified demon, a threat to the Empire that only she, with her unique CDE sensitivity, could track.
And now, this crime scene... this was the closest she had ever come to that feeling again. Grif was right. This wasn't normal. And perhaps, just perhaps, this wasn't about a new demon. Perhaps this was a new trail to her demon.