A few days had passed since the Rift incident.

  The uproar was gradually dying down. Theories became fewer, conversations quieter, the city slowly returning to its usual rhythm.

  Night fell over the streets, and only in Brock's office did the light continue to burn.

  He often worked late—never leaving the station until the last report was read. At home, his wife and nine-year-old son waited. They were long used to it: Dad might be late. Dad protected the city from scum. They respected his work and were proud of him.

  He was a model husband and father.

  With one exception—he often missed dinner and returned when the family was already asleep.

  “Weeell…” Brock murmured, flipping through another report. “What a day…”

  He looked up and gazed out the window.

  “What?… Already dark?” he said, surprised. “Gonna get an earful again…”

  Setting the papers aside, Brock smiled warmly and stretched to stand, but noticed a sheet under the desk.

  “Messy…” he grumbled, bending down for the piece of paper.

  And froze.

  “Huh?…” His eyes widened. “I… didn’t see this…”

  The report was old. Very old. Somehow it had slipped past his attention.

  Brock’s eyes raced over the lines, snatching phrases:

  “…black asphalt…”

  “…handrails melted…”

  “…two men in their thirties…”

  “…the embankment…”

  “…loss of consciousness…”

  “…nausea…”

  “…vanished…”

  He leaned back in his chair.

  “Hmm… strange,” the chief said quietly. “Just yesterday I’d have written this off as nonsense.”

  He frowned.

  “But the report was written long before the portal… And the phrases are too familiar,” he muttered under his breath. “That night, the asphalt really was blacker than usual. And cracked. And people felt sick…”

  “Need to check this,” Brock said firmly to the empty office.

  He stood up abruptly, neatly folded the report, and tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket. Straightened his chair, still slightly swaying from his movement, and headed for the exit.

  “Oh, boss!” The duty officer bumped into him in the doorway. “You’re still here?”

  “Just leaving,” Brock smiled. “You’re on duty? You don’t look so good.”

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  “Ah, it’s nothing…” the officer waved it off. “Been feeling strange for a few days. Dizzy on and off… Probably just lack of sleep.”

  Brock frowned.

  “Take a day off tomorrow,” he said sternly but caringly.

  “Yes, sir!” the officer smiled.

  Brock strode toward the embankment, and his steps grew more confident.

  The embankment greeted him with silence.

  “Well then…” Brock muttered, stopping a few dozen meters from the spot in question. “According to the description—this is the place.”

  He approached the railing.

  The metal was deformed. As if it had been melted. The asphalt—dark, almost black.

  He knelt and touched the ground.

  And jerked his hand back sharply.

  “What?…” he whispered, frightened. “It’s cold?!”

  He checked nearby.

  “Warm… even hot.”

  Brock slowly straightened up.

  “Black should heat up more than gray…” he murmured.

  The air here was… different. Heavy.

  He approached the railing and barely touched it.

  “Damn!” He pulled his hand back. “Hot?!”

  His heart beat faster.

  “What’s going on here…?!”

  Much time had passed since Dan and Alishem had left this place, but the trace they left would long remind anyone of the power of the Lords.

  Brock took a step back. Unexpectedly, his gaze fell on a young man sitting not far away on a bench with a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

  “A bit late to be sitting alone,” Brock thought, examining the figure on the bench.

  “Good evening!” Brock called out.

  “Evening,” the man replied, turning his head toward the one who’d broken the silence.

  “A bit late for coffee, no?” Brock smiled. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Of course.” Dan shifted slightly.

  “Can’t sleep?” the man asked, sitting down beside him.

  “No.”

  “Me neither,” Brock sighed. “You come here often?”

  “Almost every night. It’s peaceful here.”

  Brock eyed him surreptitiously.

  Nothing unusual. But something still stirred a certain unease in Brock. He felt slightly dizzy. He was sitting almost right next to the Lord, who, though suppressing his magic now, still couldn’t completely hide the Darkness.

  “Are you feeling unwell?” Dan asked with barely noticeable concern.

  “Hah, son, I’m not as young as I used to be. Look at me, I’m five minutes from being an old man!” Brock replied, smiling broadly, trying to hide his condition. “Please, don’t worry.”

  "My presence is affecting him," Dan noted and immediately tensed. "What? Another Rift? No. This is different. I can clearly sense mana, but…" Dan turned toward Brock. "How could I have missed it immediately… There’s mana inside this man. So he was there that night…"

  “Don’t say that,” Dan smiled. “You’re in excellent shape.”

  "The mana hasn’t awakened in him yet. Is it acclimating to its new vessel?" Dan’s thoughts were fully focused on Brock’s condition.

  “Hah, thanks. I was stronger in my youth! If it weren’t for regular exercise, I’d probably be long gone,” Brock smiled. “Alright, it’s late. I should go. Thanks for the company.”

  Brock leaned on the armrest of the bench to stand up.

  Crack.

  The wooden armrest Brock grabbed onto cracked and broke with a crunch.

  “What?” Brock stared, frightened, at the broken piece of the bench in his hand. “Broke it?! How?”

  Dan couldn’t help but notice. He understood the mana had bestowed strength upon Brock.

  "Did the mana react to me and accelerate the awakening?" Dan looked intently at Brock once more to confirm his suspicions.

  "Yes… magical power is literally radiating from him…" the Lord noted, observing the frightened man.

  Brock, holding the fragment, couldn’t believe what had happened.

  "I didn’t even feel myself breaking it… Even at my peak, it would’ve taken considerable effort… What is this feeling? It’s as if I’ve become stronger. I don’t feel the weight of my body or any fatigue…"

  Dan stood up beside him and said quietly:

  “We need to talk.”