Longshot braces himself for an impact that never comes. Just as the stormtroopers reach them, they halt abruptly, responding instantly to a sharp, piercing whistle. Confused, he watches as they form efficiently a half-circle around the four of them, huddled against the wall near the door. It’s no contest—an army of highly trained fighters against a ragtag group of wounded, breathless weirdos. An old woman. An even older-looking man. A frail teacher with a hopelessly ruined hair bun. And himself. The fact that they haven’t been obliterated in the first minute is nothing short of a miracle.
How, in heaven's name, did he end up here—in this dark, ruined school? There could only be one outcome: they would be discarded, buried in some nameless grave in an unmarked forest, destined never to be found.
Then, completely unexpectedly, he hears a dry, mechanical click from the door beside him. His heart leaps. Could this be the miracle he had dared to hope for but no longer believed in? He reaches for the door handle, but before his fingers can even touch it, the door swings open. Thick smoke billows into the corridor, carrying the sharp, acrid scent of charred wood that stings his nose.
In the brightly lit doorway, a sharply outlined figure appears, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit, with behind him, huddled together, the dreadful girl he had interviewed earlier, the boy he had picked up that night, and two children he had never seen before. Despite himself, a wave of relief washes over him. The boy is still alive—that’s more than he could have expected, given the circumstances.
Nobody moves. Every eye is fixed on the door. The soldiers remain in formation, awaiting instructions that have yet to come. The man now standing in the doorway calmly surveys the corridor, his expression utterly unimpressed. When he finally speaks, Longshot has to stifle a nervous giggle. His bored, condescending tone feels like a declaration of war in itself—a grumpy parent roused from sleep by a disobedient child.
“My God, Scroptz! Is this the best you could come up with? An army? Do you think you’re the Führer himself now?” Nobody reacts. The silence deepens. Everyone seems to hold his breath. But when the echo of the booming voice finally fades, a sharp whistle pierces the air. Immediately the first row of soldiers steps aside in a well trained maneuver, creating a narrow gap through which a single figure emerges.
Though Longshot thought he was beyond being surprised by now, nothing could have prepared him for the sight of this round man, clad in a bathrobe and slippers, with a single limp strand of hair dangling absurdly by his ear. Yet Longshot doesn’t dare laugh, because, despite his ridiculous appearance, the man carries himself with the commanding presence of a seasoned general and when he speaks, it’s with the effortless authority of someone accustomed to giving orders.
“Kwant! There you are. Finally tired of your little hide-and-seek act? Disappointed we didn’t come looking for you?”
Longshot can’t help but be impressed. Those two seem to be evenly matched. The only difference being, that the man in the three piece suit has slowly moved into the corridor, while the man in the bathrobe stays half hidden behind his soldiers.
“There seems to have been quite a bit of searching, I would say,” Kwant remarks contemptuously, gesturing to the four students behind him. “You’re perhaps a bit disappointed that not everyone took your orders as seriously as you expected?”
Scroptz doesn’t blink. “Yes, the vice-principal. Of all people. That was... unexpected. We will deal with her later, just as we will deal with her.” He points to the woman with the all-but-destroyed hair bun, sitting between Williams and Gran. “You gambled and lost, my old friend. As you can see, we outnumber you at least fifty to one, so you’d better tell me right away—where’s the list? We need to know what in heaven’s name is happening to The Balance.”
Suddenly, a broad, razor-sharp smile splits Kwant’s face in two. “You mean you don’t have it? Hahaha, that’s hilarious. You will hang, my friend, because I certainly don’t have it. It seems you’ve been outsmarted. Classic Maät, I would say. Never underestimate a centuries-old woman.”
“That’s all I needed to know,” the man in the bathrobe replies, giving a small nod to his right. A whistle blows. The army charges forward. The old woman shouts as she struggles to her feet. Williams sidesteps a truncheon. Gnat hisses and bolts out of the classroom into the corridor to help, grabbing the first soldier by the arm. Sparks fly. The soldier collapses to the floor. Shadow rushes out too. Of course, she does.
Unnoticed by almost everyone except Max, Williams’ eyes meet Kwant’s, and after an almost imperceptible signal, the janitor vanishes into thin air, never to be seen again.
Around Miss Bleach, soldiers crumple to the ground, as if their bodies don't respond to their minds anymore, but she is hopelessly outnumbered. When one of the four older students sneaks up behind her, she starts to fight for air, chokes and slowly collapses.
Shadow, now virtually invisible, wreaks havoc. Soldiers wander around blindly, making them easy prey for Gnat. But when an enormous wolf leaps toward her, she stumbles, falls and before she can get back up, she’s pinned to the floor with one powerful paw.
Five meters farther down the corridor, the old woman is so preoccupied fending off three soldiers simultaneously that she doesn’t notice the girl behind her, swinging a giant hand with fluorescent pink nails, at her head—she doesn’t even have time to turn away.
Kwant is barely visible anymore, buried beneath at least twelve soldiers. He seems hopelessly lost until, without any apparent cause, the soldiers begin to topple backward one by one. It’s as if some invisible force drags them down to the ground. And so he becomes the epicenter of a slow-moving wave of collapsing soldiers, unable to get up again, rippling outward, towards Scroptz, who watches in growing disgust.
Kwant looks triumphant. “Forgotten who I am, Scroptz?. Forgotten who always bested you, year after year?”
The last soldier in front of Scroptz collapses to the ground, leaving the history teacher completely exposed. Yet, Scroptz doesn’t appear beaten or threatened. Instead, he calmly raises a hand, as if giving a signal. But he isn’t. In one swift motion, his hand comes down, and a knife flies from his fingers with incredible speed in a straight line toward its goal—not Kwant, but the open classroom door where a girl with short unkempt hair stands.
Kwant’s expression changes instantly from arrogance to panic. He must act, he has to... but at that very moment, a large chunk of concrete dislodges from the ceiling above him. Kwant deflects it with ease, but the fraction of a second it costs him is one too many. He’s too late to intercept the knife. From ten meters away, an enormous boy smiles triumphantly.
He curses under his breath. For the first time in decades, he feels embarrassed. He should never have opened the classroom door. He should have saved the children first. He shouldn’t have stepped into the corridor, putting everything at risk. But he did. Scroptz always had this effect on him—a red cloth to a bull. Even after years of spiritual training, his ego had overridden reason. And now he’s paying the price—or rather, the girl standing in the doorway is. He should have protected her, but in a single moment of arrogance, he has thrown it all away.