Thirty minutes ago.
Whitecliff City, outside the 7-Copper Post Office.
Edgar stuffed the thin flyer through the crack under the post office door, lowered his head, and turned to vanish into the night.
His pace was neither fast nor slow.
He looked like any other ordinary person returning home at night.
But every so often, he would subtly tilt his head, using his peripheral vision to sweep the area behind him.
Only after confirming that no one was following him did he continue forward.
His route was very well-hidden.
He crossed the main street, turned into a narrow alley, and then slipped from that alley into another, even narrower one.
He navigated between several cluttered shacks, passing through secret passages known only to those who lived there.
Finally, he stopped in front of an unremarkable shack.
The door made of nailed planks was crooked.
Yellowed paper was pasted over the window frames, and through it, a faint candlelight flickered.
Edgar raised his hand and knocked three times on the door.
A pause.
Then he knocked twice more.
There was a slight sound of movement inside. The door creaked open just a crack, and a clouded eye peered through.
"It's me," Edgar whispered.
The crack in the door widened, and he squeezed inside.
The shack was not large.
It was originally meant for a few residents, but at this moment, it was packed with people.
The candlelight danced on a low table in the center of the room, illuminating several faces gathered around it.
A woman sat at the table, clutching a worn apron to her chest.
Her hair was a mess of gray, hanging loosely around her face, and the wrinkles on her skin looked as if they had been carved with a knife.
Her eyes were red.
Deep tear tracks were etched beneath them.
Her lips trembled slightly, and her fingers aimlessly rubbed the fabric of the apron.
It was as if she were feeling for something.
And as if she had found nothing at all.
Beside her sat a man. He wasn't old, perhaps in his early thirties.
But his left leg was gone from below the knee.
His trouser leg was tied in a knot, dangling over the side of the chair.
His face was marked by sunburn and dust. His palms were rough, his knuckles swollen, and gray stone dust was embedded deep under his fingernails—marks that could never be washed away.
Those were the remnants of years of labor in the quarry.
He leaned against the back of the chair, his eyes fixed on the candle flame, never blinking.
His gaze was as hollow as a dead man's.
Beside the man was a young woman wearing a tattered dress.
Her hair was disheveled, and her face was bruised.
Purple, swollen, old, and new bruises overlapped.
Her gaze drifted aimlessly, occasionally darting to the corner before quickly retreating.
Her fingers picked at the edge of the table, her fingernails already split.
And next to her was an elderly man with white hair.
His back was severely hunched. His clothes were covered in over a dozen patches, and his cuffs were frayed to the point of fuzziness.
There was little expression on his face; he simply kept his head down, staring at the hands resting on his knees.
Those withered hands were shaking slightly.
There were more than just these few people in the room.
Behind the low table, in the corners, behind the door, and even on the bedding, people were crowded together.
Men and women, young and old.
Some were squatting, some were sitting, and some were leaning against the walls.
Their clothes were all in tatters, and their faces bore the same exhaustion and numbness.
Hundreds of people were squeezed into this tiny shack.
Yet it was so quiet it felt empty.
No one spoke.
Only the candle occasionally gave a light crackle.
When Edgar entered, everyone's gaze turned toward him.
Within those numb eyes, a sliver of something else appeared.
Expectation.
It was faint, but it was undoubtedly there.
Edgar walked to the low table but did not sit down.
He looked around and lowered his voice, saying:
"I've already given the flyer to that mage."
He paused.
"I watched from a distance as he took the letter inside."
"He will definitely see it."
A slight stir rippled through the crowd.
Someone let out a breath of relief, someone clenched their fists, and someone closed their eyes as if in prayer.
But that surge of hope lasted only a few seconds.
The woman's lips trembled as she asked in a raspy voice:
"Will they... join us?"
Her eyes reddened once more.
"That's a transport team, after all."
"It's... a Legendary mage," the old man added, his voice dry.
"The transport team... belongs to the Transport Guild."
"That's the territory... of those nobles to begin with."
His tone was flat, as if he were stating a long-known fact.
But because they knew it, it only made the despair deeper.
The people around them lowered their heads.
Someone bit their lip, someone gripped the hem of their clothes, and someone buried their face in their hands.
The faint spark of hope that had just ignited in the room flickered out.
The candlelight jumped.
Edgar remained silent for a moment.
Then he said:
"We don't need him to join us."
The people around him looked up at him.
"What could joining us accomplish?"
Edgar's voice was not loud, but it was clear.
"Even if we kill those goddamned nobles, new nobles will just take their place at the top, pressing down on us."
"Freely taking everything away from us."
He paused.
"What we need is..."
"To let them know that the Embers of Spark still exists."
"To get him to Serpent-Spine Ridge."
"To go to the Embers of Spark organization."
"To become their strength."
His eyes glowed faintly in the candlelight.
"The addition of a Legendary expert will surely reignite the afterglow of Spark."
"If we succeed..."
"Then the beautiful future described by the Mentor might actually come true."
At the mention of a "beautiful future," the people around him collectively lost themselves in thought.
Their gazes turned vacant.
As if they were looking at somewhere very, very far away.
The woman covered her face, her shoulders shaking.
Tears seeped through her fingers, dripping onto her tattered apron.
"If it really is... that beautiful..."
Her voice was fragmented.
"My child... will still never see it."
The young woman beside her reached out and gently patted her back.
Her movements were light and slow.
As if she were comforting the woman, but also as if she were telling herself something.
"Enough."
The elderly man spoke, his voice hoarse but steady.
"It will succeed."
He looked up, a spark flashing in his clouded eyes.
"After all, the leader of the Embers of Spark organization is that fox-girl."
"A survivor of the Star Fox tribe born with Prophecy."
"The leader who nearly succeeded in the Spark Revolution."
His voice dropped a bit lower.
"This time, she will succeed."
"When that day comes..."
His gaze swept over every person in the room.
"We will be able to make them pay... for our families who died because of the nobility's persecution."
"Pay in blood."
Those last few words were spoken very softly.
But everyone in the room heard them.
Low murmurs of agreement came from the corners.
Someone clenched their fists, someone gritted their teeth, and someone looked up with eyes full of hatred.
That hatred was not a burning fire.
It was something cold, heavy, and long-suppressed.
Like a stone pressing on their chests, making it impossible to breathe.
Edgar remained silent for a while.
His thoughts drifted back to the morning.
The news of the Hyena's Fang's destruction had spread throughout the city.
Over forty people had died overnight.
The leader, Cohen, a Mid-tier Transcendent.
The three Vice Leaders, all Low-tier Transcendents.
All of them dead in their own outpost.
When Edgar heard the news, he was lugging bags at the Transport Guild.
The worker next to him said it was done by the transport team behind the post office.
They had the ability and the motive.
Because the Hyena's Fang had monopolized the letter delivery commissions in Whitecliff City, and the appearance of the 7-Copper Post Office was taking the bread out of their mouths.
Edgar felt that made sense.
And not just him.
The adventurers and the powerful of Whitecliff City—most of them guessed the same thing.
The Hyena's Fang had run rampant in Whitecliff City for nearly a decade, trafficking people, looting caravans, and bullying commoners. They had done every dirty deed imaginable.
Edgar himself had been beaten by the members of the Hyena's Fang.
That day, he had been selling his own woven baskets on the street corner. A few members of the Hyena's Fang walked over, kicked his baskets over, and said this was their territory.
He had been indignant and talked back.
Then he was pinned to the ground and beaten for half a shichen.
Two of his ribs were broken, and he had been bedridden for half a month.
So, when he found out the Hyena's Fang had been wiped out, he laughed.
After he finished laughing, he cried.
He crouched in a corner of the Transport Guild, buried his face in his knees, and cried like a child.
It wasn't because of his own grievances.
It was because he finally saw someone doing what they were unable to do.
And that "someone" was the transport team behind the post office.
It was that Legendary mage who had come from the bottom.
It was "them," who sent letters for the poor for almost no charge.
From that moment on, Edgar felt the transport team were like them.
That was why he had volunteered to stuff the flyer into the post office's door.
That was why he stood here now, telling everyone to let that Legendary mage go to Serpent-Spine Ridge.
Because it was the only close, visible hope they had.
Edgar pulled his thoughts back and said:
"Alright, it's time to study."
He turned around and looked over the room.
Then his movements froze.
He looked again and again.
In the room, the Mentor's silhouette was nowhere to be found.
"Where is the Mentor?" he asked.
The elderly man said, "He hasn't arrived yet."
Edgar frowned.
The Mentor was never late.
Every gathering, the Mentor was the earliest to arrive.
He would sit by the low table and wait in the candlelight for them to arrive one by one.
He would pour them water and ask how they were doing lately.
He would listen to them describe those nights of pain that left them sleepless.
Then he would tell them that all of this would change.
As long as the Spark was lit, the darkness would be dispersed.
Edgar still remembered the scene when he first met the Mentor.
It was after his father had been falsely accused and executed by a noble.
Edgar had gone to demand justice, only to have his legs heartlessly broken.
As he looked at the lights of the noble district in the distance, his mind had been entirely blank.
That was when the Mentor appeared.
He didn't know where the Mentor came from.
He only knew that a man in a gray robe sat down beside him and handed him a piece of black bread.
Then he asked, "Do you feel hate?"
Edgar didn't say a word.
But he took the bread.
From then on, he began to attend the gatherings organized by the Mentor.
There were more and more people in the room.
It started with just a few, then a dozen, then dozens.
Now, throughout the lower class of Whitecliff City, almost everyone had people secretly supporting them.
They would pass messages in the dead of night, make marks on the cargo at the Transport Guild, and spit in the food in the kitchens of the noble mansions.
They couldn't do anything big.
But they were doing something.
And throughout this process, the Mentor began to describe the philosophy of Spark to them.
Equality.
Freedom.
No one can arbitrarily take everything away from someone else.
A common law could also judge everything about the nobility.
Edgar felt it was a dream.
But he was willing to believe it.
Because if he didn't believe it, his life would be nothing but pain.
But now, the Mentor hadn't come.
The unease in Edgar's heart grew heavier.
He looked around the room once more, at the people packed in so tightly.
So many people.
How could so many have gathered here tonight?
His heartbeat began to accelerate.
"The Mentor said he had important matters to arrange for us," the old man's voice interrupted his thoughts.
"So he asked us to bring every member of the organization here."
Edgar opened his mouth, wanting to say something.
If the knights found them, they would all be wiped out.
But he didn't say it out loud.
Because someone nearby had already spoken up.
"This outpost is very well-hidden," a young man whispered.
"We've been gathering here for nearly half a year and have never been discovered."
"Besides, the Mentor said this place used to be a contact point for Spark and is protected by a special barrier."
"No one will find us."
Several people around him nodded.
Edgar said nothing.
He just felt like something was wrong.
But he couldn't quite say what it was.
Just then—
Thump.
A knock sounded at the door.
Three times.
A pause.
Then two more.
Everyone in the room instantly held their breath.
Hundreds of people were squeezed into this tiny shack, yet it was so quiet that even the flickering of the candle could be heard.
Someone clenched their fists, someone grabbed the hand of the person next to them, and someone instinctively shrank into the corner.
Finally, the number of knocks matched.
The old man's eyes brightened.
He stood up, leaning on his cane, and slowly walked to the door.
"It's the Mentor," he whispered, a tone of relief in his voice.
"The code matched."
The people around him let out breaths of relief.
Someone even let out a smile.
The old man reached out and pulled open the door.
"Mentor, you've finally ar—"
His voice caught in his throat.
The night wind blew into the room, making the candlelight flicker violently.
A figure stood at the door.
A gray robe, with the hood pulled down very low.
It was indeed the Mentor.
But behind the Mentor stood many others.
Knights in armor.
Soldiers holding torches.
And several people in black robes whose faces could not be seen.
The light of the torches illuminated the Mentor's face.
The expression on that face was no longer gentle or concerned.
Instead, it was mocking.
Cold.
Like he was looking at a group of ants.
The old man's face turned white in an instant.
His mouth hung open, but not a single word could come out.
The hand holding his cane trembled violently.
"Wh... Why?"
The scene before him told him of the betrayal.
But he did not understand why the other man would do this.
His voice was so raspy it was almost inaudible.
The Mentor—no, that man—let a cold smirk curl on his lips.
He slowly removed his hood.
He revealed the face they were all too familiar with.
But there was no warmth on that face now, no concern.
Only a high-and-mighty, predatory expression.
His lips parted slightly, and his voice was not loud, but it cut like a cold blade.
"Why?"
He repeated softly.
Then he laughed.
There was no warmth in that laughter.
The knights behind him swarmed in past him.
His gaze slowly moved from the old man's face, sweeping over every terrified, despairing, and unbelieving face in the room.
As if he were admiring something interesting.
Then he said:
"Anyone with revolutionary potential must die."
"Even if I was the one who stoked the desire for revolution."
"If you want to blame anyone, blame those from the Spark Revolution."
"They were the ones who made us extinguish any potential revolutionary spark by any means necessary."
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