"Catch her, now!" shouted a bald man with tanned skin, his face adorned by a neatly curved mustache. He hovered mid-air, supported by a pair of enchanted boots that shimmered faintly under the sunlight.
"Yes, Commander!" his subordinates replied in unison before dashing after a young woman who appeared utterly exhausted. Her breathing was ragged, and her steps faltered under the weight of fatigue overtaking her body.
Seeing this, the commander called out once more, his voice booming, "She’s losing strength! Pick up the pace!"
The blonde-haired woman was gasping for breath, each inhale more uneven than the last. Her legs trembled, barely able to carry her forward. The fear of death crept in, tightening around her chest like an invisible vice. Then, at that critical moment, her foot caught on the edge of a teakwood table, sending her body sprawling violently across the street.
"Commander, she’s fallen!" one of the soldiers reported, panting as he pointed ahead. "She’s just up ahead, not far from our position!"
Channeling wind magic, the soldier launched himself toward the girl, softening his landing with a spell of earth manipulation. Moments later, the mustached man—feared throughout the region by the name The Grim Reaper—stood tall before the fallen girl, his presence towering, his aura grim and oppressive.
"Commander, may we play with her for a bit before we demand ransom from her parents?" asked one of the youngest in their ranks. His eyes gleamed with twisted delight, his grin wide and expectant, hoping the leader would grant his vile request.
"Fine—but not here," The Grim Reaper replied coldly, his tone firm and final.
With a swift gesture, he bound the girl using invisible magical cords, then hoisted her onto his shoulder without effort. Her mouth was sealed tight—rendering her unable to scream or plead for help. Around them, the commander cast a silencing and concealment spell, muffling all sound and veiling their presence in illusion. To any passerby, the area appeared completely empty—utterly untouched by any disturbance.
"We leave now," declared The Grim Reaper without hesitation.
Yet as he took his first step forward, his left shoulder bumped into someone—a middle-aged man with a neatly tied ponytail, a thin beard and mustache, and calm eyes. He was carrying an assortment of coffee ingredients in his right hand. The collision knocked several of the items from his grasp, spilling them across the ground.
He stopped in his tracks, gazing at the scattered ingredients with a blank but questioning expression.