What had happened?
As two hulking brutes viciously beat him until he cried out repeatedly, curled him into a ball on the floor, then twisted his arms behind his back and hoisted him up, pressing his face firmly against the desk, Nal Rick thought to himself.
How had he ended up in this state?
Rick's head was ringing, his vision filled with stars, and half his face was numb and throbbing with pain.
What had he done wrong?
Whom had he offended?
"Hey, don't kill him," a cold, unquestionable voice said. "We still have questions for him."
The force restraining his arms eased slightly.
But Rick could not relax.
Two minutes ago, he had been sitting safe and sound in the warehouse office of the Fireworks Workshop, calmly reading and writing letters, checking account books, assigning manpower, and handling affairs while leisurely watching the workers outside pretend to package and produce fireworks-grade Pitch Crystal Powder.
Then these uninvited guests had barged in.
Without warning, completely unexpectedly.
These vicious men had not bothered with words or held back at all. They had first knocked down the two panicked copyists in the office, followed by a warehouse keeper who had unfortunately come in to give a report at that moment.
They had also brutally slammed Rick onto the desk when he went from attempting to flee to giving up his struggle.
The guards in the warehouse had made no move, the sentries outside the door had shown no reaction, and even Rick's alarm ability—which had been barely better than nothing over the years—had not had time to issue a warning.
"We need to hurry," one of the intruders said. "Their next shift starts at ten."
We, hurry, their, shift...
Rick endured the agonizing pain in his abdomen and barely grasped those few