Arknight : The Rise of The Grand Detective

The Blacksteel depot sprawled across a desolate swath of Columbia's hinterland.

A slab of pitted concrete hemmed by rust-streaked chain-link and floodlights that stabbed the darkness with relentless beams.

Four cargo haulers rested in a tight, silent rank, their armoured shells glinting like dulled mirrors under the glare.

The air clung thick with diesel fumes and the dry bite of dust, a faint mechanical hum threading through the stillness.

Howard Leyman approached, his black-gloved hands flexing with purpose, his sharp eyes sweeping the scene.

To him, it was a tableau from a film—a crime etched in absence, the culprits long vanished into the shadows, leaving only questions in their wake.

He slipped on his gloves with a ritualistic precision, the leather creaking softly, and withdrew an Originium energy detector from his coat—a compact device, its amber screen pulsing faintly like a living thing.

Climbing into the back of the first truck, he stepped into a steel-walled void, the interior pristine, untouched by chaos or haste.

"Let us begin," he murmured to himself, voice low and formal even in solitude.

The detector hummed as he swept it across the walls, the floor, the ceiling—seeking the subtle ripple of Originium energy, the spectral signature of power that might betray a thief's hand.

The readings stared back, flat and unyielding: zero.

Nothing, he thought, brow furrowing slightly.

Not a whisper, not a trace. This defies expectation.

He moved with methodical care, scanning every angle, every rivet, his breath a controlled rhythm against the silence.

Twenty billion LMD in weaponry, spirited away, yet the vessel remains a blank slate.

A professional's touch—or something more? The detector yielded no secrets; its silence a taunt. As he turned to exit, a glint snagged his gaze—a fleeting spark near the door's hinge.

He paused, then knelt, his coat brushing the cold floor.

There, lodged in a crevice, lay a shard of mirror, no larger than a thumbnail, its fractured edge catching the light like a winking eye.

A curiosity amidst the barren, he mused, lips pressing into a thin line. What tale do you tell?

"Intriguing," he said aloud, producing a small plastic evidence bag from his pocket.

With a delicate sweep of his gloved fingers, he secured the shard, sealing it with a faint crinkle.

A mirror fragment—accidental debris or a deliberate mark? The work of a narcissist, perhaps, admiring their own precision?

He rose, pocketing the bag, and proceeded to the remaining trucks, each an echo of the first—immaculate, hollow, defiant. The detector remained mute, its amber glow a steadfast denial of clues.

Four haulers, four vacuums. This is no mere heist; it is a vanishing act of exquisite design.

Emerging from the final truck, Howard turned to Liskarm, who stood nearby, her tactical gear a stark silhouette against the depot's grey expanse.

"Madam Liskarm," he began, his tone formal, rare it was.

"May I impose upon you for further particulars? What of the drivers and the security detail tasked with safeguarding these shipments? Their condition, their accounts?"

Liskarm shifted, her posture rigid, her voice a precise cadence.

"Mr Leyman, the drivers and security personnel were subjected to rigorous testing."

"We employed cutting-edge diagnostic methodologies—spectrographic scans, neuro-sensory probes, and biochemical assays—to detect any arts capable of manipulating cognition or physiology."

She began to mouth off the details.

"This included techniques that might induce mnemonic suppression, coercive influence, or corporeal alteration."

"The findings were conclusively negative. No evidence of such interference was discerned in their systems, nor did their testimonies suggest duplicity."

Howard inclined his head, absorbing her words.

"Your diligence is commendable, Madam Liskarm. Yet, I must press further. Were there no anomalies at all? No lapses in memory, no irregularities in their behaviour post-return?"

Liskarm's eyes narrowed slightly, her tone unwavering.

"None of significance. The drivers reported departing their origin points as scheduled, adhering to protocol. The security team corroborated their accounts—standard transit, no engagements, no deviations."

"They recall arriving at the depot, yet none can account for the interval wherein the cargo vanished. Their vitals, their mental states—all registered within normal parameters."

Howard exhaled, a faint sigh betraying his frustration, though his composure held.

"Most curious. My gratitude for your thorough exposition."

He clasped his hands behind his back, gazing at the haulers as his mind churned. How does one orchestrate such a feat?

Twenty billion LMD, spirited away without a ripple—drivers and guards untouched, untainted by arts or force.

This is the work of a master, a phantom who leaves no shadow.

The X-ray scans, reviewed prior to his arrival, had revealed no hidden compartments, no lingering traces of the munitions.

Even after using his shapeshifting talent, honed to detect the faintest whiff of scent, proved impotent; the trucks bore only the sterile tang of metal and stagnant air. No smell, no energy, no struggle.

A perfect crime or an impossible one.

He glanced at the evidence bag in his pocket, the mirror shard a solitary whisper in the void.

"Madam Liskarm," he ventured, voice steady, "these haulers—were they inspected for external tampering? Locks, seals, any sign of breach?"

"Affirmative," she replied, her response swift.

"Each vehicle was examined by our forensic unit. Locks remained engaged, seals intact, and no evidence of forced entry or structural compromise. The integrity of the haulers was unassailable, yet their contents were absent upon arrival."

Howard nodded, his thoughts racing. Intact, yet empty. A paradox wrapped in steel.

This shard—perhaps it is the key, or merely a distraction. I must discern its purpose.

"Very well," he said, his tone resolute.

"Your assistance has been invaluable. I shall require time to reflect upon these findings."

He withdrew to the workspace Blacksteel had allotted—a narrow office within the depot, its walls papered with maps and screens, a lone desk bearing a clutter of files and a steaming pot of coffee.

Howard set the evidence bag before him, the mirror shard glinting under the harsh fluorescent light, a fragile enigma in a case that defied comprehension.

He removed his gloves, folding them with care, and sat, his gaze fixed on the fragment.

A professional's handiwork, yes—but to what end? Theft for profit, or a gambit in a larger game?

The silence pressed against him, heavy with unanswered questions.

***

I was home, finally, after hours of staring at nothing in that damn Blacksteel depot. The trucks were a bust—clean as a whistle, not a whiff of Originium or anything I could latch onto with my Arts.

My shapeshifting trick's useless without a scent or a vibe to kick it off, and those haulers gave me zilch.

I kicked off my shoes, shrugged out of my coat, and flopped face-first onto the sofa, the cushions swallowing me like a lukewarm hug.

Man, I was beat.

I fumbled around, grabbed one of the truck road sensors off the coffee table—a little gizmo that tracked time and kilometres—and tossed it into a padded envelope with some surveillance footage.

Elena's my go-to for tech; she's a wizard at cracking systems. If something slipped through those logs, she'd sniff it out.

I scrawled her name on it, shoved it in my mailbox for pickup, and muttered.

"Work your magic, kid."

Then I shot a quick message to Paolo, who has ears in the black market.

"Snoop around," I texted.

"Any chatter about military-grade weapons moving, I want to know yesterday." Figured if 20 billion LMD worth of guns were floating around, someone's tongue would wag.

Night crept in, heavy and quiet, until a sharp ring jolted me.

I groaned, hauling myself up and shuffling to the door, rubbing my face.

Who the hell's bugging me now? I peeked through the peephole and—huh, Exusiai.

The Penguin Logistics sharpshooter, all haloed hair and boundless pep.

Normally, I'd be floored by a Sankta dropping by unannounced, but I was too wiped to care.

I swung the door open, leaning on the frame.

"Hey, Exusiai," I said, voice dragging like my feet.

"What's up?"

She beamed, bright as a spotlight, her wings twitching with that restless energy she's got in spades.

"Hiii, Howard! Wow, you look like you got hit by a truck—no pun intended! Just swinging by to say hello!"

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, trudging back to the sofa and collapsing again.

She bounced in behind me, a package tucked under her arm, and plopped it on the table with a cheerful thud.

I grabbed the remote, flicked on the TV—some late-night news droning about Lungmen traffic—and glanced at her.

"So, what's with the delivery? You moonlighting as a courier now?"

Exusiai grinned, rocking on her heels.

"Kinda! It's a little gift—well, okay, it's from the team, but I snagged the night shift, so here I am! Figured I'd drop it off myself. You're welcome, by the way!"

I managed a tired smirk.

"Thanks, I guess. Beats the mail guy waking me up." She was already circling the room, eyeing my place like it was a playground.

Then she zipped over, leaning in from behind the sofa, her voice chipper as ever.

"Hey, Howard, can I snag your contact? It'd be way easier to hit you up if I need backup—or just to chat!"

I waved a hand toward the kitchen.

"Fridge door. Number's on a sticky note. Knock yourself out."

She darted over, humming some tune, and I heard the scratch of her jotting it down on her phone.

This chick's got zero chill.

I thought, half-amused, half-baffled.

Who's this trusting with a guy they met for, what, a day?

She bounded back, still grinning.

"Got it! Thanks, Howard—you're the best!"

She stuck out her fist, wings giving a little flap.

I stared at it, wondering how someone could be this open, this carefree, with no sense of security in a world like ours.

Whatever. I bumped her fist with mine, a lazy tap.

"Catch you later," I said.

"Later, partner!" she chirped, practically skipping out the door.

It clicked shut, and the room went quiet again, TV muttering in the background.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. Exusiai's energy was a jolt, but it didn't change the mess I was in. That case—20 billion LMD in weapons, poof, gone—was gnawing at me.

The mirror shard I'd bagged was sitting on the table, glinting like it was mocking me.

I'd spent hours chasing ghosts at the depot, and I was still nowhere.

Elena might turn up something with the sensors, Paolo might dig up dirt, but I couldn't just sit on my hands.

This was it—truth or bust. I switched off the TV, grabbed the shard, and stared at it hard.

"You're hiding something," I muttered.

"And I'm going to find out what, now or never.