Volume 03, Chapter 94

  Guzman's Troubles

  The streets pulse with life, bathed in the flickering neon glow of bar signs and love hotels. Buildings, stacked tightly together, boast flashing marquees—some elegant, others gaudy—advertising everything from high-end lounges to seedy back-alley dens.

  The scent of cheap perfume, alcohol, and something smoky lingers in the air, blending with the distant hum of laughter, murmured negotiations, and the occasional bark of a club bouncer.

  On one corner, a woman draped in crimson silk leans against a doorway, her eyes scanning the passing men like a hunter choosing her prey.

  Across the street, a pair of sex workers, clad in short dresses and high heels, giggle as they whisper among themselves.

  A young man, no older than nineteen, walks with an easy, unhurried stride through the crowd.

  His dark brown hair is neatly cut and groomed. His dark brown eyes remain cool and unreadable. His light complexion stands out starkly against the flashing reds and golds of the district.

  He wears a simple red hoodie, black pants, and matching red sneakers. In his hand, an ice cream cone slowly melts as he strolls. He takes the occasional lick, his expression neutral, as if the chaos surrounding him does not exist.

  But people notice him. They always do.

  “Oh, what a handsome man!”

  “Ghurl, we need to invite him! He looks like he knows what he’s doing.”

  “I—I dunno… He looks kinda… cold?”

  The young man hears them. He simply does not care.

  He keeps walking, tuning out their whispers like background noise.

  “Ghurl, c’mon, just go! You’re the best at this!”

  “Ugh, fine!”

  One of the women hesitates before stepping forward, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement.

  She moves quickly to match his pace, her voice sweet but clearly rehearsed. “Uhm, excuse me?”

  He keeps walking. He does not even glance her way.

  Undeterred, she steps closer.

  “Excuse me!” she says again, louder this time.

  She reaches out, her fingers just barely brushing his shoulder.

  The young man stops.

  Slowly, he turns his head, his dark eyes locking onto hers—uninterested, unreadable.

  A chill runs down her spine, but she forces a smile. “I was wondering if you’d—”

  “No thanks.” His voice is flat. Final.

  She blinks. “Wha—?! You didn’t even let me finish!”

  “I said I’m not interested.” His tone is cold as steel.

  He gently pushes her hand off his shoulder and turns away, walking off without another glance.

  The woman stands frozen for a moment, watching as he disappears into the neon-lit night.

  She sighs, her shoulders slumping. “Damn…”

  Her friend, who had been watching from afar, rushes over. “So? What’d he say?!”

  She exhales. “Nothing. The guy’s an ice block.”

  The other woman huffs. “Tch. His loss.”

  They both turn back toward the buzzing nightlife, their brief disappointment swallowed by the city’s endless chaos.

  ════ ?★? ════

  The neon sign flickers erratically, casting an ominous red glow over the entrance of Crimson Desire. A love hotel on the surface, but beneath it lies something far more insidious—one of La Peste Noire’s hidden strongholds.

  As the man approaches, his sharp gaze sweeps over the building, immediately catching sight of shattered windows, overturned furniture, and flickering lights struggling to stay on.

  The entire place reeks of chaos and desperation. Something has gone horribly wrong.

  Why the hell didn’t they call me? he thinks, irritation creeping in as he pushes the doors open.

  Inside, the lobby is a disaster.

  Chairs are tossed aside, decorative vases lie in shards, and deep, jagged marks—like something had ripped through the floors and walls—scar the entire room. A heavy, oppressive tension lingers, as if the very air has yet to recover from whatever transpired here.

  His attention, however, snaps to the reception desk.

  Two receptionists crouch behind it, trembling violently. Normally, these men are composed—trained to handle illicit business without a flicker of hesitation. But now? They look like cornered prey.

  Guzman strides over, boots crunching against shattered glass. He leans forward slightly, his voice cold.

  "Hey."

  They flinch, snapping their heads up. The moment they recognize him, relief floods their expressions.

  "M-Monsieur Guzman!" one of them stammers, still catching his breath. "So-Someo—"

  "Calm down." Guzman’s tone is sharp. "What happened?"

  The receptionist swallows hard, trying to steady himself. "A woman. She… she came out of nowhere. Long black hair. Dressed in a black gown. She broke in and—"

  "And?" Guzman presses, patience thinning.

  The man pales. "She burned our men."

  Silence.

  "We tried to stop her," the second receptionist adds, his voice barely above a whisper. "But—she was too strong. Her mana—monsieur, we couldn’t even breathe. The pressure alone had us on our knees."

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  Guzman’s jaw tightens. ‘Someone that powerful attacking us directly? Who the hell pissed off someone like that? And who leaked our location?’ he thinks.

  He exhales slowly, forcing his irritation aside. Finding this woman is now his priority.

  "Stay here," he orders, turning away. Then, he pauses and glances back. "And lock the damn doors. No customers."

  "Y-Yes, monsieur!" the receptionist scrambles to his feet, bowing deeply.

  Guzman does not waste another second. He moves.

  The hallways stretch ahead of him, long and winding. Once pristine, now they are reduced to rubble.

  Walls are cracked and crumbling.

  Carpets are soaked in dark, pooling blood.

  Scorch marks lick across the ceilings.

  Bodies litter the ground—some twisted unnaturally, others burned beyond recognition. Guzman steps over them without a second glance. He is not here to mourn the dead.

  This is not mindless carnage. It is calculated. Precise.

  He turns another corner and stops.

  At the far end of the hallway, where a solid dead-end wall once stood, there is now nothing but charred debris. The bricks have been completely obliterated, revealing a gaping entrance to the stairwell that leads to the secret underground base of La Peste Noire.

  Guzman’s eyes darken as he approaches the blackened stone. He reaches out, running his fingers across its rough, brittle surface.

  “Fire magic attribute, huh,” he mutters.

  Whoever broke in did not know the passcode.

  They did not need to.

  Pulling his hand back, Guzman exhales sharply through his nose. He does not have time for this.

  Without hesitation, he steps through the gaping hole and descends into the darkness below.

  The stench of ash and blood follows him.

  At the bottom of the staircase, Guzman is met with devastation.

  The once-grand double doors, which typically stood tall with intricate gold filigree and deep mahogany wood polished to perfection, now lie in scorched ruins—reduced to nothing but brittle, blackened fragments clinging weakly to their hinges.

  Beyond the wreckage, burned corpses litter the floor, twisted and contorted in the aftermath of searing flames. The sickening scent of charred flesh and scorched velvet permeates the air, mixing with the metallic sting of blood.

  The underground base, which once boasted the extravagant flair of a noble’s estate, is now a shadow of its former self.

  Crystal chandeliers, which once bathed the room in a warm, golden glow, now hang broken, swaying precariously from their chains.

  The long velvet curtains that once adorned the walls are reduced to tattered ashes, leaving nothing but scorched stone and jagged scorch marks.

  Antique furniture, once lavishly upholstered and fit for aristocrats, now lies in splinters, shattered by sheer force.

  The luxurious red carpet that had stretched across the marble flooring is burned away, leaving blackened, crumbling patches where flames had devoured it.

  "Oh my, it seems the young leader has finally arrived."

  A voice calls out—sultry, amused, and completely unbothered by the devastation.

  Guzman snaps his head toward the voice, his body tensing as his gaze locks onto the only living presence amidst the carnage.

  A woman lounges casually on a half-destroyed couch, bathed in the dim, flickering light.

  The shadows obscure most of her face, but what little light touches her reveals a pale complexion, long flowing black hair, and a gown as black as the abyss—its surface traced with elegant golden embroidery that shimmers in the firelight.

  Her presence is overwhelming. Not from any display of raw power, but from the sheer weight of her confidence.

  “Who are you?” Guzman’s voice is level, calm—but his instincts scream at him to stay on high alert.

  “Fufufu.” The woman chuckles, the sound rich and velvety, tinged with amusement.

  With slow, deliberate grace, she rises from the couch, stepping forward like she has all the time in the world.

  Guzman, out of reflex, channels his Mana, shifting into a defensive stance as he watches her approach.

  When she steps fully into the flickering light, her face becomes clear—half of it hidden beneath a golden skull mask.

  Her one visible eye—a piercing emerald green—gleams with mockery and intrigue.

  She stops precisely four feet from him and crosses her arms, one hand resting lightly against the edge of her mask. A smirk curls her lips.

  “I’m Rosa Blanchette, one of the Generals of Umbrascourge,” she declares, her voice dripping with smug pride.

  Guzman’s breath hitches for half a second, his body stiffening in recognition. One of the Generals of Umbrascourge!? Why the hell is she here!? he thinks.

  Rosa’s smirk widens at his reaction. “Oh, I do love that look of surprise on your face,” she purrs.

  Guzman immediately forces his expression into a neutral mask, his mind racing.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice measured and calculated.

  Rosa tilts her head slightly, her black hair cascading like silk over her shoulders. “It’s simple. I was sent here to make a deal with you.”

  “A deal?” Guzman’s jaw tightens. “You killed our men and destroyed our base, and you expect us to work with you?”

  Rosa lets out a mock gasp, pressing a hand to her chest in exaggerated surprise. “Oh dear, are you saying violence isn’t a proper greeting? My sincerest apologies.”

  Then, just as quickly, her tone drops—sharp and commanding.

  “But you do not have a choice, young leader. It’s either you work with us, or your little mafia group is erased from existence.”

  Guzman’s fists clench tighter. ‘If I do that… Uncle’s legacy… everything he built…’

  He forces himself to remain composed, knowing that any sign of weakness would be dangerous against someone like her.

  Rosa notices the hesitation flickering across his face.

  “So? What will it be, young leader?” Her voice is almost teasing. “From any angle, this is a lose-lose situation for you.”

  Guzman exhales slowly, keeping his voice steady. “And why would Umbrascourge want to make a deal with us?”

  Rosa chuckles. “Oh, it’s simple. Lord Malignor found it… wasteful that your little mafia group has spent all this time assassinating nobodies and destroying infrastructures—particularly the ones in the E?eforte territory.”

  “Wasteful?” Guzman grits his teeth. “We have done those jobs successfully without failure. Are you telling me we’re doing it all wrong?”

  “Oh, not that you have been failing, dear.” Her voice drips with false reassurance. “But it’s such a shame… all this potential, all these resources… wasted on trivial work.”

  Guzman says nothing, keeping his expression unreadable. He refuses to let her see the irritation boiling beneath his skin.

  She is not just here to threaten him.

  She is here to absorb La Peste Noire into something bigger.

  And if he refuses?

  His organization—his uncle’s legacy—will be wiped from existence.

  Guzman narrows his eyes, his grip tightening. “And how exactly do our groups benefit from this... arrangement?”

  Rosa lets out a soft, indulgent laugh. “Oh, it’s quite simple, dear.”

  Her fingers trace the golden embroidery on her gown as she speaks, her voice like silk laced with steel. “You pledge your loyalty to Lord Malignor. In return, he grants you access to billions of Camilliums, unparalleled influence in the black market, and resources far beyond what your little mafia could ever dream of acquiring.”

  Guzman’s jaw clenches. “So, you’re not offering a partnership—you’re demanding obedience.”

  Rosa smirks, her emerald eye gleaming beneath the golden skull mask. “Oh, young leader, let’s not get caught up in semantics.”

  She steps closer, her presence nearly suffocating. “La Peste Noire has always served someone, hasn’t it? Whether it be corrupt nobles, crime lords, or the highest bidder. You kill who you are told to kill, destroy what you are paid to destroy. This? This is no different. Except now, you would be working under a true power. One that does not merely play in the shadows—but owns them.”

  Guzman’s fingers curl into fists. He hates that she is right. La Peste Noire has always been a pawn for the highest bidder, never truly in control.

  But aligning with a being like Malignor? That is not just business.

  That is selling your soul.

  Rosa watches him carefully, her smirk never fading. Then, with a graceful flick of her wrist, she reaches into the folds of her gown and pulls out a sleek black envelope, embossed with a dark sigil that pulses with something unnatural.

  “And, of course,” she murmurs, holding the envelope between two fingers, “this.”

  She extends it toward him.

  “A personal letter from Lord Malignor himself. He insists that you read it.”

  Guzman hesitates, then reaches out. His fingers brush against the envelope—it is heavier than it should be. The wax seal is an unnatural crimson, glistening as though freshly melted. The emblem imprinted on it is intricate and unfamiliar, and for a brief moment, he swears it twitches.

  A letter directly from Malignor?

  The very idea sends a wave of unease crawling through him.

  Rosa tilts her head, watching him like a predator studying prey. “That would be all, young leader.”

  And without waiting for acknowledgment, she turns away.

  Her movements are effortless—a slow, measured stride brimming with unshakable confidence, as if she already knows the answer he will give.

  But just as she reaches the threshold, her form flickers.

  Dark violet flames begin to curl around her silhouette, licking at the edges of her gown, consuming her presence like an illusion unraveling.

  She turns slightly—just enough for Guzman to catch the eerie amusement still painted on her lips.

  “See you soon, young leader.”

  And with that, her entire body erupts into violet fire, burning away into whispering smoke. The embers swirl for a moment longer, then vanish into nothing.

  Silence.

  Guzman remains motionless, staring at the space where she had stood mere seconds ago.

  A chill snakes down his spine.

  Slowly, his gaze drops to the cursed envelope still in his hands.

  Something about it feels… wrong.

  It feels alive.

  He exhales sharply, flipping it over once more, tracing the sigil with his thumb.

  Whatever is inside…

  It will change everything.