Volume 03, Chapter 103

  Before The Duel [1]

  I stand in front of the mirror, adjusting the same outfit I wore during my duel with Lumi.

  In Verdant Haven, appearance holds weight, especially during formal duels. It is more than vanity—it is tradition, respect, and pride.

  This is the fanciest outfit I own. And now… it is tighter than I remember.

  “It’s… tight,” I mutter, tugging at the sleeves.

  Buttoning it up is a struggle, but I manage. Barely.

  This was quite loose when André brought it from that clothing store after my first Stargate raid training.

  It is probably just because I gained muscle.

  —Fwoosh!

  A sudden surge of Mana flares from within me—too fast, too loose. I lose control for a split second.

  "Oops."

  I focus, willing it back under control.

  Ever since Célestin left for Aurelior, I have thrown myself into training. Every day, every hour, I tighten the grip on my Mana control.

  "System, show me my current Mana control."

  I cannot help but smile.

  It was 91 [E] just yesterday. It is a small leap, sure, but progress is progress.

  I holster both Galahad’s Judgment and step out of the room.

  The living room is empty, oddly quiet. I follow the soft clatter of dishes and faint conversation into the dining room.

  There, I find Celine and Clark already at the breakfast table.

  The table consists of golden croissants, pain au chocolat, fluffy brioche, buttered toast, fresh berries, ham and gruyère omelets, and beside it all, a steaming pot of dark roast coffee and a jug of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

  “Good morning,” I greet.

  Celine looks up and smiles gently.

  Clark beams, crumbs on his cheek. “Morning, big brother!”

  “Morning to you too, Clark.” I ruffle his hair on the way to the table, then turn to Celine. “Where’s Dad?”

  Her smile falters, just a little. “He went on another Stargate raid.”

  My brow furrows. “Again? He’s barely recovered from the last one. Why won’t he take a break?”

  “I tried to convince him,” she says with a sigh. “But you know him. He won’t stop until he’s… done. That’s just… the kind of man your father is.”

  I know that she is talking about the debt. She does not know that I know about it.

  I clench a fist under the table.

  Guzman. Belard. After this duel with Arthur… I am coming for both of you. No more stalling.

  Celine must have noticed the shift in my expression because she gently steers the conversation. “Anyway… what’s with the outfit? You look like you’re off to a gala.”

  “Oh,” I blink, “right. I have a duel today with Arthur.”

  Her eyes widen. “A duel? That’s the first I’m hearing of it.”

  “Sorry… a lot happened yesterday. It slipped my mind.”

  First, there was the Manaficial Ritual. Then came the tense family conversation—emotional, necessary. And finally, the training. So, naturally… I forgot.

  She chuckles softly. “You have a knack for burying the lead. So, where’s it taking place?”

  “The Lyon Chateau.”

  As soon as I say it, panic flutters in my chest.

  Crap. I have no idea how to get there.

  Without Célestin to guide me, I am completely lost. But I cannot admit that—Dominic is supposed to have grown up with Arthur. Heck, he probably knew the chateau like his second home.

  I clear my throat. “Uhh… Mom, I, uh… kind of forgot how to get there.”

  Celine raises a brow. “You forgot? You used to sleep over at the Lyon estate all the time.”

  Double crap.

  “W-well,” I fumble, “that’s true, but I never really… paid attention to how we got there. Arthur usually sent a car, or Dad dropped me off. I was a kid. I just… sort of tuned it out.”

  Celine stares at me for a moment. I brace for suspicion.

  But instead, she sighs and gives a weary smile. “You really have grown too dependent on others to lead you around, haven’t you?”

  “I’m working on it,” I say with a sheepish grin.

  She rises from her chair and walks over to the counter. “I’ll write down the directions. You better not get lost on the way to your duel.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say, genuinely relieved.

  Clark leans toward me, whispering through a mouthful of brioche. “You’re gonna win, right?”

  I smile but do not answer right away.

  Arthur is stronger. There is no doubt about that. I have seen the way he moves, the way he fights. He is polished, fast, and experienced. I will probably lose.

  But I am not backing down.

  “Let’s just say I’m going to give it everything I’ve got,” I finally say.

  Clark grins. “That means you’ll win.”

  I wish I had that same confidence.

  But maybe, just maybe, that is exactly what I need right now.

  “Okay, Dominic, here’s the paper,” Celine says, walking over and handing it to me.

  I take it, unfolding it to find a hand-drawn map. It has a bold arrow cutting across it.

  My eyes follow the arrow’s path. It starts from our house, passes over a borderline, and continues along a winding route until it stops at a doodled mansion labeled: Arthur’s Mansion – Lyon Chateau, Lyon Territory.

  Zooming out a little, I realize the entire map is of the Golden Fields Region… and it is divided into three parts: Lyon territory, Everheart territory, and ours—E?eforte.

  “The Golden Fields region is subdivided into three territories…” I mutter under my breath.

  Compared to Lyon and Everheart, the E?eforte territory looks noticeably smaller.

  “Mum, how big is our territory, exactly?” I ask.

  Celine taps her chin thoughtfully. “Roughly 10.53 million square kilometers.”

  10.53 million km2?! That is… the same size as Europe.

  But now that I think about it, in Sylvestria, a Jupiter-sized world, that is considered small.

  Still, something does not add up.

  “If it’s that big,” I ask, “why is there only one town and a single train station here?”

  And now that I am thinking about it, why do heirs like Arthur and Lumi go to school in the middle of our territory? And how did it only take two hours to reach Aurelior from our train station?

  Damn it. I have been here almost two months, and I never bothered to research the territory I am supposed to inherit. That is on me.

  “Why are you asking all this now, Dominic?” Celine asks, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “Don’t tell me… you forgot again?”

  I wince. “I—uh… well, yes.”

  Technically, I did not forget. I just never knew to begin with.

  Celine sighs, rubbing her temple. “Dominic… I’m worried about you, but alright, I’ll start from the beginning. Listen closely.”

  I nod and stay quiet.

  “Verdant Haven has five major regions. One of them is the Golden Fields Region. A long time ago, King Charlemagne granted control of this region to three noble families: the Lyons, the Everhearts, and us—the E?efortes. It was split evenly between us.”

  She pauses for a moment.

  “But then… the Lyons and Everhearts got greedy. They invaded parts of our land.”

  “What?” I blink. “And they got away with that?”

  “Not exactly,” Celine says. “The specific family members responsible were executed by King Charlemagne himself. He was furious. But even after the punishment… the land they took was not returned.”

  “But that’s not fair! Shouldn’t they give it back?” Clark’s tiny voice pipes up beside me.

  Celine looks down at him with a soft smile. “Yes… But back then, there were no legal precedents for reclaiming invaded land. And the other families… took advantage of that silence.”

  So that explains why our territory is smaller.

  But… if the three families were once at odds, then it is strange that Arthur and Lumi are on friendly terms with me now. I guess time can mend generations of tension.

  Celine goes on, “Right now, the entire E?eforte territory has only one city, which is where we live. Population? About one million.”

  “One million?!” I blink. “The city doesn’t even look that big. It feels more like a town.”

  Celine chuckles softly. “Don’t be fooled, Dominic. Our city is much larger than it looks. You’ve just barely scratched the surface of it. We built outward instead of upward, and the farms and industrial districts are farther away from the central square.”

  I stare down at the map again.

  This land… is mine.

  And I know so little of it.

  I feel her hand settle gently on my shoulder. Warm. Grounding.

  “Dominic,” she says softly, “you are the heir to this land. One day, this entire territory will rest on your shoulders. Its history, its politics, its people. You need to understand what you’re inheriting. Don’t just carry the name. Earn it.”

  Her words sink deeper than I expect.

  I fold the map carefully and meet her gaze.

  “…I will,” I say quietly, but with conviction. “I promise.”

  “Good!” Celine says with a bright smile as she sets a plate down in front of me. “Since you’ve got a duel ahead, you must eat properly. You can’t survive on an empty stomach.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, sliding into my chair.

  Across from me, Clark is already halfway through a buttery brioche, crumbs dotting his cheeks like freckles.

  “Big brother, can I come watch?” he asks, looking up with hopeful, gleaming eyes.

  I pause for a second, then smile. “Sure.”

  His whole face lights up. “Yay!”

  I do not see any reason not to bring him. If anything, having him there might help me stay grounded. Besides, Célestin and Arthur would never let anything happen to him—not in a formal duel.

  Clark grins, already planning who knows what in that little head of his. Probably imagining a grand coliseum battle. Honestly, part of me hopes it will be that simple.

  Celine sits back down across from me, pouring herself a cup of coffee as I turn to my plate.

  The smell hits first, warm and rich. I am staring down at a soft omelet folded with ham and cheese, slices of buttered toast, crisp bacon, and a few fresh berries glistening on the side. My stomach growls on cue.

  —Munch!

  Oops. I bite down too loudly. The crunch of toast echoes embarrassingly in the otherwise peaceful dining room.

  Celine’s smile does not fade, but her eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Dominic… your manners.”

  There is sweetness in her tone. But a menace behind the smile.

  I freeze mid-chew, then quickly nod and swallow hard. “Yes, Mum.”

  Clark stifles a giggle behind his cup of juice.

  I resume eating, this time slower, quieter. Less like a starving soldier and more like… well, someone who is not about to be scolded again.

  But despite the warmth of the food and the comfort of the table, my thoughts keep drifting.

  To Arthur.

  To the duel waiting just beyond this breakfast.

  Am I ready? Probably not.

  Will I go anyway?

  Absolutely.

  I glance across the table at Clark, who has already polished off two croissants and is now trying to make a smiley face with his berries.

  I hope today’s match will not rekindle any old animosity between our families.

  We are too close to something better.

  Too close to peace.

  Please… let this duel be the start of understanding, not another legacy of bitterness.

  ════ ?★? ════

  Aurelior’s red-light district pulses with life.

  Neon signs flicker in hues of crimson and violet. Perfumed air mingles with the scent of smoke and sin. Laughter echoes from behind shuttered windows, and music spills into the streets from open doors. The cobbled paths shimmer under the oily glow of lanternlight.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Célestin walks through it all like a ghost.

  His stride is calm, purposeful. He does not flinch at the wandering hands or the catcalls. He does not slow at the offer of warm beds or whispered prices.

  He is looking for one place: Crimson Desire.

  A love hotel. A cover.

  A secret base of La Peste Noire. Hidden beneath velvet sheets and facades of passion.

  “To think we missed this in all my regressions…” he mutters, almost to himself. His voice is even, but his jaw is tense.

  His eyes scan the street ahead—sharp, clinical. Every flickering light, every painted smile, every building layout is memorized in passing. If a trap waits for him, he will see it before it closes.

  A woman lounging by one of the lampposts notices him. She straightens, her red dress clinging to every curve. Her eyes flick over him—sharp suit, confident posture, white-blond hair tousled like royalty. Young… but dangerously beautiful.

  She licks her lips.

  ‘He looks young, but there’s experience behind those eyes,’ she thinks. And money, too.

  She saunters forward, hips swaying as she purrs, “Bonjour, monsieur~”

  Célestin does not even glance her way.

  He walks past her as if she does not exist.

  Her smile twitches, then falters.

  ‘Did he just ignore me?’ she thinks, stunned. No man ignores me. Especially not a boy like that.

  Irritated and pride wounded, she follows after him, catching up quickly.

  “Aw, c’mon now,” she says, voice sultry but teasing. “What’s the matter, monsieur? Can’t handle a little attention?”

  Then, without warning, she slips her arm around his.

  And he stops.

  Not because of her.

  But because of what she has just done.

  He slowly turns his head to look at her.

  Her breath catches.

  In that single glance, everything shifts.

  His eyes—empty. Hollow. Endless.

  A void so deep and cold, it swallows the illusion of safety whole.

  Looking into his gaze is like peering into hell itself.

  Her flirtation shatters. Her knees tremble.

  Fear.

  Real, primal fear grips her spine.

  He does not say a word. He simply, gently—almost kindly—removes her hand from his arm.

  Then, without another glance, he turns and continues walking—his footsteps soft against the stone, like death on a stroll.

  She stands frozen in place.

  The street noise resumes around her. But the chill in her bones lingers long after he is gone.

  Célestin continues walking, his steps echoing faintly against the damp stone as he rounds a narrow corner.

  Up ahead, the night takes on a different tone.

  A building looms in the distance—scarred, half-collapsed, as if something has ripped through its core. Chunks of the fa?ade are missing. The windows have shattered into jagged fangs. What was once polished and inviting now stands in ruin.

  Bright yellow police tape flutters in the breeze, sectioning off the entire area like a silent warning. Three officers stand nearby, speaking in hushed tones, their posture tense.

  Célestin narrows his eyes and begins to jog forward, cutting through the scattered streetlights and shadows. As he draws closer, a flicker of neon catches his eye.

  A broken sign sparks overhead, barely clinging to life.

  CMSON DSIRE.

  Even missing letters cannot disguise the identity of the place.

  Crimson Desire.

  Célestin stops, frowning. “Why is it destroyed…?” he murmurs.

  He slows as he reaches the outer edge of the tape, just far enough to avoid attracting too much attention while still getting a clear view of the devastation. The smell of scorched metal and dust hangs thick in the air.

  His gaze hardens. “I’ll ask the officers.”

  With quiet resolve, he steps forward, approaching the nearest officer. The man turns at the sound of footsteps and immediately scowls.

  ‘What’s a kid doing here?’ the officer thinks.

  “This area’s off-lim—”

  “What happened here?” Célestin interrupts, his voice calm, direct.

  Then, the officer meets his gaze and freezes.

  Célestin’s eyes are like voids. Cold. Still. Bottomless.

  The kind of stare that whispers of sleepless nights, of pain endured far beyond his years. It is not something a boy his age should carry.

  The officer shivers involuntarily.

  “I asked you a question,” Célestin says again, tone flat as iron.

  The man straightens awkwardly, glancing back at the building to gather his words.

  “Well… witnesses said a powerful Magician attacked the place. Security footage confirmed someone breached the hotel, but…”

  “But?” Célestin presses.

  “But the footage was tampered with,” the officer explains, eyes flickering to the ruined sign. “The person responsible appeared blurred. Completely. Everything else in the image was clear, but their figure? Nothing but smudged static. Like the camera was hexed to block their identity.”

  Célestin strokes his chin, thoughtful. “A concealment spell. One strong enough to fool surveillance…”

  “Y-Yes, that’s what we think,” the officer stammers. A bead of sweat runs down the side of his face. “My colleagues believe the attacker was a high-ranked Magician, possibly an [A] or higher.”

  Célestin nods once, the pieces slotting into place in his mind.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” he says, dipping his head in a slight, polite bow.

  The officer blinks. “O-Oh, uh… anytime…”

  Without another word, Célestin turns and walks past the police line, slipping into the side alley that curves behind the building.

  He has no time to waste.

  Someone has struck Crimson Desire before him, and whoever it was knew exactly what they were doing.

  Célestin stares at the ruins of Crimson Desire.

  There is only one way to find out what happened.

  He draws a deep breath and gathers mana through his limbs, his body glowing faintly with crystalline blue light.

  “Freeze.”

  The world obeys.

  Time itself slows, the surroundings washed in a translucent blue. Sound ceases. Dust hangs in midair. Streetlights become frozen stars in the night sky.

  It will not last long. With only [C+] Mana reserves, every second is a costly breath.

  Without wasting a moment, Célestin darts forward and passes through the yellow police tape, weaving between the frozen officers. The entrance of the hotel yawns before him like the jaws of a beast. He slips inside.

  What greets him is devastation.

  The once-opulent lobby of Crimson Desire—once velvet walls, marble floors, and red chandeliers—has been reduced to scorched rubble. Burn marks mar the walls. Furniture lies toppled, splintered. Ash drifts like snow through the stillness.

  Célestin scans the ruins, eyes sharp. He knows La Peste Noire must have an entrance that leads underground.

  He moves quickly through the halls. Most of the rooms are charred husks—until, at the far end, he finds it.

  A wall.

  But not just any wall.

  Unlike its surroundings, this one is… clean. Untouched. Not a single burn. Not a single crack. It does not fit.

  He approaches it cautiously and reaches out—his fingers slip through.

  “Hologram,” Célestin mutters.

  He steps through the illusion.

  Behind it, a narrow staircase spirals downward, its steps streaked with soot and scorched at the edges. The scent of burnt wood and magic grows stronger.

  He descends quickly, his shoes echoing on the stone until he reaches what was once a grand double archway. It has been blown open. Beyond it, an elegant underground bar spreads out like a ruined ballroom—glass shards everywhere, furniture reduced to charred wreckage, and scorch marks blackening the walls.

  “It stinks,” Célestin mutters, indifferent.

  He stands still, scanning the room with his Mana sense.

  Nothing.

  No movement. No presence. Not even a magical trace.

  “I doubt the police ever made it down here…” he murmurs. “And whoever did this did not leave anyone behind.”

  “Unfreeze.”

  He releases the spell.

  The blue hue fades from the world. Time resumes, the silence broken by the quiet crackle of settling debris.

  Célestin moves through the debris methodically, searching for anything useful. Amidst the wreckage, something catches his eye—a half-melted Commlink, burnt at the edges but still faintly humming with Mana.

  He kneels to retrieve it.

  —Crunch!

  A footstep.

  Célestin reacts instantly. Mana surges through his body as he rises, turning sharply toward the sound.

  “Who’s there?” he calls out, voice neutral but unwavering.

  He senses nothing. No magic. No trace of Mana.

  ‘Manaless,’ he realizes.

  —Crunch. Crunch.

  More steps. Slow and careful. Then, from the dim shadows near the collapsed bar, a figure emerges.

  A man, slightly taller than Célestin, steps into the weak light. He has black hair, green eyes, fair skin, and distinct features that whisper of Celestrian heritage.

  Célestin’s eyes narrow. “…Jun Wei.”

  The man freezes.

  “H-How…?” Jun swallows hard. Slowly, he raises both hands in surrender. “Please… don’t kill me.”

  Célestin shakes his head. “I won’t. But I need answers. What happened here?”

  Jun’s lips tighten. He does not speak.

  “I… can’t,” he finally says.

  Célestin stares at him, unmoving. “Your family,” he says softly. “Held hostage by La Peste Noire. One mistake, and they’re dead. You follow orders because you’re forced to. I read your file.”

  Jun’s blood runs cold. That voice—calm, quiet, but laced with history far too heavy for a teenager—makes something in him twist. He looks into Célestin’s eyes and sees nothing.

  No light. No fear. Just emptiness.

  “Jun, I want to help you,” Célestin says. “I’m Célestin Moreau, heir to Moreau Aether Mining Inc. With my name, my influence, I can protect your family. I can end this.”

  Jun hesitates, eyes darting between the floor and the boy before him. The name alone is enough to shake him. Even in Celestria, the Moreau family is known.

  Still, doubt flickers behind his eyes.

  “You’re serious?”

  Célestin nods. “It’s your choice. Trust me… or stay a pawn.”

  A long silence passes.

  Then, slowly, Jun lowers his hands.

  “…A magician broke in,” he says. “Burned the place. Killed most of us. She… she was a woman. Long black hair. Wore a mask that covered half her face. She had a fire attribute.”

  Célestin’s brow furrows.

  A masked woman. Long black hair. Fire magic.

  One name comes to mind.

  Rosa Blanchette.

  One of the Six Generals of Umbrascourge.

  ‘Why would she be here? Was this Malignor’s doing?’ Célestin wonders.

  Dominic’s trap at the Temple du Calice… That had shaken everything. Even if it had not been directly set by Malignor, it had changed the timeline. The regressions could no longer be trusted.

  ‘Shit… I need to stop assuming everything will play out like my past regressions,’ he thinks. ‘Malignor is taking the initiative this time.’

  He looks back at Jun. “What else?”

  Jun hesitates, then adds, “Monsieur Guzman arrived after the attack. He met with the woman. They… reached an agreement.”

  Célestin’s expression darkens. “What kind of agreement?”

  “Umbrascourge demanded that La Peste Noire swear loyalty. From now on, we must follow their orders… or we’re wiped out.”

  Célestin clenches his jaw. “A leash,” he mutters. “This mafia is just a dog now.”

  Jun nods faintly. “Y-Yes…”

  Célestin strokes his chin, his mind already racing through connections and consequences.

  Then, something catches his eye.

  At the far corner of the ruined underground bar, atop an ash-covered side table, lies an envelope—its seal broken, parchment exposed, as if hastily opened mid-panic.

  He steps over fallen beams and shattered glass, careful not to disturb the layer of soot, and plucks the letter from its resting place.

  His eyes scan the first line.

  -Dear Guzman de Venefique Moreau, esteemed leader of La Peste Noire—

  Célestin remains motionless. Expression unreadable. But his fingers tighten slightly around the page.

  -I would like to extend an alliance between Umbrascourge and your distinguished mafia. I believe this partnership would benefit both of our organizations. You may be wondering why an entity such as myself would take an interest in La Peste Noire. The answer is simple—I see potential. Your consistent destruction of infrastructure in the E?eforte territory is... admirable. A force as ruthless as yours should not be wasted on such menial tasks.

  Célestin’s jaw tenses.

  -However, I understand that Rosa’s actions may have caused you some concern. Yes, she has killed some of your men. But do not dwell on such trivial matters—there is no true loss. As long as those ashes remain, my subordinate, Luo Minghao, will personally oversee their revival using his advanced Magi-Tech equipment.

  “Another General of Umbrascourge…” Célestin murmurs, brows furrowing.

  He knows the name well.

  Luo Minghao.

  A rogue Magitist exiled from the Society of Geniuses. Once a prodigy. Now a nightmare. His experiments desecrated the boundaries of human life and death, twisting the bodies of men into grotesque weapons, their souls forcibly anchored to machinery or corrupted by dark alchemy.

  Among all the Six Generals of Umbrascourge, Luo is the one Célestin fears most. Not because of brute strength, but because of precision. Ruthless intellect paired with boundless cruelty.

  Those "revived" would not return as men. They would come back as things—tools of war. Twisted, screaming monsters bound in servitude, their pain eternal.

  Célestin’s voice drops to a whisper.

  “I pity them…”

  Even if they had been criminals, no human deserves to be remade like that. Not hollowed out and rebuilt for slaughter.

  He continues reading.

  -Now, to the point. By now, Rosa has surely informed you of the benefits of ‘cooperation’—wealth, influence, and power beyond your current reach. However, there is something she does not know. I have seen your future. In the near future, a Manaless boy—Dominic E?eforte—will send you a letter, challenging you to a duel. You will accept the challenge, seeing no threat in a boy without Mana. You will go alone, expecting an easy victory. However, it will be a trap. Célestin Moreau will be waiting. He will snipe you.

  Célestin’s heart skips a beat.

  His pupils contract. “Shit…”

  Malignor is making moves.

  Worse, he is altering the flow of events. He has seen far enough ahead to manipulate Guzman’s future.

  If you have doubts, simply touch the pink letter ‘D’ on this page.

  Célestin presses his finger against the ‘D.’

  Nothing happens.

  But he feels it—residual Mana, faint and fading.

  “A one-time-use spell,” he mutters. “Scrying… or some kind of predictive illusion.”

  -If you have pressed the pink ‘D,’ then you have successfully witnessed your future. Knowing this, you may now choose—avoid accepting Dominic’s duel request… or prepare accordingly.

  Célestin’s expression darkens further. Shadows cling to his features.

  -So, for my first request: poison the town in E?eforte territory. Leave no survivors. Afterward, eliminate Dominic and Célestin, and bring their bodies to me. In return, I will grant you 5 billion Camilliums. You have one week. Fail, and you will suffer the consequences.

  Yours truly,

  Malignor.

  The letter slips slightly in Célestin’s hand, and his breath draws in slowly and coldly.

  Poison the entire town. Kill Dominic. Deliver both their corpses.

  The E?eforte family is still in a huge debt. He has regressed countless times, and he will not let anything happen to Dominic’s family—even if he is no longer in this world.

  “I have to warn them,” Célestin says, his voice low, furious. “Even if Clark’s not from this world… even if this is not his real family… I will not let them suffer. Not again.”

  He turns on his heel.

  Jun, who has been watching with growing concern, steps forward. “Wait—what’s wrong?”

  But before he can finish, Célestin grabs his arm. “We’re leaving,” he says, his voice clipped and urgent.

  Jun stumbles forward, surprised. “W-Where are we going?!”

  Célestin does not answer.

  He is already moving. Fast.

  Every second counts now.

  Malignor is not just watching the board.

  He is reshaping it.

  ════ ?★? ════

  Guzman walks through the heart of the city nestled within E?eforte territory.

  The streets bustle with life. Merchants call out from stalls, families chat over brunch, and children laugh near the fountains. It is peaceful. Normal.

  Too normal.

  He scans the crowd with calculation.

  —Ring!

  The shrill tone of his Commlink cuts through the ambient noise. He slides it from his coat pocket, his gaze sharpening as the caller ID lights up.

  Colleen Dupont.

  He answers immediately.

  “Colleen. Have you completed the setup?” Guzman asks, his voice low and firm.

  “N-Not yet, Monsieur,” comes the flustered reply. “We’re still finalizing the configuration.”

  “I see…” he says with a sigh. “Then move faster. Time is a luxury we do not have.”

  “Yes, sir! We’ll accelerate at once!”

  “Good. Keep me posted.” He ends the call with a sharp tap and lowers the device.

  A quiet breath escapes his lips.

  “I have to see this through… or my uncle’s legacy will be reduced to dust.”

  —Thud!

  He staggers ever so slightly. Something or someone has bumped into his legs.

  Looking down, he sees a little girl with short black hair seated on the ground, rubbing her head, her eyes squeezed shut.

  “...Ow…” she murmurs.

  Guzman’s expression remains unreadable. Still, he kneels wordlessly and extends a hand. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

  The girl slowly opens her eyes. They are pink.

  The first thing she sees is his face—sharp, refined, ageless. Her mouth drops open slightly. Her eyes sparkle.

  “...Handsome…” she whispers, almost in awe.

  Guzman blinks. “...Handsome?”

  He is used to the word, certainly. In Aurelior’s red-light district, men and women toss it at him like bait. Hollow praise meant to lead to a warm bed and an empty wallet. He had long since grown numb to it.

  But this… this is different.

  There is no angle. No deceit. Just a child’s innocent awe.

  It feels… strange. Disarming. But not unpleasant.

  He lowers his hand, a touch awkwardly.

  “...Thanks,” Guzman says quietly, uncertain.

  The girl stands up without taking his hand, brushing ash off her skirt.

  “Are you a model? A prince? You look like one!” she says, bouncing excitedly in place.

  Guzman blinks again. He looks around, scanning for anyone who might be with her. “Where are your parents?”

  “Papa and Mama are over there!” she points to a bench nearby, where a couple sits in relaxed flirtation. A playground with a crowd of children is just behind them.

  Guzman follows her gesture, then turns back. “Shouldn’t you be playing with the others?”

  “I was!” she says proudly. “I was chasing my ball.”

  She points again, this time to a pink plastic ball resting a few meters away, near where she had collided with him.

  Without a word, Guzman steps over and picks it up. He hands it to her.

  “Here.”

  “Thank you!” she chirps, clutching the ball to her chest. Then, with a grin, “But you didn’t answer! Are you a model?”

  Guzman glances up at the sky, exhaling softly. “…Yes. I’m a model,” he lies.

  “Really?! Wow!” Her eyes widen like she has just met royalty. “Which studio are you from?!”

  He closes his eyes and sighs through his nose. This kid… She’s persistent.

  And yet…

  He does not find her annoying.

  In fact, she is… amusing.

  He opens his eyes and looks at her again, his tone softer. “That’s a secret.”

  “Aww!” she pouts.

  “Jelena! Let’s go!” a group of children calls out from the playground.

  She turns toward them. “Coming!” she calls back, then turns once more to Guzman.

  “What’s your name, monsieur?”

  “…Guzman.”

  She beams. “Okay! Goodbye, Monsieur Guzman!”

  With that, Jelena turns and sprints off, her pink ball bobbing in her arms.

  Guzman watches her go, the sound of her laughter echoing faintly in the distance.

  And then—something strange happens.

  His lips… twitch.

  Not a smirk. Not a sneer. A faint, hesitant smile. Barely there.

  But it is real.

  The first smile that has touched his face in years.

  He brings a hand to his mouth, startled.

  As if he is checking to see if it is truly his expression.

  “…Huh,” he mutters to himself.

  And for a moment, just a moment, Guzman forgets about the poison. The order. The war.

  And simply stands there… smiling.

  “Hey.”

  The voice is unfamiliar—calm, male, and far too casual for the air it carries.

  Guzman turns sharply.

  A man stands a few meters away, his posture relaxed, almost disinterested. At first glance, he looks like he belongs in a noble court: tall, sharp-featured, and unmistakably Celestrian. His long black hair is tied into a low ponytail that rests neatly along his back. Amber eyes glint beneath half-lidded lids, gleaming with something that is not quite human.

  He wears a flowing black robe embroidered with white and purple sigils, the kind that feels ceremonial and dangerous all at once. On his finger is a single golden skull ring, catching the light with an eerie gleam.

  Despite the man’s elegant appearance, Guzman’s instincts scream. ‘Something is wrong with this man,’ he thinks.

  Even though the man’s Mana presence is faint, barely detectable, every part of Guzman’s being tells him this man is far more dangerous than Rosa.

  “…Who are you?” Guzman asks, brows furrowed.

  The man gives a polite smile. “Luo Minghao. One of Umbrascourge’s Six Generals.”

  Guzman is surprised but keeps his expression neutral. Everyone in the underworld knows the name. Luo Minghao is a genius gone mad, a Magitist exiled from the Society of Geniuses for crimes too horrific to list in polite circles.

  Guzman’s eyes narrow. “Are you here to check on our progress? You do not need to. We have already begun the task Lord Malignor assigned.”

  “I’m not here to inspect you,” Luo replies, waving a hand dismissively. “If I wanted to test your loyalty, you’d know. I’ve simply been ordered to deliver this.”

  He reaches into his robe and pulls out a necklace: a crimson stone, dark as dried blood, affixed to a thin chain of obsidian wire. Its surface glows faintly, like it is breathing.

  “What is it?” Guzman asks warily.

  “A control crystal,” Luo says. “While wearing it, you can control the demons I’ve crafted.”

  “…Demons?”

  The word escapes Guzman before he can stop himself.

  He stares at the gemstone, eyes wide. It pulses faintly in his palm. Not with warmth—but with hunger.

  “You… created demons?”

  Luo’s expression does not change. “Yes.”

  Guzman’s stomach twists. He knows Luo Minghao is cruel. But this? Creating demons? Not summoning… creating?

  That is sacrilege. Blasphemy.

  “Your men,” Luo continues, tone flat, “the ones Rosa killed. They were excellent vessels, ripe with residual magical energy. Their souls were malformed by greed, hatred, and fear. The perfect foundation.”

  “You used my men… as building blocks for your monsters?” Guzman whispers, eyes trembling.

  “Yes.” Luo blinks slowly. “They’re stronger now than they ever were in life.”

  Guzman’s fist clenches at his side, rage building, but he holds his tongue. This is a General. If Rosa could wipe out half my forces in minutes, then Luo…

  He does not want to imagine what Luo could do.

  Swallowing hard, Guzman takes the necklace and loops it around his neck. “How does it work?” he asks, voice cold.

  “Just pour Mana into the stone,” Luo says. “It will respond to your intent. You’ll be able to command the demons linked to it.”

  He tilts his head slightly. “But only use it if poisoning the town fails. I’d rather not see my work wasted.”

  Guzman stares at the stone. It pulses against his chest.

  “…How many demons?”

  “Ten,” Luo says, nonchalant. “Nine are [B] rank, attuned to fire. The last, the leader, is [A] rank. It wields lightning.”

  “...I see.”

  That is a small army—stronger than most regional guilds could handle. If these things are unleashed in the city, there would be no survivors.

  “With that, my task here is done,” Luo says, already turning away. “Goodbye, Guzman.”

  —Fwoosh!

  A gust of wind stirs around him as purple smoke bursts from beneath his robe. The smoke coils upward, swallowing his figure.

  And just like that—

  —He vanishes.

  Guzman is left alone on the street, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

  He looks down at the stone. Its glow has faded, waiting patiently.

  Waiting to obey.

  He clenches his fist around it, jaw tight. “Just how far have I fallen…?” he mutters.