Chapter 31

Rumors of Roverni forging an alliance with an occult practitioner had circulated for weeks. Whispers regarding elite talents and black magicians swirled within the shadows—unverifiable, yet rampant. Isaac could not gauge the true extent of Urgo’s power, but based on the overhead conversation, the man was undeniably dangerous. After all, someone of Roverni’s stature would naturally maintain ties to the occult.

But still, an actual magician.

Legal mandates required all mages to register with the guild and report commissions involving anything beyond standard academic research. Naturally, many circumvented the law for lucrative, illicit ventures. If Roverni had summoned one to this den, he was clearly intent on bloodshed.

If the man’s specialty truly lay in healing, even their mysterious assailant faced an insurmountable wall. Fighting ten hardened professionals who could reverse their own injuries at will was a task beyond the reach of even the most extraordinary skill. Survival would be a miracle, let alone victory. Isaac harbored doubts that the attacker would even reveal his face; if discovered beforehand, his life was forfeit.

Isaac glanced down at the unconscious companion at his side. He had noted the signal the man passed to the group below before incapacitating him, ensuring that discovery would not be immediate. Surely, they would not attempt to converse with a comrade they had deliberately concealed in the rafters.

Maybe I truly shouldn’t have come. Ah, whatever. The die is cast.

The revelation of the magician’s presence sent a tide of cold dread washing over him, coupled with a bitter, corrosive regret. It was too late for retreat. Isaac bowed his head lower, moving only his eyes. The hour had long since passed midnight.

“Anyway, what in the hell is that lunatic?” the bald man suddenly bellowed, his leg twitching with restless anxiety as he checked the clock. “What kind of bastard is he, and why is he targeting us without provocation?”

“Who could fathom his intent or his nature?” the leader replied. “But one thing is certain: the bastard is dangerously stupid. He murdered a grand duke’s son, of all people. He has dug his own grave with both hands. Now, he will be hunted by the guards in the light, and by us in the dark. Could any choice be more moronic?”

“Ha ha, true enough. We should actually be thanking him for offing Sir Leon.”

“I found that arrogant, noble brat an eyesore myself, so that worked out well,” the bald man added, then winked with exaggerated theater. “Ah, pretend you didn’t hear that, all right?”

Judging by the lack of alarm from the others, the sentiment was universal. Isaac, too, had never heard a kind word spoken about the grand duke’s son.

“Hmph. Regardless, after tonight, that bastard won’t have to worry about the chase anymore,” the scarred man said. “He may retain his breath, but he will lack the limbs to ever run again.”

“Just ensure you don’t accidentally extinguish him,” the leader cautioned.

“A minor mistake or two is acceptable,” Urgo replied with affected generosity. “As long as he avoids a fatal blow, I shall ensure he does not die. Vent your fury as you please. Watching him scream in agony, denied even the mercy of death, should prove quite cathartic for you all.”

A cheer erupted among the men.

“Excellent. Truly excellent. He has harmed our brothers-in-arms. We shall show him a living hell.”

“He had better not decide to stay away.”

Each man tightened his grip on his weapon. The scarred man nervously stroked his blade, glaring at the clock as the minutes bled into the late hour. Outside the window, the city had fallen into a tomb-like silence, save for the faint, rhythmic barking of a distant dog.

The men drifted into casual chatter, discussing the assailant and the recent business dealings of the Roverni faction. Isaac remained motionless, suspended in the dark above their heads, his breath shallow and controlled.

Who was this assailant, really? Why wage a war against Roverni’s men? He was likely not a lone wolf, as they surmised. A new, hostile faction was carving out its place in the underworld, where the potential for profit was astronomical. In the past, many had tried to usurp Roverni’s throne, and Isaac had assumed this was merely another attempt. But with the death of the grand duke’s son, the waters had grown murky.

In any event, if the assailant materialized tonight, Isaac might finally grasp a singular truth. Assuming, of course, that he lived to see it.

“I’ll pull through, I suppose. I might look like a train wreck, but my bad luck is weirdly resilient—yes, it certainly is.”

「Muddlehead’s voice lacked any conviction. 」

「He knew his words were merely a desperate, hollow act of self-soothing. Much like the way people convince themselves that if they just find the right café, their mounting pile of assignments, work, and looming manuscript deadlines will suddenly resolve themselves. 」

「Vanity of vanities.」

“…”

What in the hell are they doing here?

Isaac clamped shut the lips he had been moving in silent protest and cast a frigid, sideways glance. At the periphery of his vision, three cats sat perched in a neat row where they certainly had not been a moment earlier. One patted the nose of the unconscious man nearby, another batted at a swirling mote of dust, and the third was fastidiously washing its face with a velvet paw.

He had secured them with collars in the corner of his room, complete with ample water and food bowls. Why, then, were these stubborn little beasts appearing here?

I explicitly told you lot to stay behind!

Isaac widened his eyes, shouting the command with the silent movement of his lips. The cats merely stared back, their eyes bright and unbothered.

「We didn’t follow you, honestly. We just fancied a bit of a stroll.」

You incorrigible little liars! Do you have any idea how far it is from my house to this place? Who in their right mind goes for a walk this distance?!

Isaac threw his head back in indignation, venting his fury through nothing but silent, mouthed words. Suddenly, a voice from below muttered, “I thought I heard something,” and he snapped his mouth shut, flattening himself against the beams.

“Must be a rat, right?”

One of the men below drawled the words slowly, clearly intending for any interloper hiding above the ceiling to hear. While the companion who should have heard those words remained unconscious until dawn, Isaac held his position with deathly stillness. The cats meowed with an irritating cheerfulness, but he ignored them; he would deal with their disobedience once they returned home.

“But is he actually going to show up? It is already far too late.”

“Indeed. Well, if that is the case, we shall simply finish our drinks and head out.”

The men reached for food from the heavily laden table and hoisted their glasses. Isaac could hear the middle-aged man chiding the others to pace themselves.

Isaac gauged the passage of time by the moonlight streaming through the small, cracked window in the roof. The night had deepened considerably, just as they had claimed. It was nearly the hour of dawn. If their target had intended to show his face, he would have arrived and retreated by now. Was today truly a wasted effort? Isaac glanced at the night sky, where the deep indigo was just beginning to pale, and clicked his tongue in silent frustration.

He had never expected to find his fill on the first attempt, yet to end with nothing was a bitter pill to swallow. He had braced himself for several fruitless hunts, yet the reality remained draining. Still, at least he would escape with his life intact.

Just as that thought crossed Isaac’s mind and he exhaled a silent sigh—

Suddenly, every sound died. It was an exceedingly faint presence—someone leaning against the heavy door. Despite the subtlety of the sign, the men below fell into an instant, dead silence, as each of them was a seasoned fighter.

Their expressions hardened instantly. They exchanged razor-sharp glances and quietly gripped their weapons. Even the magician, who had sat with a sneering air the entire night, wiped the arrogance from his face and glared at the door.

“Who’s there?”

The middle-aged man spoke, gesturing toward the young brute sitting near the entrance. The rough, thick-necked man retrieved an iron blade that appeared heavy enough to crush a man’s skull and crept toward the door. No answer arrived. Instead, the door began to groan, straining to open. The middle-aged man signaled again, and the brute drove the iron blade into the wooden panel without a second’s hesitation.

CLANG!

The iron blade splintered the door, plunging deep into the heart of the wood. The brute’s eyes flared as he gave a sharp, definitive nod, signaling he had felt the steel find flesh. With a brutal yank, he ripped the door open, exposing a man pressed against it, his chest run through by the heavy blade.

“You bastard!”

The brute wrenched the weapon free and seized the slumping man by his hair, jerking his head upward. Isaac, holding his breath, stared down at the man’s lifted face. The moment he caught sight of those eyes—rolled back into his skull in the finality of death—he realized the horrifying truth.

No.

That pale, bloodless complexion did not belong to someone who had died a moment ago. He had been a corpse long before the iron blade found him. Which meant—

“…”

Before Isaac could even process the realization, the brute’s head plummeted.

As the man stood bent forward, peering at the corpse, his head simply detached and tumbled across the floor. It landed near his own feet, wearing a look of grotesque bewilderment. A heartbeat later, his torso erupted, spraying blood like a crimson fountain before collapsing into a sodden heap.

Panic seized the room. The men scrambled back, kicking over their chairs as they surged to their feet.

“Turaf!”

“Who the hell are you?!”

Rough, frantic shouts filled the air. Then, a figure stepped over the threshold. The moment those heavy boots crossed the frame, a terrifying sound tore through the room.

WHISPERING SHWAAAK

A crossbow bolt, fired with enough velocity to shatter a stone pillar, whistled toward the figure’s neck. There was no room to dodge. At the precise moment that bolt should have pierced his throat, something impossible occurred.

The figure caught the iron bolt out of the air. The arrowhead had been a mere fraction of an inch from grazing his skin. It would have been a miracle to catch a regular arrow at that range, let alone a bolt shot from a heavy crossbow.

“…”

The bald man who had fired the shot stood frozen, his eyes bulging in pure, unadulterated shock.

The figure spun the iron bolt between his fingers and whipped it back with the same savage speed. It slammed into the bald man’s throat, tearing through the flesh with horrifying force. The man clutched his neck, his hands fumbling over the gaping hole while he emitted a series of wet, choking gurgles.

The room erupted in chaos. The magician, eyes glinting with dark intent, began to chant, his lips moving in a frantic blur. Instantly, the massive, jagged wound in the bald man’s throat began to knit together. The man, who had been seconds away from death, collapsed to the floor and heaved desperate, jagged breaths. His face remained ashen, a mask of confusion, as if he had no concept of the trauma he had just endured.

It happened in an instant—before Isaac could even blink.

Truly, that magician had earned his arrogance. The bald man was alive without even a scar. But the magician could do nothing for the brute, whose head lay severed in a pool of his own cooling blood.

Isaac watched the magician with a mix of wariness and admiration, then turned his gaze back to the figure in the doorway. The figure was shrouded in a gray hood that draped from his crown to his ankles, pulled so low that his face remained an absolute mystery. From his perch in the rafters, Isaac could only see the peak of the hood and the occasional movement around the man’s jaw.

He was tall, powerfully built, and carried an air of cold, lethal efficiency.

“Are you the bastard who has been picking off our comrades?” the middle-aged man demanded, eyes darting to his allies.

His group moved in perfect unison, circling the gray-cloaked intruder and sealing his exit. One man dashed to the window and ignited a signal flare. With a sharp crack, it streaked into the sky, exploding into a grand burst of flame.