Chapter 7

The dim light in the magic shop still flickered weakly.
Behind the counter, the old man sat upright, his palm stroking the crimson shard of metal hidden in his sleeve over and over again, eyes burning with greed and urgency.

“It should be soon… it must be soon…”
He muttered to himself, his voice barely concealing its tremor.

The bell above the door suddenly chimed.

Ding—

A man in a dark formal suit stepped inside. His gait was steady, his presence icy. Those sharp eyes—like a hawk’s—swept the room with the faintest glance, and the old man’s spine went cold.

“Ste… Steward, sir!”
The old man shot to his feet, a broad smile plastered across his face, though his voice quivered. He hadn’t expected the message he had sent to draw this towering figure here in person.

The steward’s gaze drifted across the messy shop. He wasted no words, only said coldly:
“The item.”

Just two words—no question, no emotion. A command spoken as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The old man’s heart clenched, but anger never crossed his face. Instead, his eyes glittered with eagerness and flattery.

“Of course, of course!”
He hurriedly fished the crimson shard from his sleeve, holding it carefully in both hands as he offered it forward with a sycophantic smile.

“Please, take a look. This is the material I told you about… no common trinket.”

The shard gleamed faintly in the dim light, its surface shimmering with an eerie luster, as if it were quietly breathing.

The steward’s pupils contracted slightly.
He reached out, the black glove on his finger brushing the shard’s edge.

For a brief moment, he felt the strange, living pulse of the metal.

His face, however, betrayed nothing. He simply withdrew his hand and cast a single glance at the old man.

That look alone made the old man’s chest tighten and beads of cold sweat trickle down his back.

He rushed to fill the silence with nervous laughter:
“Heh… of course, this thing was brought in by a brat. I’ve already had him captured. If you wish, my lord, I can send men out at once to track down more of this metal.”

Before his words had even finished, the steward calmly drew back his gaze, placing the shard into a black case he carried with him.

“Good.”
The word was flat, dismissive—he did not so much as acknowledge the old man as a person.

But then, after a pause, he added quietly:

“The Baron will be interested.”

At that, the old man’s eyes flashed with excitement. He bent at once into a low bow, grinning obsequiously:
“Rest assured, my lord. Since the Baron desires this, I will find a way to obtain more within days! I’ll uncover its origin and track down its source without fail. I will not disappoint the Baron’s trust.”

The steward said nothing more. He simply closed the black case with a soft click and turned to leave. His footsteps echoed through the empty shop, carrying a chill pressure that lingered long after he disappeared through the door. Only then did the air seem to flow again.

The old man panted, unable to hide the flush of excitement and greed on his face.
“More… I must find more!”

He immediately summoned several trusted men and ordered in a low voice:
“Go, gather everyone. We’re about to strike it rich.

And bring out the records of those peasants who haven’t paid back their debts—we’ll collect what’s owed while we’re at it.

You all get ready—I’ll go confirm just how much that brat really knows.”

The damp underground chamber.

Torches flickered, throwing twisted shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with the stench of rot and rusted iron. From time to time, water dripped down—drip, drip—like the beat of a death knell.

Yuri curled up in a corner, his lips cracked, eyes clouded. For days he had survived only by licking the moisture that seeped from the ground. His stomach had long since hollowed out.

“Open it.”
With a harsh clack of keys, the old man pushed the door open, flanked by two burly thugs.

Yuri instinctively flinched.

The old man gave him no chance to breathe. He raised the crimson shard of metal into the torchlight and demanded coldly:
“Speak, brat. Where did this come from? How many more are there?!”

The glow writhed like a living thing in the gloom, stinging Yuri’s eyes. His throat was dry as sandpaper, his tongue stiff from hunger.

Without thinking, delirious with exhaustion, he poured out every scrap of memory he had.
“F-Found it… in the ruins… only saw one piece… I-I hid it away…”

His words came broken and weak, dripping with despair.

The old man narrowed his eyes, studying him for a long while. The brat’s too far gone with hunger to be lying, he thought.

Still, out of caution, he snorted and turned toward another cell.

There, John was chained to the wall, body battered and bruised, face swollen and purple. He had clearly been beaten badly when captured, starved until his mind teetered on the edge.

“Hmph.”
The old man stepped forward and slowly lifted the crimson shard.

“Did your boy tell the truth? The ruins? Or did you steal this from somewhere? Don’t play games with me. This thing… is not something you peasants were ever meant to touch.”

The torchlight glimmered across the shard’s eerie surface, and in the old man’s eyes burned undisguised greed.

John raised his head with effort, bloodshot eyes locking onto the shard. His pupils shrank violently, as if struck by some nightmarish memory.

“...A demon…”
The words rasped from his throat, broken and trembling with madness.
“That’s not… ordinary… it—it devours… it kills everything…”

His head shook violently, his voice unhinged, repeating over and over:
“A demon… a terrible demon… don’t touch it… don’t touch…”

The old man frowned, then sneered.
“A demon? Hah.”
Disdain curled his lip. “So one monster is enough to frighten you like this? Pathetic. Ignorant vermin.”

To him, John was nothing more than a cowardly peasant babbling nonsense. What mattered was the shard—nothing else. As for the father and son…

He flicked his hand impatiently, giving his men a cold order:
“Throw them outside the gates. Keeping this trash here is a waste of space.”

One henchman hesitated. “Do we… finish them off?”

“Finish what?” the old man spat. “Let them rot in the dirt. I won’t waste men cleaning up their blood. Toss them out and let them die on their own.”

With that, he turned and strode away, mind already elsewhere.

Night fell heavy.

Outside the crumbling city gate, John and Yuri were hurled onto the muddy ground. John lay battered and barely conscious, Yuri so weak he could hardly crawl.

The torchlight from the walls cast their frail shadows, swallowed slowly by the dark.

Meanwhile, the old man was already plotting his next move.

He summoned a trusted aide, his voice low and urgent:
“Go. Contact the mercenary bands—tell them there’s a big hunt. A dangerous monster in the northern ruins. I don’t care how—bring them in. I want that place scoured until not a blade of grass remains.”

His eyes gleamed with excitement and greed, muttering under his breath:
“If it really is a monster… even better. Its body must hold rarer materials still…”

But before his hunger could settle, another underling rushed in, face tight with unease.

“Boss.”
He offered a damp piece of parchment, the edges smeared with mud.
“Today’s report… you’ll want to see this.”

The old man’s brows rose. He snatched it open.

The ink had dried, but the words still blazed:

“Riverside Village annihilated overnight—suspected monster massacre.”
“Count Raymond and Count Veslo rumored to be purging the Church first.”
“Rebellion crushed successfully in Lodan City.”

The old man’s pupils shrank, fingers crushing the parchment until it crumpled in his grasp.

“...So it’s true.”
His whisper quivered with near-religious fervor.
“It’s here… it has to be here!”

He snapped his head up and barked:
“Speed up the mercenary preparations! No more waiting—at first light tomorrow, we move. Target, the village on that parchment!”

The henchman bolted off at once.

The old man stared down again at the report, greed and malice flashing in his gaze.
“This is my chance. If I can seize it… hahahaha…”

His laughter rang through the empty shop, like the rasp of a starving vulture.

Elsewhere.

In the darkened woods, Silead lay curled inside a hollow tree, arms crossed over his chest, back resting against the coarse roots as he snored.

His breathing was steady, his mask covering his face, utterly unaware that the ripples he had left in the world were spreading far and wide.

Moonlight sifted through the leaves, casting shifting patches of silver across his armor, making him look less like a man—more like a statue of stone.

An internet beggar in need of sponsorship Ko-fi.com/bencu