The outer fringe of Lowtown bled into something even more forgotten—an abandoned stretch of ruins veiled in quiet rot and overgrowth. Soren stood alone among crumbled stone pillars and weathered bricks, a place long forsaken by both city and time.
In his hand, the black coin felt heavier than before.
His choice to visit the appraiser now felt justified. Even with all his knowledge of magic, he wouldn't have discovered the hidden mechanism embedded within the coin without a specialist's insight. The man had already tuned the coin for him—subtly aligning the magical trigger to be ready to pull anytime with mana signature.
Now, all that remained was activation.
Soren swallowed hard. His thumb brushed the etched surface of the coin, and then he began to pour mana into it—slowly, deliberately.
The metal drank the energy greedily. Its edges pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat in shadow. Glyphs previously invisible began to glow in thin filaments, spidering out across the surface in a whisper of cursed light. A quiet vibration traveled up his palm, subtle and insistent.
Then, silence.
No explosion. No flash of light.
But Soren knew something had shifted.
He felt it before he saw or heard anything—like a needle of intent piercing through his soul.
A gaze. Sharp. Focused. From nowhere and everywhere.
He immediately cast a mana radar outward, sweeping for presences—nothing. The area was empty. No living being in a hundred paces. And yet—
He was being watched.
A voice drifted in like smoke. Smooth. Mocking.
"Ah… the one who fancied by Lancer."
Soren's eyes narrowed. His hand instinctively hovered near his waist, though no enemy had shown themselves.
"Who's voice?!" he called out.
"I'm Stalker." "State your business."
It was impossible to tell the direction—above? Behind? Within his own head? The voice belonged to is hard to be identified.
Soren paused, choosing his words carefully.
"I want to meet Black Vow," he said. "I want to make a deal—to exchange something for identity evidence of the one who named me as your target."
A moment passed.
Then, the voice again—cool, unreadable.
"I will relay your message to Lancer."
That name again. Lancer. Is it the spearman who had tried to kill him that night? So that was what they called him.
Soren's grip tightened slightly.
"Please do."
There was no reply.
Only the sudden, absolute absence of presence—as if even the air had retreated, and the unseen eyes were gone.
Meanwhile. Back at Soren's home.
A spatter of blood marked the wooden floor.
It had sprayed across the pale cheek of Elara, drawing a crimson arc below her eye.
Her expression had changed entirely from the gentle woman Soren knew. Now, her face was grim. Cold. A blade in human form.
At her feet lay a body—twitching once, then still—as she withdrew the mana-infused kitchen knife from the intruder's chest.
"I still don't believe this…" she murmured, voice edged with fury. "Vellian really is going too far."
The dead man had broken in under a shroud of silence, but not fast enough to avoid her detection. And now he would never speak again.
Another assassin. One who had breached the house of Noctis sibling.
Soren speculation had been right. They were after his sister.
Elara's hands trembled—not from fear, but from how close she had come to being too late.
"I thought my presence here would make Vellian think twice," she thought bitterly. "But I was completely wrong."
She turned sharply.
"Follow me closely, Lyra," she said, her voice no longer gentle but commanding.
The girl was huddled behind her, trembling, eyes wide with shock. Blood had sprayed on her shoes. She nodded quickly, biting her lip to keep from crying.
"Let's evacuate."
Elara didn't wait for further protest. She took Lyra by the hand, and together, they disappeared into the shadows—leaving behind the cooling corpse of a man sent by Vellian himself.
---
A massive blade, came hurtling through the air—cleaving downward with terrifying force.
It wasn't just the size of the weapon, but the sheer velocity behind it that turned the strike into a blur of death. The wielder, a hulking figure clad in ragged mercenary gear, followed the momentum like a falling star.
Soren had no time to anticipate it.
Instinct took over.
He raised his right hands and channeled his mana full power in a sudden surge—conjuring a blast of compressed wind! The pressure clashed against the incoming blade, just enough to redirect the arc by a hair's breadth.
CLANG—!!
Steel scraped past his shoulder, missing by inches and carving through the stone behind him.
"Hah!" the assailant barked as his ambush failed.
Without pause, the man pivoted and followed up with a brutal spinning kick. It landed squarely in Soren's chest, launching him backward like a ragdoll.
He crashed into a weathered brick column, collapsing it entirely as rubble rained down over his body.
"Ugh—"
Pain flared up his spine. His vision spun.
He could feel the toll from his earlier wounds barely scabbed over, and mana reserves drained. He was in no condition to fight.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
He opened his left eye.
It hummed faintly, the Eye of Ruin flickering with a low pulse.
As his vision cleared, he took a better look at his attacker. The man was massive—over two meters tall with arms like siege weapons. A jagged, two-handed blade rested on his shoulder, shaped like a twisted great scythe.
"Huh?" The mercenary tilted his head.
"An eye?" he muttered. "Didn't they say you were blind? Did my client give me the wrong file?"
Soren's voice rasped, low and angry. "Is it Vellian who sent you?"
The man didn't answer the question. He only cracked his neck.
"No matter."
Then he charged.
Despite the absurd size of his weapon, the man moved with terrifying speed—like a predator who'd hunted humans for sport. Each step was a quake, his blade trailing behind him like a crescent of death.
Soren scanned the area—quick. To his right, maybe fifteen meters away, a narrow alley stretched between the buildings, barely wider than a single person.
He dropped to his knees, palms pressing against the cracked ground, injecting something. Mana flared from him.
The attacker lunged, blade raised. The edge gleamed in the dim light, aimed to sever Soren clean in two.
But Soren was already moving.
Sloth.
The world slowed—just for him.
He slipped past the blade like mist, the steel cleaving through the pillar behind him instead, splitting it with a shattering crack.
"What—?" the attacker growled, momentarily stunned.
Soren didn't waste the chance.
He darted backward, sprinting toward the alley.
"Where do you think you're going?!" the mercenary barked, charging again.
But then—
His foot sank.
The ground beneath him turned to sludge, a muddy trap conjured by Soren's magic. His momentum faltered, his stance disrupted.
"Tch—!" he growled, trying to break free.
Soren twisted mid-run, turned slightly, and fired an Arcane Bolt!
A streak of blue energy shot toward the mercenary.
The man scoffed.
He batted the bolt aside with the flat of his greatsword, shrugging off the spell like it was nothing.
"Child's play."
Then—his aura erupted.
A wave of raw, golden-red force exploded from his body, whipping the air into spirals. The alley shook in response.
Soren's eyes constricted and widened.
That's an aura. A true weapon master!
Still, he pressed forward, diving into the narrow passage. The space closed around him, tight enough that his shoulders nearly scraped both walls.
The mercenary followed—but the moment he tried to raise his weapon—
He realized he couldn't.
The alley was too tight. His massive blade couldn't swing in this space.
"Damn it," he hissed.
At the far end of the alley, Soren saw someone standing.
A silhouette in the shadows.
And a face he recognized.
The figure didn't move. A spear brandished on his arm. He just said, calmly—
"Duck."
Soren didn't question it.
He dropped instantly.
FWOOSH—
A spear of condensed energy roared past him like a comet. The thrust was so precise it carved a straight line through the alley air—barely missing Soren's head.
The mercenary behind him had no time to react.
SPLAT.
The spear pierced straight through his skull.
His body jerked mid-step.
Then crumpled—lifeless—into a heap of gore.