Just as the scarred man paused to drink and prepare for another round of curses, the door was flung open by a fierce gust of wind.

  Every head turned toward the entrance.

  There stood an elderly gentleman, leaning on a black cane, dressed immaculately in a tailcoat and a short top hat. Upon his shoulder perched a jet-black raptor, its crimson eyes flickering ominously as they swept across the room.

  The scarred man’s brows furrowed sharply at the sight.

  “Snoke? Why are you still here? Where’s the young master’s cargo?”

  The old gentleman’s eyes narrowed. His voice was low and resonant—like distant thunder muffled beneath the earth.

  The scarred man showed little fear; years of shouting had left his voice hoarse and gravelly.

  “Black Sword? Shouldn’t you be skulking in the shadows, guarding your young master? What brings you here?”

  The newcomer was one of the magicians assigned by Lord Punk to protect his offspring. They were all dark mages—sorcerers who had surrendered to noble service rather than spend their lives hunted and exiled.

  “The young master grew impatient and sent me to retrieve the goods. But it seems, Snoke, that you’ve made quite a mess of things.”

  The old man flickered forward in a blur, his cane whipping up a gale. The black raptor on his shoulder took flight, and in an instant, they stood face to face with Snoke.

  Their eyes met—one cold and unreadable, the other beading with sweat. Snoke cursed inwardly. This old monster again.

  “As you can see,” Snoke admitted without hesitation, “I lost the cargo.”

  “Of course you did,” the old man sneered, a thin curl of disdain twisting his lips. “You’re as worthless as the scars covering your hide.”

  “Hmph. I’d like to see even you find the bastard who took it,” Snoke shot back, his tone deliberately provoking.

  “Don’t compare yourself to me,” the old mage replied coldly. “Before the power of true magic, no secret can remain hidden.”

  To everyone’s surprise, the elder known as Black Sword took the bait.

  The mercenaries exchanged uneasy murmurs until Snoke’s glare silenced them.

  “Big talk,” Snoke mocked. “Show us then! Let us witness this great—mighty—sorcerer!”

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  That final taunt struck the old man’s pride. He snapped his cane, and a black tempest erupted inside the room.

  The raptor screamed—a piercing, metallic shriek—its wings thrashing.

  Mercenaries were hurled about like leaves in a storm; only a few of the stronger ones managed to remain upright.

  Within the cyclone, Black Sword began to chant, his lips moving in quick, precise rhythm. His body rose from the floor, cloaked in roiling darkness, before he drifted toward the courtyard where the empty cage stood.

  Snoke and his men followed, shielding themselves from the razor-edged gusts that radiated from the mage like blades of night.

  Damn it, Snoke cursed inwardly. Why did I have to provoke him? Does he think all this noise makes him look impressive?

  Just as he opened his mouth to call it off, faint shimmering shapes flickered before them—barely visible to the naked eye, but Snoke’s battle-honed instincts caught them instantly.

  Moments later, the images vanished, and the old mage descended lightly, brushing his hand over the raptor’s feathers with smug satisfaction.

  “You found it?” Snoke asked, though he already knew the answer.

  The mage shot him a frosty glare. “Do you dare doubt me? Shall I demonstrate my wind-blade magic on your flesh?”

  Snoke remained silent, waiting.

  “It’s a fool who knows nothing of magic,” Black Sword continued. “Didn’t even bother to erase the traces properly. I barely had to try.”

  Relief washed over Snoke. Thinking of the humiliation he had suffered that day, murderous fury flared in his eyes.

  “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s find that bastard. I already know exactly how I’ll make him pay.”

  Bayek, Glen Residence

  When Lavelle returned from work, Glen personally cooked a generous dinner—mostly vegetarian dishes to suit their forest-elf guest. He even prepared dipping sauces, which gave the simple fare an unexpected charm.

  At first, the elf maiden wore a look of disdain, boasting of the exquisite cuisine of her own kin.

  Lavelle and Tia listened, their mouths watering.

  But after reluctantly sampling a bite, Gotaya muttered, “Not as terrible as I imagined.”

  “Wow! Then elven food must be amazing! I’d love to try some!” Tia’s eyes shone with excitement.

  “Our food… is not something humans can just sample at will,” Gotaya stammered, flustered.

  Tia deflated instantly, like a balloon losing air.

  Lavelle studied her for a moment, then frowned. “Tia, you’ve changed lately—you’ve lost your noble manners, acting like a commoner.”

  “Ah?” Tia startled, about to apologize.

  But Glen cut in coldly. “Still putting on airs in my house? Maybe your chores are too light—or are you itching for a beating?”

  Lavelle’s head dropped at once.

  Glen turned to Tia, whose posture had grown stiff. “Etiquette is for when it’s needed. Not here. You’re fine as you are.”

  His tone carried a rare certainty that eased her nerves a little.

  Gotaya glanced between Glen and Tia, her thoughts unreadable.

  After the meal, Glen learned from Gotaya that the Black Raven had been looking for him.

  He made a note of it—deciding to visit personally the next day. They’d known each other for some time, after all, yet he’d never been to the man’s home.

  Later that night, he cleared out a room on the second floor for Gotaya. With three people now living in a modest two-story house, Glen had fully maximized its space—though Lavelle, sleeping in the storeroom, didn’t quite count.

  “I still have the basement,” he mused before bed. “Could probably fit two more down there…”

  Just as sleep began to take him, a wolf’s distant howl echoed in his mind—sharp, urgent.

  His eyes snapped open. That wasn’t a dream.

  “Nighthowl… warning me?”

  He couldn’t risk ignoring it.

  Throwing open the window, he leapt into the dark street below.

  The wandering monsters scattered in panic as he landed and dashed toward the outskirts of town.

  As he neared the edge, the sounds grew clearer—crashing blows, snarls, and the pained howls of Nighthowl ringing through the stormy night.