In the heart of the shadowed forest, the ancient stone sculpture emitted a faint rumble. The carved stone gate upon it creaked open with a slow, mysterious motion.

  It was Glenn’s second time coming here. The ogres’ corpses had long been cleared away by some unknown beasts, yet the air still reeked faintly of decay. He merely frowned. His main purpose this time was to visit the great city known as Cairadlia—to learn about property prices there, and perhaps browse through one of its magical material markets.

  “I’ll clean up the area when I return,” he murmured, then dashed off toward the city, just as he had before.

  As one of the kingdom’s foremost cities, Cairadlia was more crowded than most, its gates flooded with endless streams of travelers. The city guards and royal knights stationed there were numerous, well-trained, and equipped with various methods to detect demonic taint. Ordinarily, a werewolf like Glenn would never have been able to slip through—but this time, he had successfully concealed his curse.

  To enter the city, one needed an official entry permit. Glenn had none, and so he hid himself among the goods of a passing caravan. Fortunately, the soldiers and knights were far more concerned with tracking down demonic entities than with mundane smugglers. Once they confirmed that no corruption was present, they allowed the caravan to pass without delay.

  It was only half an hour after clearing the gates that Glenn silently slipped out from the cargo unnoticed.

  He stood at the edge of a bustling street, gazing at the towering buildings and the distant smokestacks of factories, pondering which way to go. The flow of people was far denser than in the memories of his body’s previous owner. Most were middle-class citizens, hurrying about with purpose. The cacophony of voices was overwhelming—so much so that Glenn could hardly distinguish a single useful word.

  Just then, a young man in a cap passed by. “Hey! Friend, could I ask you for directions?” Glenn called.

  “Sorry, sir, I’m in a hurry,” the man replied briskly before vanishing into the crowd.

  Glenn sighed and was about to find someone else when a young voice spoke up beside him. “Excuse me, sir. Would you like a guide?”

  Turning, Glenn saw a brown-haired boy of about sixteen or seventeen looking up at him.

  “Yes, I could use one,” Glenn replied.

  The boy’s face lit up. “Wonderful, sir! What are you looking for? I know this area quite well.”

  “Let’s discuss the price first,” Glenn said calmly. “I assume your services aren’t free.”

  He wasn’t in a hurry. The city gate was nearby, and his tasks would keep him in this area. There was no need to explore the city’s heart, or so he thought.

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  The boy hesitated, eyeing him for a moment before smiling. “Twenty copper an hour, sir.”

  An hourly rate—rather high, but acceptable. Glenn nodded. “Very well. Take me to the nearest magical trade market.”

  At that, the boy froze for a second. A flicker of unease crossed his eyes, though he quickly steadied himself after glancing at Glenn again.

  “What is it? You don’t know the way?” Glenn asked, noting the boy’s subtle change in expression.

  “Of course I do, sir,” the boy replied earnestly. “It’s just that we’d best take a carriage—it’ll save you time.”

  “Fine. Go fetch one. I’ll cover the fare,” Glenn said nonchalantly.

  “Yes, sir!” The boy turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  Glenn found a nearby bench and sat down.

  Not long after, the boy returned in a carriage far more ornate than any Glenn had seen near Dudd Town. “Your carriage awaits, sir!” the boy announced.

  After confirming the fare with the driver, Glenn stepped aboard.

  Filna.

  What began as an ordinary afternoon was suddenly disturbed by a faint tremor. Workers at Hank’s farm dropped their tools in alarm, fleeing toward open ground. But the quake lasted only a few seconds before subsiding.

  After several tense minutes, when no further shaking came, they cautiously resumed their work.

  None of them knew that, several kilometers away in the wilderness, the earth had split open—a gaping fissure nearly a hundred meters long. From within it came a laughter so dreadful that every living creature nearby trembled in instinctive terror.

  Meanwhile, in the police office of Dudd Town, an officer burst into the sheriff’s room, clutching a coded telegram. Sheriff Daughley snatched it at once, eyes narrowing as he began to decipher.

  Telegrams had been invented not long ago, reserved only for emergency use by official institutions. And whenever one came from the upper offices, it was never trivial.

  Dudd Town’s police lacked professional decoders; the literate sheriff himself handled the task.

  When he finished reading, his hand shook slightly. His expression froze.

  The message read: “Suspected demonic incursion imminent. Evacuate immediately.”

  Steeling himself, Daughley barked, “Assemble all officers! All of them! Gather outside in the square—now!”

  The officer obeyed without hesitation and sprinted off. Daughley, meanwhile, rushed toward the telegraph room—he needed to send a message back, to confirm whether higher authorities would intervene.

  But his concern was unnecessary.

  For ever since the royal seers had foretold that demons would soon appear within the kingdom’s borders, the royal court had been on high alert. Whether or not the prophecy proved true, they could not afford to be unprepared.

  Alongside the Knights’ Temple and the Mage Alliance, even the kingdom’s only sanctioned church—the Sansevier Church—was mobilizing its forces.

  In a vast hall upheld by towering columns carved from the bones of great magical beasts, the air shimmered with power. Intricate runes adorned the domed ceiling, glowing faintly in the flowing currents of mana.

  A group of white-robed devotees knelt in reverence, encircling an elderly man seated cross-legged at the center, his arms extended as if embracing the unseen.

  He was known as The White-Robed One—the kingdom’s most gifted seer and a general renowned as the “Unyielding Victor.”

  Seers were, in truth, mages—ones who devoted their entire lives to the mysteries of foresight. The White-Robed One had given his life to divination, and his mastery had brought both prestige and triumph in countless wars.

  Now, he and his acolytes were engaged in a grand ritual of his own design—one capable of piercing even the strongest veils of fate.

  The demons had taken great measures to conceal their incursion, shrouding their arrival with counter-divinations—but still, the White-Robed One had sensed the disturbance.

  After reporting it to the crown, he began this second, deeper ritual— to confirm the truth once and for all.