Before the White-Robed One stood a vessel resembling an incense burner, its surface lined with neat, delicate perforations. From them, tendrils of azure smoke drifted and flowed like liquid, weaving gracefully between each vent.

  Suddenly, the smoke blushed crimson—and, as if drawn by an unseen force, it surged toward the White-Robed One, streaming straight into his nostrils.

  His head slowly tilted back, brows knitting together in strain. When the final wisp of red mist was absorbed, his eyes snapped open, sharp as a blade in the dim chamber.

  A heartbeat later, the kneeling disciples below followed suit, opening their eyes in unison.

  “Inform Fitt,” the White-Robed One commanded, his voice deep and resonant. “It is now certain—the demons have indeed invaded.”

  Before anyone could move, a clear, confident female voice rang out from beyond the hall. “There’s no need. I already know.”

  Though the hall was built to be soundproof, her tone carried through effortlessly, crisp as breaking ice.

  The White-Robed One chuckled softly. “Then I must trouble you, once again.”

  No reply came. He did not seem surprised. Instead, he murmured to himself, “What is their purpose this time? If conquest were their goal, such meager forces could never suffice…”

  Cairadlia.

  The moment Glenn stepped into the grand, magic-suffused hall of the trade exchange, he felt countless unseen gazes fall upon him. The vast chamber, which resembled an exhibition hall more than a market, teemed with customers—yet not a single living attendant was in sight.

  Those stares clearly did not belong to the patrons. Surveillance devices? Glenn wondered fleetingly.

  The brown-haired boy who had guided him here had refused to enter, insisting he would wait outside. Now Glenn suspected he understood why.

  Pretending not to notice the invisible scrutiny, Glenn made his way toward a section labeled Artifacts. On pedestals and display tables, countless items gleamed beneath the gentle lamplight—each accompanied by a small plaque of detailed description.

  He was about to pick up a bracelet labeled Frostbinder when the display stand beside it sprouted eyes and a mouth. “Look, but do not touch,” it hissed coldly.

  Glenn froze, turning his head. Two eyes blinked from opposite branches of the stand, and its mouth split vertically, rows of jagged teeth glinting within.

  Before he could respond, a muffled voice rose from beneath the display table. “First time here, huh? You’ve got that clueless look about you.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Taking a step back, Glenn watched as the table itself sprouted eyes and a mouth. So those were the gazes I felt, he thought. “And who might you be?”

  “We,” said the stand proudly, “are the creations of the great Lord Holmes, entrusted with the sacred duty of guarding this shop, you ignorant apprentice.”

  Glenn immediately understood. Creating loyal, sentient constructs to run the store—no pay, no disobedience. Ingenious. But to animate lifeless matter required considerable power—at least a fourth-tier mage, if not higher.

  “I wish to purchase some artifacts. May I inquire through you?” he asked.

  “Of course,” the table replied slowly. “That is our duty. However, apprentice, you cannot afford a single item here. Best return and consult your master before embarrassing yourself.”

  “And how would you know what I can afford?” Glenn asked evenly.

  “Your clothes, your demeanor,” the stand said smugly. “You may have some savings, but not nearly enough to shop here. Trust my experience.”

  Glenn was about to respond when mocking laughter erupted behind him. Turning, he found several customers watching him with thinly veiled amusement.

  He frowned. “What’s so funny? Did you swallow a fly, or are you simply desperate for everyone to hear how dreadful your laugh is?”

  Those gathered here were clearly mages or their apprentices—people used to respect and deference. Few among them possessed any humility, and Glenn had no patience for their arrogance.

  The mockers looked stunned. A mere apprentice had dared to insult them—them, who had already identified him as such upon his arrival. How dare he?

  Most turned away, unwilling to cause a public scene. But a few stayed, sneering.

  “My friend,” said a tall, narrow-faced youth, his tone laced with superiority, “which master do you serve? Such arrogance hardly befits a mage.”

  Glenn turned his back on him without a word.

  Just as he was about to continue his inquiry, he felt a sudden chill at his leg. Glancing down, he saw his trouser leg soaked through—reeking sharply.

  He looked up to find a boy, perhaps eight or nine years old, lowering a small wand and pulling a face at him. As Glenn’s eyes narrowed, the boy darted behind a woman in a light brown robe—a mage, clearly his teacher—still smirking defiantly.

  Laughter broke out again, harsher this time. Even the female mage’s lips curved in amusement.

  They had judged Glenn the moment he entered—plain clothes, unremarkable presence. Hardly the apprentice of a grand sorcerer. More likely some wild mage who’d stumbled into talent.

  At first, they had ignored him. But when he dared talk back, they decided to stay and enjoy the show.

  Slap! Slap! Slap!

  The laughter ended abruptly. One by one, the mockers crumpled to the floor, clutching their faces in shock—including the brown-robed woman herself.

  She stared at Glenn in disbelief, her cheek red and swelling. And then she saw it—Glenn, holding her young apprentice aloft by the ear. Each time the boy screamed, Glenn twisted a little harder.

  The louder the boy cried, the more the crowd gathered, drawn by the commotion.

  “Isn’t that Bana’s apprentice?” someone whispered. “Why’s he being beaten?” “Not just her apprentice—Bana herself got hit!” “What? She’s a third-tier mage! Who’d dare strike her?”

  Just as Glenn was about to twist again, a surge of danger prickled through his instincts. Bana had raised her hand—an attack spell about to form.

  But Glenn moved first. He caught her wrist—and squeezed.

  Crack!

  Her scream pierced the hall as her wrist shattered. She fell to the ground, writhing, powerless to resist.

  The hall fell deathly silent. Even the sobbing boy froze, his eyes wide with horror. To him, his teacher was omnipotent—his shield, his sky. But now that sky had collapsed before his eyes.

  Glenn stepped closer, seized the boy’s other ear, and lifted him again.

  “Enough,” he said coldly.

  The boy’s wails died instantly, replaced only by trembling whimpers.