In a well-furnished room at an unknown location, Elliot sat across from a refined middle-aged man dressed in a simple short-sleeved cotton shirt, gray trousers, and ink-black shoes.

  Yet despite the unassuming outfit, there was nothing ordinary about him.

  His hair—silver on one side, gold on the other—was neatly tied into a ponytail. The left brow above his eye gleamed gold; the right, silver. One hand continuously fed pastries into his mouth while the other idly tugged at his curled moustache.

  Around them, a series of massive mirrors floated in midair. They reflected neither the men nor the room itself—only blank, lightless surfaces.

  Elliot watched the man in silence, his gaze lingering on the intricate tattoos spiraling around the man’s exposed forearm.

  “When is this going to start?” the man grumbled suddenly, his expression remaining perfectly neutral.

  “Soon, sir,” Elliot replied with a polite smile.

  “Sir?” The man turned to him.

  Elliot met his oval brown eyes without flinching.

  “Since when did you start calling me that?” the man chuckled.

  “I’ve always respected you, Sir Timothy,” Elliot said quickly. “It would be rude to address you otherwise.”

  Timothy snorted and looked away, shaking his head. “Do whatever you want,” he muttered, already reaching for another miniature cake.

  At that moment, one of the mirrors stirred. Its blank surface rippled, then shifted into the image of a massive factory floor.

  “Finally,” Timothy said impatiently. “I was about to leave in five minutes.”

  The display shifted again, revealing a crowd of people frozen in terror.

  Timothy glanced sideways at Elliot. “Just to be clear,” he said lightly, “there will be consequences if this turns out to be a waste of my time.”

  “I understand, sir,” Elliot replied, his cheer unwavering. “Thank you for sparing time from your busy schedule. Please—relax and enjoy the show.”

  Timothy said nothing, already focused on the mirror.

  Elliot maintained his smile, though panic churned beneath it.

  Calm down. Calm down. He won’t act rashly… right?

  His palms itched, slick with sweat.

  Please don’t disappoint me, Adam, he thought. I’d hate to clash with this monster…

  Onscreen, several prisoners vomited as bodies collapsed into pools of gore.

  “Oh?” Timothy hummed. “The target is the Cartman Brothers.”

  “Yes,” Elliot answered immediately.

  “Hmmm.” Timothy leaned forward. “Of the three, which one did you send?”

  His smile widened.

  “It’s—”

  “Never mind,” Timothy interrupted. “The suspense makes it better.”

  He grabbed a bucket of popcorn and slouched deeper into his chair. “What’s the assassin’s rank? You didn’t send someone above them, surely.”

  “That would defeat the purpose of the test,” Elliot replied.

  Timothy laughed softly. “There’s no better entertainment than watching weaklings beat each other to death.”

  He pointed at the screen. “Is it this old bastard?”

  The image showed the elderly man lunging at Morton Cartman.

  “It’s—”

  “Shut up,” Timothy cut in sharply. “I don’t want to know.”

  Elliot smiled thinly. Then why ask?

  Timothy’s attention never wavered as the old man attacked. He had stopped eating entirely, laughing openly as Morton’s face was battered again and again.

  The laughter peaked when a storm of icicles perforated the old man’s body.

  “That bastard didn’t even last a minute,” Timothy wheezed between laughs. “How can someone be that weak?” He wiped tears from his eyes. “Did you see his face when the ice hit?”

  Elliot said nothing.

  “There are only two suspects left,” Timothy muttered, reaching for a cream-coated pie.

  Onscreen, a man who had been lying motionless suddenly rose to his feet.

  “Hm.” Timothy tilted his head. “I thought he’d have something more elaborate planned. Why reveal himself like that?” He glanced at Elliot. “Is that him?”

  Elliot remained silent.

  Timothy snapped his head toward him. “I asked you something.”

  Elliot stiffened. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “That’s him, sir.”

  Timothy frowned. “I’m disappointed already.” His eyes returned to the mirror. “Where’s his file?”

  Elliot snapped his fingers. A dossier materialized on the table between them.

  Without looking away from the screen, Timothy sighed. The file levitated into the air, pages flipping rapidly. With each turn, his expression darkened.

  Moments later, the file dropped back onto the table.

  Timothy no longer smiled.

  “I had high expectations,” he sighed. “But I knew this would be a waste of time.”

  Elliot wisely said nothing.

  “You sent a C-rank to deal with the Cartman Brothers?” Timothy continued. “If he had a special constitution, or some absurd ability, I’d understand. But weapon manipulation?” He shook his head. “That’s it?”

  He reached for a fruitcake. “Since I’m already here, I’ll watch it through. At least watching him die like a maggot should be amusing.”

  Timothy glanced at Elliot. “Your boss overestimated him. Don’t you think?”

  Elliot nodded. “I agree. I simply follow orders.”

  Timothy clenched his jaw. “With your potential, you could have done so much more… instead, you choose this.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Elliot smiled faintly.

  “A damn shame,” Timothy muttered, looking away.

  Silence fell.

  A few minutes later, the mirrors now reflected the aftermath.

  Both men were standing.

  Was he always that powerful? Elliot wondered. What are those summons? Demons?

  Questions piled up—questions he knew he could never ask or answer.

  He glanced at Timothy.

  For the first time, the man looked genuinely shaken.

  At times, Timothy leaned forward, breath caught in his throat. Elliot understood why.

  Adam had utterly annihilated the Cartman Brothers—fighters famed for their A-rank combat prowess.

  “Elliot,” Timothy said quietly, eyes never leaving the mirror, “who the hell is that kid?”

  He snapped his gaze toward Elliot. “I won’t forgive you if you lie to me.”

  Elliot retreated a step, instinct screaming as something feral surfaced in the man’s eyes.

  “Elliot!”

  “S-sir.” He froze.

  “I said tell me who he is.”

  Elliot swallowed hard, then snapped his fingers. A new file materialized in the air between them.

  “Master instructed me to hand this to you if he succeeded.”

  Timothy’s brows lifted. The file ripped itself from Elliot’s grasp and hovered before him, pages flipping one by one.

  A short, bitter laugh escaped Timothy’s lips. “This world is so damn unfair,” he muttered. “How does he always find these people before I do?”

  He turned his gaze back to Elliot. “Why didn’t you tell me he was a candidate to replace Romolu?”

  “I—I apologize, sir,” Elliot stammered. “I didn’t have permission to—”

  “It’s fine,” Timothy interrupted. “That makes him the eighth one.” He paused, slowly stretching his moustache. “Interesting.”

  He grinned suddenly, eyes locking onto Elliot. “Do you know what’s written in that file?”

  Elliot nodded.

  Timothy laughed, louder this time. “My, my… your master’s sadistic streak has only grown worse.”

  His attention drifted back to the mirrors. They were blank now—no factory, no prisoners, no blood.

  Timothy reached into his pocket and produced a transmission crystal. Light spilled across the room as it activated.

  A melodious feminine voice followed. “Good evening, sir. How may—”

  “Patsy,” Timothy cut in. “Add a name to the restricted list.”

  “One moment, sir…” A soft beep followed. “Ready. Please provide the details.”

  “Name: Adam. Rank: C. Age: seventeen… or eighteen.” Timothy paused.

  “And the bounty?” Patsy asked.

  Timothy remained silent.

  Then he turned to Elliot, smiling brightly. “Whoever brings his head,” he said calmly, “will have one wish granted by Eight Gates.”

  A sharp gasp echoed through the crystal.

  “Did you get that, Patsy?”

  “Y-yes, sir,” she replied. “What about restrictions?”

  “It’s open to all C-rank and below for the first six months.” He paused. “B-ranks may participate afterward. A-ranks after one year.” Another pause. “Move it to the open list if no one claims it within two years. Understood?”

  “Perfectly, sir.”

  The transmission crystal went dark as Timothy pocketed it.

  He leaned back into his chair, chuckling as he reached for the final piece of cake.

  “Elliot… do you think he’ll survive?”

  Elliot said nothing.

  “Compared to the other candidates, he’s pitifully weak,” Timothy continued. “Even that runt—Ash, or whatever he calls himself—could kill him in seconds.”

  “Maybe that’s why Master chose him,” Elliot muttered, unconvinced.

  Timothy’s grin widened. “Either way, I can’t wait to see how it all ends.”

  Adam weaved through the humming factory, sprinting at breakneck speed. Toxic mist from the Cartman brothers’ combined attacks still lingered in the air, but he had already consumed an antidote.

  Where was the exit again?

  He skidded to a halt, scanning the desolate expanse. Adam remained still, listening—watching—until a familiar pattern emerged. Then he moved.

  It’ll be a while before investigators from the Scavengers arrive. I need to be gone before then.

  The thought made him cackle softly.

  If Vicar knew Devourer could eat away at Morton’s Domain, he would’ve assigned something far nastier.

  Adam stifled his laughter and pressed on.

  [Potential Source of Danger Detected!]

  He stopped mid-stride.

  Right. I forgot about her…

  A smile tugged at his lips, and his body vanished from sight.

  Five minutes later, a lone figure entered the area.

  She wore tattered brown robes and a half-mask that concealed her nose and mouth, leaving only almond-brown eyes exposed. Faint marks—ghosts of chains—ringed her wrists and ankles.

  Adam watched from nearby, shrouded in invisibility, silently assessing her.

  Where was she hiding all this time?

  Most of the prisoners had fled in blind panic. He’d assumed they’d be far from here by now.

  The woman crept forward, head swiveling left and right, her movements cautious but purposeful.

  She took advantage of the opening I created… and whatever she came for, she got it.

  Then Adam noticed the bulge beneath her robes—unnatural, far too pronounced to be caused by food. Since arriving, her left arm hadn’t strayed far from it.

  What are you protecting?

  “System,” Adam murmured internally. “Retrieve Cataclysm.”

  The axes manifested soundlessly in his hands, concealed by invisibility.

  He closed the distance without a whisper.

  At that exact moment, the woman reached beneath her clothes and withdrew a blood-red crystal the size of a watermelon. Alongside it, she produced a crudely drawn map of the area. She studied it briefly, then concealed both once more.

  Adam stepped in behind her.

  One blade pressed gently—but decisively—against the back of her neck.

  “Leaving so soon?” he murmured. “I’d strongly advise against doing anything stupid.”

  “Okay,” she whispered, rigid with fear.

  “On your knees.”

  She complied without protest.

  “Who are you?” Adam asked.

  He’d expected resistance. The instant obedience surprised him.

  “I—I’m Joan,” she said shakily. “I’m… a professional thief.”

  Adam suppressed a chuckle. Professional thief. That’s a new one.

  His gaze flicked toward where the crystal had been hidden. Everything clicked.

  “I’m not lying,” Joan blurted out. “I really am just a thief.”

  “Good for you,” Adam said flatly. “Now let’s see the cryst—”

  She’d already retrieved it.

  I like her. She knows when not to hesitate.

  Adam took the crystal. It was cold to the touch. A tingling sensation crawled down his fingers the longer he held it.

  “You’ve found something exquisite,” the demonic voice whispered. “That crystal contains the essence of thousands. Let’s eat it, Adam. We deserve it.”

  Adam’s brow furrowed, the image of humans reduced to raw materials flashing through his mind.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked, increasing the pressure on her neck. “And who sent you?”

  Joan panicked. “I—I only know it’s valuable to Elixir users,” she said. “Nothing else!”

  “Who sent you,” Adam growled. “Last chance.”

  “It—it was a specter mission!”

  “A what?”

  “In my line of work,” she explained quickly, “missions from unknown clients are called specters—or ghosts.”

  “Go on.”

  “When a ghost opens a mission, it becomes a contract. Anyone can accept it. High risk, high reward.”

  “So there are no restrictions?”

  Joan shook her head. “Not if it’s open.”

  “What’s the other type?”

  She hesitated.

  Adam pressed harder.

  “R-restricted contracts,” she said. “They come with conditions—rank limits, gender, race… anything the ghost wants.”

  Adam nodded slowly.

  Of course, a system like that exists in a world this rotten.

  “And your contract was to retrieve the crystal?”

  “Yes. It was one of thousands on the restricted list.”

  “Who manages the contracts?”

  Joan stiffened.

  “Answer.”

  “The Council of Hollows.”

  Adam froze.

  He knew the name. Everyone did.

  Dark guilds were secretive by nature—but the Council was worse. A name without a face. A shadow with no body.

  I can’t believe I ran into one of their threads here.

  “Tell me everything you know,” Adam said. “Don’t omit a thing.”

  Joan shook her head. “I’m not one of them. I doubt they even have real members.”

  “What?”

  “They’re middlemen,” she explained. “Between ghosts and contractors. Like an order house. Anyone can register to accept jobs. If you pay enough, you can even post one.”

  Adam fell silent.

  That might be the best news I’ve heard all month. If I play this right… I might finally track that demon.

  “Last question,” he said. “Where’s the order house in Vohmir—and what do I need to register?”

  “There are several,” Joan replied. “But the one I know is at Ferma Docks, off the Bordon Island coast.”

  “Go on…”

  “A guide will lead you to the true location, but a password is needed,” she said calmly. “They’ll ask if the conditions are perfect. You reply with… this is a contract I’ve longed for.”

  “Anything else?”

  Joan didn’t answer right away, as if lost in thought. Then she shook her head. “No. I didn’t hide anything from—”

  The pressure at the back of her neck vanished before she could finish.

  She turned cautiously. No one was there.

  “Fuck…” she muttered, pushing herself upright.

  He took the crystal.

  All that work… for nothing.

  She suddenly dropped into a crouch.

  Then a familiar voice reached her ears.

  “There’s an exit northwest of here. Go anywhere else, and you’ll die. Goodbye.”

  Joan froze.

  She spun, searching the shadows, but found no trace of him.

  Northwest? Isn’t that where the map said never to go?

  She sighed and straightened. “I never should’ve trusted that fortune-teller. How is this supposed to be a windfall?”

  She resisted the urge to kick a nearby pipe as she weighed her options.

  A firm grip suddenly closed around her shoulder.

  Joan screamed and stumbled to the floor.

  A cool voice followed. “How would you like to earn a small fortune?”

  Heart hammering, she slowly turned her head.

  A young man stood before a shimmering blue portal—smiling.

  When did he get here?

  And why is he wearing a chef’s hat?

  Questions piled up, but first she needed to know what he wanted.

  “I’m not here to harm you,” he said easily. “You can call me Elliot. Let’s discuss this over a cup of coffee.”

  Joan opened her mouth to respond—

  And the world twisted.

  Color drained away. Smell vanished. Sound dulled. Reality inverted, as if she’d been dropped into a photographic negative.

  Her body stood.

  She wasn’t the one moving it.

  I never should have come here…

  Helpless, she watched herself walk toward the portal.