The soft clink of porcelain pulled Eugene from his trance.

  He had been one of the many who witnessed the golden dungeon’s alarming display. Unlike most, however, he had chosen not to linger near the port or join the panicked crowd. Instead, he sat across from an old friend in a teahouse high above the city, hoping to make sense of what he’d seen.

  “Someone attacked the guild members,” Eugene said, lowering his cup onto its saucer.

  Fowler scoffed without looking up. “That’s impossible. What kind of madman would do something like that?”

  Eugene frowned. He had expected skepticism—but not outright dismissal.

  “I’m telling you the truth, Fowler. I heard there were three of them.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Fowler snorted, finally lifting his cup. “Three people attacking Awakened? Don’t be ridiculous. Drink your tea. I’ve had enough of your stories.”

  He took a deliberate sip, clearly finished with the conversation.

  Eugene’s brows knitted together. He agreed the situation sounded absurd—but he hadn’t imagined it. If he hadn’t seen the aftermath himself, he wouldn’t have believed it either.

  “Fowler, I really did—”

  “That’s enough.” Fowler finally frowned at him, shaking his head. “You don’t need excuses for being late. You’ve always been like this.”

  Eugene opened his mouth, then closed it.

  There was no point. Fowler’s mind was already made up. The truth would reach him eventually—and when it did, an apology would follow, hollow as it might be.

  Eugene lifted his pearl-white teacup and took a slow sip. His gaze drifted toward the window.

  No matter how many times I see it… the view never loses its charm.

  The teahouse occupied the top floor of a fifteen-story building, offering an uninterrupted view of Dratol’s most prosperous district. Below lay a sea of gilded rooftops, marble avenues, and soaring spires—commerce and luxury stacked neatly beneath a vast blue sky.

  Yet his eyes dimmed.

  If the grand dungeon keeps acting up, this city won’t stay beautiful for long. It might be time to leave. Vohmir isn’t so bad…

  His gaze settled on the golden tower standing proudly at Dratol’s center.

  The Labyrinth of the Nameless.

  To some, it was a beacon of ambition and opportunity. To others, a monument to inevitable catastrophe.

  We should leave. Soon. That dungeon feels… wrong.

  “Fowler, we might have to—heavens.”

  Eugene turned back mid-sentence, then froze.

  “Who is that?”

  “Huh?” Fowler followed his stare.

  “Wow.”

  Gasps rippled through the teahouse. Cups rattled. Someone spilled tea.

  A middle-aged man in a tailored three-piece suit entered first, his presence composed and authoritative. Ordinarily, he would have drawn attention on his own.

  Today, he was invisible.

  The woman beside him stole the room.

  Golden hair swayed as she moved, each step unhurried, deliberate. Her sundress clung just enough to accentuate her figure without vulgarity, pale skin catching the light as though it belonged there. Her face—refined, effortless—commanded attention without asking for it.

  “She’s… incredible,” Eugene murmured, swallowing hard as he straightened his necktie. Heat crept into places he hadn’t expected. “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know,” Fowler said, eyes burning, “but I must have her.”

  Eugene snapped toward him. “Excuse me? I saw her first.”

  Fowler scoffed, adjusting his sleeves. “And? You think you can handle someone like that?”

  “I’m far more capable than you,” Eugene shot back. “And aren’t you forgetting you have a fiancée?”

  Fowler’s gaze dropped pointedly to the ring on Eugene’s finger. “Funny coming from a married man. I may be engaged, but I haven’t sealed the deal. So—if you’ll excuse me.”

  He stood, flashing his most charming smile—and was yanked backward with a loud rip.

  Fowler slammed into his chair, staring in disbelief at the torn back of his jacket. “Are you out of your—”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “All is fair in love and war,” Eugene said cheerfully, already on his feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ve found my future… next wife.”

  He slipped his wedding ring into his inner pocket and strode toward the counter, where the blonde woman spoke softly with the attendant.

  I can already tell we’ll have so much in common. My second—Ah!

  Scalding liquid splashed down his shoulder.

  Green tea soaked into his pristine white suit, streaking fabric and dripping onto the floor.

  Eugene spun around, fury blazing. “You bastard! How dare you!”

  “How dare I?” Fowler snarled, arm still extended from the empty cup. “You did this to yourself. Stay away from my woman!”

  “Your—!”

  “Who the hell are you calling your woman? She’s mine!”

  An old man slammed his cane against the floor as he forced his way into the argument.

  “Fuck off, you old geezer,” a sharply dressed young man snapped, squaring his shoulders. “What can you even do at your age? She needs a real man.”

  “I am Aine MacDonough,” another youth declared suddenly, glaring at everyone present. “No one may claim that young lady but me!”

  “Who cares?” Fowler rose to his feet, tugging at his lapel and worsening the tear across his back. “I’m Fowler Perut—owner of Perut Jewelries. Don’t test me, boy, or I’ll—”

  “Shut up, you braggart!” Eugene barked, flinging the remaining tea straight into Fowler’s face. “Your status doesn’t even come close to mine!”

  “You children know nothing of power,” the old man scoffed. “I am of the Armstrong family. Your petty wealth—”

  “Silence!” a sharp voice cut through the chaos.

  A young man stepped forward, chin raised proudly. “I am Prince Jair of Cemil. Your so-called Armstrong family—and all the rest combined—are nothing compared to royal blood.”

  “Hey! Would all of you shut up?!”

  The shout came from the least impressive source imaginable.

  The men turned toward the reception desk, where the attendant stood glaring at them, hands planted firmly on his hips.

  “She’s mine,” the receptionist declared smugly. “I’m the only one here who’s actually talked to her.”

  The room went quiet.

  Five men exchanged looks.

  Slowly, with a shared understanding born of pure hostility, they cracked their knuckles and advanced toward the smiling attendant.

  Rivals in love were many things—but nothing united them faster than a common enemy.

  Unbeknownst to the brawling group, the young lady in question had heard everything from the privacy of her booth.

  Elliana listened with a soft, amused smile, calmly tasting her tea.

  Her companion did not share her delight.

  “Do we really need to come here?” Aaron sighed, rubbing his temple. “You know this happens every time you interact with normal people. We can’t afford incidents. I don’t want—”

  “Relax,” Elliana hummed, gently swirling her cup. “It’s harmless fun. They aren’t Awakened—they won’t suffer much.” She smiled faintly. “Besides, this place serves excellent tea. You can’t find it anywhere else.”

  Aaron glanced toward the growing fight, where the receptionist was already losing badly. “I’d like to go out once without causing a scene,” he muttered. “But that’s impossible with you.”

  Elliana smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”

  He sighed again, then leaned back. “I hope you’re done relaxing. We still need to locate the item. Time isn’t on our side.”

  “Worry only wearies the mind,” she replied serenely, lifting her cup. “Look at them—despite fighting, they seem to be enjoying themselves.”

  “Dispel your enchantment and see if they still feel that way,” Aaron scoffed, rolling his eyes as he reached for his drink.

  Elliana’s lips curved into a mischievous smile, but she said nothing, her gaze drifting between the flailing men.

  “By the way,” Aaron said suddenly, lowering his cup. “I saw you speaking with someone earlier. Who was she?”

  “An old acquaintance,” Elliana replied flatly. “Similar tastes. Opposing views.”

  She met his gaze evenly. “She won’t interfere with the mission. I expect she’s already heading beyond the outer walls.”

  Aaron relaxed slightly, sipping his tea. The floral aroma filled his senses—but unease lingered.

  “You need to be careful from now on,” he said quietly, leaning closer. “What happened today will spread fast. Most won’t understand it—but we do. Acknowledgment by the Omen means war is inevitable.”

  Elliana leaned back, thoughtful. “I wonder who was chosen,” she murmured. “Anyone bold enough to trigger a declaration must be extraordinary.”

  “You’re curious,” Aaron said flatly.

  She smiled. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.”

  Her fingers idly played with the cotton tablecloth, mischief dancing unmistakably across her face.

  “I don’t like that smile,” Aaron warned. “You always do something reckless when you wear it. You cannot investigate them.”

  “I’m not a troublemaker,” Elliana said lightly.

  The crash of splintering wood interrupted them. Nearby, the Armstrong elder hurled Prince Jair through a table.

  Aaron stared at Elliana.

  She calmly raised her cup, hiding her smile behind its rim.

  “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” he demanded.

  She opened her mouth—

  “Promise me on your title,” he pressed, voice hardening. “As the Icon of the Undertakers. If that means nothing to you, then think about your relationship to Lord—”

  “Don’t say his name!”

  Elliana shot to her feet.

  Her cup flew from her hand.

  Not just hers—dozens of cups across the teahouse exploded into shards. Porcelain burst midair. Tables rattled violently. The lovestruck patrons collapsed to the floor in unison, unconscious.

  Silence followed.

  “Alright.” Aaron didn’t react as though anything unusual had happened.

  “Just remember who wouldn’t be pleased if he learned you were taking interest in another Lord,” he continued calmly. “The world barely survived the fallout from the Omen Treaty. The last thing it needs is a war between Lords.”

  He took another sip of tea, then leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, utterly at ease.

  Elliana glared at him, a sharp frown creasing her thin brows.

  “I don’t care how hard you glare,” Aaron said mildly. “It won’t—ah. Almost forgot.”

  He straightened suddenly, as though the thought had just occurred to him, and regarded her with the same unbothered expression as before.

  “Have you heard anything about those maniacs beyond the walls?” he asked. “They should be preparing to appoint Romolu’s successor. Aside from Ash, Germa, and Xander—have the Undertakers identified any other candidates?”

  Elliana shook her head as she settled back into her seat. “Not yet. There are supposed to be seven in total, each one representing a recommendation from the Gate Masters.”

  She paused, then smoothed her expression into a graceful smile, as if her earlier outburst had never happened.

  “However,” she continued lightly, “there are rumors of a hidden eighth candidate. I can’t confirm their accuracy, but they came from a reliable source within the Eight Gates. From what I’ve heard, the crowning won’t happen anytime soon—unless that mysterious eighth dies first.”

  Aaron’s brows rose sharply as he sat upright.

  “For them to delay the ceremony despite having so many outstanding candidates…” he murmured. “This person must be on another level.”

  His tone hardened.

  “We can’t allow them to live. Identify them and bring them to our side. If they refuse—kill them. The Eight Gates cannot be allowed to grow stronger.”

  His gaze dropped to Elliana’s empty cup.

  “Since you’re done,” he said, standing, “we should leave. It would be troublesome if those Varidan madmen caught wind of our movements.”

  Elliana glanced at the shattered remains of her tea and smiled faintly. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  The two rose and exited the teahouse exactly as they had entered—quietly, deliberately, and without sparing anyone a backward glance.