By the time Tars arrived, half-running and half-stumbling, the serpent hunt had already concluded—or rather, it hadn't truly begun.

  A wizard apprentice stood blocking Baont's path. It was the friendly man from earlier, the first to greet Tars. Behind him lay the shrunken Grey-Neck Lord, motionless. Several spectral claws made of shadow gripped the snake's body tightly, but it was clear these eerie appendages weren't the primary reason the creature remained still; a few shadow claws alone wouldn't have been enough to keep it from struggling.

  "We meet again, you poor little thing."

  The man remained as enthusiastic as ever, but Tars didn't dare return the greeting. The situation was clearly volatile.

  "I truly wonder what kind of experiment your mentor is running," the man said, looking Tars up and down while completely ignoring Baont. "I recall that those who escape the status of 'test subject' to become wizard apprentices are registered under the head of the experiment—their mentor. How fascinating... but why modify you into this? So meticulously done, without a single flaw. If I didn't know that kobolds were incapable of becoming wizard apprentices, I would think you were a genuine one."

  Baont's fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, his knuckles letting out a series of grating, bone-deep cracks as if he were trying to prevent his hands from cramping.

  "I've caught the snake for you," the friendly man said, finally facing forward. "Baont, you've tried several times without success. I wonder, are you sincerely thanking me in your heart right now? But as a friend, I wouldn't want to accidentally cause you trouble. You should probably check if this is actually the one you've been chasing."

  Tars expected Baont to explode in rage, but instead, Baont's face gradually smoothed into a mask of calm, as if he truly were facing an old friend prone to practical jokes.

  "Am I right? 'Power' Baont—apprentices in different regions still whisper your nickname. But we are merely a group of fifth-level wizard apprentices; let's not act like great wizards with established spell sequences. I've heard people arguing about you: some say you respond to everything with shocking patience, while others say you are a man who never tolerates an insult."

  The shadow claws began to writhe, lifting the unmoving grey-white snake and bringing it toward the friendly man. Slowly, the serpent coiled around him, winding from his neck to his armpits and down to his waist. He gripped the snake's head with one hand, letting the tail drag on the ground like a suit of living half-plate armor.

  "Now, listen carefully while I speak, so you can confirm if this is the snake you seek. I'd hate to have caught the wrong one by mistake." The man looked at Baont, his eyes full of mocking expectation. "This snake... I believe... is clearly connected to that little insect-person. Look at the head, the tail, every single scale. Am I right, my friend?" He laughed, fiddling with the snake's head. "Well! Though I can't actually see anything definitive, the fact that you keep chasing this snake during such a tense moment in Wizard Niteli's mission makes me suspicious."

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  After a brief silence, he spoke again: "So, my friend, answer me now. Is this the snake you've been chasing?"

  The silence stretched. Tars looked left and right, quietly taking half a step back, then another. No one seemed to care about him, which was a very good thing. He was also curious: why was Baont chasing the Grey-Neck Lord? It couldn't just be for snake soup.

  He wracked his brain. The only thing that matched was the timing—the Grey-Neck Lord had appeared in this area roughly around the same time as these wizard apprentices. But that didn't prove much. Then there was the serpent's whispered warning to "stay away," which felt like a genuine alert.

  Suddenly, a stranger stepped out from a side tunnel, blocking Tars's retreat. Most likely, this person was there to cut off Baont, and Tars was merely an accidental byproduct.

  "Good friends should know how to share secrets, Baont," the newcomer said.

  "Is it just the two of you? You're wasting my time," Baont finally spoke, his voice unnervingly calm.

  Seeing his path blocked, Tars immediately hugged the wall. Fifth-level apprentices were still restricted to the realm of Zero-Ring spells. These men might be exceptionally powerful, but the fundamental rules applied. According to Karyu's diary, low-level apprentices caught in such situations were often the first to be eliminated—essentially "taking out the trash" before the real fight began.

  Boom!

  As Tars expected, Baont struck. But his target was the man blocking the rear.

  This created an opening. Tars, empowered by Bull's Strength, charged right behind the fifth-level senior. The "big brother" was there to punch; Tars was there to find a gap and bolt.

  A little kobold must not invite big trouble. This was his creed.

  As he ran, he reached into his storage pouch and began hurlng the jars and bottles he'd scavenged from the previous inheritance—disgusting, unknown potions and experimental reagents. A thick green mist instantly billowed behind him. Amidst the rolling fog, he followed Baont's lead, turning back just once to fire a long-prepared Frost Ray into the cloud.

  By the time he turned his head back, the man blocking the path had already been sent flying by Baont's fist. An invisible force seemed to wrap around that fist; the man was airborne before the blow even fully landed, followed by a direct hit to the torso.

  Just when Tars thought Baont would press the advantage, the big man suddenly spun around and sprinted past him, completely ignoring Tars's bewildered expression. He dove straight into the green mist of the tunnel.

  That snake really is important to him, Tars thought.

  He didn't stop. He activated Fetid Skin while simultaneously empowering the spell model for Mage Armor. The person Baont had just sent flying was likely a fifth-level apprentice too; Tars had no intention of sticking around to test his luck.

  Though he was curious to see how his modified Fetid Skin would affect a living, physical fifth-level wizard, his cautious nature forbade such a gamble. Unless, of course, a confrontation was unavoidable—which it currently was.

  A swaying figure stood up and looked at him. After a single glance, the man charged toward the green mist, but as he passed Tars in the wide corridor, he casually flicked a spell in his direction.

  It was "a" spell only in name; it was executed with such blinding speed that searing heat instantly filled the air. Over twenty fist-sized fireballs shrieked toward him. The momentum and the spread were perfect, sealing off every possible avenue of escape.

  For a split second, an image of his own broken body flashed through Tars's mind.

  Yet, the man who had casually dropped the spell as he rushed past also seemed to be having a very bad time.