Adam’s crimson eyes bored into Hilt’s pale, trembling face. His voice was flat, but there was an edge beneath it, a controlled fury that made the blacksmith’s blood run cold.

"Can you still repair the compass?"

Hilt’s throat bobbed. Her voice came out a whisper, hoarse and cracked.

"I... I can’t." She swallowed, her eyes darting toward the ruined forge, the bodies, the blood. "It’s impossible to repair ancient artifacts, let alone one of legendary rank. That’s... that’s just how it is."

Lilith’s serene smile didn’t waver, but her crimson eyes sharpened.

"Ah. So we were deceived after all."

Ignis’s flames flared. Her golden eyes blazed with indignation.

"How dare he trick us?!"

Then the air changed.

Adam’s aura surged.

It exploded outward from him like a physical force, dense and suffocating, pressing against everything in the ruined forge. The rain seemed to hesitate mid-fall. The fires flickered, dimmed, then guttered entirely. Shadows deepened, stretching and twisting as if trying to escape the weight of his presence.

Ignis, Lilith, and Isolde felt the pressure, their own auras instinctively rising to shield themselves. But Hilt had no such protection.

The blacksmith crumpled.

Her knees hit the stone floor with a crack. Blood seeped from her nose, her ears, the corners of her eyes. She opened her mouth to scream, but only a wet, choked gurgle emerged. Blood bubbled from her lips, spattering against the floor. Her hands clawed at the stone as if trying to crawl away, but the pressure held her pinned, helpless.

"P-Pl... please..." The words were barely audible, broken by sobs and the wet rasp of her ruined throat. "I didn’t... I didn’t know... please..."

Adam’s voice was cold. "He made a fool of me." His crimson eyes blazed, the Crown of the Hollow Glutton pulsing on his brow. "I’ll kill him."

Isolde stood frozen in the shadows, her pale eyes fixed on Adam’s transformed presence. Her internal voice was a whisper of dread.

’His aura... it’s terrifying. Different from the Demon King’s. Adam... he’s like a demon himself.’

She pressed herself against the wall, her hand drifting to her chest, where her own heart pounded in response to the oppressive weight pressing down on them all.

Lilith opened her mouth to speak, to calm him perhaps, or to offer her own blade in service. But before she could form the words, something shifted.

A presence.

Far away, at the edge of perception, an aura bloomed. It was sharp, precise, a blade aimed at the sky. And it was familiar.

Adam’s head turned. His gaze fixed on the distance, through the walls of the forge, through the rain, through the dark streets of Kaelthar.

"That aura..." His voice was quiet, thoughtful. "It’s like the ones we just killed."

Lilith’s eyes narrowed. Her threads stirred around her fingers, silver and white.

"Someone is angry."

Adam’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.

"Seems like it."

Lilith stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his. Her voice was soft, but carried an undercurrent of readiness.

"Adam. Shall we confront them directly?"

Adam’s smile widened. His crimson eyes gleamed with cold anticipation.

"Of course." He cracked his neck, the sound sharp in the heavy silence. "They’ve challenged me. It would be rude not to accept."

He turned toward the door, toward the distant pulse of that angry, familiar aura.

"I’ll destroy the assassin guild. And then..." His voice dropped, soft and deadly. "I’ll kill the merchant who dared to deceive me."

He stepped out into the rain, his form vanishing into the shadows.

Ignis scrambled after him, her flames flickering with renewed excitement.

"Yeah! Let’s go show them what happens when you mess with us!"

Lilith followed, her silver-threaded gown pooling around her feet, her expression serene.

Isolde hesitated for a moment, her pale eyes lingering on Hilt’s crumpled, bleeding form. Then she pulled her hood lower and slipped into the rain after them.

The forge fell silent, save for the soft patter of rain and the wet, ragged breathing of the broken blacksmith.

Hilt lay on the cold stone, her blood mingling with the rain, her eyes staring at nothing.

Kaelthar – Assassin Guild Headquarters

The guild master’s chamber was dark, lit only by a single guttering candle that cast long, wavering shadows across the stone walls. Elliot sat behind his desk, his black hair falling in a curtain around a face carved from cold fury.

The messenger knelt before him, head bowed, shoulders trembling.

"Commander Leela and Captain Sean... both confirmed dead. Their squads... annihilated." The messenger’s voice cracked. "The survivors who fled report that the demons... they’re not normal. Their strength... it’s beyond anything we’ve faced."

Elliot’s green eyes, usually sharp and calculating, blazed with grief and rage. A cold, consuming fire that burned away all reason.

"Leela... Sean..." His voice was quiet, but the stillness in the room was more terrifying than any shout. "They were my best."

Elliot rose from his chair. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if each motion cost him something.

"Prepare the guild. All operatives. Arm every blade, coat every arrow. I want every exit covered, every shadow filled with steel." His voice hardened. "They will not leave this city alive."

The messenger bowed and fled.

Elliot turned toward the shadows behind his desk. The darkness there was deeper than it should have been, thicker, more alive. It pulsed as he approached, reaching out to him like a lover’s embrace.

"Come," he whispered. "I have need of you."

The shadows answered.

They coalesced around his hand, swirling, condensing, taking shape. A blade emerged from the darkness, born from the absence of light itself. The steel was black, so black it seemed to drink the candlelight, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake.

The hilt was forged in the shape of a coiled dragon, its maw open in a silent roar, its eyes tiny rubies that gleamed with their own inner fire. The crossguard swept outward like wings, and the blade itself was engraved with runes that shifted and writhed as if alive.

[Soulreaver – Legendary]

[Effect: A blade forged from solidified shadow and the wielder’s own soul. Its edge never dulls, and it cuts through magical defenses as if they were silk. Each strike drains a portion of the target’s life force, transferring it to the wielder. The blade is bound to Elliot’s soul; it cannot be wielded by another.]

Elliot raised the blade, and the runes blazed with dark light. The candle guttered and died, leaving only the sword’s glow to illuminate the room.

"I will make them regret ever stepping foot in this city." His voice was a promise, cold and absolute.

He strode toward the door, Voidfang humming in his grip.

Then stopped.

His head turned, green eyes narrowing. His senses, honed by decades of hunting and being hunted, stretched outward.

Four presences. Moving through Kaelthar. Heading directly toward the guild’s headquarters.

Elliot’s lips curled into a cold, terrible smile.

"They’re coming to me." He laughed—a short, sharp sound without humor. "How convenient."

He stepped into the corridor, his footsteps echoing on the stone.

"The prey has come to the hunter’s den."