“A fish?”

Inside the room, the man named Tyron did not even bother to look up. He simply flicked his cigar, sending a few flecks of ash drifting onto the head of the messenger outside the window. The man kept his head lowered, not daring to move in the slightest.

“What kind of fish?”

“They say it’s a big one from Slar.”

“A Slar man? One of those northern barbarians? Those people like to stick together, and they’re not exactly bright. How big could he really be?”

“The tailor says the man spent the entire day moving around the western district, throwing money everywhere and buying all kinds of luxury goods to dress himself up. At his shop alone, he spent five hundred thousand Aimier just to commission a single formal outfit.”

“Five hundred thousand?”

Tyron lifted a brow. The number seemed finally to have caught his attention. Reclining half-sprawled on the sofa, he straightened a little and let his gaze settle on the messenger.

“For just one outfit? He’s not puffing himself up to look richer than he is?”

“No. The outfit wasn’t ordered on a deposit. He paid the full amount up front. In fact, everything that big fish has bought has been paid in full. They say he’s already spent over a million Aimier in a single day, and the number is still climbing. He didn’t show the slightest sign of feeling the cost.”

“Over a million...”

Hearing that number, Tyron actually became more wary.

“He’s not some idiot young master from a major noble house, is he? Going after that kind of person would be too risky. This is a special period. The royal capital’s security isn’t what it used to be, and we can’t move carelessly.”

“No. The tailor says that fish definitely doesn’t have any truly noble status.”

The messenger went on, “He says the man is probably just a stupid nouveau riche who struck it rich for some unknown reason.”

“Oh? And what makes him so sure?”

“The tailor says that on the formal outfit alone... out of the five hundred thousand, he can pocket four hundred ninety thousand.”

“...”

Tyron fell silent in thought.

He did not know much about formalwear. In his line of work, after all, he was never going to wear one of those flashy, useless things that got in the way when you moved.

But he knew exactly what it meant for someone to be able to skim off four hundred ninety thousand out of five hundred thousand.

“A nouveau riche Slar man? No serious backing?”

“Yes. The tailor says the man has no taste whatsoever. He throws money around and acts suave and generous, but in reality even the women behind the perfume counters look down on him in secret for his awful taste.”

“He certainly sounds like a self-important fool.”

Tyron did not make a snap judgment based on appearances alone. He continued, “Any noble events happening soon?”

“Yes. It’s said that Count Rives is holding a grand victory banquet at his estate three days from now to celebrate the Kingdom’s string of victories on the front lines.”

“Three days from now... and that Slar man’s formalwear is due in three days too?”

“Yes.” The messenger nodded.

“Then that makes sense.”

An outsider from Slar, a newly rich upstart with no roots at all in the royal capital, hoping to use the banquet three days from now to break into high society and open a path for himself.

Using formalwear as armor, and money as a door knocker, to carve out a foothold for himself in a new and unfamiliar place—most people with money but no status or backing ended up trying exactly that.

So the Slar man was not as stupid as he had first sounded.

But...

This was the royal capital of a dying nation.

Perhaps in other places, money could easily pave °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° a smooth road. But among the upper crust here, if you had no noble blood and no respectable status to your name, then vulgar money alone would only end with you smashing face-first into a wall.

Those greedy, self-righteous nobles would happily accept every bit of your flattery and tribute, then sweep you out the door without the slightest hesitation.

“So why let something so boring and pointless play out all over again?”

Tyron finally sat fully upright and casually crushed out the cigar in his hand. As he moved, the lifelike demon tattoo stretched hideously across his thick muscles, instantly radiating a savage, vicious aura.

He touched the scar across his chest, as if remembering some humiliation from the past. Even the demon inked over his body seemed to glare in fury.

“Rather than letting that Slar man’s little ‘tribute’ go to waste on those bloated noble pigs...”

Tyron bared his teeth in a feral grin.

“...it’d be better used for something more meaningful.”

...

...

Night deepened.

Bruce stepped out of the door of an underground tavern.

The overcoat he wore still carried the thick scent of expensive liquor, along with a faint trace of perfume. Clearly, only minutes ago, he had still been inside playing an indulgent drinking game with those “good girls” who loved the night and everything wild that came with it.

Of course, the game had gone no further than “drinking” as a display of wealth. Any attempt to turn it into a delightful encounter had been skillfully and invisibly avoided through his excellent physical control, cutting off all possibility of moving on to the next stage.

After all, he was here to fish for information—not to end up as the one hanging from someone else’s hook afterward.

As a devoted good man, a sense of boundaries was one of his finest qualities.

“This damned weather. Why’s it still raining? It’s already washed the scent right out of my new perfume.”

Having thoroughly admired his own sterling virtues as a good man, Bruce muttered this nonsense to himself and staggered drunkenly into the darkness.

The rain was still falling.

His footsteps were unsteady, like those of a complete drunk, and his eyes remained hidden in those deep, shadowed sockets, impossible for outsiders to read.

In truth, it was not just an act. He really was drunk. After downing several bottles of top-shelf liquor without deliberately suppressing the alcohol, no one looking at his face could possibly have said the drunkenness was fake.

And so, on this quiet rainy night, this foreign Slar man, fresh from a wild feast of drink, made his way through alleys utterly unfamiliar to him, heading back toward the luxurious inn he had booked during the day.

Alone.

Helpless.

Completely harmless.

Like an innocent little deer walking through a night forest full of danger, certain to draw real hunters before long.

“Who’s there?!”

Bruce suddenly halted, staring warily toward the front of the alley.

“Well, well, isn’t this our guest? Out wandering alone in a place like this so late at night?”

A figure stepped out of the darkness.

He placed a hand over his chest and bowed to Bruce, his etiquette just as slapdash and ridiculous as before.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. It seemed to take him a great deal of effort before he finally managed to separate the overlapping figures in his drunken vision and recognize the person before him.

“You... the tailor shop owner?”

“That’s right.”

The tailor spread his mouth in a grin.

“It’s been a while, Mr. Bruce.”

“You... what are you doing here?”

Having drunk far too much, Bruce still carried the cold bearing of a Slar man, but his words were obviously beginning to slur.

“Did you come to deliver my clothes?”

“Yes. I came to deliver your formalwear.”

“Didn’t we say three days? Why after one—”

“That’s because I have another gift to bring you as well.”

“A gift?”

“Yes. After speaking with you today, I realized my behavior had been terribly wrong. How could I cheat you like that? So...”

The tailor’s eyes reflected Bruce as he stood there, and the smile at his lips deepened.

“I came here tonight to be a little more honest—and let an outsider like you truly experience this city’s hospitality.”

The moment he finished speaking, the air turned cold.

The tailor looked like nothing more than a greasy middle-aged man, complete with a beer belly, but his movement was unbelievably fast. In the blink of an eye, he had already closed the distance and lunged straight in front of Bruce.

And that was not all. Several more figures shot out of the darkness at the same time, completely sealing off Bruce’s retreat.

He had already been a helpless little deer.

Now Bruce was utterly trapped inside the hunters’ encirclement.

“Don’t blame me. If you want to blame someone, blame yourself for being too stupid.”

The blade in the tailor’s hand drove closer and closer to Bruce. It was not aimed at a vital point, but in the tailor’s mind he could already see this prey writhing and screaming in a pool of blood—

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Several dull impacts rang out.

Before the tailor could even react, a sudden burst of pain exploded across his cheek, and his whole body went flying backward.

He crashed through several heaps of junk by the roadside and even shattered part of a wall before finally managing to stop himself. Clutching his bleeding cheek, he stared in shock at Bruce’s raised fist, his heart roaring like a tidal wave.

He had miscalculated.

This Bruce was not just some ordinary nouveau riche fool.

He was also...

“Y-You... you’re actually a third-rank martial artist!”

The tailor’s voice had gone hoarse.

He was a famous “tailor,” yes—a nail planted in this district for that man—but even he was only second-rank.

As for the others who had joined in the ambush, only about half of them could barely be counted as martial artists at all. The rest were just street thugs good at brawling. Against a legendary third-rank martial artist, they naturally had no power to resist.

“Hmph. Idiot.”

Bruce looked down at the tailor from above and sneered in disdain.

“Did you really think I’d strut all over the city like this without any confidence to back it up? Not every Slar man is stupid.”

“You—!”

To be looked down on by a Slar man of all people enraged the tailor beyond words. But suddenly, he laughed.

“Hah... good. Good thing I didn’t act rashly and decided to play it safe.”

“Hm?”

Bruce frowned. “Don’t tell me you have a backup plan?”

“Not exactly a backup plan. But if I knew you were a big fish, how could I not make a proper ‘offering’?” The tailor grinned viciously. “Outsider, this district has rules of its own.”

Tap.

The instant the tailor finished speaking, another set of footsteps sounded through the night.

The footsteps were not loud, but they were heavy and distinct, as though they were stepping directly on everyone’s heart.

“With strength like that, it makes sense that a Slar man could become a nouveau riche. Which means this is only natural. Looks like there’s no trap here after all. I was worrying for nothing.”

The tall figure finally emerged.

The man was visibly at least eight feet tall, with a massively built frame. Under the weak light from the lamps in the distance, the demon tattoo across his chest seemed almost alive, terrifying to look at.

“Haha, scared now, aren’t you?”

Seeing Bruce silently stare at the newcomer for so long—as though completely overwhelmed by fear—the tailor mocked the pitiful little prey while respectfully bowing all the way to a right angle.

“Allow me to introduce him. This is the true ruler of this district—the Beast of Xipos, the Blood-Feeding Devil of Tavilan, a man even the city watch fears to provoke, a mighty name enough to stop children from crying at night... the undefeated Lord Tyron himself!”