The hour had already crept past four in the morning when Al finally returned to his own quarters in the Virellano residence.

The weight of exhaustion pressed heavily on him the moment his body touched the mattress. Yet despite the fatigue gnawing at every muscle, he reminded himself that he could not afford to rest for long.

At dawn, before the first rays of sunlight pierced the city, he would need to meet the construction workers and guide them past the barriered zone—an area already cloaked by layers of illusion.

Before they stepped foot inside, he would have to provide them with magical neutralizers, otherwise the workers would be lost to the enchantment and unable to tell reality from falsehood.

His attire had already been changed into his usual casual clothes, simple and comfortable. In his palm, however, was something far from ordinary. A faint radiance seeped out between his fingers, shimmering softly as if the object itself was breathing.

Al glanced around his room cautiously, scanning every corner and shadow, ensuring there were no prying eyes. Only then did he raise the object up to his line of sight, its glow reflecting in his tired eyes.

What he held was a torn fragment of parchment, roughly the size of an adult's palm. The sheet emanated a faint golden aura, a glow so subtle yet impossible to ignore.

Though its surface had dulled with age, and the ink had long since blackened like dried blood, the writing still carried a metallic luster, faint traces of gold intertwined with the parchment fibers themselves.

Al's gaze lingered on the script, his eyes narrowing as he examined every curve and line.

"Hm… these markings really are Azzaleth characters," he murmured softly, his tone heavy with thought. "But they're far more ancient than the ones currently in use." His lips parted with a quiet sigh. "Tch… what a shame. So much of it is already unreadable."

He pressed his other hand against the parchment, letting threads of his magic seep outward. A clear, translucent energy trickled from his palm, flowing gently toward the mysterious sheet. Yet the moment it made contact, it was met with resistance. Something within the parchment repelled him.

The paper quivered faintly, releasing a backlash of energy that jolted against his touch. The force was strong enough to push his hands apart, nearly knocking the fragment out of his grip.

"Hmm… If I'm not mistaken," he muttered, brows furrowed, "this might actually be a sacred artifact. But then why… why are those people so desperate to get their hands on something like this?"

As that thought lingered, his mind drifted back—memories replaying themselves as though the parchment itself had triggered the recollection. A flashback surged, taking him to the moments just after he had parted ways with Shae and Sa-Ya.

Al had been walking through the cramped alleys of the city's outskirts, the kind of narrow paths only the desperate or the lost would wander at such an hour, when a sharp sound broke through the silence.

It was the hurried thumping of footsteps. Someone was running—not with the measured pace of a jogger, but with frantic, uneven strides that betrayed fear and desperation. In a city this large, a lone figure running through the night was hardly uncommon, yet Al felt his instincts prickle. His curiosity urged him forward.

But he briefly considered ignoring it, dismissing the unease as nothing more than a fleeting coincidence—until something else reached him, tugging his senses back with undeniable force.

From the surrounding darkness, faint ripples of negative energy stirred the air. They crept in from multiple directions, converging on the path where the hurried footsteps echoed. These weren't random traces—they were signatures of entities moving with intent.

Al's expression hardened. His hesitation vanished in an instant. He quickened his steps and melted into the night, moving toward the disturbance.

Meanwhile, in a suffocatingly narrow dead-end alley, a man in a worn-out brown jacket, the hood pulled low over his head, pressed himself against a heap of trash. His chest rose and fell rapidly, but he forced himself to hold his breath, straining every muscle to remain still, as if the slightest sound would betray his position.

From the rooftops above, from the shadows of nearby walls, and from the mouth of the alley itself, six figures cloaked in brownish-black robes closed in. Their movements were calculated, predatory. Their eyes swept every corner of the alley with cold precision. They were hunting him.

From his hiding spot, the man could see them all too clearly. The pursuers were no ordinary humans. Their presence radiated an uncanny malice that made his stomach churn.

Terror clawed at his chest, each heartbeat hammering painfully against his ribs. His body quivered uncontrollably, sweat rolling down his temples. The fact that he had managed to evade them this long was nothing short of miraculous, yet now he was cornered. There was no more escape.

The only thing left to him was prayer and desperate hope—hope that somehow he would survive this night.

Two of the cloaked figures broke from the group, advancing dangerously close to where the man cowered.

"Come out," one of them said in a cold, unyielding voice. "We're done playing games. Did you really think we didn't know where you were hiding?"

The figure pulled back his hood, revealing a man with medium-length hair, strands blending from dark brown to black. Two dark lines streaked down his face, trailing from beneath his right eye all the way to his chin. His features were stiff and rigid, carved as if from stone, utterly devoid of warmth. His name was Lagan.

A mocking laugh followed. Another figure removed her hood, revealing a woman with hair that shimmered between black and silver, like strands caught between shadow and moonlight. A single dark line stretched across her right cheek, connecting from just below her eye down to her jaw. Her name was Lela.

"This is why I enjoy toying with ordinary humans," she said with a cruel smile. "They're just so easy to break."

THUMP.

The other four joined them, completing the semi-circle that trapped their prey.

One was a gaunt man with black hair streaked by streaks of dyed purple—his name, Baso. Two young women stood beside him, their faces bearing an uncanny resemblance, though their styles differed. One had unadorned black hair; she was Ayu. The other wore black hair streaked with patches of yellow dye; she was Ramla.

The last was a towering woman whose muscular frame strained against the confines of her cloak. Even with her body concealed, her formidable presence was obvious. Silver hair streaked with hints of blue cascaded down her shoulders, and in her grip was a massive greatsword. Her name was Cella.

Like the others, each bore black markings on their faces, though each pattern was unique.

"What do you think, Cella?" Baso asked with a sly grin.

"I've been itching to cut them down since earlier," Cella replied flatly. "Just give the signal when it's time."

Ramla laughed, her voice carrying a psychotic edge. "Relax, Cella. Don't be in such a hurry. The others may have had their fun, but I'm not satisfied yet."

Ayu simply gave a small, wordless nod.

"You're all acting like children," Lagan interjected, his voice cutting through the group like a blade. "Stop playing around."

The rebuke made a few of them avert their eyes, irritation flashing across their faces.

"He's right," Lela added sharply. With a casual wave of her hand, the pile of trash was swept aside by an invisible force, revealing the hooded man behind it. He was thrown against the wall with a harsh thud.

"Ughhh…" he coughed, his body convulsing as he struck the cold bricks.

Numbness spread across his limbs. The relentless fear that had stalked him through the night gnawed deeper than ever, paralyzing his will. He looked at the six figures, throat tightening.

His face betrayed raw panic, and even forming words was nearly impossible. His legs trembled violently, too weak to hold him upright. He collapsed to the ground, powerless.

"Hahaha, look at that face," Ramla sneered. "What, are you really that scared? We're not ghosts, you know."

"Yeah," Baso added, lips curling into a predatory grin. "We're human, just like you. No need to be so terrified."

Ayu once again nodded faintly, almost mechanically.

Human? the hooded man screamed silently in his heart. What kind of humans are you? You're monsters.

Meanwhile, Lela's sharp gaze bore into the three of them, her eyes filled with a cold edge that cut deeper than any blade.

"Humans, you say? Have you forgotten who we are?" she snapped, her voice laced with both authority and contempt.

The three immediately shrank back a little, their bodies stiffening as though the sudden weight of her anger pressed down on their shoulders. They looked awkward and hesitant, but none of them dared to argue. In that instant, it was as if Lela stood above them, a figure naturally commanding respect and dominance.

"Huff… enough of this," Lagan muttered, letting out a sigh as though he were brushing aside a nuisance. "Let's just finish the matter at hand. The longer we delay, the more unpredictable variables may interfere, better to minimize the risk while we still can" His tone was casual, yet behind that nonchalance lingered a firm intention.

Turning away, his gaze shifted to Ramla, Ayu, and Baso, each of them waiting silently for his direction.

"And the three of you… remember this. We are superior beings—humans who have been blessed through our hardships. Do not ever lower yourselves by comparing us to those pitiful creatures who call themselves human."

His words rang with conviction, his stare sharp and unwavering. It was not merely an order but an ideal he demanded they carve into their very cores.

The three gave stiff nods, not daring to utter a single word in response.

Then, Lela's eyes flicked toward Cella. The woman met that gaze without hesitation, her lips curving slightly as though she already knew what would be asked of her.

"End it," Lela commanded, her voice clear and firm.

At that, Cella's smile spread, bright against the darkness of the night.

"Gladly," she replied with enthusiasm.

Her steps were light, almost graceful, yet each one carried an ominous weight. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her massive weapon—a silver blade with a dark handle. Though called a sword, its shape resembled more a colossal cleaver, a butcher's knife magnified to monstrous proportions.

The man before her trembled violently. With every step she took, his hope dwindled further, like a candle flame smothered by the wind.

"S-Sir… Lady… please, I… I beg you…" His words came broken, strangled by fear, unable even to surrender with dignity. A part of him already knew—his reckless actions had been too dangerous, and now he stood before the conclusion, the consequence he had always feared.

Yet another part of him still clung to life, desperate for survival, desperate to pursue the goal that had driven him this far. With a voice hoarse from terror, he tried to shout, pleading for mercy, for forgiveness.

"Help me! Help me!" he tried to shout to his surroundings.

"Please! Sir, Lady, I beg you—spare me! Spare my life!" he repeated again and again, his words tumbling out incoherently, stripped of any true persuasion.

But no matter how desperately he screamed, his voice went no further. A thin barrier enveloped the alley, cutting off every sound, sealing him in silence.

From the six figures, no response came. Not a flicker of pity touched their faces. They stood unwavering, prepared to erase him here and now—in a place where no one would ever know what became of him.

All he could do was clutch tightly at a crumpled piece of paper hidden inside the pocket of his hooded sweater. Regret filled him—why had he ever dared to meddle with something he was never meant to touch?

And yet… fortune had not completely abandoned him. The goddess of chance brought forth a presence larger, heavier, undeniable.

"Superior? Is that what you call yourselves?"

Al's voice broke through, echoing across the sealed air, shattering the soundproof barrier as though it were glass.

At once, all six hooded figures turned, their dark brown robes shifting with the motion. Even the trembling man's head snapped up toward the source.

"You!" Lagan's eyes widened slightly, recognition flashing as he saw the uniform Al wore. "You're from that group, aren't you?"

For a brief moment, silence reigned. The only sound was the whisper of the night wind passing through, carrying with it the weight of an impending storm.

Something vast and inevitable was about to unfold between them.

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