(Ryuta POV)
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit—dammit! I'm such an idiot. I never should've left her alone.
Of course she would figure out those scumbags were after her if she finds herself tied up like this. And now she thinks it's her fault—thinks she got her friends killed. But isn't killing herself a bit extreme?! Is there some trauma from the past that might have triggered her to do this?
Even with my Healing Magic working overtime, I can't reverse death should she die. All I could do was seal the wound, clear the blood choking her lungs, and keep her alive.
She passed out from the shock. Her body's safe—for now—but her spirit? That's a whole different wound.
I knelt beside her, my hands shaking as I stared at her pale face, her neck still stained with blood. She looked like she was caught in a nightmare she couldn't wake from. And all I could do was watch, helplessly await for her to wake up soon.
"I'm sorry," I muttered, fingers digging into my scalp. "Orsted's gonna kill me for this…"
"Nah. He wouldn't. You're too useful."
I flinched.
That voice didn't belong here, and I was pretty sure I'd killed every last one of them.
I shot to my feet and turned toward it, but the moment I moved, everything stopped. My body froze. My mana locked up. My thoughts jammed like a sword caught in a rusted sheath.
It wasn't fear, it was something else. Control. External, absolute.
"I arrived as fast as I could after noticing that little outburst of yours," the voice continued, calm and casual. "Guess I still didn't rearrange you're head well enough if this kind of slip-up still happens."
I couldn't see his face. Couldn't even move my eyes. All I could tell was that whoever he was, I was at his mercy.
"You've grown, Ryuta. That massacre back there?" He gave a soft chuckle. "Chef's kiss on Orsted's part. His influence on you suits you much better. I knew he'd be the right mentor for you."
Mentor? What the hell is he talking about? Was he the reason I met Orsted?
I struggled to speak, to move—to do anything—but the grip over me held fast.
Dammit, what the hell is going one! I want answers!
"Still too early for those," he said, as if plucking the thought from my skull. "You have three years left. And yet you haven't awakened your innate power. But don't worry. The Asura Kingdom will be at war soon enough. And if that bandaged freak keeps stirring the pot, the wannabe god might even try a desperate move before the end."
My jaw clenched—at least, I think it did. It was the only part of me still trying to rebel.
Then, finally, he stepped into view.
A black mask, a wide-brimmed hat with colored feathers—one red, one green, one blue.
I recognized him right away. Orsted and Perugius are still looking for him. He must be the so-called masked man. Very unoriginal if you ask me.
"Yeah, yeah," he said with a shrug. "It's a dumb name, I know. But hey, when you operate in the shadows and vanish for years, people fill in the blanks with whatever their tiny minds can muster."
He grinned—I could feel it through the mask.
"But that's going to change soon."
God, this guy loved to ramble. Just get to the point already.
"Alright, alright, I get it," he said, raising his hands. "No more speeches. Business time."
He reached out—and suddenly, a red notebook was in my hand.
"Read it thoroughly. You'll discover new ways to improve and unlock your potential. Oh, and don't worry. I'll be back to fix that little bug in your head by tomorrow."
Bug? Did this bastard just compare me to a broken software update?!
But before I could even summon another thought, his presence vanished.
No footsteps. No turning away. Just—gone. As if the air itself swallowed him.
One second he was there, the next, the space he occupied was empty, like he never existed.
My limbs loosened. Manaflow returned. And I dropped to one knee, gasping, heart pounding like it was trying to break through my ribs.
I looked down at the notebook in my hand. It had a red cover, no title on the front or back, and it was as thick as a textbook.
I've no idea what's written in there, or if it was safe to read at all, but I'll discuss this weird encounter and the item I've received with Orsted once I'm back.
Right now, I have someone to take care of.
I turned back to Sara, still unconscious, still trembling slightly in her sleep.
"This mission's worse than anything I dealt with in the Biheiril Kingdom…"
And I had a sinking feeling it was only going to get worse.
***
(Third POV)
In a country far to the south of the Central Continent, nestled between broken alleys and the crumbling remains of old stone walls, a small, rundown establishment echoed with the sharp edge of a customer's temper. Passersby paused only for a second—long enough to confirm that yes, the yelling had begun again—before carrying on. It was never a question of if someone would be berated within these walls, only when.
The door slammed open, nearly falling off its rusted hinges. A rotund man in a stained tunic stomped out, his cheeks flushed with anger, one hand clutching the remnants of a half-eaten meal, the other gesturing wildly.
"Buncha crooks! Calling that stew?! I've shat better consistency!"
He muttered and cursed as he made his way down the muddy street, only to abruptly collide with a group of armored figures rounding the corner. They wore matching dark green cloaks over chainmail, with tabards marked by the crest of a black griffin—soldiers of a noble house, clearly.
The man recoiled, nearly dropping his bowl. "Oi! What the hell are you armored pisscans doing in a dump like this, huh? Shouldn't you be babysitting some baron's inbred daughter instead of spooking honest folk?"
The lead soldier, a narrow-eyed man with a small scar across his cheek, didn't rise to the bait. He gave a shallow nod.
"Official business. Move along."
That was all it took for the customer's fire to sputter out. With a scoff and a dismissive wave, he turned and waddled off, grumbling under his breath.
Once he was out of earshot, the soldiers exchanged glances—then smirks. Without another word, they stepped through the crooked door of the establishment, vanishing into its shadowed interior.
From the shadowed corner of a narrow alley across the street, partially hidden behind a stack of old crates and a faded canvas awning, a lone figure watched the scene unfold. The midday sun beat down on the bustling road, but the alley offered a sliver of cool shade, just enough to remain unnoticed.
He crouched with one knee drawn up, back against the stone wall, his face unobscured yet difficult to read. Tousled black hair fell just over his brows, and his dark eyes followed the movement of the soldiers with unsettling calm.
He didn't blink as the armored men stepped into the run-down establishment. His expression remained flat, almost bored.
"A chain of events set into motion," he muttered, voice low and distant, as though he were talking to someone long gone.
A pause, then a dry, humorless chuckle escaped his lips.
"Still… not really my style to ruin someone's life like this…But a debt is a debt."
With that, he rose, adjusting the collar of his travel-worn coat, and walked off into the busy street without a second glance—just another face in the daylight crowd, and yet, somehow, not one anyone would dare to stop.
That was the day when Randolf Marianne, Death God and number five of the Seven Great World Powers, shut down his restaurant and resumed a path as a warrior by joining the Kind Dragon Realm's army to repay his long overdue debt.
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