A bad feeling crept over him.
Something was seriously wrong…
The basement was pitch black, lit only by scattered candlelight.
All around them were metal bars, forming what looked like a giant iron cage.
Hank Marnan, the infamous master thief, scanned his surroundings with growing unease. Despite his years of experience, an overwhelming sense of danger surged through him.
This place was disturbingly clean for a prison—equipped with toilets and food, no torture devices hung on the walls, and not even a single drop of blood stained the floor. Yet Hank would have preferred the filthy, foul-smelling cell he'd been in earlier over spending even another second here.
From experience, he knew—such unnatural calm only meant one thing: something deadly was coming.
Among the dozens locked in the cage, a few others besides Hank seemed to sense it too. Their expressions had turned grim.
One man in particular—broad-shouldered, scarred, and radiating the seasoned aura of a battle-hardened warrior—stepped up to Hank and spoke in a low, serious tone:
"I know you. You're Hank Marnan, the phantom thief who slipped between kingdoms and committed over a thousand heists. You only got caught when you failed to steal the jewels of a high noble woman."
The man extended a hand. "I'm Herto Yassar, second unit commander of the Wolf Hunters Mercenary group, and I'm a Knight Captain."
"You've noticed how off this place is, haven't you? I think we'll need to cooperate if we want to make it out of here alive."
Hank's gaze sharpened at the mention of "Knight Captain." After a brief pause, he reached out and shook the man's hand, silently acknowledging the alliance.
Herto let out a breath of relief and gestured slightly toward the others.
"This whole setup stinks of a cult ritual," he said quietly. "Earlier, when we were being transported, I saw a familiar face among the guards. He was in disguise, but I recognized him—Tharion the Evil warlock, wanted by the Church. They say he's twisted beyond belief and has taken thousands of lives."
"I've been watching the people locked up here," he continued. "Every single one of them is trained—at least capable of killing a fully armed soldier bare-handed. That's exactly the kind of sacrificial offering a cult would go after for their rituals…"
Hank's expression darkened further.
He had no idea who this "Tharion" was, but the title "the Evil Warlock" alone was enough. Among the arcane ranks, many warlocks were notorious for their cruelty and bloodstained hands. Calling them butchers was almost too kind.
From the rumors Hank had eavesdropped on earlier, it seemed the order to relocate him had come from a prince of the Mardain Principality—which meant this Tharion might very well be working with the highest levels of the state.
That, more than anything, spelled doom.
Hank had seen far too much in his years as a thief. When it came to the nobility and their lust for power or immortality, he knew all too well how low they could sink. Ritual sacrifices weren't even out of the ordinary for them.
If he weren't potentially one of those sacrifices, he wouldn't have even bothered thinking about it.
Herto's voice cut into his thoughts. "The bars of this cage are made of Sayarite. Each one's as thick as two adult fingers pressed together. Not even ten wild elephants could bend them. There's no way we're breaking out bare-handed. Can you pick the lock?"
<[Sayarite is many times stronger than a normaliron bar]>
Hank sighed and shook his head under the man's disappointed gaze. "No chance. I checked earlier. These locks were custom-made by the royal locksmith family of the Mardain line. Each one contains over a hundred internal components—completely different from conventional designs. Even with proper tools, I wouldn't be confident. Empty-handed? Not a chance."
Silence fell between them.
Meanwhile, the other prisoners had begun forming small groups of their own. Dozens of people, and now over twenty makeshift factions inside the cage.
Tensions naturally flared. Arguments and provocation followed.
If they hadn't been thrown into such an obviously suspicious place, and if not for the unease gnawing at everyone's hearts, a brawl would've already broken out—and a few deaths wouldn't have been surprising.
Creeeaak…
Just as the shouting hit its peak, a harsh scraping echoed from the far end of the corridor. An iron door was opening, the sound of its edge grinding against the stone floor reverberating through the chamber.
Instantly, everyone went quiet. Eyes darted to each other, then toward the source of the noise.
From the darkness emerged a young man—tall, slender, and unnaturally handsome. He wore an elegant black outfit embroidered with golden patterns, and his fiery red hair made him impossible to ignore.
In appearance, dress, and even the indescribable aura around him, he was unparalleled. Everything else in the room faded into the background. Hank had never seen anyone like him. It was as if this man stood at the center of the world, and all attention was drawn to him like gravity.
And strangely, the air felt colder the moment he arrived. Even the flies and mosquitoes buzzing moments ago had vanished—hidden, perhaps, by instinct.
Hank turned to look at Herto, only to find the man pale with fear, his facial scars twitching grotesquely like worms. A layer of sweat had formed on his bald head, dripping slowly to the floor.
Though he didn't know why, Hank instinctively realized the danger. He lowered his head and tried to blend in behind another prisoner.
The red-haired man, Orsaga, glanced at the captives with a look of mild amusement. He didn't react to their wary or hostile stares—only nodded slightly and murmured to himself:
"Good quality. Looks like Tharion did his job well."
In truth, he knew that Prince Jaemar had played the bigger role here. But Orsaga didn't care. As long as the job got done, they could play all the tricks they wanted. In this world—given the magic density and its level of civilization—there were only a few ancient beings he might need to watch out for. The rest weren't worth his concern.
If not for the backlash mass slaughter would bring—shortening his stay in this world—he wouldn't have bothered with this whole act as the shadowy puppet master. He'd have stepped into the spotlight and done whatever he pleased.
But the goal wasn't complete yet.
And until then, he didn't want some ragtag team of wannabe heroes chasing after the "Demon King."
Not yet.
As Orsaga's eyes scanned the cage, one prisoner stepped forward—a short, stocky man in standard prison garb, his right eye scarred by a beast's claw.
He looked up solemnly and said, "Spare me. I know where Prince Liria stashed his treasure during his rebellion 275 years ago."
Orsaga had been reading up lately—books like A Brief History of the Mardain Principality, Chronicles of the Continent, Myths of Continental Peoples. So he knew what the man was referring to. But he felt no interest.
To the denizens of the Abyss, gold and silver were worthless. Even a few corpses were more useful.
Shaking his head, he replied with a raspy calmness, "Prince Liria's treasure? I have no interest. It's meaningless."
The man didn't react with anger. Instead, he looked intently at Orsaga and said in a low voice, "The leader of the Gale Thieves is my blood brother. He commands over a hundred battle-tested raiders. If you spare me, we'll do anything for you—kill, rob, whatever you need."
"Gale Thieves? That name sounds familiar…"
Orsaga rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
The man perked up, sensing hesitation. "We're the strongest bandit group on the principality's borders. Only the army can take us on!"
"Oh? I see…" Orsaga nodded—then shook his head. "But that still doesn't matter to me. You see, you all are the perfect candidates for what I need. No one else in this principality fits as well. Compared to that, everything else is meaningless."
The man's face fell. But Orsaga had already turned his attention to the rest.
He inhaled slowly, a faint smile spreading across his face.
"The scent of sin… so familiar. Makes me miss the Abyss. Some of you don't quite measure up, but by human standards, you're all evil enough. Serving me will be the greatest honor of your miserable lives."
With that, under countless horrified gazes, a gray-black mist unfurled from his body. It formed thin, writhing threads that ignored all resistance and forced their way into each prisoner.
Once done, Orsaga ignored their panicked scrambling, gave a small smile, and said:
"Try to last a few days. I'll be seeing you again."
Then he turned and left without another word.
Just as he was about to exit the iron door, Orsaga suddenly remembered why the name Gale Thieves had sounded familiar.
Oh right—about ten days ago, when he set fire to a border forest, he'd run into them. He'd casually "slaughter" them on the way.
_____
T/N:
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