In the frozen bedroom.

  Javon—now in the guise of Spirit of Null Observance—stood right beside Oclair, yet Lowfman showed no sign of noticing him.

  “As expected. Just as I thought—once he realized the opponent was a Malevolent Spirit and that physical damage was meaningless, Lowfman had only one option left: pay an enormous price and kill with a curse.”

  “From a mystic standpoint, cursing a Beyond Mortality-grade existence to death demands a horrific price from the caster as well. Unfortunately, he had no truly formidable trump card, and he never even tried to call a Velthyr down into the world.”

  “What a waste. Otherwise, tonight might have yielded even more…”

  Javon lifted a hand and let Secret Power surge.

  Lowfman saw it with horror: a phantom Malevolent Spirit reconstituted out of empty air, taking Oclair’s shape once more!

  “No!!” Despair twisted his face.

  A Malevolent Spirit’s “death” should have meant decades—sometimes centuries—before it could revive again. So why could this one ignore that rule?

  Oclair snapped his fingers.

  Cold and deathly stillness flooded the room again, freezing Lowfman’s weakened body in place.

  Javon raised the revolver, aimed at Lowfman’s head, and pulled the trigger once more.

  One shot—Lowfman’s frozen head shattered again. Amid the flying ice crystals, tiny blood-colored bats tried to flutter up and flee.

  Demon insects immediately swarmed in and devoured every bat, extinguishing Lowfman’s last trace of life.

  A moment later.

  Baron Jacques’ estate went up in flames.

  “Lowfman’s cards were still too few. Even screaming his prayers at the edge of death, he couldn’t draw a single response.”

  “Still—another advancement material, secured.”

  He looked at the scarlet fang in his hand, nodded in satisfaction, and left the place at speed.

  “My head… hurts…”

  William woke with a start and found himself in his rented room, lying on that painfully familiar bed.

  “Familiar ceiling. Familiar sheets. Familiar smell on the blanket. Last night—?!”

  His face went white. He bolted upright.

  “It was Mr. E. He found me and took me. Why… why wasn’t I eaten in the end?”

  William yanked up his shirt and groped at where the wound had been, but his skin was smooth. Only the torn fabric proved he had been injured at all.

  His expression grew even more lost. “That wasn’t a dream. But at the end, I felt a bone-deep cold… That was the boss’s extraordinary ability? He saved me?”

  He couldn’t think of any other reason he’d survived.

  “Whatever. I’ll go ask the boss.”

  He scrambled up, brushed his teeth, washed his face, and left the apartment.

  “No matter what… I’m alive.”

  Facing the rising sun, William almost felt moved to tears. “Being alive feels so good.”

  At that moment, he understood the rule of the occult world with painful clarity—cherish life, stay far away from mystery.

  “Too bad… I can’t go back anymore.”

  William sighed, intending to buy a few meat pies for breakfast.

  As he passed the street corner, a newsboy in a flat cap ran by, waving a rolled newspaper and shouting, “Wynchester Morning Post! Goldfeller Jewelry was robbed last night—horrific corpse found in The Lower District—baron’s estate in the outskirts set ablaze!”

  “Wait—give me one!”

  William stopped him, paid a penny coin, bought a copy, and skimmed it quickly while muttering, “So much happened in Wynchester last night. What an unrestful night.”

  He finished the paper, bought a few pies, ate as he walked, and arrived at the Hunter Bar.

  For some reason, seeing the sign again gave William an abrupt, unexpected sense of safety.

  “Good morning, Boss.”

  He pushed the door open, saw Javon, and immediately bowed. “About last night… thank you!”

  “Mm. It’s basically resolved. Thanks to you doing your job as bait, the haul was decent.”

  Javon—who had just obtained a Sanguis Beyond Mortality-grade remnant—was sipping hot cocoa. He seemed in a notably good mood.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  William let out a long breath. Then, when he noticed the boss was drinking hot cocoa, a smile crept onto his face.

  —Not coffee. Meaning today he wouldn’t have to do coffee divination, staring at those bizarre symbols again.

  He obediently went behind the counter and started working.

  Only after William had been diligently mopping the floor did Javon finish his cocoa and speak at an unhurried pace:

  “That club—don’t go again. They shouldn’t come looking for you anymore. As for The Blood of Decay, they’ll likely lie low for a while.”

  The Bloodcoat Club was just a club. Even if Mr. E was part of The Epicurean Society, his current status was only “missing.” From confirming death, to identifying an enemy, to evaluating that enemy’s strength—none of that would be quick.

  And even if they did learn the enemy was a Beyond Mortality-grade existence, whether they would start a war over an ordinary member was still unknown.

  As for The Blood of Decay, losing a Beyond Mortality-grade existence for no clear reason would hurt them for a long time.

  More importantly, Javon had moved cleanly and fast. He left no real trail. They didn’t even know who the killer was.

  I wear a mask whenever I enter the Black Queen District. And Havier, Professor, and the others who know my identity won’t volunteer that information. Javon thought indifferently.

  “The organization with a blood-feud against my family… it’s called The Blood of Decay?” William’s emotions were hard to name. He glanced around and, without meaning to, thought of Isabet.

  Only now did he understand how foolish and ridiculous his earlier dream had been—founding a sect, recruiting members…

  But Isabet has a great figure—especially her hips…

  William swallowed. Right. Forget preaching. But Isabet could still become my girlfriend.

  He had thought so for a long time. Two young people grinding through Wynchester, warming each other against the cold—it was only natural.

  While William worked himself ragged, Isabet still went out in the daytime for another job. Any extra wages were still wages.

  The Lower District, Mary Street.

  Broken houses. Filthy roads… utterly unlike the rest of Wynchester.

  Of course, compared to The Derelict District—where gangs ruled and gunfights broke out nearly every day—Mary Street was still “not bad.”

  Isabet had grown up here.

  Children raised here had almost no chance at education, and many didn’t survive childhood at all.

  Some parents, unable to watch their children because of work, would even buy mandrake sap and feed it to infants. It had a numbing effect, keeping babies asleep for an entire day so they wouldn’t disturb exhausted parents.

  Deformity, sickness, hunger, cold… countless demons that stole countless young lives.

  And even those who lived—at eleven or twelve, they were sent into factories that used child labor, reduced to consumables under crushing work.

  That was why Isabet knew how precious the bar job was. Even enduring daily harassment, she endured in silence.

  Lately, her luck seemed to be improving.

  Not only had she found better-paid work, but the disgusting customer had drowned in a filthy ditch—and there even seemed to be a chance with William.

  William was poor, but for a girl from The Lower District, he was already a decent romantic prospect. Thinking of that, Isabet couldn’t help smiling as she walked.

  “Hi, Isabet. I heard you found a proper job at the bar. That’s wonderful.”

  On Mary Street, a white-haired old woman greeted her with a warm smile.

  “Good day, Mrs. Hugg.” Isabet smiled back.

  “Child… listen to me. A woman’s most beautiful years are only those few. Don’t burden yourself so heavily. You deserve better.”

  Mrs. Hugg looked at Isabet’s worn dress and sighed, shaking her head. “Now that you work nights, you can take it easier in the day. By the way, you haven’t been going to church much lately?”

  “Sorry…”

  Isabet’s whole family were devout Holy Spirit Church believers. But she’d been so busy recently that she hadn’t even prayed on weekends. Guilt pricked at her.

  “The Holy Spirit is merciful. It will forgive you…”

  Mrs. Hugg continued, “But the priest at our neighborhood church, Priest Smith, was transferred away. They replaced him with a new Priest Im. I hate to say it, but Priest Im understands doctrine far better than old Smith, who did nothing but drink. This weekend there’s also a blessing event—each believer who attends can receive one pound of rye bread.”

  “One pound of bread?”

  Isabet nodded. For her now it wasn’t much—but frugal habits ran deep, and she decided she couldn’t miss the weekend blessing.

  Night.

  Inside Havier’s The Displaced Castle.

  “Baron Jacques…”

  As Javon walked the corridor, he considered the threads.

  “This noble clearly has ties to The Blood of Decay. And Lowfman wasn’t here for William—he came to Wynchester for a different plot altogether. Baron Jacques is a lead.”

  He entered the hall, found a steward, explained his request, and was promptly guided to the third floor.

  Sipping tea while waiting for Havier, Javon continued calculating in silence:

  I can’t commission Gantiss or the others directly. That would likely expose me. Better to post a commission and hand it to bounty hunters.

  Not long after, Havier and Gantiss entered, faces tight with excitement and unease.

  “Elvander—don’t tell me you’ve already succeeded?”

  …

  A moment later.

  After verifying the Transposition Drawer, Havier was extremely satisfied with the finished product.

  “It meets my expectations. Elvander, you truly are an excellent Artisan.”

  “A customer’s satisfaction is an Artisan’s greatest pursuit.” Javon replied with an amiable smile.

  “Then… the payment?” Havier asked pleasantly. “What do you want, Elvander?”

  Because there would be follow-up orders, he was prepared to bleed.

  “Only six hundred pounds.” Javon named his price with a smile.

  Havier immediately frowned—not because it was too high, but because it was too low.

  “At the same time, I’d like Havier’s help… acquiring certain high-tier materials.”

  Javon continued.

  “That falls neatly within my business.” Havier’s expression eased. “I’ll do my best to gather them through the market and other gatherings. What materials do you need, Elvander?”

  For Havier, cultivating a relationship with a master Artisan was also beneficial.

  “I want… Beyond Mortality-grade Essence remnants. Pure Chrysalis, Tower, or Veil will do.”

  Javon stated the advancement materials he was pursuing.

  “Hiss…” Havier drew a sharp breath. “Fourth Sephiroth remnants—those are the true foundations of secret organizations. Even if they have stock, they won’t bring it out. They’ll use it to cultivate newcomers, or forge it into Beyond Mortality-grade artifacts—key pillars for maintaining a school’s legacy.”

  He continued grimly, “Take Gantiss. He fell out with Artisans’ Brotherhood precisely because of his teacher’s remnant.”

  Javon glanced at Gantiss in surprise, then shook his head internally. At Gantiss’s age and condition, the chance of opening the fourth Sephiroth was already slim.

  Still, turning it into a Beyond Mortality-grade arcane artifact—gaining Beyond Mortality-grade combat power that way—wasn’t bad at all.

  For major factions, a transmissible Beyond Mortality-grade arcane artifact was often more desirable than a single Beyond Mortality-grade individual.

  “Elvander, you walk the Forged Light path,” Gantiss murmured. “Chasing Veil, Chrysalis, and Tower remnants—there’s no need…”

  “In the incomplete inheritance I obtained, there are some designs for Beyond Mortality-grade arcane artifacts—specifically along these three paths.”

  Javon’s eyes burned with fervor. “Why should an Artisan at the third Sephiroth be unable to forge Beyond Mortality-grade artifacts? I’m going to break that rule.”

  Gantiss’s lips moved as if he wanted to persuade him, but in the end he said nothing.

  In Gantiss’s view, only such obsessive pursuit could explain how Elvander—so young—had reached such astonishing craftsmanship.

  “A magnificent idea.” Havier promised solemnly. “I’ll watch for them. But the value of those materials can’t be measured by simple money. Be prepared to bleed heavily.”