After Princess Lumielle delivered a fierce and commanding speech to the aristocracy—promising swift retribution for the heinous crimes committed—a clear divide emerged, and the nobles began to scatter in three distinct directions:
Some, sensing their judgment day, fled under the veil of night with their families, their treasures, and their shame. Those with power and resources wasted no time reinforcing their security, fully prepared to retaliate if their lives were ever endangered.
The more arrogant minority, however, dismissed Lumielle's warning as the desperate bluster of a delusional girl. They scoffed at the notion that she could actually afford to commission the Absolution Guild, let alone wield their allegiance.
Viscount Palisson was of this denomination and mindset. Inside his lavish office, suffused with the scent of aged parchment and cigar smoke, the noble loomed over a trembling scribe. The man was pale, shoulders hunched, quill in hand, trying not to smudge the forged signature on the parchment before him.
"Hurry up!" Palisson growled, slamming a fist onto the desk. "I paid the Forensics Guild a small fortune to get me Lord Ignatius's signet ring. If that handwriting isn't perfect, it'll be your head!"
The scribe flinched but said nothing. He knew—had known from the moment he was dragged into this mess—that he wasn't walking away from this alive. His fingers quivered as he penned the final lines of the fraudulent deed, his eyes flicking to the guards stationed nearby, praying that someone, anyone, would stop this.
But he already knew the grim truth.
Palisson would silence him as a part of his efforts to tie-up loose ends. If not now, then right after he delivered the bribe and document to the Keeper of the Seals for processing, his life would be utterly extinguished.
A single bead of sweat slid down his cheek at the horrid thought.
Then, as if the gods had answered his prayers, the two armored guards suddenly gasped—no, choked, hands flying to their sides as golden chains erupted around their torsos, binding them tightly. Their weapons clattered to the floor as they collapsed in a metallic heap.
"What in the—?!" Palisson reeled back, eyes darting to the door.
Three figures in dark garments slipped silently into the room. Their masks gleamed under the low lighting, each carved with intimidating designs. One knelt by the writhing guards, pulling a small pouch from their belt.
"Wait, what are you doing—?!"
A cloud of fine, sparkling powder drifted through the air as the kneeling figure blew it gently into the guards' faces. The men groaned once—then stilled, hopelessly ushered into unconsciousness.
"Slumbering Dust…" Palisson whispered in disbelief, his throat parched. "H-How did you get in here?! Where are my men?!"
The figure in the fox-designed mask rose, her voice smooth but cold. "Your men are enjoying a well-earned nap. We didn't want any noise."
Palisson stumbled back a step, heart hammering against his ribs. "That's impossible! My estate is guarded by—wait…"
He froze.
His eyes widened. "No… it can't be. The dark guild? You're from the Absolution Guild…?!"
The figure didn't confirm. They didn't have to. The way they moved, the way they struck, the eerie silence and terrifying precision—it all aligned too perfectly.
Palisson's voice turned shrill. "No, no, that's not possible! She lied! She was bluffing—she couldn't have orchestrated this!"
The assassin in the fanged-mask ignored his outburst and turned to the scribe. With a casual tilt of their head, they gestured toward the door.
"Run."
The scribe didn't hesitate, not even for an instant. He bolted from around the desk, nearly tripping over his robes as he darted out of the office without once looking back.
Palisson tried to reach for a blade, but one of the masked figures was already beside him, pressing something cold and unmistakably sharp to his throat.
"Wait," the crooked noble rasped, trembling. "Let's talk. I-I can pay you double. Triple—just name your price!"
The assassin leaned in, eyes unreadable behind the mask. "You think a mere viscount can afford our services?"
Palisson swallowed hard, his chest heaving with panic at that painful fact. As beads of cold sweat slid down his temples, the heavy thud of armored boots echoed from beyond the hallway.
His body stiffened.
As the footfalls grew louder, hope flickered in his eyes. It was clear the captain of his guard was coming to dispatch these vermin to the deepest depths of hell.
The fanged-mask assassin tensed, their gaze shifting sharply to the door. Within moments, an imposing figure appeared in the threshold, clad in steel engraved with sigils of house Alaric.
Palisson's lips parted. "L-Leopold…?"
The name cracked like a whip in the air.
"What are you doing here?" Palisson blurted. "You… You came for me? But why? Ignatius is dead! Isn't that what you wanted? Wasn't that enough for you to move on?"
The assassin raised their blade to the newcomer's throat, daring him to take another step.
Leopold didn't flinch.
He fearlessly glanced down at the weapon, then calmly raised a gauntleted hand and pushed the blade aside. "Apologies," he said, his voice low and unshaken. "I know I'm interrupting, and I won't stay long. But before you pass your judgment, I just want to ask this rat a few questions."
The fanged-mask assassin paused, then glanced back at their comrade in the wolf mask who watched silently from the corner. A curt nod was all it took for the assassin to lower their weapon and step aside. In the same beat, the individual in the fox mask also backed away.
Freed, Palisson stumbled back like a cornered pig, knocking over a manalamp in his panic. His face contorted into dread, fearing the armored avenger more than the executioners that had just infiltrated his estate.
Leopold said nothing at first. He crossed the room and retrieved the half-finished document lying on the desk. His eyes scanned the forged deed in silence. Then his lips curled in disgust.
"So, this is what you've been doing," he said venomously. "Ignatius hasn't been in the ground for even a week and you're already plotting to seize his holdings—Zorno included. That land was annexed through bloodshed, and now you're scheming to claim it all with a forged deed?"
He turned the full weight of his icy gaze onto the wicked nobleman. "You sicken me."
Palisson's lip trembled. "W-Wait—"
With a sharp rip, Leopold tore the parchment into ribbons, letting the pieces scatter to the floor like ashes. Then, in the next breath, he grabbed the bastard's wrist, slammed his hand onto the desk, and drove a dagger clean through the palm.
Palisson screamed.
The blade pinned his hand to the wood, blood instantly rippling around the wound. Tears sprang to his eyes as he whimpered, squirming but unable to pull away.
Leopold leaned in. "Did you conspire with Ignatius in the assassination of Lord Alaric?"
"I didn't! I swear it!" the man wheezed, his body wracked with pain. "I had nothing to do with that!"
"Then why was Lord Alaric killed?" Leopold demanded. "Was it just for the land?"
Palisson hesitated.
Leopold twisted the knife.
Another cry ripped from the man's throat. "Alright! ALRIGHT! He was a wild card!" he confessed. "Alaric—he was too… too much of an idealist. Always preaching about justice and dignity. The people adored him. He had the potential to spark a rebellion, damn it!"
His body trembled under the weight of the admission. "From what I heard, he refused every offer. He wouldn't join the Mhaledictus. Even when the threats came, he didn't budge. Whether we killed him or not… the Mhaledictus would have eventually."
The room fell silent.
The fox-masked assassin stepped forward, their voice sharp and commanding. "What do you know of the Mhaledictus? Names. Faces. Who is the mastermind?"
Palisson shook his head desperately. "I swear I don't know! Th-They wore black. Always cloaked. They never showed their faces. They made their demands, made their threats, but I don't know who they were. Please… I'm telling the truth."
Leopold yanked the blade from his hand.
Palisson collapsed to his knees, clutching the bleeding wound as he sobbed.
Leopold turned away, cold and unmoved. "May the fires of hell claim you," he said darkly, voice like iron scraping stone. "And may your bones be picked clean by crows."
He walked past the villain without sparing another glance. As he reached the door, his gaze shifted down to the golden chains bounding the slumbering guards on the floor.
The fanged-mask assassin leaned in toward Palisson, eyes narrowing with a final warning. "You will remain in the city," he said. "You will not conspire further. And you will stay far—far—away from the Mhaledictus. If you defy even one of these terms… no distance, no guards, no walls will save you from death."
Palisson squeaked and nodded frantically, tears and blood dripping together onto the floor. "I-I understand. I swear, I understand!"