The two stood facing each other in the night outside the hunting lodge, the air between them seemingly frozen. The silence stretched too long, and even the wind rustling through the shrubs seemed to carry a trace of tension. Livia knew—the true focus of today's plan was never about the map. It was about testing, bartering, and more importantly, buying time—diverting the attention of Jim and the remnants of Eryx's forces.
But if she could extract even a sliver of intel from Jim—no matter how tainted with lies—it would be an invaluable breakthrough.
She drew a quiet breath and spoke gently:
"Very well. You want the original—I don't have it. I only have a copy. I'm sure you won't mind."
"Ha—" Jim let out a hoarse laugh, amused and seemingly satisfied.
"A copy is fine. As long as you're not trying to walk away with everything for nothing, I've no complaints."
He paused, and then, in a tone that was either casual banter or genuine goodwill, added:
"You know… if you manage to crawl out of this game alive, I might just take you on as my disciple.
That mind of yours—shrewd, daring, commanding… it's even sharper than I was back in the day.
You might be just the type to learn a few of my 'tricks.'"
Those words struck Livia like a door suddenly creaking open somewhere deep in her memory.
She froze.
Not from fear—but from a sudden wave of disorientation.
Scenes from her previous life rushed to the surface.
The her from that time—filthy, scraped, half-starved, crawling for her life in a crumbling alley—had been plucked from the brink of death by the very man standing before her.
It was he who taught her how to wield a blade, how to mix poisons, how to read a room, how to melt into shadow. How to sow suspicion and betrayal in a crowd.
He was never gentle—but he had also never truly abandoned her.
That didn't mean he was a good person. He was cruel. Cold.
He once threw her, half-dead, into a miasma swamp just to test the effects of a new poison.
Sometimes, mid-training, he'd draw a real blade to awaken her "survival instinct."
And she—again and again—crawled back from the edge of death.
Those were the years she was truly reforged.
And yet… even a man like that wasn't devoid of all humanity.
She remembered once, after an enemy had drugged her, leaving her convulsing and helpless in an icy well through the night.
He showed up the next morning without a word, tossed her a cloak, and said:
"If you can survive this poison, you're ready for the next technique."
For a split second, in that moment—she'd felt… protected.
So now, hearing him once again mention taking her as his disciple—even if it was just an offhand comment—Livia couldn't help but fall silent, caught in a daze.
A twisted bond—perhaps that's what it meant to be tangled in fate's darker threads.
She forced herself back to the present, suppressing the faint tremor of emotion in her gaze.
Afraid he might catch the crack in her composure, she quickly replied with a steady, even chilly tone:
"Right back at you. Nothing's settled yet—no one knows how this ends."
Jim observed the subtle shifts in her expression, a faint, unreadable smile tugging at his lips.
But he didn't press further. Instead, he changed the subject.
"That said," he spread his hands, "as you can see—I didn't bring what you wanted today.
I don't make a habit of carrying that kind of document around."
Livia nodded. She hadn't expected him to show his hand so easily.
"And you're not giving me your copy either, are you?" Jim asked lightly.
She didn't answer—only curled her lips into a vague, teasing smile.
Jim wasn't surprised. He shrugged.
"Alright then. Let's set another time.
I quite like this hunting lodge. Next time—same place."