The room was dim, lit only by a single lantern swaying gently in the stale air. A man sat in a sturdy wooden chair, posture relaxed yet exuding quiet authority. Maps, coded letters, and supply records were scattered across the desk before him.
The door snapped open.
A tall man filled the doorway, his expression thunderous.
"Why are you not sending us supplies?" he demanded, his voice booming through the room.
The seated man — Arven — looked up slowly, meeting his gaze with the calm, steady eyes of someone used to command.
"Calm yourself, Berrick. We're investigating. I've already sent some of my best men."
Berrick stepped inside, fists clenched. "Investigating? We've been without supplies for a week! You have to explain yourself. We need them now."
Arven's voice was even, almost cool. "First, sit."
Reluctantly, Berrick moved to the chair opposite him. The two locked eyes in a tense silence.
"Tell me the truth, Arven," Berrick said, his tone quieter but no less sharp. "Why are you holding back?"
Arven exhaled slowly. "It's not that I don't want to give you the supplies. Someone has infiltrated one of our production sites. We were just as shocked as you when we learned of it. Our organization suspects that someone from a noble family managed to track the location. We kept quiet, waited for signs of a leak… but nothing. Even so, I've already sent an elite team to investigate. We'll wait for their report before moving anything."
Berrick's palm hit the desk with a heavy thud. "That's not my concern! You and I have a contract — don't forget it."
He rose from his seat, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Send the supplies… or you'll regret it."
He strode out, the door rattling as it shut behind him.
Arven leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he thought of Berrick's words. "What a mess…" he muttered under his breath.
His thoughts strayed to a boy — the one who came to the slums every day. There was something about him… the way he carried himself, the sharpness in his eyes, as if he was watching everything while pretending not to.
Could he be connected to this? The notion lingered, but Arven shook it off. He had checked the child personally with mana detection — nothing. No aura, no trace. Just a boy.
…Yet somehow, Arven couldn't quite convince himself.
Pushing the thought aside, he closed his eyes, letting the lantern's faint flicker blur into darkness. The report would come soon enough. Then, he would know for certain.
The Ghost Manor loomed in silence, its rotting walls casting long shadows under the pale moonlight.
Aeren stood before the gate, face hidden beneath a black mask. Dressed in black from head to toe, he was more shadow than man. Without hesitation, he stepped inside.
The wooden boards groaned faintly under his weight as he made his way straight to the basement.
Below, the air was damp and heavy. Lanterns bobbed through the darkness, carried by a small group of men who picked their way through broken furniture and rusted chains.
"Did you find anything?" one of them asked.
"We found nothing," came the tired reply. "Not a single clue."
"We searched everywhere," another said bitterly. "It's like this place was scrubbed clean."
The leader — tall, with a scar carved across his cheek — stepped forward. "What about the prison wing?"
The men exchanged uneasy glances.
"No," one admitted. "We haven't gone there yet."
"Then we go together," the leader ordered.
They moved. So did Aeren — already among them, though none of them knew it. He moved like breath on the back of the neck, too faint to notice until it was too late.
First one.
A step closer. A precise strike to the neck.
The man dropped soundlessly, his lantern rolling away, light flickering across the walls.
Second.
A shadow brushed past him — too quick, too silent — and the world went black before he could gasp.
Third… fourth…
One after another, they vanished from the leader's awareness, replaced by empty space and cooling bodies.
By the time they reached the heavy prison door, only the scarred leader remained.
"Let's go—" he called over his shoulder.
Silence.
He turned. His face went pale. Every man lay sprawled on the ground, their lanterns
extinguished.
The basement seemed larger now. Emptier.
"Please," he stammered, trembling. "Spare me! I'll tell you everything—"
His voice choked into silence.
Aeren's whisper came from the darkness, soft as falling ash.
"Material can't talk."
The leader's body went limp, collapsing onto the cold stone floor.
Aeren stood over him for a heartbeat longer, then melted back into the shadows.
The old manor swallowed the sound of his retreat, as if nothing had ever happened there at all.