Night fell, and silence slowly swallowed the Adventurers' Guild.
In the deepest corridor, a heavy metal door closed with a deep rumble. The sound echoed like thunder, cutting off the noise of the outside world. Guards stood stiffly at both sides, not daring to relax even for a moment.
Beyond that door was a place most guild members would never step into—
the Council Chamber.
The circular room was built of black obsidian. At its center, several floating blue mana crystals flickered like cold flames. Their light illuminated the table and cast long shadows across the walls, like silent eyes judging every face present.
Tonight, four figures sat at the round table.
The first to speak was the white-robed elder, Cyrus Grewyn, the guild's Arcane Advisor.
He was the oldest of the four, once counted among the continent's most learned scholars. His eyes were bloodshot, and the staff in his hand trembled faintly.
"…A child of nine, awakening such power."
His voice rasped with fear, heavy yet unsteady.
"If left unchecked, she will become a calamity. Unrestrained mana is the seed of destruction. You all remember how the Forbidden Catastrophe began…"
Before he finished, a low snort cut him off.
Across from him sat the iron-armored giant, Barok Delton, the guild's Warlord Commander.
Forged in campaigns and bathed in blood, he was a man who had walked through mountains of corpses and rivers of war. A scar slashed across his face, making even his silence oppressive.
"Restrain her?"
Barok laughed coldly, his gauntlets scraping against the table with a grinding roar.
"Hmph! If she can be controlled, she is a blade. If she can't—then we break her."
His eyes sharpened like drawn steel.
"We cannot raise another disaster. If she betrays us, how many will die? Better to rip out the nail early than gamble with lives."
To his right, a man in a silver mask chuckled softly.
Virian Kross, the guild's Master of Intelligence and Diplomacy.
He moved like a shadow between factions, trading secrets and lies for power. His laughter was light, yet chilling.
"Break her?" Virian's voice was slow, his fingers tapping the table like dice being cast.
"Barok, you're always so blunt. But tell me—would you really throw away a potential trump card?"
His eyes gleamed with calculation.
"That girl's gaze… not like a child's. More like a die in the hand of fate. Place it on the board, and the result may shake the world. With the right guidance, she could be the sharpest weapon we possess."
Their voices clashed, the air between them tightening like drawn blades.
At last, the man at the head seat raised his hand.
Edmund Hals, the Guildmaster.
Unlike the others, his expression was still, nearly frozen. His eyes were deep, empty wells—calm yet suffocating. Everyone at the table knew: when Edmund spoke, his word became law.
"Enough."
Only a single word, yet it silenced the chamber.
For a moment, all was still.
Edmund spoke slowly, his tone heavy with judgment.
"Whether blade, die, or disaster… that girl named Luna has already stepped onto the stage. That is a fact no one here can deny."
His fingertip tapped the table.
Thud. Thud.
The sound echoed like a judge's gavel.
"The question is not whether she should exist—
but whether she will change the order of this world… or destroy it."
Cyrus's knuckles whitened around his staff, sweat beading at his brow.
"I see only signs of ruin. Her power is unstable, dangerous. Just like the calamity of forbidden magic years ago… we cannot let history repeat itself."
"Wrong!"
Barok's fist slammed the table, shaking the mana crystals until their glow quivered.
"Wrong to sit and watch! Power is power. If she controls it, I'll acknowledge her. If not, I'll crush her myself!"
Virian only laughed, spinning a die between his fingers.
"Crush her? You're blind to her value. She is not a curse, but an opportunity. Bring her to our side, and the guild's influence across the continent will soar beyond imagination."
Their voices rose, clashing fiercely.
Edmund only watched, silent, until his breath cut through their argument.
"Disaster, blade, or trump card…"
His voice struck like iron.
"This girl must be under our control."
The chamber fell into silence.
The crystals flickered. The air tightened.
Cyrus lowered his gaze, trembling.
Barok growled but did not strike the table again.
Virian smiled beneath his mask, still rolling his die, unreadable.
But all four knew it.
Luna had become the core of their council's debate—
a problem that could not be ignored.
Yet none of them noticed…
Beyond the thick stone walls, the darkness stirred.
A man in a gray-black cloak leaned half his body into the shadows, his eyes gleaming faintly.
The infamous name whispered in back alleys and battlefields alike—
Shadowfiend, Sharic Norn.
He pressed his fingers against the wall and whispered,
"…Resonance of Shadows."
Ink-black mana seeped into the cracks, spreading like ripples.
The chamber unfolded to him in eerie clarity.
Every word. Every breath. Every heartbeat was laid bare.
Cyrus's fear.
Barok's fury.
Virian's laughter.
Edmund's cold command.
Sharic's lips curled.
"Heh… a nine-year-old brat, and already she drives these old foxes into frenzy."
His voice was low, more like a hunter murmuring to prey.
His eyes glimmered with excitement, shadows boiling in their depths.
"Luna…" he whispered, tapping the blade beneath his cloak.
"You are no longer an accident. You're prey."
The tapping stopped. Shadows swallowed him whole.
Only a final whisper lingered in the night—
a vow none inside would ever hear:
"Black Wing has already marked you."