The fortress of the X Cartel reeked of smoke, sweat, and blood. The stench hung heavy in the air, clinging to the stone walls as if the building itself had absorbed the sins committed within. Torches mounted on black iron brackets hissed and spat embers, throwing restless shadows across the hall. The floor was slick in places, sticky with the residue of slaughter—blood that hadn't been fully scrubbed off after the butchery of the afternoon.
At the center of this macabre temple sat Arkel.
He lounged in a crooked sprawl across his chair, one leg hanging lazily over the armrest. A butcher's blade leaned against the throne like a loyal hound waiting for its master's command. His robe, once ash-grey and black, was splattered with crimson stains, but he wore the filth as if it were ceremonial silk, a king's raiment. His eyes, sharp and restless, gleamed with the same unholy hunger that had turned brothers into corpses and loyal followers into trembling dogs.
When the physician entered, the man's knees nearly buckled. He had spent years serving monsters in human skin, stitching together men gutted in backroom brawls, brewing poisons that wiped out entire bloodlines, even amputating limbs as men screamed in his face. He thought himself immune to terror. Yet in front of Arkel, even his seasoned body quivered. The vice-leader of the X Cartel was not simply a man—he was a storm barely chained, violence wrapped in human skin.
Arkel tapped his fingers against the armrest, the sound echoing in the hollow hall like the ticking of a clock counting down. His head tilted slightly, lips curling in a parody of amusement. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost playful, as though asking about a fine wine.
"Tell me, doctor… do you have something that can twist a man's qi circuit until it spirals into madness? Not quick death. Not silence. That's boring. I want screams. Convulsions. Blood spilling from their mouths as their bodies betray them. I want them to feel their own flesh rebelling before I crush them with my own hands."
The physician's throat worked as he swallowed, sweat running down his back in slow trails. His voice shook, but every word was measured, careful—like a man walking barefoot across broken glass.
"There… is one, Vice-Leader. Not common. Not even whispered in most places. A cruel concoction. When mixed with alcohol, it forces qi pathways to rupture from within. The body reacts violently—bleeding from ears, nose, and mouth. Muscles convulse. The victim thrashes until consciousness is ripped from them."
Arkel's lips split, not in a smile but in a predator's grin. He leaned forward, eyes catching the torchlight, and his tongue ran across his teeth like he was savoring the taste of agony yet to come.
"And they live?" His voice cut like a blade.
The physician forced himself to nod. "They live. For eight hours, at least. The suffering is… indescribable."
For a moment, silence ruled. The air itself seemed to tighten around every man in the room. Then, suddenly, Arkel clapped. The sound was sharp, like a whip crack, shattering the heavy quiet. His laughter followed—jagged, manic, crawling across skin like a swarm of ants.
"Perfect," he hissed. "Eight hours of hell before death. Just what I wanted."
His gaze slid sideways toward John, the shadow who had stood still as stone behind him. "Forty-eight, wasn't it?"
"Yes, Vice-Leader," John replied, his tone steady as iron. "Forty-eight men."
The physician hesitated, sweat dripping from his temples. He dared to add one last warning. "The dosage is… critical. It is called Crimson Coil Extract. Forged from spirit herbs and chemical distillations. More than five milliliters in a bottle, and it will not only break them—it will kill them instantly. There is no antidote."
Arkel's eyes gleamed brighter as he snatched one vial from the satchel. He lifted it to the torchlight, watching the crimson liquid swirl like captured blood. Slowly, he tilted it, marveling at the way it clung to the glass. Then his lips stretched into a grin too wide, too hungry.
"Five milliliters… eight hours of torment. Hah! That's mercy compared to what I had in mind."
He shoved the vial back into the physician's hands, hard enough that the glass almost shattered. "Give it to Tito. Lace the drinks. Not a single bottle spared."
The physician bowed low, clutching the satchel as if it were his own lifeline, and fled.
Arkel leaned back into his chair, head tilting, eyes half-lidded. A hum left his throat, tuneless yet chilling. "Forty-eight souls choking on their own blood… what a symphony it will be."
John finally spoke. "Vice-Leader, what about your brother? If Azel finds out—"
"Shut up." Arkel's aura flared in an instant, crushing the hall under suffocating weight. Torches flickered violently as if starved of air. "I don't live in Azel's shadow. He hides behind schemes and whispers. I carve my name into bone." His lips twisted into something between a snarl and a smile. "Let him watch."
Far away, under a calmer sky, the farmhouse chosen for the commander's farewell celebration stood in eerie silence. Its tiled roof gleamed under the pale moonlight, the compound walls cutting it off from the wilderness around it. Remote. Discreet. A place where no outsider wandered without reason.
Behind those walls, a lone guard crouched near the outer courtyard. The Spirit Mirror at his side hummed softly, its glow pulsing like a heartbeat. Finally, he pressed his palm against the surface. The mirror rippled, and a single word surfaced, written in faint, glowing script:
"Drop."
A knock came against the stone wall, faint but deliberate. The guard moved swiftly, checking the shadows, before sliding his hand into a hidden crack. From within, he pulled out a tightly rolled parchment sealed with wax. Breaking it open, he unrolled the message. The letters inside were sharp, angular, and merciless.
"This is Crimson Coil Extract. A high sedative born of chemistry and cultivation. Don't mix more than five milliliters in any bottle. Once consumed, it takes fifteen minutes to take effect. Consciousness returns only after eight hours. Even a single point above the measure causes death by overdose. Handle carefully."
The guard's eyes flicked once over the note. His face betrayed nothing, but his fingers clenched tight around the parchment.
Without hesitation, he unpacked the vials. One by one, he tilted them over the jars of alcohol, each drop vanishing into the dark liquid. Wine. Liquor. Sake. Every bottle turned into a silent weapon, death hidden beneath the fragrance of celebration.
By the time he sealed the last jar, the fate of the party had already been written.
Inside, the commander's voice thundered above the laughter of his men.
"What's up? Everyone's here, right?" His cheeks glowed with warmth, his eyes with pride. "I retire in a month! Can you believe it? And guess who's being groomed as my replacement? That damned Nelson! Trinity's about to see a new dawn!"
The room erupted with cheers, some mocking, some celebratory.
"Couldn't even be at my son's wedding with you boys," the commander continued, slamming a hand on the table. "Protests everywhere. The streets in chaos. And you lot breaking your backs to keep the city together." He raised his glass higher, firelight glinting off its rim. "But this night… this one is ours. My farewell. Your future."
He grinned wide. "Eleven of you I've already recommended for promotion. You'll have it soon. That's my promise."
The cheer was louder this time, the sound of glasses clinking echoing against the wooden beams. Pride. Brotherhood. Joy.
The commander slammed his cup down with a grin that shook the room with its warmth. "Enough with the formalities! Drink! Celebrate! Let tonight be remembered!"
The men roared their agreement, laughter bouncing off the wooden beams. None of them knew that doom already swirled in the bottom of their cups, waiting for the first swallow to ignite the nightmare.
Old Station
At the same time, in the old border station where the consignment was seized, a young man walked in through the creaking wooden doors. His robes were loose and uneven, one sleeve half-rolled, the other dragging along. A bundle of papers slipped from under his arm and scattered on the dusty floor the moment he stepped forward.
"Ah—ah no, no, no! Wait, wait—!" The man scrambled, nearly tripping on his own foot as he gathered the sheets with a panicked expression. His voice cracked slightly as he muttered to himself.
The desk officer behind the counter frowned, drumming his fingers. "Who are you supposed to be?"
The man stood up straight, forcing a nervous smile, brushing dust from his robe. "Transferred here… from Sither City, sir. I—I'm supposed to report today."
The officer narrowed his eyes. "Transferred last week. Why are you late?"
The young man scratched his head awkwardly. "I, uh… accidentally went to Narvey Province first. Got a little… confused."
"Confused?" the officer barked a laugh. "Narvey's three provinces away! What were you riding, a blind donkey?"
The man chuckled weakly, dropping a pen from his sleeve as he tried to bow politely. He bent down to pick it up, only to bump his head against the desk.
The officer sighed, pinching his nose. "Heavens above. How did someone like you even become a guard?" His eyes flicked over the trembling figure, unimpressed. "State your name again, boy. And show me your plaque."
The man quickly fished out a slightly bent military plaque, holding it with both hands as if afraid it might be snatched away. "Liam Hill. Officially part of the Imperial Military."
The officer raised an eyebrow. "Military? You?" He leaned forward, lips curling. "What did you do—train chickens to march? A coward like you can't even look me in the eye!"
The officer pulled the transfer papers from Liam's pile and was about to skim his service record when another guard rushed in. "Sir! There's a connection request in the Spirit Mirror!"
The desk officer cursed under his breath, slamming the papers down. "Tch. Fine. Wait here." He marched toward the communication room, leaving Liam to fiddle nervously with his sleeves.
Inside, the mirror rippled with a faint glow. His superior's voice echoed, distorted yet firm:"I won't be coming today. You handle everything until tomorrow."
The officer clenched his jaw but obeyed. When he returned, Liam was still standing awkwardly, his hands clasped behind his back as though awaiting punishment.
"You'll have to come tomorrow," the officer said gruffly.
Liam blinked. "Tomorrow? But… but I won't find any inn out here. The station is far from the main city, and at this hour…" He glanced nervously out the window where the night winds howled. "…the wild beasts are active."
The officer smirked, intending a joke. "Then wait here in the station till morning, coward."
To his surprise, Liam's face lit up with relief. "Really? Thank you, sir!" Without hesitation, he rushed to the nearest bench, dropped his bundle of papers on the side, and sat cross-legged like a child, humming nervously to himself.
The officers exchanged looks, half amused, half bewildered.
None of them noticed how Liam's fingers, hidden beneath his sleeves, occasionally traced sharp, practiced patterns on his knees—movements no ordinary coward would make.
While laughter filled the station hall, somewhere else, far away in a farmhouse under the same moonlight, a very different kind of night was unfolding…