A terrible foreboding.
Something was gravely wrong...
In the pitch-black basement, only scattered candlelight illuminated the surroundings.
Metal railings enclosed them on all sides, forming a massive iron cage.
Hank Manan, the infamous master thief, surveyed everything around him while a powerful sense of crisis surged continuously through his heart.
Though it was indeed a prison, the hygiene was impeccable—equipped with proper facilities and regular meals, no torture instruments adorned the walls, and not even a trace of blood stained the floors.
Yet Hank would rather return to the stinking, filthy, decrepit cell he'd occupied before than remain here another second.
Based on years of hard-earned experience, the current abnormality completely indicated that something life-threatening was approaching.
Among the dozens imprisoned within the cage, several others had also sensed something amiss, their faces etched with grim concern.
One of them—a powerfully built middle-aged man bearing several facial scars, clearly battle-hardened and extremely experienced in combat—approached Hank and spoke in serious, hushed tones:
"I know you. Phantom thief Hank Manan, who operated across several kingdoms, committing over a thousand crimes until you were captured attempting to steal the jewels of the Marton Duchy's princess.
Allow me to introduce myself. I am Hetto Yasar, captain of the second squad of the Wolf Hunter mercenary group, possessing the strength of a Great Knight.
I believe you've already noticed this place's unusual nature, and I think we must cooperate—otherwise, none of us will likely escape."
He extended his hand.
Hearing that his potential ally possessed Great Knight strength, Hank's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
After a moment's consideration, he also extended his hand, grasping Hetto's to confirm their alliance.
Once they shook hands, Hetto's expression relaxed slightly, and he subtly gestured toward the people surrounding them:
"I think the situation is extremely complicated. We may have been drawn into some form of cult ritual.
I spotted a familiar face among those who escorted us here.
Though he wore disguise, having encountered him long ago, I still recognized his identity: Warlock Salter, wanted by the Church.
He's said to possess an utterly twisted personality, with thousands dead by his hand.
And the people in this cage—I've observed them carefully. Every single one could be described as exceptionally trained, capable of killing fully armed soldiers barehanded. This perfectly matches the requirements for cult ritual sacrifices..."
After hearing these revelations, Hank's expression grew increasingly grave.
Though he knew nothing about Warlock Salter specifically, the mere title 'Warlock' indicated the man was far from benevolent.
Among the mysterious spellcaster community, Warlocks possessed the worst reputation of all, every one having blood-soaked hands. Calling them executioners would be generous.
According to information he'd overheard in his previous cell, the person who ordered his transfer was the Prince of Marton Duchy.
This meant the Warlock was very likely allied with this country's highest echelons—absolutely terrible news for Hank and the others.
Under these circumstances, becoming sacrifices in a cult ritual was far from idle speculation; the probability was disturbingly high.
As for the moral boundaries of upper-class nobility, Hank had witnessed countless examples during his years as a master thief!
It wouldn't surprise him at all if those aristocrats, who would boil their own kind for so-called immortality, conducted blood sacrifices without hesitation.
Honestly, if his own name weren't likely on the sacrifice list, Hank wouldn't even bother investigating such matters.
Observing Hank's grim expression, Hetto continued, "The metal bars of this cage are forged from Saya iron, each one as thick as two adult fingers pressed together.
Even ten wild elephants couldn't bend them.
There's no possibility of destroying it barehanded.
Can you determine how to open the lock?"
Under Hetto's hopeful gaze, Hank sighed and shook his head: "Impossible.
I examined it thoroughly earlier.
This lock type is specially crafted by the locksmith family that has served the Marton Duchy royal family for generations.
It's composed of at least a hundred internal components.
Regular locks are child's play compared to this.
Even with professional tools, I wouldn't be completely confident of opening it, let alone barehanded."
Both men fell into disappointed silence.
Meanwhile, most other prisoners had begun forming their own small alliances. Within the cage holding dozens of individuals, more than twenty separate groups emerged.
Conflicts naturally began arising, with arguments and mutual provocations occurring constantly.
If they hadn't been suddenly transferred to such an obviously ominous location, and if everyone hadn't felt deep unease, given their temperaments, they would have already started fighting with casualties being inevitable.
Creak...
Just as they argued heatedly, faces flushed and voices raised in streams of foul language, the sudden sound of an iron door opening—its edge scraping against stone—echoed from the pitch-black corridor beyond their cage.
Every prisoner instantly fell silent.
After exchanging nervous glances, they all turned their attention toward the corridor.
Accompanied by unhurried footsteps, a slender, devastatingly handsome red-haired young man entered their line of sight, dressed in luxurious black attire adorned with golden patterns.
Regardless of appearance, clothing, or even the more ethereal qualities of his presence, Hank had never encountered anyone who could compare to the figure before him.
The newcomer possessed an extraordinarily commanding presence; once he stood there, everything around him automatically became mere backdrop, and everyone's gaze was involuntarily drawn to him, as if he were the center of existence itself.
And Hank wasn't certain if it was imagination, but the moment this person entered, the air temperature plummeted noticeably, and even the flies and mosquitoes that had been buzzing mid-air vanished without trace, as though they had fled in terror.
Glancing sideways, he saw that Hetto's eyes were filled with absolute horror, as if he'd witnessed something supernatural.
The scars across his face contorted like writhing worms, and perspiration had begun beading on his bald head, slowly dripping to the floor.
Though Hank didn't understand what had affected his ally so profoundly, he instinctively recognized that danger had arrived and dared not make any further movements.
He silently lowered his head, concealing his figure behind the prisoner in front of him.
Tilting his head slightly, Ol'ksa observed the many imprisoned individuals.
He ignored their wary or hostile stares, merely nodding with satisfaction and commenting, "The quality is quite acceptable. It seems Salter handled matters very diligently."
In truth, he knew Crown Prince Jem had likely contributed most significantly to this selection, but he didn't particularly care.
As long as they could complete the tasks he assigned, he didn't mind whatever schemes the two of them employed.
Regardless, given this world's magical concentration and civilization development level, apart from some ancient beings whose existence remained unknown, he needn't worry about any threats.
If widespread slaughter wouldn't provoke an excessive reaction from the world—severely shortening his stay—he would never employ such gentle methods, acting as a hidden power behind the scenes. He would have long since stepped into the forefront and acted with complete freedom.
However, since his objective remained unachieved, he didn't particularly wish to create major incidents in the short term, attracting hordes of miscellaneous heroes to form parties specifically for fighting the Demon King.
At least not before reaching his predetermined goal.
Noticing Ol'ksa's gaze—like someone examining livestock on a chopping block awaiting slaughter—a man in prisoner's garb stepped forward. He possessed ordinary features, a short and sturdy build, and bore a beast's claw mark across his right eye. Speaking earnestly to Ol'ksa:
"Release me, and I'll reveal the location of the treasure Prince Lilya concealed when he rebelled 275 years ago in the Kingdom of Marton!"
Ol'ksa, who had spent recent days thoroughly reading books on local history and absorbing various information about this world, understood the reference but remained completely uninterested.
The gold and silver treasures humans cherished held no value in the Bottomless Abyss—they weren't even as practical as a few fresh corpses.
So he shook his head and replied calmly in a somewhat harsh voice, "Prince Lilya? I have no interest in his so-called treasure. Such things are meaningless."
The middle-aged man didn't become angry upon hearing this rejection. He simply studied Ol'ksa intently, considered for a moment, then whispered urgently, "The leader of the Swift Wind Thieves is my biological brother.
Under his command are hundreds of battle-hardened mounted bandits.
If you release me, not only will you obtain Prince Lilya's treasure, but we can also perform one service for you without compensation—whether killing or robbery, we can accomplish it."
"Swift Wind Thieves? A somewhat familiar name..." Ol'ksa said, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
Seeing Ol'ksa's apparently hesitant expression, the prisoner's spirits lifted, believing he'd sparked interest, and he added desperately, "We Swift Wind Thieves are the largest mounted bandit group along the Marton Duchy's borders! No one matches us except the regular army!"
"Is that so?" Ol'ksa nodded, then shook his head decisively.
"But it still means nothing to me.
After all, you people represent the individuals who best suit my criteria in this entire kingdom.
Compared to this value, everything else is worthless."
Having delivered this pronouncement, he no longer paid attention to the man's stricken expression and shifted his gaze to the others.
Drawing a soft breath, Ol'ksa's handsome features revealed a slightly intoxicated smile as he declared, "The familiar scent of sin makes me somewhat nostalgic for the Abyss.
Though a few among you lack pure flavor, from a human perspective, most of you are thoroughgoing villains.
It should be your honor to prove useful in my hands."
With those words, amid the crowd's terrified stares, faint grayish-black mist automatically emanated from Ol'ksa's form, transforming into varying numbers of tendrils that, despite their desperate struggles, merged into each person's body.
After completing this process, Ol'ksa ignored the panic-stricken crowd frantically examining their bodies, maintaining his slight smile as he said, "I hope you can endure for a few more days.
Farewell, everyone."
Without further delay, he turned and departed.
As he approached the iron door's exit, Ol'ksa suddenly recalled why the Swift Wind Thieves, that border bandit group, had seemed familiar.
More than ten days ago, when he'd ventured to the border forest to start fires, he'd happened to encounter them along the way, so he had conveniently converted them...
Amen! How merciful of him, the Demon!
He should find a bald monk to issue him a certificate for converting sentient beings in the future; working without proper licensing was always problematic.