Raviel stood in front of the unremarkable storefront. The faded sign above the door read in chipped letters:
Wilson & Charlotte — Potions & Tonics.
The wood was old, the glass slightly fogged. Ordinary. Forgettable.
And yet Raviel's chest tightened.
He raised his Arctic, typed something in quickly—something only he would know—and stared at the faint blue glow on the holographic interface. His lips pressed together in a thin line.
"...Sorry," he whispered under his breath, though even he couldn't tell who he was apologizing to—himself, or the man inside.
Then he pushed the door open.
A faint bell jingled. Immediately, the scent of dried herbs, alchemical powder, and faintly sweet potions filled the air. Rows of shelves lined the interior, packed with vials and jars, glowing softly in varying hues.
Behind the counter, a man in his early forties looked up. He had tired eyes, dark stubble along his jaw, and hands that seemed steady at first glance—but Raviel noticed the faint twitch as they hovered near the desk.
The man's gaze narrowed. A hooded figure with a full mask had walked into his shop. No name. No introduction. Suspicion rose like smoke.
Still, his voice was smooth, polite.
"Welcome to Wilson & Charlotte. What can I get you today?"
Raviel didn't answer immediately. He let silence linger, thick enough to make the man tense. Then, in a voice quiet but deliberate, he whispered one word.
"...Chimera."
The shopkeeper froze.
The blood drained from his face instantly, eyes widening before narrowing into something darker. His right hand dipped beneath the counter, and Raviel caught the faint glint of metal—a knife, its edge faintly discolored with poison.
"You…" Wilson's voice was low, dangerous. "Whatever you think you know, it isn't here. You should leave."
But Raviel didn't move. Instead, he raised his wrist. A faint blue glow spread from the Arctic, projecting a hologram in the air.
A simple image.
Charlotte. His daughter.
Smiling faintly from a wheelchair, thin arms resting on the handles, while Wilson stood behind her with a smile that was too forced to hide the worry in his eyes.
The air changed instantly.
Wilson's face contorted in rage, in terror. His hand shot out, faster than most eyes could follow. The blade pressed against Raviel's throat, cold and sharp, the faint tingle of poison radiating from its edge.
"...Why do you have this?" Wilson hissed. His voice shook with fury. "Why do you know about her?!"
The mask hid Raviel's smile, but the cruel amusement colored his voice.
"Charlotte. Congenital mana-deficiency syndrome, isn't it? A slow rot. First her hearing, then her speech. Soon… everything else."
Wilson's grip on the knife trembled. His eyes widened with naked horror.
Raviel tilted his head slightly, the blade grazing against his skin, leaving a thin red line. But his voice didn't waver—it grew colder.
"Tell me, Wilson. Why carry a burden that's already expiring? Why waste money on treatments that won't save her? What's the point of dragging a corpse-in-waiting behind you?"
"Shut up." Wilson's voice cracked, more desperate than angry. He dragged the blade harder against Raviel's throat, enough to draw a bead of blood.
But Raviel simply reached up with deliberate calm, plucked a health potion from the shelf beside him, uncorked it, and drank. The faint light of the potion closed the shallow wound instantly. He set the empty vial on the counter with a casual clink.
"I'm not here for sympathy," Raviel said, his voice utterly even. "I don't care about your daughter's suffering. I don't care if she lives or dies. You're right—she means nothing to me."
Wilson flinched as if stabbed.
"But," Raviel continued, leaning in just slightly, his voice lowering to a whisper that slithered into Wilson's ears, "you and I both want something. And neither of us can get it alone."
Wilson's breathing grew harsh, uneven. His hand trembled.
"How… How could I possibly trust someone like you?"
Raviel chuckled. It wasn't kind. It wasn't even amused. It was a hollow, chilling sound that scraped along the walls of the small shop.
"It's simple," he said smoothly. "A mana contract. You sign. I sign. Betrayal means death. No risk, no doubt. Just necessity."
Wilson's lips trembled, his anger collapsing into helplessness. His blade still pressed at Raviel's throat, but it was slipping—his resolve crumbling under the weight of those words.
Raviel spoke again, colder now, each word sharper than the knife.
"You think the Association dogs will let you breathe once they've sniffed out Chimera? You think the Black Market executives will forgive your frozen accounts? You're one step away from being useless, Wilson. And when you're useless… they'll bury you, and Charlotte with you."
Wilson's breath hitched audibly.
Raviel leaned back just slightly, his voice calm as ice, casual as if discussing the weather.
"Sign with me. Or watch her die. It makes no difference to me. I'll find another way."
The words weren't shouted. They weren't emotional. But they cut deeper than any blade.
Wilson's hand finally slipped, the poisoned knife trembling in the air as if the strength had drained from his arm.
And in that moment, anyone watching would've understood:
This wasn't a negotiation.
This was a predator tightening its jaws around the throat of its prey.
Wilson's hand shook as he had lowered the poisoned blade, his breathing ragged, uneven. His eyes darted between the masked figure in front of him and the glowing hologram of his daughter frozen mid-smile.
Raviel broke the silence first.
"Fetch a mana contract. Rank B."
Wilson stiffened, the words slamming into him like a hammer. His lips parted, voice cracking under the pressure.
"H-how do you… know I have one of those?"
Raviel tilted his head slightly, his tone as cold and casual as before.
"If I didn't know… I wouldn't be here."
There was no arrogance in the words. No need for explanation. Just certainty—unyielding and merciless.
Wilson stumbled backward, nearly knocking over a shelf of potion bottles. His legs felt unsteady, but he forced himself toward the backroom. The faint sound of rummaging echoed, and after a tense moment, he returned with a parchment faintly glowing with runes—the edges shimmering like fireflies trapped in ink.
A Rank B mana contract.
Legally binding. Spiritually unbreakable.
A cage for both parties.
Wilson set it on the counter, his hands trembling. Raviel, unhurried, pulled a quill from the side of the parchment. His masked face tilted down as he began to write, his penmanship calm, deliberate.
Rules etched into mana:
Both parties shall provide what the other demands.
Neither party shall harm, betray, or deceive the other.
The contract shall dissolve once both parties' demands are fulfilled.
The rules glowed faintly, as though the parchment itself acknowledged their gravity.
Wilson signed first, his hand shaking, drops of sweat pattering onto the paper. Raviel followed without hesitation, his signature sharp and deliberate, like a blade carving into flesh.
The parchment burned into blue flame, dissolving into the air. The mana binding them settled like invisible chains around their cores.
Wilson exhaled shakily, collapsing back against the counter as though the strength had been ripped from him. He looked at Raviel with hollow, broken eyes.
"Even if you kill me…" his voice cracked, falling somewhere between a plea and a sob, "…please. Just save her. Save Charlotte."
Raviel didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
He turned, his hoodie brushing against the shelves as he walked out, each step steady and unhurried, as though the entire encounter hadn't even mattered. The faint bell above the door jingled as he opened it, letting in the cold air from the street outside.
Just before stepping through, he spoke without turning back.
"Keep the fragment of echoes ready."
The words hit Wilson like a thunderclap. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening with raw shock.
"H-how do you know about… that…?" he whispered, voice trembling with disbelief.
But Raviel didn't reply.
The door shut softly behind him.
Leaving Wilson in his little shop, knife still in hand, staring at the fading glow of the mana contract as his chest rose and fell in ragged gasps.
And for the first time in years, the infamous Chimera felt truly powerless.
______________________________________
( Wilson's pov)
The moment the door shut behind the masked stranger, silence flooded the shop.
Wilson stood there, unmoving, his knuckles white around the knife's hilt. His breath rattled, shallow, uneven, as though every ounce of strength had been wrung from him.
The faint trace of mana from the dissolved contract still lingered in the air, like smoke after a fire.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry, and muttered to himself—half delirious, half grounded in grim reality.
"...What the hell have I just gotten myself into?"
His own voice sounded foreign to him, hollow. The knife slipped from his trembling fingers, clattering onto the wooden floor.
He slumped into the nearest chair, pressing a hand against his forehead. The image of that masked man—those cold, unfeeling words—echoed inside his skull.
Not once did the stranger flinch. Not once did he hesitate. He had spoken about Charlotte's illness, about her dying, like it was nothing more than a casual fact on a page.
And yet…
Wilson clenched his jaw, teeth grinding.
Charlotte.
Her smile, even when bound to that wheelchair. Her laughter, fragile but bright, despite the constant pain she endured. The way she called him "Dad" with more warmth than anyone had ever shown him in this wretched world.
She was his light.
His sunshine in a cursed, rotting existence.
And if saving her meant dealing with devils in masks—so be it.
"I'd sell my soul a hundred times over if it means she lives," he whispered harshly, gripping his face with both hands. His eyes stung, but he refused to cry. Not now.
Because deep down, he knew something with bone-deep certainty.
The man who had just walked out wasn't ordinary. He wasn't just another desperate scoundrel in the black market. He was something else. Something he couldn't name.
Something worse.
Wilson shivered as the final words replayed in his mind.
"Keep the fragment of echoes ready."
His stomach turned cold. That secret was buried so deep only a handful in the market even knew of it. How…?
He didn't know who this person truly was.
But one thing was clear—
If he could save Charlotte… if he could give her the life she deserved…
Then Wilson would follow that masked devil into the abyss itself.