Above the steps on the rough brick path, polished leather shoes pressed forward, step by step. He admired the city view, illuminated across varying levels, while gliding his hand over the aged stone walls.
The natural fractures in the walls were marred by streaks of dried blood.
Through the darkness, he entered a corridor. The light began to scrutinize him, yet had no choice but to let him pass—not because it couldn't detect him, but because all it could do was observe, and no one could act against Victor at this moment.
Sunlight pierced through, blinding his darkened eyes.
Stretching to embrace the fresh air, walking down streets crowded with people, the scents were oddly comforting, though not when he remained clad in blood-soaked clothes.
He stopped at a dimly lit bar, crowded with patrons. No one noticed the bloodstains; the people inside were barely able to maintain composure.
The young man, with short black hair parted neatly, bore a serious, impassive expression. His muscular frame showed through the sweat-dampened white shirt, though it was only a minor contrast to the crimson droplets.
He sat at the counter. Surrounding eyes were poisonous, yet no one dared provoke him; his gun was ever-present, displayed openly without fear of scrutiny.
"Bring me the most expensive drink."
The stout, bearded bartender hurriedly grabbed a fine bottle, performing the process to serve it meticulously.
Without a word, the glass was set before Victor.
He downed it, placing a wad of bills on the counter. His gaze swept the room, sending a smile to one man.
"Bring my shirt."
Victor removed the blood-soaked garment, revealing his torso, and donned a clean, tight shirt, staring at the ceiling.
Crows cawed annoyingly overhead as a familiar fourth carriage arrived.
"Glad to see you again, Uncle Well."
The elderly man did not reply.
Victor calmly stepped into the carriage. He had observed this for some time but never had the chance to question it. There were too many crows here, always appearing at critical moments.
It was not an omen but surveillance—a first assumption. Their appearance with the fourth carriage, aware of Victor's position, was unnatural.
But he could only observe; the watcher was too dangerous for his plan.
Soon the carriage stopped before a hotel. A red carpet lay neatly, and a maid swept the floor.
The atmosphere remained warm as sunlight streamed along the corridor of the third floor.
The room door opened.
Sunlight bathed the room. Everything inside was elegant, with a desk stacked with documents, fitting the suit of the composed man gazing out the window.
Applause echoed.
"You did well on your first mission."
"Mission!?"
A window opened, and crows flew in, perching throughout the room, staring at Victor with crimson eyes.
"The main purpose of recruiting you was simple. You may wonder why. In truth, you are more useful than your abilities suggest. I took you in as an unofficial member to eliminate traitors within the organization."
Denhart raised a coffee cup, turning toward Victor. Their eyes met: one determined and noble, the other dark and distrustful.
"Then I wish to know the reward I can expect."
"Of course. I will have Selith take you to the Emerald Blood Church, and there you will learn everything you desire."
Victor turned to leave.
"Stop scheming, Victor."
His eyes widened; Victor spun around, confused. In an instant, the room was empty. His breath heavy, he had to relent and acknowledge his own vulnerability.
'Scheming!? A threat!?' he thought, incredulous. It was impossible to know Victor's true plan. Even if it were so, who would raise such a matter when he had an actual plan?
Or perhaps the chaos he caused, resulting in mass deaths, was one possibility Denhart viewed as Victor's "evil plan."
Harvesting lives.
Speculation was meaningless and terrifying with so many possible outcomes. At this moment, he no longer needed to search for the meaning of the crows.
It meant Denhart had known of the university incident from the start yet withheld information, as if predicting everything.
This type of person should not be approached.
'Too dangerous…'
Yet there was no escape.
He knew well the underground silence of Rassentiven. No crows appeared. His actions were safe, except for arson and killings that might spread as news.
It was remarkable how quickly Denhart could identify perpetrators.
No time to correct matters here. The room was empty. He drew the curtains, inspected the desk, and found the documents—all empty, drawers too.
Clenching his fist, he slammed it onto the table.
'Damn it.'
Normally, Victor was not hot-tempered. But when trapped from all sides, anyone would become frustrated.
Shaking off his feelings, he returned to the familiar second floor.
'I suppose it's time to rest after all that.'
Everything he faced had been intense, full of secrets and mysteries.
He inhaled deeply, exhaled, and lay on the bed without looking back. His eyes half-closed, heavy, barely able to lift.
The three skies collapsed, leaving only cyan clouds, exuding a hunger across the land.
Many lives had perished, and no one could stop it.
A massive pit rose into a tower that nearly touched the sky, while the highest mountains flipped into deep chasms.
Mad creatures of all forms awakened from their bonds. A formidable dragon spread its wings across the skies.
The once-peaceful lands were dyed in blood. All knowledge was harnessed for war.
The vast snowy plains turned crimson.
Temples, ablaze with light, crumbled.
A dark cloak flapped above rocky valleys. Stars in the sky emitted distinct points of light.
Ugh…
His head throbbed, uncontrollable.
Victor could not awaken. His body sank into the darkness within a deep dream, heading toward a place. His chest felt ready to burst.
'…It must come out. It must come out!'
Victor's mind destabilized. The agony in his chest intensified continuously.
He sensed the object. It was no ordinary dream—it was a vision.