In the depths of the Lycannis manor, the air shimmered faintly with curse mana.
Elders sat around a circular table made of obsidian and curse jade. All their expressions were sharp yet weary.
Each of them bore marks of old age and long life—eyes that had seen centuries of struggle and ambition.
The faint whisper of their conversation was like the rustle of ancient trees in a storm.
"The Nine-Tailed Demon Fox has reappeared," one elder muttered, voice grave. "And it chose our bloodline this time. We must protect the one who bears it at all costs."
Another elder leaned forward, his thin lips curling into a worried frown. "Do you truly believe protection is enough? You know what this means. The other families will not stay silent. The Zaire Clan, the Venmirs—they've waited for an excuse to strike at us. They'll move, sooner or later."
A third elder slammed his fist softly on the table, the jade surface ringing like a temple bell. "Then let them try. We've been silent for too long. The Lycannis name still carries weight across the continent. If they want to test us, let them bleed for it."
"Bravado won't protect the heir," the first elder said. "He's young. Untrained. And if the Nine-Tailed Fox's curse isn't stabilized, it might devour him before any enemy arrives."
The flickering lanterns above cast restless shadows across their lined faces.
Their voices dropped lower, muttering about strategies, about curse formations, about calling back old allies. They argued about moving troops, strengthening the outer wards, assigning curse guardians to patrol the territory's edge.
They even spoke of the boy's mother, though none dared raise their voice when her name came up.
Finally, one elder cleared his throat and asked in a quiet tone, "Madam, what's your take on this matter?"
Across the room, a woman reclined lazily on a carved jade couch. Her long silver hair spilled over her shoulder like liquid moonlight. She was the kind of woman whose beauty could end wars but whose indifference could start one. Her eyes half-opened, revealing a calm, distant look.
"It doesn't concern me," she said flatly. "The other families will make noise, but they won't dare attack directly. They never do."
Her tone was bored, detached, like someone discussing the weather rather than impending war.
The elders glanced at one another uneasily but returned to their debate. They spoke endlessly, analyzing battle formations, calculating curse energy reserves, debating how to shift defensive arrays. The discussion stretched on and on, voices rising and falling, overlapping like waves.
But amidst all the strategic talk, a sudden ring echoed through the chamber. One of the communication crystals lit up with a faint red glow.
The elder closest to it frowned. "It's from Madam's son."
At once, the room fell into silence. Even the sound of burning incense seemed to stop.
Another elder muttered, "Her son? You mean Lazry? I thought… he was…"
"He's fine. We forgot about him when we took it from him," the old man confirmed quietly. "And apparently he was asking for assistance because he wanted to go somewhere…."
A faint tension rippled through the chamber.
Immediately, one of them shouted, "That bastard dared to go out on this important day?"
Another tried to relieve him, saying, "Maybe he's taking revenge. He believed he had enough status to disrupt us while we protected the new owner of the nine-tailed demon fox he conjured yesterday."
"He's angry for sure, after all, it was his… but his talent was too little. We didn't have that much of a choice."
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Everyone remembered how the Nine-Tailed Demon Fox was taken from that boy, how his contract was revoked and given to another—the most talented individual in the younger generation of their clan, the family's current pride.
One of the elders sighed deeply. "How ironic. Now that he's of no value, he calls for help."
Another snorted. "All elite guards are already deployed to protect the new host. It would be foolish to weaken our defenses now."
"Then send those who are not important," another said coldly. "If the boy wanted to do something outside, as long as he didn't cause trouble today, so be it. We can't afford distractions."
The decision was made without hesitation. The call was redirected to a secondary division, to servants and lesser guards who could be spared.
…
Meanwhile, far from the manor, the wind roared against a helicopter cutting through the night sky. Lazry sat by the window, the distant lights of the city glimmering below. His heart was thumping, half from anxiety, half from anger.
He turned his gaze toward the group sitting across from him and nearly groaned.
These were the so-called guards sent to protect him?
They looked like ordinary cleaning staff—middle-aged men with tired faces, wrinkled uniforms, and hands that looked more used to mopping floors than holding weapons. One man even had a feather duster strapped awkwardly to his belt. Another was nervously chewing gum, eyes darting around like a frightened rabbit.
Lazry's jaw twitched. "These are my guards?"
Butler Winston's expression darkened instantly. His entire posture stiffened, and he looked ready to explode. "I… I'm terribly sorry, young master! There must be some mistake. I personally requested the elite division!"
He turned away immediately, his hands trembling as he pulled out his phone and barked rapid words into it. "This is Butler Winston of the Lycannis estate! Who approved this team for young master Lazry? I asked for trained guards, not housekeeping staff!"
He paused, listening to the voice on the other end. His face turned paler with every second until he finally ended the call with a heavy sigh.
"Young master," he said softly, bowing deeply, "please forgive me. It seems the main family has mobilized all elite units to protect the one who has just bonded with the Nine-Tailed Demon Fox. They cannot be moved. I—"
Lazry raised a hand, cutting him off. His tone was calm, but there was an edge to it. "It's fine. I understand."
Inside, his thoughts were bitter. Of course. Of course. He understands.
He looked at the trembling servants in front of him. Their eyes were fearful, confused, and loyal in the wrong way. None of them knew what was coming. But Lazry wasn't interested in loyalty tonight. He needed shields, not companions. Sacrifices not friends. However, he prefers elites to face the unknown in the system missions.
"It's fine," he repeated, forcing a faint smile. "Just make sure none of you run once we arrive."
The servants exchanged anxious glances but nodded quickly.
As the helicopter descended, the city lights vanished, replaced by the darkness of the old industrial district. Crumbling factories and rusted pipes lined the ground below. The tunnel entrance loomed ahead, half-swallowed by vines and rubble, like the mouth of something ancient.
Lazry felt a chill run through him as the helicopter touched down. He stepped out, boots crunching against gravel. The air was damp and heavy with the smell of rust and moss.
Winston followed closely behind, holding a lantern in one hand and whispering, "Young master, are you sure about this? This place was sealed off years ago after… well, strange things happened here."
Lazry didn't answer immediately. He just stared at the black mouth of the tunnel. Somewhere inside, the Devourer's nest awaited—and the system's mission pulsed in his mind, glowing faintly in red:
Optional Mission Accepted.
He took a deep breath. "Surround me once we're inside," he said. "Protect me, no matter what happens."
The servants nodded nervously, clutching their makeshift weapons—metal rods, knives, even a broom handle.
Winston's hands were shaking. "Y-Young master, perhaps we should wait for proper backup—"
"No," Lazry said quietly. "The longer we wait, the worse it gets. We move now."
And with that, he stepped forward.
The moment his foot crossed the boundary of the tunnel, the world seemed to shudder.
Then—
A sharp chime exploded inside his skull.
System Notification:
Would you like to start the count?
Lazry's breath caught. His heart pounded. The screen flickered before his eyes, and he could somehow feel something moving deep within the tunnel—something breathing, slow and heavy, like the awakening of a buried nightmare.
He clenched his fists.
"Let's go!"