Finally, the Scroll.
This was the most complex item. Lencar held it gingerly. The red wax seal hummed with a dormant [Trap Magic] spell.
He didn't dare open it. Not even here.
He used his improved Mana Control—now firmly at Stage 3 thanks to the soul harvest—to scan the internal structure of the scroll without breaking the seal. He pushed a thin filament of mana into the paper, reading the echo of the runes.
It was a labyrinth. Explosive runes nested inside binding runes nested inside gravity runes.
"It's a bomb," Lencar realized, sweating slightly. "A one-shot tactical nuke. If I open this and throw it, it can unleash a localized gravity collapse followed by a thermal detonation. It could vaporize everything in a fifty-meter radius."
He carefully placed it back on the rock.
"Designation: The Crimson Snare. I should use it only in extreme emergencies. And I should not drop it."
Lencar sat back on his heels, looking at his new arsenal.
He felt a deep, profound sense of satisfaction. In the games he used to play as Kenji, loot was just numbers. +10 Attack. +5 Speed. But here, these items were tangible variables. They gave him options. They allowed him to conserve his own mana and use tools to solve problems. He was building a loadout that could adapt to anything.
He stored the items back into the Void Vault, keeping the Strider's Plumes on his feet.
He stood up and looked out at the storm raging against his barrier. He felt powerful. Not just because of the magic, but because of the system he was building.
"Speaking of the system," Lencar muttered.
He tapped the Void Vault ring again. He didn't take out an item; he activated the connection to the [Far-Speaker's Mirror] stored inside. He focused his mind on the invisible mark he had placed on Garrick's shoulder just an hour ago.
Miles away, on the calm waters of the River Tero.
Garrick was standing on the deck of The Gilded Eel, watching his crew load crates of spices. He was still jumpy. He kept touching his shoulder, looking around at the shadows. The memory of the black void Lencar had shown him was fresh in his mind.
Suddenly, a voice spoke directly into his ear. It wasn't a whisper carried by the wind; it was clear, crisp, and sounded like it was originating from the center of his own skull.
"Garrick."
Garrick jumped a foot in the air, spinning around and drawing his dagger in a panic. "Who?! Who's there?!"
The crew stopped working, looking at their captain like he had finally cracked under the pressure.
"Cap? You alright?" one of the mercenaries asked, holding a crate of pepper.
Garrick waved him off frantically, his eyes darting around the empty deck.
"Calm down," the voice—Lencar's voice—echoed in his head. "It's me. The mark. Remember? Or do you need a reminder?"
Garrick lowered the dagger, his heart hammering against his ribs. He touched his shoulder again. "Boss? You... you can talk to me? From that far away?"
"I told you I could," Lencar's voice was dry, detached, and terrifyingly omnipresent. "I'm watching the ledger, Garrick. And I'm updating your shopping list."
Garrick swallowed hard, realizing that "privacy" was now a concept of the past. He walked to the railing, trying to look casual while talking to a voice in his head. "Right. The artifacts. We're looking. We haven't found anything yet, it's been an hour."
"Add a new category," Lencar ordered. "Books."
"Books?" Garrick frowned. "Books don't sell well on the black market, boss. Unless they're spellbooks, they usually go to collectors or dust bins."
"I am a collector," Lencar corrected. "Specifically, ancient tomes on magical theory, rune structures, and Mana Method. I don't care if they are in languages you can't read. If it looks old, smells like dust, and has geometric patterns, buy it."
Lencar paused, and Garrick could almost hear the thinking process on the other end.
"Garrick. Don't skimp on the price. I want quality. If you find something regarding the Heart Kingdom's techniques or dungeon lore, prioritize it above everything else. Steal it if you have to, buy it if you can."
"Understood," Garrick said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Books. Artifacts. Weird stuff. Got it."
"Good. I'll be listening."
The connection cut. The silence in Garrick's head was sudden and deafening.
Garrick slumped against the railing, letting out a long, shaky breath. He looked up at the sky, wondering where the hell his new boss actually was. Was he nearby? Was he across the kingdom?
"He's a monster," Garrick muttered to himself. The awe mixed with the fear in his gut. It wasn't just that Lencar was strong; it was that he was efficient. He didn't waste time. He could reach out and touch them from miles away, micro-managing the operation without ever stepping foot on the boat.
"Alright you dogs!" Garrick shouted at his crew, channeling his fear into authority. "You heard the... well, you didn't hear him, but I did! New orders! We need books! Old ones! If you see a library, we're taking a look! Move it!"
Back in the Thunder-Crag Peaks, Lencar cut the connection.
He stood up, dusting off his cloak. The storm was still raging outside his barrier, lightning illuminating the black rocks in strobe-light flashes.
He felt tired. The spatial jumps, the soul harvesting, the testing—it was draining his stamina, even with the Mana-Forging.
"Time to go home," Lencar said.
He verified the coordinates of his room in Nairn. He had to be precise. If he missed by a few feet, he'd teleport into a wall or waking up Rebecca.
"[Spatial Magic]: [Long-Range Coordinate Shift]."
The howling wind vanished. The jagged rocks dissolved.
He was back in his room in the Scarlet household.
The silence was absolute. The smell of lavender and clean linen washed over him, a jarring comfort after the ozone of the peaks.
He stripped off the cloak and the mask, storing them away in the ring. He kept the Strider's Plumes on for a moment, then decided to take them off—he needed to keep his feet grounded when he was playing the role of Lencar the dishwasher.
He climbed into bed, pulling the quilt up to his chin.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the dark ceiling.
He was living two lives. In one, he was a warlord commanding mercenaries, wielding cursed daggers, and researching forbidden magic in a storm. In the other, he was a teenage boy who washed dishes and told stories to toddlers.
Most people would crack under the strain. They would lose track of which mask was real.
But Lencar closed his eyes and smiled.
It's not a strain, he thought as the exhaustion finally pulled him under. It's a balance. The warlord pays the bills so the dishwasher can sleep in peace.