Hann stared at him seriously. His expression changed, as if he were looking at a problem that was truly troublesome.
He went out of the room for a moment, then returned carrying a wallet and a revolver.
"Come here," he said.
Hastora rose from his chair with a trembling body and a face drenched in sweat, then stepped closer to Hann.
He stopped exactly one step in front of Hann, his breath still uneven, his chest rising and falling as if he had just faced something he could not explain.
His eyes stared straight ahead, but his focus was unsteady—not on Hann's face, but on the possibilities swirling in his mind.
"Here, take this," Hann offered the wallet in his hand.
Hastora accepted the wallet with a confused look. The object felt heavier than it should have in his hand, as if carrying something he did not want to know. He did not open it—only held it gently, waiting for an explanation that had yet to come.
"I suppose you have nothing now. So, take it," Hann said.
He then lifted the revolver in his hand—not aimed, nor hidden. With a calm movement, Hann held it out in front, close enough to be clearly seen, close enough to be taken.
"From now on," he continued, "you will need it."
Hastora stared at the revolver a moment longer than necessary. His hand rose slowly, hesitantly, then closed around the cold metal grip with an unsteady hold.
"From now on, you will be hunted," Hann said. "Most people don't know who you are. You rarely appear. That is the only reason you've survived this long."
He continued,
"But the Puppeteer behind these events already knows about you. Once he confirms that an Ashford survived, he will come for you—and he will not let you escape."
"So, use it to protect yourself."
"I cannot let you die for now. If I do, then everything will become very troublesome."
"In any case, you are connected to the Ashford family's ledger."
Hann's words made Hastora freeze. His grip on the revolver tightened unconsciously, while the wallet in his other hand felt increasingly heavy.
"I am being hunted? And the Ashford family's great book…?" he murmured softly, his voice hoarse.
Hann did not answer immediately. His gaze hardened, as if the question itself had become a new problem that should not have been opened just yet. Silence fell between them—heavy, oppressive, and clearly signaling that from that moment on, Hastora's life would no longer follow a path he could choose for himself.
"Yes, you are being hunted," Hann replied, "they will keep hunting you as long as you are not dead."
"But don't worry, I will protect you as best I can for now."
Hann turned around, then stepped toward the exit.
"Come on, I will take you to the nearest inn."
Hastora followed Hann without saying much. They left the building through a side door, walking down a narrow corridor filled with a damp smell.
Hann walked ahead without looking back, his steps quick yet not rushed, as if wanting to get out of the place that was starting to feel dangerous. Hastora followed him in silence, his fingers still remembering the cold of the revolver grip beneath his coat, while his mind kept spinning aimlessly.
After several turns, they arrived at a small, almost unnoticed inn—the building was quite large, its paint still new, and its windows glowed with dim light.
Hann stopped in front of the door and spoke briefly, "You will stay here tonight. Remember well—tomorrow go to the clock tower at 10 in the morning, we will meet again there."
"And, I have already put money in the wallet I gave you earlier. Consider it payment for today and tomorrow."
After saying what needed to be said, Hann turned and left the place. Hastora stepped into the inn alone. He paused for a moment in front of the reception desk, then booked a room in a flat voice, trying to hold back the remaining trembling in his body.
After receiving the key, he climbed the wooden stairs that creaked softly, walking down the narrow corridor until he finally opened his own room door. As the door closed behind him, Hastora stood still—alone, in that small space, with silence that felt far heavier than the noise outside.
Hann's earlier words left him deeply unsettled. Hastora pressed a hand to his head and took a slow breath, forcing himself to calm down.
After feeling better, he decided to get into bed and try to put the problem aside and focus on solutions.
At this moment, he was no longer Hastora Vallois, but Nolan Ashford. Remembering Hann's earlier words, it seemed Nolan was in a very complicated and dangerous situation.
The only thing he could do to protect himself now was to live in the shadows and not become too noticeable.
He also did not seem to know how to use magic. For now, the only thing he could rely on was the revolver Hann had given him.
Of course, it was not enough.
The people hunting him now could surely use magic and possess extraordinary abilities.
To be able to protect himself, he must also use magic and become strong. But how? He did not know and was truly stuck in the current problem.
The wall clock showed 11:56 PM, meaning it was already very late. He stared at the ceiling of the room; thinking about all this truly made his head ache.
The oil lamp in the corner of the room flickered softly, its light dancing faintly on the walls. Nolan closed his eyes for a moment, then rose only to make sure the door was tightly locked and the window was closed.
He placed the revolver on the small table beside the bed—close enough to reach, far enough to not constantly remind him of the threat outside. He lay down slowly, his back touching the rather hard mattress, his breath still heavy but starting to steady.
His mind tried to piece together a plan, but exhaustion pulled him down first. The clock's ticking sounded farther and farther away, as if submerged in fog. Nolan's consciousness faded little by little, and finally he fell asleep—not because he felt safe, but because his body could no longer bear the burden of the day.
...
Vivienne, who had just come out of her room, froze instantly. Her breath caught as her eyes fell on the figure of Reginald lying on the corridor floor, his body twisted unnaturally, a thin stream of blood flowing from under his head and seeping into the old carpet.
For a moment, her mind refused to accept what she saw—until the sharp smell of iron reached her nose, forcing awareness to sink in harshly. Her knees weakened, her hand clutched the door frame, while one cold thought emerged in her mind: this was not an accident.
"Finally you've come out"
Suddenly a hoarse voice came from the right side of the corridor, making Vivienne's hair stand on end. A dark silhouette of a man was visible as she tried to peer toward the source of the sound.
The dark silhouette stepped closer, then revealed a man with brown hair and six tentacles on his back, and a sword in his right hand.
"You all have been too much of a nuisance," the man said as he raised his sword high,
"So, accept the consequences"
Vivienne's body jolted slightly as the blade pierced her, air rushing out of her lungs in a choked gasp. The world seemed to stop—sound, light, and sensation merging into one thick silence. Her eyes widened, staring blankly at the man in front of her, as if trying to understand what had just happened.
The sword was pulled out with a rough movement. Vivienne staggered back a step before finally falling to her knees, blood dripping heavily onto the stained carpet.
Her hand trembled as she pressed her wound, but to no avail—the warmth seeping out was too much, too fast. Her vision began to blur, the long corridor seeming to recede, shrinking into a dark tunnel.
The man stared at her without emotion, the tentacles on his back moving slowly as if breathing.
Vivienne collapsed to the side, her body hitting the floor with a soft sound. Her eyes remained open, reflecting the dim corridor lamp light—then slowly, that light faded.
Nolan, who saw this, was instantly shocked, his eyes wide open. His breath caught in his throat, as if his lungs had forgotten how to work. His body froze in the doorway of another corridor, his mind blank for several seconds—too empty to think, too fast to react.
Then instinct took over.
Run.
His mind screamed that one word in panic. Nolan stepped back, then spun around sharply. His boots struck the corridor floor with a loud sound that shattered the silence, and at the same moment, he felt a cold gaze fix on his back. He did not dare to look back. Not to check. Not to find a reason.
The stairs at the end of the corridor looked like the only way out.
Nolan ran. His breath was ragged, his heart pounding wildly, and the world around him narrowed to the sound of his own footsteps and the cold creeping down his spine. Behind him, he was certain—someone was moving. Whether it was footsteps, or something worse.
And at that moment he realized, with suffocating fear—
He was no longer merely a hunted man.
He had become a witness.
He found the exit after running down the stairs one by one. But just as he was heading for the exit, the tentacled man suddenly stood in front of it, his red eyes glowing in the darkness.
And without another word, the man threw the sword in his right hand toward Nolan. The sword flew fast, unavoidable.
Just as the sword was about to hit him, Nolan jolted awake, his body pushed halfway up on the bed. Cold sweat drenched his temples, his breath ragged and uneven.
For several seconds, he could only stare blankly ahead, making sure that the dull walls of the inn room were still intact—no blood, no tentacles, no red eyes in the darkness.
Only a dream.
Yet the fear still clung to him, far too real to ignore.
He pressed his chest, trying to calm his still racing heart. The memory of a woman being killed before his eyes, of that corridor, still clung like a shadow that refused to leave.
"What kind of dream was that?" he murmured.
He turned toward the wall clock that showed 10 in the morning; he remembered that Hann had told him to meet at the clock tower at 10 AM, and now was the time.
He got up from his bed, then put the revolver and wallet in his pocket before leaving the place.
With quick steps and a restless heart, Nolan made his way to the clock tower.
Upon arriving there, he saw Hann, who had already come earlier, standing facing a wall. Nolan stepped closer to him.
"Hann, it's me," he said.
Hann turned when he heard Hastora's voice.
"You are five minutes late," Hann said.
"Forgive me, I had a nightmare last night," Hastora replied,
He went on,
"And, what were you looking at on that wall?" he asked.
"I was just looking at the wanted poster stuck on the wall. The royal soldiers put up these posters along the road this morning," Hann answered.
"Wanted poster?" Nolan tilted his head.
Nolan stepped closer to the wall and saw a wanted poster bearing the image of a brown-haired man with a thick mustache.