The Ovarle family mansion stood at the very heart of the city-state, towering like an arrogant declaration. Polished white stone pillars, gold-leaf ceilings, crystal chandeliers scattering light like artificial stars. Yet behind that splendor, the stench of rotting crime had never faded—merely concealed beneath expensive perfume and power.
Inside the grand hall, Ovarle—a bloated man wrapped in a silk robe embroidered with gold thread—sat upon a massive chair like a throne. Fat spilled from his collar, his small eyes half-lidded with contempt.
Before him, Dorto, a low-ranking merchant, knelt. His back was bent low, his forehead nearly touching the cold stone floor.
Ovarle (lazily):
"I've already told your association. The goods in my warehouse… aren't plentiful right now."
Dorto (hurriedly):
"Just a little, my lord. Our guild only needs a small amount to… keep operating."
Ovarle chuckled softly, the sound thick and greasy.
Ovarle:
"Keep operating?"
"You make it sound as if you're starving."
He gestured. The butler stepped forward, placing three pale-pink glass vials onto a silver tray, then setting them before Dorto. The liquid inside was thick and viscous, exuding a heavy scent that made the air feel suffocating.
Dorto glanced at them, frowning.
Dorto:
"Only… three vials?"
Ovarle (shrugging):
"My people use quite a lot. You know that."
Dorto clenched his fists.
Dorto:
"Then I'll buy all three. Double the price."
At that moment, Ovarle smiled—a slow, malicious smile.
He picked up one vial—and squeezed.
Crack.
Glass shattered. The pink liquid spilled across the floor like diluted blood.
Dorto froze.
Ovarle didn't stop. He crushed the second vial.
Ovarle (feigning regret):
"Oh dear… how clumsy of me."
"That leaves only one."
He looked straight at Dorto.
Ovarle:
"Still want to buy it?"
Dorto (trembling):
"I… I'll buy it."
Ovarle:
"Then the price is ten times higher."
Dorto's face drained of color.
Dorto:
"What—"
Ovarle (cutting him off):
"Buy. Or leave."
Silence stretched on. At last, Dorto ground his teeth.
Dorto:
"…I'll buy it."
---
As he left the grand hall, Dorto gripped the vial tightly in his hand. Hatred echoed in his mind.
Ovar stimulant—the exclusive product of the Ovarle family.
No one knew its formula.
It was used in slave camps, secret prisons, and to violate women—branding the scent into their memories so deeply they could never forget it.
Dorto understood one thing clearly:
The Ovarle family did not see others as human beings.
Only tools. Amusements. Commodities.
---
In the vast chamber at the top of the mansion, Ovarle stood with his back to the window, moonlight illuminating his massive figure.
Ovarle:
"How much is left in the warehouse?"
Butler:
"Over a hundred thousand vials, my lord."
Ovarle curled his lips.
Ovarle:
"Bring me three."
When the butler left, the room sank into silence. Ovarle stared up at the ceiling, lost in thought.
Ovarle (muttering):
"Now then… which one should I choose?"
The door opened.
A small girl—no more than ten years old—stepped inside. An iron slave collar circled her neck. Her clothes were filthy, her body thin, her eyes filled with the terror of a cornered animal.
Ovarle (frowning):
"Who let you in?"
Before she could answer, he waved his hand.
Ovarle:
"Never mind. It doesn't matter."
"Go wash yourself."
The girl lowered her head and silently entered the bath.
Ovarle turned back toward the window. The full moon hung in the sky. For an instant, a black shadow swept past him.
Ovarle (startled):
"…A shadow?"
"Impossible. Guards are everywhere."
He reassured himself.
The bathroom door opened. The girl stepped out, her body covered in old scars—marks of whips and prolonged abuse.
Ovarle glanced at her briefly.
Ovarle:
"How long have you been here?"
Girl (trembling):
"…Two days."
Ovarle:
"Have you been fed properly?"
Girl:
"Yes… sir."
Ovarle waved his hand.
Ovarle:
"Go. I'll call for you when you've fully recovered."
The girl froze. Then a faint glimmer of fragile hope flickered in her eyes.
Girl:
"Thank you… my lord."
She ran toward the door.
Just as her hand touched the doorknob—
A warm liquid splashed onto it.
She turned around.
Before her stood Ovarle, his body pierced through. A dark red hand protruded from his chest, gripping his still-beating heart.
Blood streamed across the floor like a flood.
Ovarle died without making a sound.
The shadow stepped out from behind him—Kiriel.
"There's a child here."
"A slave collar…"
Kiriel clicked her tongue softly.
Kiriel:
"How troublesome."
She searched Ovarle's corpse, taking rings, jewelry, evidence. Then she tossed five gold rings and several pieces of jewelry to the girl.
Kiriel:
"I'll get you out of here."
"If you stay silent."
The girl—
(Abused by her family, sold to reduce mouths to feed, turned into a sexual slave—)
She stared at the rings, trembling—then footsteps echoed outside the door.
Butler:
"I'm coming, my lord!"
Kiriel crouched down, her voice icy.
Kiriel:
"If you stay, they'll say you killed him."
"A noble slain by a slave—your punishment wouldn't end at execution."
The girl bit her lip. Then nodded.
Kiriel seized his head in one motion and smashed through the window.
The silver tray fell.
The three vials shattered, their liquid mixing with blood.
Before the butler lay Ovarle's corpse—head severed, heart torn from his chest.
And no one else in the room.
---
Inside the hunters' guild, oil lamps hung low, casting a dull yellow light like congealed fat. The air reeked of cheap alcohol, dried blood, and metal. Those scattered through the hall—assassins, bounty hunters, hired executioners—glanced once, then looked away. Here, death was unremarkable.
Kiriel approached the counter.
She placed Ovarle's head on the wooden surface.
Thud.
Hair once carefully groomed was now matted with blood. Eyes bulged wide, mouth frozen as if mid-scream. Wrinkles of command still etched his brow.
The receptionist—a thin man with round glasses—showed no emotion. He examined the head for a few seconds, then rotated it slightly to confirm the family seal.
Receptionist:
"Ovarle noble. Red-tier contract."
He pulled the head behind the counter and slammed an iron stamp down.
Clack.
Like the lid of a coffin closing.
Nine large bags of coin were placed before Kiriel, tightly bound, heavy with the sound of metal.
Receptionist:
"Payment complete. No pursuit."
Kiriel said nothing.
She gathered the money and turned away, her cloak brushing softly against the cold stone floor.
---
Aboveground.
Moonlight cut through the narrow alley like a silver blade. The air was cold and damp. In the distance, the city remained noisy—laughter, music, carriage wheels.
The girl was still there.
Leaning against a mossy stone wall, arms wrapped around herself. The slave collar still encircled her neck, reflecting the pale moonlight. Her eyes were fixed on the manhole cover, afraid that if she looked away, the person below would never return.
The cover shifted open.
Kiriel climbed out, brushing dust from her gloves, instantly scanning her surroundings.
Then she saw the girl.
Kiriel paused.
Kiriel:
"Why are you still here?"
The girl lowered her head, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Girl:
"…I don't know where to go."
Kiriel stepped closer. Moonlight illuminated the girl's dirty face—thin, pale, but her eyes were no longer completely empty. Just unanchored.
Kiriel raised her hand.
Clack.
The iron collar snapped apart like a cheap toy. Metal fragments fell to the ground with a dry sound.
Kiriel met her gaze.
Kiriel:
"You're not a slave anymore."
The girl froze. Instinctively, she touched her bare neck. No cold. No weight.
Kiriel:
"The jewelry I gave you—sell it."
"It'll be enough to live on for a while."
The girl opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat.
Girl:
"I—"
Kiriel saw it.
Not greed.
Not fear.
Emptiness.
A child who had never been taught how to live for herself.
Kiriel was silent for a few seconds. Then she took out two large bags of coins and lightly tossed them into the girl's hands.
Kiriel:
"With this, you can buy food."
"Hire hunters for protection."
"Or ask them to do things you can't."
The girl clutched the money tightly, as if afraid it might vanish.
Girl (trembling):
"…What's your name?"
Kiriel had already turned away.
Kiriel:
"Kiriel."
She walked off, her figure dissolving into the city's shadows.
The girl stood there for a long time.
Money in her hands.
Old marks on her neck.
And before her—a road that, for the first time, belonged to her alone.