Mo Hamus walked ahead, stepping onto the second-floor corridor.
Gen followed in silence, saying not a word.
The rhythm of iron boots striking wooden floorboards echoed through the empty hallway—heavy, steady, like the slow counting of fate itself.
Mo Hamus stopped before a black oak door engraved with the emblem of a closed eye encircled by silver.
He placed a hand on the doorknob and gently pushed it open.
Light from the square outside slanted through the window frame, filtering through thick curtains as if searching for a path into some hidden secret.
Inside the room, the left wall was covered with maps of the Central Empire. On the yellowed parchment, countless red ink lines intertwined, connecting major cities—forming a dense network like the bloodstream of a colossal beast.
To the right stood a small bookshelf and an elaborately carved wooden bench. Pale light fell across the seat, revealing a thin layer of dust—the quiet trace of countless sleepless nights.
Mo Hamus limped toward the oak desk by the window. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting an angled glow across the desk where everything was arranged with unnerving precision.
An open ledger lay there, filled with slanted, hurried handwriting. Beside it, a stack of letters. And at the corner of the desk—an oddly shaped seal.
"George always said... information is worth more than gold. He never wielded an army, yet a single piece of paper in his hand could throw an entire province into chaos," Mo Hamus muttered, his hand trembling slightly as he opened a drawer.
Inside were dozens of wax-sealed letters, each bearing a different regional insignia—Ravennica, Belmare, Port Zeven, even the Imperial Capital.
Gen approached, his gaze pausing on the first sheet. The handwriting was elegant yet hastily written:
Contract for Shipment No. 47 — Two thousand black steel swords from Ravennica to Venezia. Sender: Julia Asterfeld.
Mo Hamus smirked faintly. "Julia. People call her the She-Wolf of the North. Her steel, George's gold. Two beasts that rely on each other but can't stand to see each other's faces."
He unfolded a few more pages.
Lists of slaves, invoices for opium shipments from the East, mercenary contracts stamped with the crest of a noble from the Capital.
Everything was meticulously documented, neatly organized—as if George had never feared exposure.
"See this?" Mo Hamus turned to Gen, his hoarse voice trembling. "This isn't just the office of a smuggler. It's the command center of an entire underground network stretching across the borderlands."
Gen's eyes swept over the papers, then paused at the map on the wall.
The red ink lines converged at one point—Venezia.
He smirked slightly. "Not the center. The gateway."
Mo Hamus nodded slowly. "Venezia lies on the borderlands, right next to the Dungeon. That's why the Capital rarely interferes. George didn't need the Empire to pass through here—only those who wanted to hide from its eyes. He once said, if Venezia fell, half the Empire would be paralyzed within a week."
Faint light from the window illuminated the map, highlighting those red veins—a web of sin, yet also the lifeblood of those who lived beyond the law.
Gen picked up a paper, glanced over it, and set it down.
His voice came out even and cold. "Anyone else in this town tied to him?"
Mo Hamus froze. His hands, which were sorting through the papers, stiffened mid-motion. After a heavy breath, he replied in a raspy tone, "Yes… a few. Not many, but if you touch them, the entire town will erupt."
"The entire town?" Gen tilted his head slightly, his tone almost amused. "What could be more chaotic than me killing George?"
Silence thickened the air. Mo Hamus lowered his head, cold sweat gathering at his neck.
Gen glanced at him, voice devoid of warmth. "Names."
Mo Hamus swallowed hard, then began listing them. "Mayor Garon—he takes a cut from every shipment entering the town. His job is to arrange fake travel documents. Another one is the innkeeper of The Black Wing Inn, Lyria. That inn shelters mercenaries, wandering traders, and spies passing through. Many of those 'guests' were George's men. The place serves as both a hub for information and a storage site for contraband hidden beneath the wine cellars. Both of them owe George more than they can ever repay. If he falls, they lose everything."
He hesitated, then added in a quieter voice, "And… George's subordinates. His eyes and ears scattered across the town—merchants, laborers, even guards. Should I summon them for you?"
Gen fell silent, his gaze distant, as though weighing the paths ahead.
Then his calm voice cut through the air. "Not necessary. First, we must handle the rumors about George's death. You will tell Mayor Garon to suppress them."
Mo Hamus blinked in surprise. "Suppress them…? But, my lord, a third of the townsfolk saw—"
"Right now," Gen interrupted, "you will tell Garon to announce that George's death was the result of his own greed. That he allowed his son's madness, hoarded wealth, and sought to dominate Venezia. A man like that—slain by a wandering warrior who could no longer bear his cruelty—that's a story the people will believe."
"I, the one in iron armor they saw, will become no one. A nameless passerby who appeared, and then vanished."
"Emphasize to him," Gen's voice hardened like steel, "that I don't care who he used to work with. George is dead. From this moment, this town belongs to me. If he values his life, he'll help me keep Venezia quiet."
"Now go. From this day forth, you are my only link to them."
Mo Hamus bowed deeply, dared not speak further, and quickly left.
The door closed behind him, and silence reclaimed the room.
Left alone, Gen raised a hand—and activated [Umbral Avatar].
Shadows spilled from beneath his boots, coiling like a living being. The dim room grew darker still. Each heartbeat of space seemed to grow heavier, as though the room itself was breathing with his mana.
The shadow thickened, condensing into a black liquid mass that rippled like ink-stained water. Then it began to take form—features, limbs, flesh—until an exact replica of Gen stood before him.
A perfect duplicate.
Gen's current level: 223.
Base MP: 908.
It should be noted that back on the fifth floor of the Dungeon, he once created four clones using [The Shadow] to scout the terrain.
Each clone consumed 200 MP—four of them together devouring 800 MP, almost his entire mana pool.
As long as those shadows remained active, that amount of MP would be permanently locked, unrecoverable by mana potions or rest.
Thus, Gen was left with only 108 MP—far too little to sustain himself if forced into continuous combat.
He possessed items that boosted resistance to both magic and physical attacks, even accessories that greatly increased his HP.
Rings crowded his fingers, making him look almost gaudy, yet not a single one enhanced MP.
Fortunately, after his skill [The Shadow] evolved into [Umbral Avatar], its mana consumption remained the same.
Gen suddenly remembered the Spirit of the Night.
He didn't know why it had spoken those words, as if summoning it were some kind of forbidden act.
The skill [Umbral Avatar], by nature, was merely a replication of one's own shadow—
a fragile copy possessing only one-tenth of the user's stats, yet consuming a quarter of their total mana to maintain.
If he were a battle maniac rather than a wanderer, he probably wouldn't have wanted to evolve this skill.
But it was undeniable: with enough patience, time, and mana to nurture it, [Umbral Avatar] could become one of the most valuable skills a person could possess.
When a shadow grew strong enough to act independently of its master, it was no longer a replica—it became an extension of the will itself.
A thought flickered through his mind.
If Umbral Avatar reached Level 9… or Level 10—
what would happen when the clone gained power equal to the original?
Would he be swallowed by darkness?
Or would those copies rise against him, killing their creator to claim existence for themselves?
A mad, paradoxical thought—
and yet, his lips curved slightly, carrying a hint of amusement.
"So that's what the Spirit of the Night was warning me about?"
"Not bad," he murmured. "Getting killed by myself… that doesn't sound too boring."
There was a trace of anticipation in his tone.
Without thinking further, Gen tossed a simple outfit to the clone standing beside him—
a gray shirt, dark trousers, and brown leather boots.
It was the same set he had bought last night, and the only normal clothing he owned.
Gen carefully observed the clone from head to toe, his gaze sharp like a fashion designer appraising a model.
Too plain.
He looked like some ordinary villager going to the market for bread.
If this clone was meant to intimidate villains, he couldn't afford to look so harmless.
Gen raised a brow as an idea struck him.
"Right…"
He slapped his forehead, then turned sharply and strode away.
The sound of his iron boots echoed clack, clack across the wooden floor—each step steady and decisive.
He went to find Dolly to fetch some equipment.
Moments later, Gen returned and draped a long cloak over the clone's shoulders.
The fabric was a mix of ashen gray and black, like threads woven from cooled embers.
Under dim light, faint lines resembling smoke shimmered across its surface.
But upon closer inspection, one could see the blurred visages of human faces—
distorted, hollow-eyed, and whispering silently through unmoving lips.
Dreadwood Shroud — Cloak of the Dead Forest.
Magic Resistance: +35
Physical Resistance: +15
+2 MP per 10 seconds while standing still in darkness.
Gen had once used Appraisal on it and learned only that the Dreadwood Shroud bestowed upon its wearer a strange sense of alertness—
as if something unseen was quietly watching from within their mind.
It was unlike the Dracula-style cloak Gen himself wore over his armor—
a simple magic-resistant garment that couldn't compare to the Dreadwood's stats.
The reason he didn't wear it himself was because of those ghostly faces.
Whenever the wind passed through, they seemed to whisper incomprehensible words.
To most people, that sound alone would rob them of sleep.
Gen didn't particularly mind.
He just disliked the feeling of someone whispering inside his head.
For someone at Level 223, whether or not he wore such an item hardly made a difference.
Next, he handed the clone a staff nearly as tall as a grown man.
The shaft was twisted like broken bone, its grain bending in unnatural, chaotic curves—
much like the hilt of the Drywood Fang sword he'd used earlier.
At the top was a hollow core, inside which rested a wooden eye—
its pupil made of translucent sap that gleamed faintly, as if it were alive.
Dreadroot Staff — Staff of the Deathroot.
Magic Power: +120
Magic Resistance: +25
MP Regeneration: +10 every 10 seconds while in darkness.
Even before considering its stats, the staff's appearance alone was enough to make anyone think twice before provoking the owner of this town.
The image it created was steeped in dark, occult aura—
a figure so sinister that onlookers might assume he was part of some forbidden cult.
Gen wasn't sure about that, but even so, he felt… not entirely satisfied.
"Something's missing," he muttered, resting his chin on one hand, studying the clone like an artist critiquing an unfinished sculpture.
If the clone had a mask made of beast bone—or perhaps a bird skull—it would be perfect.
Like a Shaman or tribal priest straight out of some ancient sacrificial rite.
Of course, that was just his own perspective.
To others, the figure already looked like a true dark sorcerer, an embodiment of pure malevolence.
Finally, Gen handed over several accessories that boosted HP, strength, and magic resistance—
a necklace and several rings.
Unlike the plain spatial rings, these stat-boosting rings had refined designs, each set with a small gemstone whose color matched the attribute it enhanced—just like enhancement stones.
Having finished outfitting the clone, Gen leisurely walked toward George's bookshelf.
He let his eyes drift over the spines without much purpose—just to pass the time while waiting for Mo Hamus to return and take control of the avatar.
The shelf stood neatly against the wall, coated in a thin layer of dust, yet everything inside was organized with almost obsessive precision.
The top shelf contained several leather-bound dossiers, unmarked except for engraved numbers—01, 02, 03…
Each was sealed with red wax and stamped with the emblem of a falcon clutching a dagger.
Gen didn't realize this was the symbol of the underground weapon smuggling network that George managed—
nor that these were investigative reports on missing nobles and rebel factions.
The second shelf contained books on warfare and politics:
"Battlefield Laws of the Northern Kingdoms,"
"The Art of Urban Maneuvering,"
"Unifying Territory Through Religion."
Many of their spines were worn, proof that they had been read over and over.
George was more than a common arms dealer—he sought to understand the machinery of war itself, in order to sell it for a higher price.
The third shelf held old maps and trade ledgers—salt routes, grain depots, and lists of nobles who had once "ordered" mercenaries.
And the bottom shelf… was entirely different.
No longer practical materials, but a small collection of popular works—
books on geography, history, mythology, and religion,
the kind one might find in any grand library.
It seemed George kept those merely to kill time during sleepless nights.