POV: Zentake Hoshigari
The building loomed above him like a forgotten fortress, its cobblestone walls streaked with soot and age. Zentake stood in the shadow of the entrance, gloved hand pressed lightly to the doorframe. The faint vibration of mana pulsed beyond — voices, movement, the clinking of coins and metal. He smiled faintly. "Treasure and fools. My favorite combination."
With a slow exhale, he slipped inside.
The air was thick with candle smoke and the tang of alchemical reagents. Crates lined the hall, some half-open, filled with maps, scrolls, and relics wrapped in velvet. To his right, three men stood around a table, their black Valerian cloaks trimmed with silver. Officers — the kind who gave orders but never bled for them.
Zentake crouched low behind a toppled chair, studying their patterns of speech, the rise and fall of their cadence. One was writing. One cleaned a dagger. One merely watched, suspicious and tired.
He stepped into the open.
"Afternoon," he said.
All three turned. Confusion flickered for a moment before their training caught up. Hands went to weapons. Mana swirled in the air like ozone before lightning.
Zentake's grin widened. "Too slow."
He vanished.
Skill: Zero Roshisutairu – Recovery Strike.
In a blur of movement, Zentake reappeared among them — his dagger grazing hilts, pouches, belts. Metal clattered to the floor as weapons fell from their grasp. His movements weren't lethal yet; each strike targeted belongings, not flesh. The men staggered back, shouting in disbelief as their blades and wands scattered across the floor.
"What—?!" one began, but the word was cut off as Zentake twirled another dagger in his fingers.
The room dimmed. Shadows lengthened beneath him.
Skill: Zero Roshisutairu – Collector's Void.
Zentake leapt toward the mound of treasures piled near the corner — gold, scrolls, and vials shimmering in the candlelight. His hand brushed over the heap, and the entire collection began to sink into his shadow. Crates dissolved, coins vanished, even the stray spark of magic disappeared into a swirling darkness that licked the edges of the floor.
The Valerians panicked. "Stop him! He's stealing the supplies!"
One officer hurled an ice bolt. Another followed with a crackling lance of thunder.
Zentake danced between them — sidesteps, pivots, the lazy rhythm of someone far too amused for the chaos he caused. The spells scorched walls, leaving blackened streaks, but not even brushed his cloak.
When the final spell faded, Zentake turned his head slightly, almost disappointed. "That all you've got?"
The officers regrouped, drawing on raw desperation. "We'll burn you alive!"
Zentake tilted his chin down, eyes half-lidded. His tone shifted, colder. "You won't have the chance."
He pressed his palm to the ground.
Skill: Zero Roshisutairu – Greed's Burden.
The shadow beneath him convulsed. For an instant, the floor rippled like liquid, then exploded outward in a pulse of dark gravity. Every object he had absorbed — coins, crystals, armor plates — now became a phantom weight pressing down on the world itself.
The room screamed.
Chairs splintered. Tables shattered. The three Valerian officers dropped to their knees, crushed under invisible force. Bones cracked, breath fled, and eyes widened in uncomprehending terror.
Then — silence.
The gravity dissolved, and everything fell still. Dust drifted lazily through the air, catching the candlelight in muted gold. The only sound left was Zentake's slow, deliberate exhale.
He stood among the bodies, adjusting his cloak, stepping lightly over a severed hand. The once-gleaming room was now barren. The treasure hoard was gone — consumed by shadow and stored somewhere beneath his feet.
"Thanks for the profit," he muttered, sheathing his daggers.
He crouched beside one of the corpses, prying loose a silver insignia from the man's chest. Valerian officer, confirmed. Good. He slipped it into his pocket, his expression unreadable.
From somewhere outside, faintly, came the distant sound of combat — muffled roars and the crash of collapsing stone. Nogare's team was moving. The plan was unfolding.
Zentake exhaled through his nose. "Guess I'd better not be late."
He walked toward the door, pausing just before stepping out. Turning back once, he regarded the carnage — three corpses, no treasure, and a single flickering candle that refused to die.
A perfect clean-up.
With a flick of his wrist, he extinguished the light.
The door shut behind him, leaving the room in perfect black.
Outside, the morning fog still clung to the alleys, tinted faintly red by the first hints of rising sun. Zentake emerged like a phantom returning to its hunt, dusting off his gloves, humming under his breath.
His shadow stretched long behind him — heavy, pulsing faintly, still full of stolen weight.
As he moved across the empty square, a whisper of energy stirred at his feet. The void beneath him trembled, eager, restless.
He smiled without looking back. "Patience. There'll be more to eat soon."
And with that, the Collector of Death vanished into the next street, where silence waited to be broken once again.