The aftermath of the battle still hung thick in the air—a heavy, metallic stench that clung to the lungs and refused to fade. The wind twisted through the mountain hollow, carrying that blood-soaked scent like an invisible shroud. Even the dew on the grass blades seemed to have turned cold.
Finn Adler's gaze shifted away from Kael "The Shadow"—his corpse still staring wide-eyed, pupils frozen with unspent terror—and landed on Tybalt Tenebris.
Finn's eyes were calm. No fury. No heat. Yet that quiet look carried more pressure than a drawn blade. Like the surface of frozen winter ice—smooth, still, and hiding a chill that could freeze a man to the bone.
Tybalt's face was twisted by fear, but he still forced out a snarl, trying to mask the tremor in his limbs. He shook like a dying leaf in autumn, shoulders jerking as he screamed, voice shrill and cracked like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
"You... you dare touch me? My father is Lord Valerius Tenebris! A master at the Mortal Peak! If you kill me, House Tenebris will raze this filthy keep to the ground!"
He bit down hard on those last words—Mortal Peak—like they were his final lifeline.
"Oh."
That was all Finn said. Just a single word, flat and indifferent, as if commenting on the weather. He didn't even blink.
The next instant, his hand moved.
Crack!
The sound was sharp, ringing through the air like a whip. The strike was so fast it left only an afterimage, wind trembling in its wake. The echo rolled across the open gate of Blackwind Keep, even silencing the insects for half a heartbeat.
Tybalt spun twice like a toppled top before collapsing, two bloody teeth flying from his mouth and clattering across the ground. His eyes were full of dazed disbelief before his body went limp, slamming into the stone floor with a dull thud. A welt was already swelling on his temple.
Finn shook his hand, as though brushing off an annoying mosquito. His fingertips still felt slick from Tybalt's greasy skin.
"Lock him up. All of them." His voice was calm, icy, devoid of emotion. "Everything they carry goes to my room."
Halvar Bearhand nodded and moved to obey.
Before long, a gold-embroidered purse and a handful of trinkets—a chipped sapphire ring, half a pearl necklace—were brought to Finn's quarters. He poured the contents onto the table and counted: 5,300 gold coins. Sweat-stained, some still damp. Without hesitation, he deposited the entire sum. It was barely a drop in the ocean—nowhere near enough to meet his growing needs.
His eyes drifted to the real source of wealth—worth a hundred thousand gold coins.
Lady Isolde Vance.
Only the two of them were in the room.
A mug of steaming malt beer sat between them, its rough ceramic chipped along the rim. Isolde had changed out of her mud-stained gown, now dressed in a plain gray servant's outfit. Despite its simplicity, she couldn't hide her noble poise—her back straight, fingers resting lightly on her knees.
She took a sip of the beer before she began to speak, explaining the origin of the token in detail.
In her hand rested a pendant—the Starstone Locket, faintly glowing blue.
"This was my grandfather's," she said softly, voice tinged with memory. "He was the younger brother of the former head of House Tenebris. They fought bitterly over how to manage the family's holdings. In the end, he left and built his own fortune. He hid that wealth across the Empire's banks, and this locket is the proof of claim. He left it for my mother—to protect her from being mistreated by the main branch."
The main Tenebris bloodline, Tybalt's side, had coveted that fortune for years—trying again and again to seize it, always failing.
"The pendant itself is worthless," Isolde continued, "just a piece of polished starstone. But it carries my grandfather's psychic imprint. Only those of our bloodline can activate it with a drop of essence blood. Without that, even if you kill me and take it, it's just a pretty trinket."
Her words hit Finn like a bucket of cold water, extinguishing the darker thoughts he'd been weighing. He had indeed considered taking the pendant and studying it at leisure. That path was now clearly closed.
"I need you to escort me to Silverwood Prefecture," Isolde said at last, setting down her mug. Her tone was steady. "Once I reach Castle Vance safely, I will pay you twenty-five thousand gold coins. It's a fair trade—no unnecessary risks, and a reward well worth your time."
Twenty-five thousand.
The number echoed in Finn's mind. Enough to rebuild Blackwind Keep—fortify the walls, rearm the men, and even hire more soldiers.
"Deal." He agreed without hesitation.
But before setting off to escort his "golden idol," Finn had preparations to make. Silverwood was far, and the route cut through desolate lands filled with danger—bandits, beasts, and perhaps assassins from House Tenebris.
He assigned Cassian Vex to interrogate Tybalt and dig out House Tenebris's plans—"No mercy. Get everything." Then he instructed Halvar to tighten defenses around Blackwind Keep, especially the dungeon. "No escapes. No deaths."
When all was settled, Finn changed into a plain gray outfit—simple tunic and trousers, boots snug around his ankles—and slipped into the night.
At Mortal Rank Six, empowered by the Codex of Primal Force and its fusion of multiple Auras, his body thrummed with explosive energy. Each step felt like a coiled beast ready to pounce. The gravel crunched beneath his boots, but his movement was light, fluid. Moonlight spilled through the trees, shadows rushing past as he ran. Only the hiss of wind and his steady breathing broke the silence.
Covering a hundred miles in a day was nothing to him.
By nightfall, under a broken moon and a chorus of frogs and crickets, Finn had left the heart of the Gryphon's Roost Mountains. Ahead lay rolling hills, and among them—an abandoned Wayside Shrine.
It wasn't much. Half the roof had caved in, letting starlight filter through the gaps. The altar was covered in cobwebs, a stub of candle long since burned out. The air smelled of dust and damp earth.
The moment Finn stepped inside, his stride faltered. His heightened senses picked up faint, restrained breaths—unnatural, deliberate.
He wasn't alone.
A campfire crackled in the center, its flames throwing flickering shadows against the cracked walls. Three groups had already taken shelter inside, each occupying a corner, tension thick enough to choke on.
To the east sat a woman in a dark purple silk dress embroidered with silver threads. A thin veil covered her face, revealing only a pair of sharp, painted eyes. Beside her stood a giant of a man—broad as a doorframe, arms crossed, eyes closed yet alert. His aura was like solid stone—heavy, dangerous. A small redwood box with a brass lock lay by the woman's side.
To the west, three rough-looking men dressed as traders huddled around a wineskin. Their talk was quiet, but Finn caught words like "checkpoint" and "shipment." The hilts of their scimitars were worn smooth from use, and the calluses on their knuckles told the truth—they were killers, not merchants. The faint trace of blood still clung to them beneath the smoke.
Opposite the door sat a pair of young swordsmen—a man and a woman, both clad in tight black leathers built for mobility. Their swords rested across their laps, sheathed but ready. Their posture was sharp, their eyes sharper still—cool, assessing, honed by years of walking the line between life and death. The woman's side pouch bulged with something concealed.
Finn's entrance was like a stone dropped into still water.
Every head turned.
Some eyes weighed him. Others watched with wariness, fingers twitching toward hidden weapons. A few merely glanced, cold and disinterested. But all three groups fixed on him in the same instant.
The crackle of the fire grew small. The air itself seemed to tighten.
For a moment, even the wind forgot to move.