"Guild Head."
Technically, it was a bureaucratic title given to the administrators of the various guild branches scattered across the empire.
While there were many Guild Heads, there was only one Guild Leader.
That was the man Damien was supposed to meet within six years.
But the man currently sitting upstairs? The one his senses were screaming at him to run away from?
'Who the hell is this guy?'
Damien's brow furrowed, cold sweat tracing a line down his spine.
'I don't remember anyone like this in the original story. Is he a hidden NPC? A minor character I glossed over? But with this level of strength… why would he be unknown?'
Recalling the brief glimpse he'd had of the man earlier, Damien felt a sensation akin to standing inside the mouth of a behemoth. It was the feeling of being prey.
Ordinary Fourth or Fifth Order experts couldn't exert this kind of pressure.
'He's at least Sixth Order. Maybe higher.'
Damien clenched his fists, calculating the odds.
'A Sixth Order existence. Even if Isabelle and I burned our lifeforce and attacked together, we wouldn't even be able to touch the hem of his clothes.'
The moment that thought crossed his mind, Damien's shoulders suddenly dropped. He relaxed.
Ideally, one should panic in the face of death. But Damien realized that if the man wanted them dead, they would have been erased before their neurons could even fire a signal to react.
Since resistance was futile, why waste energy worrying?
Beside him, however, Isabelle did not share his pragmatic resignation.
Her demonic blood was boiling, her mana flaring aggressively as her survival instincts screamed at her to prepare for combat.
"Relax," Damien whispered.
They reached the second floor. Unlike the bustling first floor, this corridor was silent. There was only one door.
A heavy wooden door with a simple plaque: [Guild Head].
Knock. Knock.
Damien waited. The silence stretched for a few seconds, heavy and suffocating. He had a nagging feeling that this meeting was about to derail his entire plan.
From inside, a rough, hearty voice boomed.
"Come in, kid! Don't be a stranger."
Damien pushed the door open.
The office was chaotic, stacked high with paperwork, smelling faintly of tobacco and old parchment.
Behind the mahogany desk sat the white-haired man they had seen earlier. He was wearing reading glasses, currently scribbling on a document.
Without looking up, the man spoke.
"I was wondering when Theron's boy was finally going to show up. You sure took your sweet time."
He paused, looking up with a grin that didn't quite reach his predatory eyes.
"And this pretty lady by your side, the one leaking killing intent… she must be Isabelle. It seems Elizabeth saved quite the scary girl back then."
Boom.
The casual words hit Damien and Isabelle like a physical blow.
"Hahaha!"
The old man laughed at their frozen expressions.
"Sit! Take a seat. I'm sure you have a mountain of questions, so park your asses on the sofa. I don't have all day, but I can spare a minute or two."
He flashed a grin of pearly white teeth.
Neither Damien nor Isabelle smiled back. They didn't move toward the sofa. They stood rooted to the spot, minds racing.
'Impossible.'
Damien's pupils constricted.
'How does he know I'm Theron's son? We left the carriage at the inn specifically to hide the Voss family crest. We've been absolute recluses in the castle for twelve years. How does he know our faces?'
Paranoia spiked.
'Does he know about the internal collapse of House Voss? Does he know about the Void Demon God?'
Damien's mana began to churn. He narrowed his eyes, the air around him vibrating as he prepared, futilely or not to strike.
The white-haired man sighed, sensing the hostility immediately.
"Relax, Damien. You're too high-strung."
The man opened a cabinet, pulled out a thick cigar, and snipped the end.
"Since you're too shocked to ask, I'll just explain. Believe it or not, it's up to you."
He lit the cigar, taking a deep drag and exhaling a cloud of blue smoke. Through the haze, his eyes looked distant, nostalgic.
"Your father and mother… they weren't always nobles. Before they settled down, they were part of an Adventurer's Party."
He leaned back, counting on his fingers.
"A group of five lunatics determined to walk their own path, bound by no flag and no king."
"Theron, the King of Darkness."
"Elizabeth, the Empress of Deceit."
"Aelinor, the Queen of Plants."
"Durin, the King of Weapons."
The old man's grin widened, sharp and dangerous.
"And lastly… Garrick, the King of Fists."
He tapped ash into a tray.
"The five of us were known as the 'Five Kings of the Empire.' Hah! Good times, bloody times."
He pointed the cigar at Damien.
"So, kid. Here's a test. Guess which one I am? If you get it right, I'll give you a piece of information I really shouldn't be sharing."
Damien didn't answer immediately. He stared at the man, activating his mana.
[Mana Sight]
The world lost its color, replaced by flows of energy.
When he looked at the old man, he didn't see a human. He saw a nexus of blinding power.
Specifically, the man's hands were glowing with such intensity that it hurt to look at them.
It wasn't just mana; it was condensed force, tight enough to shatter the fabric of space itself.
'It looks like he's holding a miniature nuclear explosion in each palm.'
Damien deactivated the skill, blinking away the spots in his vision.
"You're Garrick," Damien said, his voice steady. "The King of Fists."
"Oh?" The man raised an eyebrow. "Reason?"
"Although you're suppressing it, the concentration of aura around your hands is monstrous. It feels like you could punch a hole through reality if you felt like it."
Silence hung in the room for a second.
Then, Garrick threw his head back and roared with laughter.
"HAHAHA! Amazing! That was Mana Sight, wasn't it?"
The laughter died down as quickly as it started. Garrick looked impressed.
"I don't know if Theron told you, but I'm the one who invented that technique. Mana Sight and Mana Sense, the very skills you and your maid are using right now."
Garrick shook his head fondly.
"Back when that bastard Theron kept teleporting into shadows during our spars, I had to invent a way to predict where he'd pop out. Though, I must say..."
He eyed Damien critically. "Your usage is sloppy. It's way too obvious. You're practically shouting, 'I am scanning you' when you use it."
Garrick placed the cigar in the ashtray. The playful atmosphere in the room evaporated instantly.
The air grew heavy. Gravity seemed to double.
"Damien Voss. Son of my old friend Theron."
Garrick took off his glasses, his eyes piercing through Damien's soul.
"Your father told me explicitly not to tell you this. But you passed my test, and frankly, I don't give a damn about his orders."
"However," Garrick added, his voice dropping an octave. "Once I tell you, you owe me a favor."
Damien felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. An ominous premonition clawed at his heart.
"Tell me," Damien said. "I promise."
Garrick leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk. The hatred and madness swirling in the old veteran's eyes were terrifying to behold.
"Damien, listen carefully."
"Your father is dying."
Damien froze.
"And not only is he about to die," Garrick continued, his voice a low growl, "but if we don't act now, your entire family is going to be slaughtered along with him."