The VIP box smelled of vintage wine and sudden, sharp terror.
Duke Valdemar dropped his cigar. It burned a hole in the expensive velvet carpet, sending a thin trail of smoke into the air, but he didn't notice.
His eyes were wide, darting frantically between the massive holographic face of "Zero" floating in the auction hall and the man sitting comfortably beside him in the shadows.
"You..." The Duke's voice trembled, cracking under the weight of the realization. He stumbled back, his hand glowing with the gathering mana of a 4th Order Fire Spell.
"You are him! You are the terrorist!"
Damien didn't stand up. He didn't even put down his wine glass. He simply tilted his head, the silver mask catching the flicker of the Duke's spell like a mirror.
"Terrorist is such a vulgar word, Duke," Damien said, his voice calm, terrifyingly polite. "I prefer... Saviour!."
"Die!" The Duke screamed, thrusting his hand forward.
Damien sighed.
Enough talking.
He snapped his fingers.
