It was midnight.
Perhaps due to the recent turmoil at Heim Castle, the citizens of Heim City were living in fear — and so the streets were unusually quiet.
Aside from the occasional chirping of insects, there wasn't a single sound to be heard.
On the silent streets, two figures cloaked in black darted swiftly through the darkness.
Before long, they arrived in the city's eastern district — the slums.
Though called a slum, it was merely that the houses here were shorter and the streets dirtier than those in other districts.
Aside from a few stray dogs, there were no homeless people or drunks lying about.
Heim City enforced a strict curfew at night.
City guards patrolled the streets regularly, and anyone caught sleeping or loitering outside — whether beggar or drunkard — would be thrown into jail.
They would then have two choices: pay a ransom, or sell themselves into servitude to one of the noble lords.
It was an unspoken rule that held true across the entire continent.
However, after Helm executed Benn and since Black — a man who openly defied the local nobility — took control, the nobles' supply of cheap labor had dried up.
Still, the curfew remained in effect, and the city guard continued their nightly patrols as usual.
Despite that, the two figures moved swiftly and silently through the streets.
Their steps were light, their movements agile — even the most seasoned city guards would have failed to detect their presence.
At last, the two came to a small but sturdy stone house at the far end of the slums.
When they pushed open the door, a wave of noise and chatter washed over them.
Inside, it turned out to be a hidden tavern.
Disheveled mercenaries, street thugs, and freshly paid thieves all mingled here.
It was a melting pot of drunkards and degenerates, each dressed in their own peculiar way.
The arrival of the two cloaked figures caused no disturbance at all — this was clearly a place where anonymity was respected.
Without hesitation, the pair made their way past the noisy crowd toward the bar counter.
One of the figures leaned in close to the tavern owner and murmured softly:
"Honor among thieves."
The bartender's eyes flickered briefly. He leaned closer and replied in a low voice:
"What is the most precious treasure in the world?"
"It is freedom, my friend."
"And what is the cheapest thing in the world?"
"Integrity, my friend."
"Welcome, my friend," the owner said with a faint grin. "I have excellent wine here — only one gold coin a glass."
"Ordinary wine won't satisfy my palate," the man in black replied smoothly. "After all, I'm accustomed to the brandy from the Sailer Vineyard. I have rather refined tastes."
"Ah, so we have a guest from afar."
The tavern owner gave him a meaningful glance, then pulled out a "Temporarily Closed" sign and set it atop the counter.
Turning back to them, he said:
"Come with me then. Fine wine should not be enjoyed in a noisy hall. Let me take you somewhere... quieter."
The two cloaked men didn't move immediately.
Instead, they cast their gaze at the small sign on the counter.
Only when they noticed a tiny, almost invisible mark beneath it — the symbol indicating safety — did they nod and follow the man.
They passed behind the bar and through a narrow hallway that led toward the private rooms.
But rather than entering one, the owner brought them to a back door and opened a hatch leading down into a cellar.
Inside the cellar, he went to a corner and tapped several times on a section of the wall.
Moments later, what had seemed a solid stone wall slid inward, revealing a narrow staircase descending even deeper underground.
They descended the steps and traversed a long natural tunnel before emerging into a spacious underground chamber.
"Welcome, envoys from the royal capital," the tavern owner said, turning to them with a mockingly formal bow.
"I am the guildmaster of the Heim City Thieves' Guild."
"The representatives from the Cult of the Divine have been waiting for some time. Please, this way."
He led the two into a side chamber reserved for private meetings.
A long table dominated the room.
On the opposite side sat two other black-robed figures, with burly guards in dark cloaks posted both inside and outside the door.
"So," one of them spoke first, "you're the envoys from the Kingdom?"
"Indeed," replied one of the newcomers. "My apologies for keeping you waiting."
The man stepped forward, removed his hood, and revealed a handsome young face — golden hair, sapphire-blue eyes, and a fox-like charm to his expression.
It was the look of a man both clever and dangerous.
"Well, well," said the other, a note of surprise in his tone. "To think that the famed Sixth Prince — the so-called Gray Fox of Wisdom — would come in person. What an unexpected honor."
"But of course," the young prince replied with a knowing smile. "For a transaction of this magnitude, someone of proper rank must attend, don't you think, Vice Bishop of the Divine Cult — Grand Magus of Blood Rites, Lord Allen?"
The smaller, hunched figure across from him stiffened for a moment.
Then he burst into a shrill, cackling laugh.
"Ke-ke-ke-ke… As expected of the Kingdom's young prodigy. Even your intelligence network is impressive enough to make this old man jealous."
He waved a hand dismissively.
"Enough flattery. Let's get to business. Did you bring what we requested?"
The Gray Fox nodded slightly and motioned with his hand.
A moment later, a sealed cylindrical metal canister materialized from his spatial equipment and landed with a dull thud on the table.
"The item is here," he said calmly. "Now then, Lord Allen — I trust you have what we asked for?"
"But of course."
Allen took out a metal case of his own and set it gently upon the table.
"Here — a Restoration Eye, along with its corresponding adaptation serum. With it, the transplant success rate can reach forty percent."
"Forty percent?"
The prince's brows knitted together.
"That's far too low. You do realize that only individuals of the highest standing would dare undergo such a procedure."
"This is already a high success rate," Allen said, his tone firm. "After all, we are dealing with forbidden power. Surely, some degree of risk is to be expected. However…"
He paused — then smiled thinly.
"If one first consumes Sacred Blood of Restoration for a year, allowing the body to adapt to divine energy before transplantation, the success rate rises to sixty percent.
If two Restoration Eyes are implanted, and a special ritual ensures the balance of energy between them, the probability can reach eighty percent.
And should the recipient happen to be a young woman, the rate increases by another ten percent."
The Gray Fox's expression darkened.
"…And the other Restoration Eye?"
Allen tapped his finger slowly against the table. His tone dropped an octave.
"That," he said, "would be another price entirely."
Then, with a sinister smile, he added:
"Unless, of course… you can bring us another witch's corpse."