The descent into the underbelly of Nairn was not a journey for the faint of heart, nor for those with a sensitive sense of smell. Lencar left the relatively clean air of the Black Market behind, slipping through a rusted maintenance grate that led down into the city's ancient storm drain system.
This was the domain of the rats, the desperate, and Jareth the Informant.
Lencar moved through the gloom with the silence of a phantom. He had activated [Mist Magic]: [Olfactory Nullification], a small utility spell he had developed to block out the overwhelming stench of sewage and rot. To anyone else, this place was a maze of dripping brick and darkness. To Lencar, it was a tactical grid.
He reached the section of the tunnel that Jareth claimed as his office. It was heavily trapped.
Trap 1: Tripwire connected to a sleep-gas canister.
Lencar stepped over it without breaking stride.
Trap 2: A rudimentary [Fire Magic] rune etched into the floor.
Lencar used a pulse of [Earth Magic] to shift the dust over the rune, disrupting the mana flow and neutralizing the trigger.
Trap 3: A magical alarm ward.
Lencar stopped. This one was new. Jareth was getting paranoid. The air shimmered with a faint, tension-filled mana net. If Lencar walked through it, a bell would ring in Jareth's inner sanctum, giving the rat time to scurry away.
"Cute," Lencar whispered.
He didn't break it. He didn't dispel it. He raised his hand, channeling the Spatial Magic he had harvested from Silas.
[Spatial Magic]: [Short Jump]
Zip.
He bypassed the ward entirely, reappearing ten feet past the trigger line.
He stood before a heavy iron door, reinforced with mismatched scrap metal. He didn't knock. He simply turned the handle—which was locked—and applied a focused burst of [Vibration Magic] (a derivative of Earth) to the tumbler mechanism.
Click.
Lencar pushed the door open and stepped inside.
"I told you, no refunds on the map of the—GAH!"
Jareth the Informant was sitting at a rickety table piled high with scrolls, gnawing on a piece of dried salamander meat. When he saw the masked figure standing in his doorway, he didn't just jump; he practically vibrated out of his chair, scrambling backward until his back hit the damp brick wall.
"You!" Jareth squealed, clutching his chest. "Sweet Mana! Do you have to enter like a ghost every time?! I have a delicate constitution!"
Lencar closed the door behind him, locking it with a flick of his wrist. He pulled up a wooden chair, dusted it off with exaggerated care, and sat down.
"If your constitution was delicate, Jareth, the air down here would have dissolved you years ago," Lencar said, his voice calm and distorted by the wooden mask. "Sit down. We have business."
Jareth swallowed hard, his eyes darting between Lencar and the exit. He looked worse than usual. His robes were stained, his eyes were bloodshot, and he had the frantic, twitchy energy of a man who slept with one eye open.
"Business?" Jareth hissed, inching back toward the table but refusing to sit. "I thought you were dead! Or skipped town! It's been weeks since the 'Ash Incident' with the bandits. Do you know what it's been like up there?"
He jabbed a shaking finger toward the ceiling.
"The Magic Knights are swarming, kid! And not the usual lazy patrols who just want a bribe. I'm talking about the Department of Magical Forensic Research. Blue robes. Glasses. Clipboards. They're terrifying!"
Lencar rested his chin on his gloved hand. "Aris is a diligent man. I've met him."
"You met him?!" Jareth looked like he might faint. "And you're not in a cell?"
"He didn't know he was meeting me," Lencar corrected.
Jareth groaned, finally collapsing into his chair. He reached for a bottle of cheap wine and took a long, desperate swig. "You're insane. You're actually insane. They found some mana voids. They know someone is erasing mages."
Jareth leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And here's the kicker. They don't think it's one guy anymore. They think it's a squad. An organization. Because they found traces of Fire, Wind, Earth, and Steel at different crime scenes. They think you're a syndicate."
Lencar smiled beneath his mask. This was perfect. The misunderstanding was his best armor.
"An organization," Lencar mused aloud. "Well, they aren't entirely wrong, Jareth. I am expanding."
Jareth froze, the bottle halfway to his mouth. "Expanding? You mean... there are more of you?"
"Something like that," Lencar evaded. "Which brings me to why I'm here. I need intel."
Jareth slammed the bottle down. "No. No way. I am not giving you names so you can turn them into ash. Every time I sell you a name, my customer base shrinks! And then the investigation heats up! It's bad for business!"
"I'm done with the ash," Lencar said, his tone shifting to one of professional boredom. "That was... a messy phase. We've refined our methods."
"We?" Jareth caught the plural.
"I need sparring partners," Lencar lied smoothly. "Live targets. I need to test new spells, new combat doctrines. I'm not looking to kill anyone. I just need to... engage them. Rough them up. Maybe break a few bones. But no death. No disappearances."
Jareth squinted at him, skeptical. "You just want to beat people up?"
"Training is essential," Lencar shrugged. "And I'm willing to pay a premium for high-quality dummies. I want a list. Specifically, bandits, rogue mages, and mercenary groups operating in the Common and Forsaken Realms."
"Why the boonies?"
"Less surveillance," Lencar explained. "If I start a magical duel in the Capital, I attract Captains. If I fight in a ravine near Hage, nobody cares but the crows."
Jareth chewed on his lip, calculating. The risk was high, but the "no killing" promise lowered the heat. And Lencar was reaching into his cloak.
Thud.
A heavy leather bag hit the table. The sound of gold coins clinking together was unmistakable.
Jareth's eyes widened. Greed, as always, won the war against fear.
"Fine," Jareth sighed, snatching the bag and weighing it. "But if you kill them, I'm charging you a 'loss of customer' fee next time."
He rummaged through a chaotic pile of scrolls, scattering crumbs of dried meat everywhere. He pulled out three dossiers and slapped them onto the table.
"Here. The current roster of idiots who think they can get rich quick."
Lencar picked up the first scroll.
"The Mud-Dogs," Jareth explained, pointing a greasy finger. "Operating near the border of the Forsaken Realm. Led by a guy named Grog. He uses [Swamp Magic]. They ambush food carts and kidnap travelers for ransom. Nasty pieces of work, but sloppy. They stick to the marshes."
Swamp Magic. Good for crowd control and terrain manipulation. Grog would make a decent perimeter guard.
Lencar picked up the second scroll.
"Garrick the Smuggler," Jareth continued. "This guy is a step up. He operates a riverboat crew moving cursed artifacts between the Common Realm and the neutral zones. He uses [Water Magic] mixed with minor [Curse Magic]. He's smart, slippery, and runs a tight ship. He's not a bandit; he's a businessman with a body count."
Garrick has logistics experience. He knows the trade routes. If I recruit him, I gain a transport network.
"And the third?" Lencar asked, tapping the final scroll.
"The Red Hoods," Jareth grimaced. "Nutjobs. They're a cult-lite group operating near the Diamond Kingdom border. They think burning noble estates will 'cleanse the kingdom' or some nonsense. Their leader uses [Ash Magic]. Very destructive."
Ash Magic. High offensive potential. Fanatics are hard to control, but Protocol 3 (Override) doesn't care about ideology.
"This is good," Lencar nodded, tucking the scrolls into his tunic. "This will do nicely for the first round of... training."
"Just don't make a mess," Jareth warned. "The Blue Robes are still sniffing around. If they link these guys to your case, they'll lock down the whole sector."
"Don't worry," Lencar stood up, his cloak swirling around him. "They won't find any bodies. I guarantee it."
He turned to leave, but stopped at the door.
"Oh, and Jareth?"
"What now?"
"Keep your ears open regarding the border," Lencar said, his voice dropping an octave. "Specifically, the Kiten region. There are rumors of a new Dungeon surfacing soon. The Diamond Kingdom is moving pieces."
Jareth went pale. "The Diamond Kingdom? You mean an invasion?"
"I mean opportunity," Lencar corrected. "If a Dungeon opens, the market for artifacts will explode. But so will the danger. If you hear anything about Mars or the Eight Shining Generals... you signal me immediately. Hang the red cloth."
Jareth stared at him. "How do you know about Mars? That's classified Diamond military intel."
"We have eyes everywhere, Jareth," Lencar lied, feeding the myth of his organization. "Just do your job, and you'll survive the shift."
"The shift?" Jareth squeaked. "What shift?!"
"The world is about to get a lot louder," Lencar said.
He unlocked the door and stepped out.
"Wait! Don't leave me with cryptic warnings! It gives me acid reflux!" Jareth yelled after him.
But Lencar was already moving, his silhouette dissolving into the mist of the tunnel.
The journey back to the surface was contemplative. Lencar moved through the sleeping streets of Nairn, blending into the shadows. The city was quiet, oblivious to the fact that a war was brewing on the horizon—both the invasion from Diamond and the internal rot of the Eye of the Midnight Sun.
Lencar reached the Scarlet household. He scaled the wall silently, using a touch of [Wind Magic] to cushion his landing on the windowsill. He slid the window open and slipped inside his room.
He stripped off his gear. The mask went into the Void Vault. The dossiers went onto his desk.
He sat on the edge of his bed, the adrenaline of the night fading into a dull, satisfied thrum.
He looked at the list of names. Grog. Garrick. The Red Hoods.
A week ago, these were just names of criminals he would have killed for mana. Now, they were potential employees. They were the raw materials for an army that would stand between Rebecca Scarlet and the end of the world.
"I'm not a killer anymore," Lencar whispered to the empty room.
He lay down, the exhaustion finally pulling him under. For the second time that week, he slept without dreaming of ash. Instead, he dreamed of golden threads connecting him to a web of souls, all dancing to his tune.