Short-Lived Species

November 16th, afternoon, Red Quarter center.

The district that should have been bustling with noise and neon lights was now filled with star-blue uniformed, light-armored patrol soldiers and black-blue uniformed police officers, moving back and forth among the shattered houses and roads with stretchers, supplies, and notebooks.

"There's another one here!" A patrol soldier waved, and together with a colleague who rushed over, they dragged a deformed body out from under a collapsed beam.

"This one's still breathing!" Another urgent call came from afar. Doctors and healers hired by City Hall, including priests volunteering from some temples, hurried over.

Lobik Dila, First-Class Head of the West City Vigilance Hall, stood atop a small hill of rubble from a collapsed house, his foot resting on a bloodstained piece of building material.

He had just smiled and seen off several City Hall officials whose attire was as polished as their backing, politely listening to and humbly accepting their idiotic complaints like, "Look, this was supposed to be your responsibility, how did it end up like this? You know we at City Hall have jobs to do serving the people too, we don't have time to waste manpower here."

Behind Lobik was an open area shaded by a large awning—a temporary morgue, now holding nearly a hundred bodies, both innocent citizens and gang members. Many officials in masks moved among the corpses with paper and pens, while bodies were occasionally recognized by family members who had rushed over or searched for a long time, followed inevitably by heart-wrenching wails.

Some family members recognized the officials' uniforms, and the more agitated ones charged straight at them, only to be pulled away by soldiers and police who were ready for it.

Lobik lowered his head and let out a deep sigh.

Thank goodness it was winter; the flies hadn't gathered yet.

Lobik stepped on a signboard cracked into five or six pieces—it looked like it was from some chess-and-card parlor—and walked down with a stiff expression.

A delicate chess piece of a swordsman fell out from the bloodstained rubble.

Lobik stopped.

He slowly bent down, picked up the piece, and brushed off the dust.

But the blood on the piece had already dried and wouldn't wipe away.

Those bastards.

Lobik stared at the piece in his hand, his face ashen.

This swordsman piece was missing the hand holding the sword, as if it had snapped off under sudden force.

The Head of Vigilant Hall turned to look at one side of the rubble, where a man in a dark red leather coat was also watching everything.

The man in the red coat turned around and met the Head's displeased expression.

"I won't agree to it!" Lobik said flatly.

"You sure?" The man in the red coat showed his face—thin, covered in stubble, his tone dripping with hostility. "This is a request from the Blood Bottle Gang and that lord."

"Nekla! This isn't what we agreed on! Even that lord wouldn't approve of you blowing Red Quarter to pieces and taking—nearly two hundred lives!" The Head of Vigilant Hall gritted his teeth, forcing out the words one by one, barely holding back his rage.

"And now you want—their bodies?"

Lobik felt his fury about to burst through the roof.

But the man he called Nekla, though his face was icy cold, said with utter indifference:

"That's not accurate—it's only a dozen or so houses in the center of the district that were destroyed, isn't it?"

"And I really didn't know that the great Head of the West City Vigilance Hall, who stood by with folded arms all night, actually has a sense of justice and compassion—speaking of which, we lost quite a few people last night too, you know."

Scum. You gangsters have a turf war, and you expect me to send my men to help you? Lobik thought angrily.

"This is a loss for our Blood Bottle Gang, a loss for that lord, and of course, a loss for you, Head of Vigilant Hall," Nekla continued.

This scum—why did the Western Front expel him? They should have just cut his head off!

Lobik cursed inwardly.

Nekla's tone turned harsh: "So, for the sake of that lord's interests, just a few corpses—you can make the call, can't you?"

But Lobik didn't back down as Nekla expected.

The Head of Vigilant Hall stomped over to Nekla, stopping so close he nearly touched the man's nose, his eyes blazing with fury:

"I don't give a damn how many of you Blood Bottle Gang scum died—I follow that lord's orders, but he never said you bastards would cause a disaster like this! This morning, everyone in the capital knows you were blowing things up for fun in Red Quarter! Even the Imperial Council is discussing the gang fight in the West City District!"

Nekla's expression shifted.

He stepped forward without flinching, pressing his forehead against Lobik's, staring into the Head's eyes with hatred and rage:

"Then you should know that our fury is no less than yours! The Blood Bottle Gang never bends—blood debts are paid in blood!"

Lobik was also provoked by Nekla's defiant reply.

"Spare me your pathetic nonsense! Especially from a useless loser like you!" he roared.

"The Blood Bottle Gang never bends? You want to bet that if I pull the police and patrol out right now, you scum won't even make it out of Red Quarter alive?"

Nekla frowned in anger, the fire in his eyes growing fiercer.

Lobik glared back without flinching.

The patrol members nearby noticed the situation and quietly moved closer.

Two captains who were Terminus Swordsmen had already gone cold-faced, their hands resting on their sword hilts.

Nekla's peripheral vision caught the soldiers, and his heart tightened.

This big Green Skin has some nerve.

He also noticed that among the residents watching from behind the cordon, a few calculating gazes kept staring at this spot, occasionally disappearing and being replaced by new ones.

Damn the Brotherhood.

Red Quarter no longer belonged to the Blood Bottle Gang after all.

Weighing the Vigilant Hall's strength and the Brotherhood's threat, Nekla swallowed his resentment and stepped back.

The Air Elementalist had already vanished—until the Blood Elementalist returned, we had to play nice.

Damn that Green Skin, and damn that blasted noble.

"I apologize for my words and actions—Lord Lobik Dila." He stressed the "Lord," a smile blooming on his gaunt face as he bowed his head, as if his earlier fury had been feigned.

The bow was a bit off.

"We truly shouldn't have brought you such trouble—I'll take my leave now and go beg the Duke's forgiveness."

Nekla smiled sheepishly, turned, and walked away.

Until the expected reply came from behind.

"Wait!"

Lobik clenched his fists, telling himself not to lose control.

Damn it.

Damn it all.

Sure enough, once I took that step, there was no turning back.

Lobik waved a limp hand, dismissing his men who were about to close in.

The corner of Nekla's mouth curled up smugly.

Head Lobik shut his eyes in pain. After a long pause, he rasped in a trembling voice:

"Damn it—fine, you can take the bodies, but no more than twenty! And they must be unclaimed!"

The smile on Nekla's face finally turned genuine.

"As you command—Lord."

He addressed Lobik's title warmly again.

Unclaimed bodies? Nekla sneered inwardly: Since the Blood Bottle Gang wanted them, they'd naturally be "unclaimed."

Wasn't that right?

What a pleasant cooperation between police and public.

Nekla gave another imperfect bow, turned, and left.

Lobik watched his retreating back, shook his head, and asked weakly:

"What exactly do you need those corpses for?"

"To entertain a few Old Friends for the big shots," Nekla replied without looking back, his tone chilling:

"We're preparing a banquet."

Nekla vanished from sight, and so did the watchful gazes in the crowd.

Lobik looked down at his reflection in a pool of blood at his feet.

A helpless middle-aged man with graying hair and weathered wrinkles.

Lobik felt a surge of disgust.

He took a deep breath, glanced at the chess piece in his hand—the One-Arm swordsman smiled back at him.

The Head of Vigilant Hall released his grip with a sorrowful expression and turned away.

The swordsman, missing his blade, fell into the blood, replacing Lobik's reflection.

Six in the evening, Mindis Hall.

"Four five-man squads, clear division of labor, seamless coordination—all Transcendent Rank leaders commanding Mortal Tier veterans. Skilled and experienced, but from their gear and identities, they were indeed hired."

Gilbert stood up from beside a corpse, waving for the guards to carry it away.

"Mercenaries and adventurers bold enough to attack royal property—either the employer promised a hefty reward, or they were confident they could dodge the consequences."

The Middle-Aged Noble clasped his hands behind his back in the first-floor hall, suppressing his distaste for his collaborator, and spoke to an empty corner:

"As a former adventurer, what's your take?"

A hoarse voice came from the void:

"Both, but mostly the latter. The employer didn't tell them the truth—something like 'you won't face anyone above Transcendent Rank' or 'the guards won't exceed twenty.'"

"Or perhaps their employer never expected our defenses to far exceed a normal establishment—and that you'd be here," the Middle-Aged Noble replied.

Corpses were carried down from the stairs, the ceiling, and the corridors.

Gilbert watched the guards haul the intruders out and clean the blood, lost in thought.

"But it was still too easy."

He murmured.

"Even though we doubled the guards at Mindis Hall, even though we had fifty trained Mortal Tier and even Transcendent Rank Terminus Swordsmen, even though they were only hired for probing—we still handled it too easily, too simply."

The guards carrying corpses past him paid no attention to Gilbert's muttering.

It was as if the Middle-Aged Noble was speaking to empty air, until Yordel's figure materialized beside him out of nowhere.

"They had no resolve to die, nor any intention of killing the guards," the masked secret guard said in a low voice.

"If I had struck any later, they would have likely retreated."

Gilbert furrowed his brow deeply.

"This isn't right. Even if it's just a probe, their attitude and methods are far too reckless. It's almost as if—"

Yordel finished the sentence at just the right moment: "—as if they came looking for death."

The gray-haired Middle-Aged Noble nodded.

"If their employer is truly who we suspect, then they must know that with such a setup, we couldn't possibly be hiding any real secrets."

"Then what are they after? Cover for someone else?"

Yordel shook his head. "I didn't sense anyone else."

"If there's no one else—"

At that moment, Gilbert and Yordel both looked up toward the door.

Under the setting sun, an ordinary carriage rolled down the road leading to Mindis Hall.

After listening to a guard's report, Gilbert nodded. "It's Jinnie."

"That woman," Gilbert said with a frown, "normally hates cramped spaces like carriages. Looks like she's suppressing her own preferences to keep a low profile."

Hearing this, Yordel's head snapped up!

Gilbert was initially puzzled by the secret guard's sudden reaction, given that he couldn't see his expression.

But then his own face changed dramatically as he turned back to Yordel in shock.

Keep a low profile—

No way?

"Didn't you say you didn't sense anyone else?" Gilbert asked, his face ashen.

Yordel turned to look upstairs, his form flickering.

"I left eight Terminus Swordsmen upstairs—" But before Gilbert could finish, Yordel vanished from sight!

Wait, if he didn't sense any other person—

Gilbert slapped his forehead hard!

"Everyone! Full speed to the third floor! Protect the target!"

Tales was drenched in cold sweat, staring tensely at the man before him.

Just moments ago, this pale-faced adult male in an ornate pleated shirt and expensive leather boots had appeared out of nowhere between him and the eight Terminus Swordsmen!

No wind. No sound. No aura. No trace.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Tales saw blood spray from the necks of the eight swordsmen behind him!

By the time he fully turned around, they were all on the ground, twitching and letting out meaningless low groans.

He had faced powerful enemies before—the Magic User Ashida was one example—but Tales had never encountered an enemy who appeared so abruptly.

So abruptly that his optic nerves couldn't even register it!

He hadn't seen the man move at all.

Tales instinctively wanted to shout, but a right hand suddenly appeared before his eyes!

The well-dressed man clamped his mouth shut.

Tales still couldn't track his movements.

Even a master like Rolf the Wind Ghost, though swift and fierce, at least left a trail and afterimages!

But this man's motion as he moved his right hand—there was nothing.

Like a frame skip in an animation.

Struggling was futile, so Tales gave up wasting energy. He calmed down, forcing his heartbeat to steady, and looked at the man before him.

This man, slightly taller than Yordel, had neat blond hair combed back from his forehead and clear emerald pupils. Despite his sickly pale complexion, he was—Tales could only describe it this way—extremely handsome.

Compared to Ashida's softer, more feminine handsomeness, this man was the "sunny and dashing" type. With his simple yet elegant taste in clothing, he would surely charm a crowd of girls wherever he went.

Unfortunately, Tales felt no warmth from him at all.

A pleasant scent of perfume wafted from the man. Even a bumpkin like Tales could tell it was nothing like the cheap fragrances peddled in the market stalls.

Now, this handsome man grinned at him with pale lips.

"I was just loosening up a bit—but look what I've found?"

"A Short-Lived Species' cub."

Short-Lived Species?

Tales latched onto that particular phrasing.

"The scent on you—tsk, tsk, truly delicious."

"Indeed, fine cuisine always turns up where you least expect it!"

But in the next moment, the golden-haired man's relaxed expression suddenly shifted.

The hand covering Tales flickered and warped again, and the next instant, Tales found himself seized in the man's arms, a hand clamped over his mouth.

"Quick to find me—that mask, I can't deal with it," the handsome golden-haired man muttered. "I'll just take you home and eat you later."

"Good thing the sun's almost down."

That was the last thing Tales heard.

The next moment, his vision was engulfed in a searing tide of blood-red, and the world spun wildly.

The scene in Mindis Hall seemed to whirl around him, growing smaller and smaller.

Just before consciousness slipped away, Tales vaguely glimpsed Yordel's mask lying among the eight corpses of the Terminus Swordsmen.