Elsewhere, on the same night…
Amid dim lights, inside a grand hall heavy with the scent of luxurious flowers, a loud crash echoed, immediately followed by the sound of water spilling across the gleaming tiles. A lavish glass vase had shattered, leaving behind scattered shards—fragments of what had once been beautiful.
Then came an angry voice, its tone carrying a curious blend of childishness and fury. Charged with rage, it spat sarcastically:
"Damn it! Where did that arrogant brat come from?"
It was Margola's voice, his hand clenched around the back of an elegant wooden chair, his eyes blazing with anger as if the entire room might ignite under the heat of his wrath. It took him only a moment before he began smashing pieces of furniture, hurling them violently, as though trying to expel all the suppressed emotion within him.
But before he could go further, he was suddenly wrapped in a pair of soft arms. The unexpected embrace stunned him—his breath hitched as he felt a gentle pressure against his back and a tender face brush against his cheek, playful and teasing in its touch. Then came a soft, deliberately seductive female voice whispering in his ear:
"Oh, Margy♥… you look absolutely adorable when you're this angry♥."
It was Deizla. She clung to him, relishing the sparks firing from his eyes. But he didn't grant her the moment for long—he shoved her away with force, sending her sprawling to the floor. Then he shouted, his voice sharp, his eyes flaring like twin embers of blue flame:
"Damn it, Deizla! Stay away from me! This isn't the time for your nonsense. And how many times have I told you not to call me Margy? Damn it!!!"
In response, the woman curled her lips into a sly smile, placing a finger on her violet lips. She seemed more entertained than offended. Her voice, filled with longing and enticement, purred:
"Margy♥… come on, let's have a little fun♥."
Margola backed away a few steps, disgust evident on his face. He tried to regain composure, his breath heavy in his chest. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. Anger coursed through his veins, like embers glowing beneath his skin. He pressed his lips together before spitting out his words in bitter frustration:
"It took months for the nobleman's men to set everything up—scattering those demonic rabbits through the fields, releasing the camouflaged Dragon fire beasts along the road. We were supposed to be the ones to defeat them. That success should've been ours—to elevate our standing. And that bastard just stole it all from us like it was nothing!"
He slammed his fingertips against the table, the impact shaking the room. His burning gaze turned to the man seated in the corner at a round table, sipping tea as if none of this concerned him. He showed no sign of unease. Margola narrowed his eyes, addressing him with a tone void of any respect:
"Hey, Quartz! What do you think of that kid?"
The man didn't look up immediately. Instead, he stared into his teacup for a moment, as though weighing his thoughts. At last, he raised his gaze slowly, his expression calm but hiding something inscrutable beneath the surface. When he spoke, his voice was low—soft but undeniably certain:
"My ability to read people has never failed me before. And I can assure you, those who hide their strength well are the hardest to detect. As for that boy? I saw nothing remarkable in him. He looked to me like just another novice adventurer. Nothing more."
He paused, as if giving his words time to settle, then added with deliberate calm:
"Still, I can't say for sure he wasn't capable of defeating those beasts. Maybe he has some trick, as some claim. Either way, his interference ruined part of the plan. But perhaps it's also an opportunity—to take down a rising adventurer."
Margola said nothing. He exhaled deeply and tilted his head back, fixing his gaze on the ceiling. His mind spun like clockwork gears, trying to reweave the threads of a plan scattered by that mysterious adventurer. Then, suddenly, a slow, wicked smile crept across his lips. He whispered, tasting his words before letting them fall:
"Getting rid of that boy won't be hard… the real problem is dealing with that woman."
Silence fell.
Then came a soft chuckle from him—a laugh that betrayed a mind skilled in weaving schemes. He spoke again; his tone steeped in cunning:
"If we get rid of her and that vagabond, the nobleman's praise will be ours for the taking."
In that moment, the room seemed to grow colder, as if the spoken words had summoned an inescapable fate—one that stalked its prey from the shadows. His laughter didn't last. It died abruptly as his eyes landed on the girl seated in the dimmest corner of the hall.
There, barely touched by light, she resembled a ghost hiding in the shadows. Her features were barely visible, yet even the faintest glimpse revealed the fragility within her. She sat on the floor, knees drawn tightly to her chest, as if trying to curl herself away from this place, this moment, and these people.
Her head was bowed, her gaze distant, as though trying to shut out the conversation swirling around her. Her expression was a tangled mix of fear and silent rejection. Her wide eyes remained fixed on her lap, as if afraid to lift them and face reality.
Margola stepped toward her—each footfall carrying the weight of a nightmare creeping closer. She didn't move, but her body shrank in on itself, as if trying to disappear, to become one with the emptiness around her, to vanish from sight.
When he stood before her, his shadow swallowed her small figure, cloaking her in silent menace. Still, she didn't look up. She refused to meet his gaze, which bore nothing but malice and disdain. But he didn't leave her a choice. He reached out, grasped her chin, and lifted her face toward him with a deceptive gentleness that masked deliberate cruelty.
Their eyes met—and her breath trembled. Terror flooded her expression. There was no mercy in his gaze. Speaking to the man seated across the room, the boy's voice dripped with disdain:
"Did we really have to bring this girl along? We're late getting to the town because of her… and look what's happened."
His voice lashed at her like a whip, stinging without touch. She tilted her head slightly, as if trying to escape his words with even the smallest motion. But there was no escape.
From the table, Quartz set his teacup down quietly and spoke in a cold, emotionless tone:
"We had no other option. She's the only one who can use the healing virtue against airborne toxins."
He paused briefly, as if the next words required extra weight, and then continued, even colder:
"The mission matters… but completing it successfully matters more. That's why we need her."
He cast a brief glance at the girl, then added, as if sealing her fate:
"At least… until we're done with her."
Her frail body shuddered under the weight of the cruel realization. Tears clung to her trembling lashes, refusing to fall—refusing to surrender. Her expression was hollow, caught between desperate hope and helplessness. But none of it moved those around her.
Margola clicked his tongue in irritation—a clear sign of disapproval. He didn't need words. His cold eyes conveyed everything. He stepped closer until his breath scorched her chilled skin. Slowly, he raised his hand, his fingers brushing her soft cheek—not with kindness, but with a grip of iron that clenched her jaw, forcing her to look up into his eyes, which gleamed with wicked delight.
His smile twisted—one far too cruel for a boy so young. He whispered, his voice velvety, soft like a dagger sliding between ribs, laced with threat:
"You're really lucky… because we need you."
He let the words sink into the silence, offering her a moment to feel their weight. Then his eyes narrowed as he added:
"But don't forget—you must do your job perfectly… or else."
His words stopped. Silence took over, filling the void with a terror that needed no explanation. Then, as if an invisible dagger had pierced her heart, he continued in a quieter voice—yet it was as grim as death itself:
"Those little ones... will not be well."
Her entire being trembled, as though an icy frost had cut through her flesh. Her lips quivered as she tried to suppress her sobs. Her voice came out drained, shaken, barely able to form the words that might protect those she loved:
"I-I'll do everything you want... please... just don't hurt them."
Deizla had been watching the scene unfold. Her lips trembled—not from fear, but from delight. She raised her finger and gently placed it in her mouth, as if savoring the taste of the moment. Then she whispered, her voice tinged with desire and fascination:
"Oh, Margi♥... why don't you ever treat me that way?"
Though whispered, Margola's ears caught her words like a wolf catching the scent of blood. A chill crept along his spine. At that moment, he let go of the girl's face, as if she no longer interested him, and turned away. He walked toward the table where Quartz was seated, then sat across from him. His hand reached for a large glass filled with dark red liquid. He raised it to his lips and took a long sip, letting some of the drink trickle from the corner of his mouth. A crimson line traced its path down his skin. With a sharp thud, he set the glass on the table, then let out a loud whistle. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, the grin of satisfaction never leaving his face. His eyes sparkled with a savage eagerness as he said, his voice brimming with excitement:
"I'm looking forward to bringing down that rookie tomorrow... I can't wait to see his face... when we betray him."
Then came Quartz's voice—sharp as a blade, slicing through the stillness of the dimly lit hall, where only a flickering lamp cast pale light on the walls. His tone carried the firmness of a reminder, laced with stern resolve as he said:
"It's not certain he'll agree to join us. And never forget—we're doing this for a noble cause, for a higher purpose."
At that, Margola cast a sideways glance toward the large window, where the shadows of the night danced on the glass. He turned his gaze back to Quartz, his brows slightly furrowed, and said in a calm yet confident tone, as if uttering an undeniable truth:
"Of course I haven't forgotten! How could I?"
He paused, breathing slowly before adding in a deeper tone:
"We'll accomplish four goals at once. We'll eliminate that deceitful youth who tarnishes the name of adventurers. We'll free this land from the beast spreading disease among the people. We'll elevate the standing of a respectable man, strengthening his influence in this part of the kingdom."
He leaned his head slightly forward, his eyes gleaming with a hidden spark, and continued:
"And... we'll rid ourselves of one of our fiercest opponents."
And so, the night continued to weave its threads over the town outside, while inside, the threads of a conspiracy were being spun with care behind closed doors.