A/N: Sorry for the delay, everyone. I've been dealing with some health issues, but I hope you enjoy this chapter. Don't forget to add the story to your library to get instant updates when new chapters drop!
On the fourth day of waiting in town, a whisper of news spread like wildfire:
The Twilight Team—the strongest party in the Expanse—was returning today.
And they were only minutes away from passing through the gates near the Adventurer's Guild.
For most, this was cause for celebration. For Evan, it was a problem.
If the second High-Luck Anomaly is part of that team… his gaze darkened. Then taking him out won't be possible without fighting them all—and that includes their leader. That bastard is said to be the strongest in the entire Expanse.
Grinding his teeth, Evan slipped into the crowd, moving toward the gates. He needed to confirm things for himself, to see whether fate had truly chosen to spit in his face today.
The streets swelled with bodies, a tide of eager adventurers and townsfolk pushing closer for a glimpse of their idols. Evan trailed behind, silent and calculating, his senses sharpened for any sign of his prey.
Minutes dragged by.
Nothing.
The crowd's excitement began to waver. Murmurs of doubt passed through clenched teeth as anticipation curdled into disappointment.
And then—
A lone figure entered the gates astride a crescent-moon-marked blue wolf.
Cheers erupted, shaking the air.
"SYLEN!"
The leader of the Twilight Team had arrived. Silver hair like liquid moonlight framed his charming, almost ethereal face, a visage that had become a symbol of hope for many.
Behind him, other members of Twilight began to emerge, each radiating crushing auras of power. The pressure spiked so sharply that even seasoned adventurers swallowed hard, sweat beading on their brows.
Most of them were near the peak of their ranks. Even those who weren't still emanated a presence that rivalled elites. This was not just a party; this was a moving calamity.
Whispers spread through the crowd:
The mission Sylen founded this team for… It's finally going to be completed.
For the masses, this was awe. For Evan, it was suffocation.
His eyes scanned the group like a predator choosing prey.
Each member of Twilight pulsed with Luck—a green hue glowing faintly around them, visible only to his special sight. Pseudo Mid-Survivor grade, he judged grimly. Even the weakest among them carried fortune strong enough to warp destiny.
A woman at Sylen's side gleamed brighter than the rest, her Luck radiating a serene blue hue.
And yet… Sylen himself was a void.
No glow. No colour. Nothing.
Which was absurd. No one could rise to his position without monstrous Luck backing them.
Arven, Evan called inwardly, his spiritual voice tight with suspicion. Why can't I see his Luck colour?
"Oh…" Arven's tone was calm, almost amused. "Looks like he's using some technique to conceal it. Get closer. Once you're near, I can probe him myself and confirm whether he's our target or not."
Evan's mind raced. Getting close to the leader of Twilight wasn't just risky—it was suicidal. But fortune favoured bold moves, and he had an idea forming in the back of his head.
A dangerous, reckless idea.
Pushing through the crowd with calculated force, Evan ignored the irritated glares of those he shoved aside. His unflinching advance made it clear enough: he wasn't someone to mess with. Most people, recognising that instinctively, stepped back.
Once he'd carved his path forward, his trap was set.
A faint pull—a subtle use of his ability—tugged at the man directly behind him.
The bulky Swordsman, one of Twilight's members, stumbled forward unexpectedly, crashing into Evan.
The impact sent both of them tumbling. Dust exploded from the ground as bodies hit the dirt.
But where Evan rolled smoothly to his feet, the Swordsman sprawled like a broken puppet, his moment of glory shattered in an instant.
A ripple of laughter and shock spread through the onlookers.
The mighty Twilight Team's Swordsman… taken down by some random guy in the crowd?
The man's joy and pride twisted into venomous rage. He rose slowly, his face carved into something ugly, his killing intent spilling into the air.
Evan didn't flinch.
Instead, he played his role to perfection.
As the Swordsman drew his blade, ready to cleave him in two, Evan vanished. A flicker of movement, and he reappeared just ahead, breathing hard like someone who had just stared death in the eye.
Then he snapped.
"You bastard!" he roared, his voice cracking with righteous fury. "Do you think being in Twilight gives you the right to kill whoever you want?! I tripped, and you want to behead me?!"
Murmurs swept through the crowd.
Is this true? Are they really that arrogant?
"They think we're insects," someone whispered bitterly.
The Swordsman's eyes bulged with fury as his reputation teetered on the edge of ruin.
"I don't think all people are insects," he spat, his voice venomous. "Just the trash who disrupt our glory and still dare to breathe."
Gasps rippled outward.
Now, all eyes turned to Sylen, waiting to see what the leader of Twilight would do.
Would he stop his subordinate?
Or would a head roll today?
The Swordsman's blade never reached its mark.
A jagged pillar of bone erupted from the ground, slamming between Evan's neck and certain death. Steel rang against calcified marrow, sparks scattering across the dirt.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The Swordsman blinked in shock. A… necromancer?
Before he could recover, the air grew heavier. Dark presences seeped from the earth as skeletal warriors clawed their way into being, each clad in crude armour and clutching rusted swords.
They formed a ring around the Swordsman, their sockets glowing faintly as they raised their weapons in perfect unison.
Recognition spread like wildfire among the onlookers.
"The Mage of Death…" someone whispered, awe and fear threading through their voice.
Evan's mask hid his expression, but the reveal was deliberate. Rumours about him had travelled far—about the necromancer who could summon entire battalions without so much as an incantation. And here he was, proving every story true.
The Swordsman swallowed hard, rage clashing with the dawning realisation that—for the first time in years—he was the one being cornered.
Twilight's other members began to stir, sensing the shift in momentum.
And Evan, ever the opportunist, sharpened his words like daggers.
"Oh? Look at that," he said loudly, his voice carrying over the murmuring crowd. "The mighty Twilight Team can't handle a single mage without piling on? I wonder… do you all have to gang up on Level 90 beasts too, despite being so 'strong'?"
He tilted his head mockingly toward their leader. "Or maybe even your captain is the same—someone who only knows how to hunt the weak in packs."
Gasps spread through the onlookers like sparks on dry grass. Whispers erupted, feeding the flames of his performance.
The Swordsman's face twisted in fury, and his comrades surged forward to back him up.
For a moment, Evan thought his plan was working flawlessly. Until—
A flash of silver.
One heartbeat, and every skeleton he'd summoned was bisected, their bones clattering lifelessly to the ground.
Evan's eyes snapped toward the source just as a cold, suffocating presence swept over him.
A woman stepped past Sylen, her boots clicking softly against the stone as she advanced. Her sword dripped mana like liquid frost, and her expression could have frozen the sun itself.
The entire Twilight Team fell silent, even the Swordsman stiffening under her frigid glare.
"Elya…" someone breathed, reverence and fear mingling in their tone.
Third-ranked adventurer. Vice leader of Twilight.
She didn't spare Evan a glance at first. Instead, she stopped in front of the trembling Swordsman—Corlan—and her voice, when it came, was sharp enough to cut him in half without drawing her blade.
"I didn't expect you to humiliate yourself like this," she said coldly. "Falling to a weakling and dragging our team's name through the mud."
Corlan flinched but didn't dare reply.
"Watch closely," Elya continued, placing a hand on her sword hilt. "I'll show you how you teach manners to someone who dares sully Twilight's name—and our captain's."
The world blurred.
One motion. One strike.
The bone wall shattered like glass, and Evan barely registered the slash aimed at him before pain exploded across his chest. He tried to summon his Bone Armour, but he was too slow—far too slow.
Blood fountained from the wound as he crashed to the ground, the strength draining from his limbs. The murmurs of the crowd turned to sharp gasps, the sound of mass shock cutting through the silence.
Around him, Twilight's members smirked or grinned, their faces glowing with pride at their vice leader's overwhelming display.
Elya sheathed her blade in a single elegant motion, her words slicing the air as cleanly as her sword had sliced through him.
"That," she said, glancing briefly at Corlan, "is how you end a fight. Against absolute power, there is no defence. No offence. Nothing."
And just like that, her demeanour changed.
As she approached Sylen, her icy aura melted into something almost serene, her steps lighter, her expression softening as though a winter storm had transformed into a gentle spring breeze.
Sylen's smile met her like sunlight, and he reached out casually, brushing a hand through her hair in wordless praise.
Then, he dismounted from his wolf and walked toward Evan's fallen body.
"I am not so cold-hearted as to let someone of our race die," he said evenly, his voice carrying the calm authority of someone used to obedience. "Even an enemy deserves a second chance. Theron, heal him."
A staff-wielding healer stepped forward, eyes closing as he began to chant. Light flared under Evan's body, a magic circle pulsing as it mended torn flesh and stitched his wound closed.
But Elya's strike had been brutal, and Theron's spell wasn't enough to fully restore him.
Which was fine by Evan.
Taking advantage of the cover, he quietly activated his talent, accelerating his regeneration under the guise of Theron's healing. New skin knit together, his vitality surging back, though his body still trembled from blood loss.
Sylen watched with a faint furrow in his brow.
Strange. Theron's healing isn't that strong. This one… has secrets.
Once the healer stepped back, Sylen's voice cut through the murmuring crowd.
"I see great potential in you," he said, his silver hair catching the sunlight as if he were carved from myth. "Join my team, and you can soar through the skies like a bird."
The offer sent another wave of murmurs through the crowd—this time filled with envy and awe. For most adventurers, such an invitation was the pinnacle of achievement.
But Evan only chuckled, low and bitter.
"Hah…" he rasped, forcing himself upright despite his weakness. "Rather than follow you like a sheep, I'd rather be a wolf for the rest of my life."
The crowd erupted.
"Arrogant fool!"
"A toad in a well!"
"Who turns down Twilight?!"
Their adoration shifted back to Sylen, who stood as the picture of composure, though his eyes gleamed faintly with interest.
Sylen's silver eyes never wavered as he faced Evan, his voice carrying the weight of a decree.
"Very well, Mr. Wolf," he said, his words sharp enough to cut through the air. "I hereby proclaim that no one in the Zeroth Expanse shall allow you into their party. Consider your wish for solitude granted. Even if you beg to join someone, no one will take you. And when you finally realise what you've thrown away…" His lips curved into a cold smile. "…you'll understand the price of arrogance."
The crowd erupted in murmurs, their whispers already spreading like wildfire. By the time the sun set, every corner of the Expanse would know: the Mage of Death had defied Twilight—and been cast down for it.
Sylen leaned closer, his breath brushing Evan's ear as his voice dropped to a venomous whisper only he could hear.
"Say goodbye to your easy life, kid. From today onward, you're done. No parties. No allies. Try crossing us again, try spouting more of your self-righteous trash, and I'll feed your corpse to my wolf—piece by piece. And for the humiliation you tried to put on us today?" A chilling promise dripped from each word. "Once our current mission is done, I'll come find you myself. I'll give you a taste of agony so deep that you'll beg for death… and I'll make sure death never comes."
Sylen straightened, his cold menace fading back into that calm, untouchable charisma as he walked toward his mount.
Evan said nothing. He simply stared back, blank and unreadable.
Then Twilight departed, their leader at the front, their vice leader at his side, their swordsman trailing in shame. The crowd followed, buzzing with judgment and gossip, leaving Evan alone in the dust by the roadside.
But where others would expect despair, Evan's lips curled upward.
A smile—wide, foolish, and utterly wrong for the situation—spread across his bloodstained face.
"Perfect," he muttered under his breath. "Just as I wanted. Now I can work freely… in the shadows, without interference."
It had all been deliberate.
His fame had grown too quickly. Three days. That was all it took for the title Mage of Death to spread through the Expanse. Teams had lined up to recruit him. Adventurers had begged to join him. Everywhere he went, the spotlight followed.
And he hated it.
He wasn't meant to be adored. He was meant to be unseen.
So he'd devised a plan to tear his own reputation apart.
Provoking Twilight in public. Allowing himself to be "humiliated." Even taking Elya's strike without dodging—a blow he could have countered or avoided if he'd wanted. Every move was calculated. Every sacrifice is intentional.
Now, branded as arrogant trash and blacklisted from every party, he had exactly what he needed: obscurity.
'Sylen's ego played his part beautifully,' Evan thought, recalling the cold promise whispered in his ear. 'And Elya… she's even easier to manipulate than I imagined. Her devotion to him is almost laughable.'
His chest still ached, and his body trembled with exhaustion as he pushed himself to his feet. But his grin didn't fade.
Being weak means you endure everything. But when the world believes you're weak, it stops watching you.
Back at the inn, the atmosphere shifted the moment he stepped through the door. Conversations halted. Heads turned.
Grins and chuckles rippled through the room, mocking and cruel. The news had spread faster than he'd expected.
Good, Evan thought as he ascended the stairs in his shredded, bloodstained clothes. Spread it further. Let every ear hear of my "downfall." Only then will I be free to move.
His shirt, sliced apart by Elya's blade, clung to him like a testament to his defeat. He'd need new clothes soon—but first, he needed to recover.
A few days later…
His strength had returned, his wounds fully healed. He'd spent his time holed up in the inn, prioritising recovery and avoiding Twilight altogether. Provoking them again so soon would only risk unnecessary attention, and Sylen's threat—though meaningless to Evan—wasn't something he wanted to test prematurely.
Still, one puzzle remained unsolved.
Arven, he thought, his eyes narrowing as he adjusted his cloak. What's the reason Sylen's Luck is hidden?
No answer yet. But he'd find out soon enough.
Today was the day his weapons would finally be ready, along with whatever "surprise" Drogmir had promised him. Whether it turned out to be a blessing or a trap didn't matter. Either outcome could be used to his advantage.
With his mask pulled into place and his mind sharpened, Evan stepped into the streets.
"Let's see what awaits," he murmured, the faintest shadow of a grin touching his lips.
→ To be Continued…