The scent of parchment, ink, and oiled leather filled the air as Ify stepped into the Adventurer's Guild. The large hall buzzed with activity—mercenaries boasting about recent kills, bounty hunters haggling over contracts, and guild staff shuffling papers behind thick wooden counters.
Ify headed straight for the quest board, her eyes scanning the fluttering sheets of posted jobs. Most were mid to high-level contracts—monster subjugations, high-risk escort missions, artifact retrievals. She ignored those and focused on the lighter jobs.
"Let's see…" she murmured, fingers trailing across the papers. "Cleaning out a vermin den in lower Brage? Nah. Escort duty for a spice merchant? Too long. Hmm…"
She finally settled on a straightforward job: "Investigate Strange Disappearances at the Edge of the Market District." It was low-risk, probably nothing major. Perfect for the current team—especially considering the boys hadn't even registered with the guild yet.
With a soft sigh, she took the quest paper and approached the reception.
A young receptionist with circular glasses looked up and smiled politely. "Good morning, Miss Ify. Registering a job?"
"Yes," she said, handing over the quest slip. "I'll be handling this one. Solo for now—but I'll probably bring two others once they're officially registered."
"Very well. You're still a D-rank, so this is within your limit." The receptionist stamped the sheet and handed back the duplicate. "Good luck!"
Ify nodded, sliding the paper into her satchel. She turned to leave, her expression calm, but something itched at the back of her mind. A vague discomfort—like she was being watched.
She paused at the entrance of the guild hall, glancing around casually. Adventurers milled about in their usual chaotic rhythm. No one seemed out of place.
She gave a small shake of her head. Maybe I'm just being paranoid… she thought and stepped outside.
From across the cobbled street, nestled in the shadow of a crumbling watchtower, a figure stood still—partially hidden by a street vendor's canvas.
The figure was clad in a weathered, hooded cloak, their features obscured by the shade.
They said nothing. Made no move.
Just watched.
In their gloved hand, they held a small, worn portrait—clearly sketched in haste but unmistakable. A likeness of Ify, her braids tied back, her eyes focused and proud.
The figure's gaze shifted from the portrait to the real girl now walking down the street. Then they tucked the paper into their cloak and began to move.
Silently.
Purposefully.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
The sound of leather cracking and metal sliding filled the silence.
From every dark corner of the lounge, goons stood up—burly men with bad hygiene, tattoos crawling up their necks, and eyes filled with the type of greed that came with taking too much and losing even more. A few girls backed away quickly, instinctively recognizing that the room was about to go up in smoke.
"Bara," Malik said again, voice like distant thunder. "Last warning."
Bara leaned in, unbothered. "You're the blade. I'm just the spark."
The moment shattered.
A thug with a crowbar lunged forward—aiming for Bara's head.
Malik moved first.
He stepped between the swing and Bara like a phantom, catching the man's wrist mid-air. The blow never landed. With a bone-snapping twist, Malik broke the arm backwards with surgical precision. The man didn't even have time to scream before Malik kicked him in the chest—his body flying back like a rag doll into a glass cabinet, shattering it into a thousand shards.
The others reacted at once.
Two men came at him from either side with daggers.
Malik ducked under the first, swept the second off his feet, and used the momentum to spin into a roundhouse that cracked the first man's jaw with a wet pop. Another brute tried to stab him from behind—Malik stepped sideways, grabbed the man by the shoulder, and drove an elbow into his solar plexus so hard the man vomited blood instantly.
"That's gonna need a prayer," Bara said cheerfully, stepping over a groaning body. "You always fight like this when you skip breakfast?"
Malik didn't answer.
He was already inside the storm.
A group of four thugs rushed him together—trying to overpower him with numbers. One swung a chain, another had knuckle dusters, the others came with sheer brute force.
Malik danced through them.
The chain whipped through the air—and Malik caught it. He twisted it around his arm and yanked, pulling the wielder forward into a brutal knee to the chin. He used the chain like a leash to spin the man into another thug, toppling both.
The one with the dusters landed a punch to Malik's side—only to realize too late it did nothing.
Malik turned slowly.
His hood slipped slightly as he looked at him—those cursed eyes glowing red beneath the shadow, a cruel echo of ancient power. The man froze.
Malik grabbed his throat, lifted him slightly off the ground, and threw him through the beaded curtains leading to the private booths. A crash of wood and screams followed.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Bara announced to no one in particular, walking calmly between the chaos, "please don't be alarmed. We are professionals."
He stooped beside a man groaning on the floor. "Well… mostly."
Malik ducked a sword slash, then retaliated with a blinding-fast palm strike that sent the attacker flying across the room and into a table of half-naked gamblers. Bottles exploded. Cards scattered like confetti.
Blood, sweat, and broken furniture coated the floor like a second skin.
Now there was only one man left between them and the velvet hallway: a muscular brute with mana runes glowing on his arms, eyes pulsing blue, lips curled in arrogance. A magic bruiser. He cracked his neck and took a stance.
"You're not walking past me," he growled.
Malik said nothing.
He let his hoodie fall fully—revealing his sharp face, emotionless, and those cursed red eyes now fully ignited like embers in a storm.
He moved.
Faster than the bruiser could react, Malik closed the gap and punched. The man raised a mana shield—but Malik's punch broke through it, shattering the construct with a thunderous sound. His second blow struck the bruiser in the ribs; the third hit his jaw, snapping his head back.
The final strike was a leaping kick that smashed the man into the ceiling.
He fell, limp.
"Boom," Bara whispered, snapping his fingers as he passed the body.
"Looks like the big boys have decided to play", Bara smirked running his hands mischievously.
The tension thickened like smog.
Malik stood still, his hood shadowing his face as his cursed energy began to leak—a dark, pulsing aura like ink dropped in water. It slithered across the floor, creeping toward the goons like a predator sizing its prey.
Bara, unbothered, rocked on his heels and announced, "Your boss owes me money. I'm not leaving without it—or a few teeth as interest."
A musclebound thug with glass arms—literally transparent, sharp-edged, refracting light like crystal—stepped forward. "You shouldn't be here, freak."
Another man's skin turned metallic as molten brass ran under his flesh like lava. His knuckles glowed red-hot. A girl in the back twisted her neck unnaturally, eyes glowing violet as she duplicated herself into three, each form shimmering and twitching in sync.
One last man stood up—slender, almost pretty-faced, but then his mouth split from ear to ear, revealing a grotesque spiral of teeth. He giggled with three voices.
Malik stepped forward.
He didn't speak.
Instead, he grabbed a nearby broken table leg.
Dark red essence rippled from his palm—a living curse burning into the wood, reshaping it in seconds into a jagged black spear that bled smoke.
"Ohh shit," Bara whistled. "Daddy's cooking."
The fight exploded.
The crystal-armed thug charged with blinding speed, arms morphing into blade-like scythes. Malik met him in the middle, cursed spear deflecting the strike with a resounding clang. He twisted and jabbed—the spear impaling the man's side. A pulse of cursed energy surged from the weapon, corrupting the crystal, causing his arm to crack, warp, and implode in a burst of shards.
From behind, the molten man slammed both fists down. Malik vanished in a blur, appearing behind him. With a flick, he touched a broken chain on the floor—his cursed energy turning it into a glowing whip. He lashed it once—it seared through the brass man's chest like butter, sending him crashing into the bar, unconscious and sizzling.
"Come on," Bara yelled, ducking as a chair flew past his head. "At least let one of them land a hit for the drama!"
Malik didn't smile.
The girl and her two clones attacked in unison, one from the front, two from the flanks. Malik spun, cursed energy flaring—he slammed his palm into the floor. The very ground beneath them warped and turned into spiked cursed stone, impaling one of the illusions and disrupting the others.
He caught one by the throat and channeled cursed energy directly into her, her body contorting and falling limp.
Then came the giggler.
The spiral-mouthed man moved erratically, disappearing and reappearing mid-laugh, tossing black smoke bombs and reeking of a trickster's curse. He appeared behind Bara.
"Boo."
But Malik was faster.
He reached for a nearby bottle, cursed it mid-air, and threw it without looking. It struck the man's stomach—the bottle expanding and exploding into black shards mid-impact, sending him flying into a couch, mouth twitching and bleeding.
"Nice arm," Bara muttered, dusting glass off his coat. "You should try baseball."
Now the room was silent—littered with bodies twitching or groaning in pain. Smoke curled from the cursed residue Malik had left behind.
He stood in the center, eyes glowing red, shadows writhing at his feet. Even the remaining girls backed away slowly, horror etched into their faces.
The curtains parted.
Behind them was luxury and rot. Hookahs puffed smoke lazily into the air. Girls with dead eyes lounged in silk. Gold chandeliers hung from cracked ceilings. Velvet furniture sprawled across the room like spilled wine.
And there—sitting like a king on a makeshift throne—was the man known as De'Volk.
Crimson robe. Gold rings. Eyes black with cruelty. A knife rested lazily in his hand, flipping between fingers. His lips curled in irritation.
"You've made quite a mess," he said. "Do you know who you're dealing with?"
Bara stepped forward, unbothered.
"Oh, I know exactly who the fuck you are."
"You are De'Volk, the greatest pimp and loan shark of an arse in these parts of Darvenholm, you know your reputation precedes you"
Bara swaggered in like he owned the place.
"I must say, You've got quite the welcoming committee. Pity they all suck."
Malik entered behind him, silent and predatory, fingers still laced with cursed aura.
De'Volk's guards reached for their weapons—but hesitated when they met Malik's eyes. Something ancient moved behind those pupils.
Bara casually placed one boot on the cushion between De'Volk's legs—leaning forward, face inches from his. The girls nearby flinched. The guards twitched.
"Let's make this easy," Bara said, smile sharp as glass. "Where the hell's the money?"
De'Volk smiled thinly. "You're brave, little boy."
"No," Bara replied, voice like silk dipped in venom. "I'm bored."
Behind him, Malik's palm brushed against a brass candlestick—it curled into a jagged dagger, humming with cursed energy.
"And you're about to be broke and limbless if you don't talk fast."