The village was in chaos.
The commotion caused by Diggen's men had roused everyone from their homes, and the able-bodied were quickly mobilized to help extinguish the blaze. Thick smoke filled the night air, clinging to skin and clothing, while the orange glow of the flames painted the villagers' faces with desperation and dread.
Ethan, however, had no intention of helping.
He stood just outside the house, arms crossed, staring northward. The cold bit at his skin, but his mind was elsewhere—racing through possibilities. He debated whether to make a run for it, but he already knew the truth. The fire would be handled quickly, and he didn't have the time or supplies to slip away unnoticed. Frustration gnawed at him.
Shit… I didn't think they'd act this fast. There goes one of my chances.
He cursed himself for not moving earlier. If only he had left before sunset, while the village was still calm. Now he was trapped—forced to stand by while the people he hated scrambled to protect something they barely owned.
Behind him, the door creaked open.
Wayla stepped outside, wrapped in a thick coat but still visibly shivering. She didn't even glance at Ethan as she marched off toward the growing crowd, clearly heading to help with the fire.
Ethan watched her go, his expression unreadable.
Then something strange happened.
A rat—ordinary in size but anything but normal—scurried up to the doorstep. But it wasn't crawling. It was walking—on two legs. Like a person.
It stopped in front of Ethan, dropped a small leather pouch at his feet, and—without missing a beat—raised a tiny paw and flipped him off.
Then it turned and bolted into the darkness, vanishing between the huts without so much as a glance back.
Ethan stood frozen, stunned.
Slowly, his gaze drifted from the direction the rat had gone to the pouch now lying at his feet.
Ethan stared at the pouch, his mind racing.
Crouching down, he picked it up and untied the string. Inside were a dozen small white pills. He didn't need to guess—this was the "medicine" Stanley and Wayla had been so eager for him to take.
His jaw clenched.
One by one, he flicked the pills into the darkness, scattering them across the ground like seeds he hoped would never bloom. When the pouch was empty, he dropped it without a second thought and wiped his hands clean on his pants.
With that out of the way, he turned north.
He wasn't sure why he felt drawn to the drug farm. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe spite. But a part of him wanted to see the looks on their faces—the people who thrived on the suffering of others—as they watched their precious operation reduced to ash.
He moved quickly through the village's winding dirt paths, keeping to the shadows. But halfway there, he froze.
A group of men were walking briskly through the side path, their silhouettes sharp against the flickering light. One of them carried what looked like a body slung over his shoulder—limp, lifeless.
Ethan couldn't make out who the victim was—it was too dark—but he recognized one of the others immediately.
Jenkins.
The gang leader turned his head as if sensing Ethan's presence. His lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. Then he lifted a finger to his mouth and gave a quiet, deliberate shush gesture.
Ethan said nothing. He simply nodded and kept moving. He didn't want trouble. Not yet.
By the time he reached the drug farm, the chaos had mostly subsided. The fire had been beaten down to smoldering embers, but the damage was done—charred wooden scaffolds, blackened rows of herbs, and smoke still curling up into the night sky.
Villagers scrambled across the scorched field, their mouths and noses wrapped in cloth, tossing water and dirt onto the lingering embers. Their faces were drawn tight with fatigue and fear. Every bucket they emptied was a futile attempt to undo what was already lost.
And then Ethan saw him.
Diggen stood apart from the others, motionless.
His fists were clenched so tightly that blood trickled down from his palms, the nails having broken skin. His eyes burned with fury as he stared at the wreckage—not moving, not helping—just seething.
Ethan watched from a distance, silent.
For the first time in a long while, he felt something like satisfaction.
Diggen's mind was a storm of turmoil.
He hadn't always been a thug. Or a monster. Once—long ago—he had been someone different. A boy awestruck by mana and aura users, captivated by their power, their elegance. He had dreamed of becoming one of them. And he had worked for it—trained relentlessly, scraped together favors, begged his way into one of the kingdom's top academies.
He wasn't the brightest, nor the most talented. And he awakened his aura later than most. But none of that mattered. He had done it.
He had become an aura user.
For a brief, shining moment, he was proud of who he was. He had earned a place in the unit of a man he revered—a senior knight named Adler, one of the few recognized masters in the realm. Diggen had idolized him. He thought he'd found purpose.
But that dream had been short-lived.
It was Adler who destroyed his core.
The very man he had worshipped turned on him, shattering the source of his power with a stroke. Not a misunderstanding. Not an accident. An execution, ordered from above. And the last words Diggen heard from the man he once admired were spoken with a cold blade at his throat: "Leave. Go find a happier life."
But there was no happiness left.
Not for a crippled aura user.
Not in a kingdom where commoners couldn't even step into a city without coin.
He had wandered for years—bitter, broken, forgotten.
Eventually, he found this village. Rotting, lawless, ignored. It was perfect. With a few old connections and the right bribes, he carved out his own domain. Here, he didn't need aura. Here, his word was law.
But now, it was all slipping through his fingers.
He stood before the smoldering ruin of his drug farm, watching the embers consume the last remnants of his empire. The foundation of everything he had clawed back for himself was collapsing.
"Whoever did this," he growled, his voice shaking with rage, "will pay a hundred times over."
He turned and walked away, unaware that the fire was only the beginning of his nightmare.
Ethan watched from a distance, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. Good for you, asshole, he thought, his eyes brimming with scorn. Then he spotted Stanley off to the side, hunched over and gulping down water, his face pale with exhaustion. The sight only sweetened Ethan's satisfaction.
It took less than two hours to put out the fire, but for Stanley, the nightmare had only just begun. The cargo meant for trade had been spared—barely—but that was small comfort. His mind raced with dread. This wasn't an accident. Diggen's going to start investigating tomorrow… and things could get ugly.
He sighed and muttered under his breath, "At least I'm clean."
As the words left his mouth, he turned—and froze.
Ethan was standing a few meters away, arms crossed, eyes locked on him with a cold, murderous glare. Stanley felt a chill ripple down his spine. For a moment, a terrifying thought crept into his mind: Was it him?
No… it can't be. He tried to shake the thought. He came home late, but I had two men watching him the whole time… didn't I?