"So it really is like this… No wonder the bloodline of a Phantasmal Species is so extraordinary."
The deep cellar reeked with the heavy stench of blood.
This wasn't the vault where the maid Automatons were stored, nor the training hall for mercenaries. This was Rhodes's laboratory.
And of course, this "laboratory" had nothing to do with certain Skyrim mods infamous for breaking your back. Love Labs or whatever—he'd never touched that nonsense.
This place wasn't a den of pleasure. It was a purgatory.
The walls were sealed with reinforced alloy plates, the floor solid steel. Harsh white incandescent lamps illuminated the room. In front of Rhodes stood a massive table, four or five meters long.
On it writhed a beast—or rather, a man who had become one.
A Werewolf. A remnant of humanity's fading imagination, hailed by magi as one of the rare Phantasmal Species.
But this specimen wasn't pure. It was a mongrel, bearing only traces of Phantasmal blood.
"Just a sliver of Phantasmal Species bloodline can grant this much strength…" Rhodes muttered, scalpel in hand as he cut into the Werewolf's thick muscle, its bulletproof hide, its claws sharp enough to rend steel. His face flickered with astonishment.
Not at its power—but at its potential use in war.
Even a Werewolf this diluted could slaughter ordinary Fes or even Pride-rank magi. And those of purer blood—their "chieftains"—would be even more terrifying.
Yet creating one was cheap. All it took was a healthy young man… and a dose of Werewolf fluids.
"A dream weapon of war. No wonder they survived extinction. They had their purpose."
The silver scalpel flashed. Rhodes brought it down, severing the twitching Werewolf's neck. A spray of blood splattered toward him, only to splash harmlessly against a crimson barrier of Magecraft.
Behind that wall of bloodlight, his eyes gleamed with cold fire.
"Not a bad harvest this time." He clapped his hands lightly. At the sharp sound, a figure appeared behind him—a girl in a dark green gauze dress.
"Master." RyuZU dipped a curtsy, lifting her skirt just enough to reveal the pale lines of her calves.
Too bad. Rhodes might've been a degenerate, but he wasn't a leg fetishist. Strictly a lolicon.
"Go to the Clock Tower's black market. Bring me some healthy young men—preferably vicious criminals."
"As you will." She nodded faintly. Her figure vanished, slipping away with the spell of Time Stop.
"Really now. Using such precious mana so casually?" Rhodes clicked his tongue, then turned back to the cooling corpse on the table.
"Werewolf lycanthropy… what a fascinating bloodline."
◇◇◇
Moments later, in the Clock Tower's black market.
Built inside a lavish estate, the "black market" was hardly hidden—every magus knew of it. There was no need for secrecy; the Twelve Lords themselves held stakes in its trade. Backed by nobility, it thrived.
What it sold were things beyond morality. Humans. Strange races. Anything and everything could be bought here. Every item broke the law of the era.
RyuZU strolled through the halls, eyes drifting lazily over the wares as she searched for a slave-trader's stall.
Other magi glanced her way. Desire flickered briefly at her beauty, but reason swiftly crushed it.
Magi were rational creatures. Some might worship appearances, but they weren't ruled by their loins. The girl radiated a powerful magical aura—no half-baked magus would dare provoke her. Unable to see her true nature, they assumed she was the heir of some great family.
"Wretched humans," she whispered under her breath, her tone sharp with scorn. "Aside from Master, all mankind is filth."
"I can't let that slide, Automaton."
A proud voice rang behind her. A black whip cracked through the air, blocking her path.
The wielder was a girl of seventeen or eighteen, orange-red hair tied in a ponytail, her pretty face set in arrogant disdain.
"An Automaton dares look down on magi? Who's your master? Looks like he needs to repair your attitude."
Her sharp words shook the air. The atmosphere itself twisted.
Wind—furious, violent, compressed into a storm.
In the enclosed estate, a tempest bloomed and condensed into twelve arrows, streaking straight for RyuZU.
"Hmph. An Automaton without even a decent bloodline, and you dare insult a magus?" The redheaded girl sneered, not even glancing at her target's impending fate. "You're only fit to be scrap."
But then—
The arrows shattered. The roaring winds dissolved, their Magecraft unraveled. A heavy, suffocating voice rose before her, and her body stiffened.
"Oh? Are you doubting my work?"
Calm though the voice was, its pressure weighed down like iron. The air grew thick, choking, impossible to breathe.
A boy stood there—fifteen, maybe sixteen—with clear eyes gleaming cold with murder.
"Tell me your name," said Rhodes. "Then—die."
"Vrrm—"
As if answering him, dark scythes slid from beneath RyuZU's skirts, while sleek, mana-charged guns floated into the air. Their barrels gleamed with deadly light, aimed straight at the girl.
At that instant—tension snapped taut as a blade.