Wolf's boots carried him deeper into the alley until steel refused to yield any farther.
A dead end.
The walls here were old—older than the surrounding streets—metal laid by hands long turned to dust. Moss clung in the cracks like scars that never healed. Moisture seeped from between stones, carrying the cold, metallic smell of forgotten rain.
Overhead, the sky was reduced to a narrow strip of gray, barely breathing light into the passage.
He stopped.
For a moment, he simply stood there, shoulders loose, posture unguarded—but his eyes were alive, sharp, measuring. Then he raised one hand and pressed his palm against the wall.
Slowly, deliberately, he moved it.
Crack by crack.
His fingers traced imperfections, feeling for hollow resonance, for subtle inconsistencies—pressure points hidden beneath age and neglect. His other hand joined, sweeping the opposite wall, his steps small and careful, breath shallow enough not to disturb the air.
"…Hm?"
He paused.
The sound escaped him before thought caught up—a quiet syllable, edged with doubt.
Should I call her name?
The idea made his lips tighten.
No. No…
A beat passed.
"…Yeah," he murmured to himself. "I should add that."
Wolf leaned forward until his forehead nearly touched the wall.
The metal was cold, leeching heat from his skin.
He tilted his head, lips brushing the rough surface, and whispered—so softly that even the alley seemed to strain to hear it.
"Lamentia has returned."
The words slipped into the cracks between metal.
Then—
Nothing.
Wolf straightened.
He waited.
Seconds stretched. Then minutes.
The alley remained unchanged—no tremor, no shift in air, no answering presence. Just the distant hum of the city beyond, muffled and uncaring.
He waited longer.
"…Hah?"
A crease formed between his brows.
Am I wrong?
His gaze drifted to the ground, unfocused.
…Or perhaps none of them are alive now.
Two thousand years.
The number carried weight. Time that crushed empires, erased bloodlines, turned legends into footnotes.
"…It would make sense."
He exhaled slowly, the breath fogging faintly before dispersing.
"…Or maybe it's not this alleyway."
Wolf shook his head once, sharper this time, as if cutting the thought away.
"No. I don't have enough clues for that."
His jaw set.
"If it's not this one, then I'd have to give up."
The implication settled heavy in his chest.
If I truly invest—if I spend every day searching—I lose time I can't afford.
Another pause.
Then, finally, resignation.
Wolf let out a long sigh, shoulders dropping just a fraction as he stepped back from the wall.
And in that instant—
The air changed.
Not abruptly nor violently.
It thickened.
The alley grew dense, as if gravity itself had leaned closer.
Sound dulled.
Even the city's distant noise seemed to retreat, swallowed by an unseen pressure.
Wolf's spine straightened immediately—muscles tightening without conscious command.
Without hesitation, he turned.
A presence stood behind him.
Close.
Too close.
A voice followed—deep, low, carrying weight rather than volume. It brushed against Wolf's senses like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.
"…Leader?"
Wolf's pupils constricted.
That voice—
His breath caught.
Both of them mirrored the same expression in the same heartbeat—surprise, sharp and unguarded.
"…Varsh?" Wolf said.
The name left him before disbelief could stop it.
His hand rose to his forehead, fingers pressing there as if grounding himself.
Of all people… you?
Varsh stood towering before him, forcing even Wolf to tilt his head upward.
He was built like a fortress given flesh—large bones, impossibly broad shoulders, and a body packed with functional muscle rather than ornament.
His face was severe—sharp, angular jawline, a high straight nose, features cut as if by deliberate design. His eyes were deep, almost black—midnight blue, like a cold ocean that swallowed light rather than reflected it.
Long sandy-blond hair fell around his neck, resting against his shoulders, unmoving despite the faint breeze that crept through the alley.
He wore a long tactical trench coat in dark forest green, paired with a gaiter scarf of the same color, draped with military precision. Dark black cargo pants completed the silhouette—practical, worn, utilitarian.
On his right arm, bandages wrapped from shoulder to hand—but not clean white.
Off-white. Old. Stained. As if they had been replaced many times, yet never removed entirely.
Varsh's gaze lingered on Wolf longer than necessary.
Then his expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. His brows drew together, eyes narrowing not in hostility, but in assessment.
"…Why is your body like this?" Varsh asked.
His voice was low, steady, but there was something beneath it—an edge of concern sharpened by familiarity. His eyes traced Wolf's posture.
Wolf clicked his tongue softly and waved a hand as if brushing away dust.
"I'll deal with it later," he said lightly. "Besides—there's something more important."
The casual tone vanished halfway through the sentence.
When he looked back up at Varsh, his eyes had hardened, sharpening into something cold and focused.
"What have you been doing," Wolf asked, each word deliberate, "and what information do you have?"
Varsh studied him in silence.
For a moment, his expression was… strange. Not confusion. Not resistance. Something closer to recognition—like seeing an old scar reopened in a new place.
Then he nodded once.
"I've been wandering," Varsh said. "In case I found someone I know."
A pause.
"As for information…" His eyes flicked briefly to the alley's mouth, then to the walls themselves. "It might be better if we talk in a private place."
Wolf's lips curled—not quite a smile, but close.
"Private place, huh…" He hummed thoughtfully. "Hm. Then if you don't have any special plans—"
He stepped forward and extended his left hand.
"—join me again."
Varsh stared at the hand.
His face remained serious for a breath longer, weighing something unseen. Then the tension drained from his shoulders, and his expression softened just enough to matter.
He extended his right hand.
Their hands clasped.
Firm and certain without hesitation.
Wolf's expression eased into something genuinely warm—rare, fleeting.
"Follow me," Wolf said. "We're heading back to Moritz's house."
They turned and left the alley together, their footsteps fading into the city's layered noise.
And only then—
From the wall Wolf had spoken to earlier, a figure emerged.
The man stepped out from behind as if he had peeled himself free from the shadow itself. His eyes burned with confusion—and something darker.
"Who is he…?" he muttered.
Hostility coiled tight in his gaze as he stared at the empty alley.
An hour later.
Moritz's house stood quiet beneath the evening sky.
Inside, Wolf and Varsh moved through familiar corridors until they reached the private study.
Heavy wooden shelves lined the walls, packed with ledgers, maps, and sealed documents. The scent of ink and old parchment hung thick in the air. lamps cast amber light across a long table at the room's center.
Wolf took his seat first.
Solina sat beside him, posture composed but eyes alert.
Varsh seated himself across, beside Moritz, his tall frame making the chair seem smaller than it was.
Moments later, footsteps approached.
The door opened.
Moritz entered, followed closely by Solina—who took her place without a word, her gaze flicking briefly to Varsh before returning to Wolf.
Moritz cleared his throat.
"Ahem. Ahem…" He glanced around the table. "So. We need to talk about the plan, right?"
His eyes sharpened.
"But before that—do you want to tell us who you really are?"
The question hung in the air.
It wasn't aimed only at Varsh.
Wolf's face remained unreadable.
Varsh straightened slightly and spoke before silence could stretch too long.
"My name is Varlam Osmier," he said evenly. "You can call me Varsh—for better communication."
His eyes shifted briefly to Wolf, then back to the others.
"I've worked with Wolf before. And now, I'm working with him once more."
Wolf's people…?
The thought struck both Solina and Moritz at the same time.
Is he really someone from higher up? Another kingdom? Another empire?
Wolf exhaled once and raised his hand.
"Enough about that," he said calmly. "He says that, but he's a good friend of mine."
Good friend…?
Solina's expression didn't change, but her thoughts sharpened.
I highly doubt that.
Moritz swallowed.
If he really is a friend… then Wolf must has more allies in the shadows than I thought.
Wolf leaned forward slightly, fingers interlacing on the table.
"Now," he said, voice firm, "let's address the matter of how to push House Armani into the competition, shall we?"
The air shifted.
He began to explain.
"The plan is to apply pressure from both inside and outside—weakening both houses while we rise quickly to the surface and force their hand."
Solina listened closely, eyes narrowing as she followed each step.
"We'll use rebels, terrorists, and infiltrators to our advantage," Wolf continued. "While both houses are too busy watching their own backs."
Moritz's eyes widened slightly.
"At that point," Wolf said, "House Ferrante—the one holding the most power—will be forced to deploy their people. And they won't trust House Vento to cover them."
He tapped the table lightly.
"They'll fear each other. Afraid of being pushed off the wall they built together."
Solina's breath slowed as the picture formed.
"In that chaos," Wolf said, "we let the seed of doubt grow. We build Solina's image as the victim. And when the time is right—"
His eyes sharpened.
"—we expose what they did ten years ago."
As he spoke, Solina absorbed every word, her expression tightening with focus.
Moritz, on the other hand, sat stunned—half in disbelief, half in awe.
Across the table, Varsh remained motionless.
Straight-faced.
Unmoved.
They don't know what he's capable of, Varsh thought.
Even in a world this limited—in strength, in knowledge, in time—this would be child's play to him.
He has already orchestrated an entire world once.
Managing this would take him no effort at all.
That was only theory.
Reality demanded acknowledgment of the unknown—variables unseen, threads not yet revealed.
If he treated it lightly, it would become a problem.
Varsh sighed internally.
It doesn't change anything.
Judgment still needs to be served.
And when the time comes—
I will serve him… as I take my chance to serve judgment upon those who committed their crimes.
Wolf did not speak immediately.
For a heartbeat—no, less than that—his mind accelerated, thoughts colliding and aligning with ruthless efficiency. Pieces slid into place faster than breath.
Of course… it doesn't have to be Valgard infiltrators specifically.
Those loyalists would be really useful, yes—but in the long term.
But time is the one thing I don't have.
His fingers tightened faintly against one another beneath the table.
Uncertainty is a luxury right now.
What he needed was immediacy—impact. Chaos that could be synchronized.
Rebels and terrorists working at the same time. Overlapping pressure points.
Give them no room for breathing.
His gaze drifted, just slightly, toward Varsh.
And then there's him.
An unknown factor. Appearing out of nowhere—almost absurdly convenient.
A lucky man I am…
But the thought didn't linger long.
It's not that crazy, Wolf admitted inwardly. There were nine founders. Including me.
Nine seeds scattered into the world.
Four kingdoms. Two empires. That left eight possible directions.
I should've expected to encounter at least one of them.
On the way back, Wolf had looked.
Not openly. Just a flicker of intent.
A translucent window—visible to him—had surfaced beside Varsh's frame for a fraction of a second.
Varlam Osmier
Numbers. Excessively large.
Attributes that dwarfed even elite standards.
Passive skills stacked atop one another.
Active skills layered with terrifying efficiency.
A class…
Wolf's jaw had tightened then.
Even now, I still don't have one.
He didn't know how Varsh's abilities truly worked—not yet. But having him nearby was already a form of insurance.
A walking contingency.
The thoughts ceased as cleanly as they began.
Wolf lifted his head.
His voice returned—steady, composed, carrying authority without raising volume.
"Moritz."
Moritz straightened instantly.
"You'll be in charge of managing and contacting the rebels, terrorists, and infiltrators," Wolf said. "Bring them to our side. Coordinate timing, resources, objectives."
Moritz nodded, absorbing every word.
"You may take Solina with you on certain cases," Wolf added.
Solina's eyes flickered—not surprise, but readiness.
"Solina," Wolf continued, turning to her. "You'll oversee our military weapons. Distribution. Readiness. You'll also assist Moritz and Varsh when necessary."
He paused.
"And Varsh will be my assistant."
The word settled heavier than the rest.
"I'll need you to gather something for me," Wolf said, his gaze locking with hers, "and then… find more of our friends."
Friends!?
The thought struck Moritz and Solina simultaneously.
Friends…? How many are there? How deep does this go?
Neither voiced it.
Outside the study, unseen ears and unseen minds mirrored the same reaction—expressions shifting, postures tightening, as the word rippled outward like a disturbance in still water.
"Understood," Moritz said firmly.
"Yes," Solina echoed, bowing her head slightly.
Wolf leaned back in his chair.
"Then you two may go now," he said softly. "I need to talk with Varsh alone."
Moritz rose, nodding once more before turning toward the door.
Solina hesitated just a fraction of a second—then offered a small, polite gesture of farewell.
Wolf returned it.
The door closed behind them with a muted click.
Silence reclaimed the study.
The lamplight flickered.
Varsh finally shifted, folding his hands together atop the table.
His voice was calm, almost casual—but his eyes were sharp, attentive.
"So," he asked, tilting his head slightly, "what do you need me to gathering for?"
Behind the cliff—hidden from any road, any careless eye—people lived.
The wall rose like a broken tooth from the earth, sheer and scarred by age, its shadow swallowing an entire settlement carved into the rock's spine.
Narrow terraces clung to the cliff face, linked by iron ladders and worn stone steps. Smoke drifted lazily from vents cut into the stone, carrying the scent of oil, metal, and boiled grain.
It was not a village meant to be seen. It was a holdfast—patient, disciplined, enduring.
They stood gathered in a wide natural hollow at the cliff's base.
Men and women alike wore the same style of clothing: high, stiff collars that brushed their jaws, coats cut straight and severe, reminiscent of military uniforms long abandoned by the surface world.
The fabric was coarse, practical—made to endure friction, weather, and blood. Sleeves were often rolled, revealing forearms corded with muscle.
These were not decorative bodies. They were built through labor, drilling, and restraint.
Their eyes—cool-toned for the most part—steel gray, pale blue, dark brown verging on black—were anything but calm.
They flickered.
Anger simmered beneath tightened brows. Fear clung to widened pupils. Suspicion coiled in the way shoulders hunched and hands hovered near concealed blades.
Low murmurs rippled through the crowd, overlapping whispers scraping against one another like steel dragged across stone.
Then—
Four figures stepped forward.
The effect was immediate.
Sound died.
As if a hand had closed around the hollow itself, squeezing the air from it.
All gazes snapped into alignment, converging on the four with almost ritual obedience.
Two of them appeared young—strong-backed, sharp-eyed, their movements charged with restless energy. The other two bore the weight of years, their posture rigid not from weakness but from discipline etched into bone.
One of the elders—a woman—stepped half a pace forward.
Her hair was iron-gray, braided tightly and bound at the nape of her neck. Her face was lined, not with softness, but with command. When she spoke, her voice carried without effort—firm, resonant, and accustomed to being obeyed.
"Who is he?" she asked.
No embellishment. No preamble.
A man from the crowd moved before waiting for permission, boots crunching against gravel.
Several heads turned sharply—but the old woman lifted her hand.
Two fingers.
Enough.
The man halted, straightened, and snapped into posture as if a switch had been thrown.
He spoke in a crisp, controlled cadence—like a soldier delivering a report to a superior officer.
"His name is Wolf," he said.
"He appeared in the Axion Kingdom yesterday, at the bar where Moritz was present. They played Red Needle."
A ripple passed through the listeners at the name of the game.
"Wolf won," the man continued evenly, "while betting his life on the line."
A pause—brief, deliberate.
"Today, our men confirmed that he publicly announced himself as one of the Armani. Solina Armani was by his side."
The hollow stirred again—sharper this time.
"Solina Armani…?" the old woman repeated, her brow furrowing.
Her gaze shifted slightly, inward, memory stirring.
"If I'm not mistaken," she said slowly, "she was Jerald Armani's daughter, wasn't she?"
She exhaled through her nose.
"More importantly—we already know House Armani was wiped out ten years ago."
Her eyes hardened.
"But if there were to be a survivor… then only Solina Armani fits."
One of the younger men stepped forward, boots grinding against stone.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, his movements loose but coiled—like a blade not yet drawn. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, eyes gleaming with restless intelligence.
"As for Wolf…" he said, voice energetic, low, and loud enough to carry across the hollow, "it's clear what he is."
He let the words hang for a heartbeat.
"An impostor," he concluded. "Someone from outside."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.
Another voice joined in—clearer, steadier.
A young woman stepped beside him.
Her posture was straight, her expression composed, her eyes sharp with conviction rather than emotion.
"That may be true, Tortent," she said evenly, "but we need to look at the bigger picture."
Tortent clicked his tongue softly but didn't interrupt.
"Announcing himself as Armani," she continued, "and debuting Solina on the public stage means he intends to revive House Armani."
Several heads tilted.
"Doing so under the eyes of the Lion and the Snake," she added quietly, "is suicide."
Her gaze swept the crowd.
"Which means they need help."
She met Tortent's eyes.
"Us."
Tortent shot her an irritated look before turning away, arms crossing as he faced the crowd instead.
"So you're saying," he said, voice edged with disbelief, "that man threw out such an obvious bait because he wants our hand?"
He gestured sharply.
"And how did he even know we exist?" he snapped. "We've been hiding for ages—decades—without being discovered!"
The hollow erupted again—whispers flaring, bodies shifting, tension crackling.
"Eleonora, you—"
The words were cut off.
"Silence."
The voice was old.
And absolute.
An elderly man stepped forward.
His hair was white, cropped short. His face bore deep lines carved by time and authority. When he moved, the crowd parted instinctively, heads lowering as he passed.
He stopped at the center.
His gaze swept across them—cold, piercing, unimpressed.
"It seems," he said slowly, "that we have lived so long… that we've forgotten what matters most."
No one spoke.
"Our purpose," he continued, voice firm. "Lamentia."
The word struck like a bell.
"It does not matter what his plan is," the old man said. "If his words are true—if House Armani lives—then we can finally fulfill our long-held duty."
His eyes narrowed.
"Our desire."
A heavy pause.
"We will speak with him."
The decision settled like stone.
He turned his head slightly.
"Joran."
The man who had reported earlier straightened instantly.
"Yes, sir!" he answered without hesitation.
"You will send my message to him," the old man said.
Joran bowed his head. "At once."
The elder's gaze hardened further as he looked back to the crowd.
"Do not forget," he said coldly, "our progenitor."
A collective shudder passed through them.
The crowd answered as one—voices aligned, unwavering.
"Yes, sir!"