The ambient noise of the ballroom evaporated instantly.
The clinking of crystal glasses, the murmurs of financial transactions, and the forced laughter of the elite died out. It was replaced by a suffocating, heavy dread that swept through the foyer like a sudden drop in temperature.
Through the wide double doors, Lord Volt of Nobility Tor stepped into the mansion.
This time, his appearance was different. The black leather eyestrap he usually wore was entirely gone, exposing his full countenance to the shifting glow of the chandeliers.
He wore a coat of dark, immaculate velvet trimmed with silver threading—a garment that screamed absolute authority without trying. He carried no weapons, yet his presence alone felt like a loaded firearm pointed at the room.
The surrounding businessmen and their wives instinctively stepped backward. They pressed themselves against the walls to clear a wide, undisputed path.
They watched him with wide, nervous eyes, their breaths hitching in their throats. Volt was a predator navigating a room full of livestock, and every person present knew that a single wrong look could cost them their entire lineage.
Standing near the edge of the crowd, Alaric felt a familiar, primal chill run down his spine. His throat went completely dry. He subconsciously gulped, his knuckles whitening slightly as he gripped his wine glass.
Beneath his ribs, his subterranean heart gave a heavy, unyielding thump—a low, rhythmic anchor that forced the sudden surge of adrenaline back down into his veins.
He regulated his breath. Three inhales, three exhales. The purplish essence of Singularity remained perfectly docile beneath his skin.
Volt didn't acknowledge the terrified stares. He walked with a fluid, terrifying elegance directly toward a silver tray held by a trembling waiter.
With a slow, deliberate movement, his pale fingers wrapped around a crystal glass. He lifted it, his exposed eyes scanning the dark crimson liquid before he took a slow, methodical sip.
His gaze flicked up, cutting through the crowded room with the sharp precision of a ledger audit. He didn't look at Mark Kruch, nor did he look at the other merchant hounds who had spent the last eighteen days gorging on Alaric's remains.
His eyes locked directly onto Alaric Xyle and Tylor Vanevold standing together by the wall.
A faint, unreadable expression crossed Volt's face. Swirling the wine in his glass, he began to walk toward them.
His leather boots struck the polished marble in a slow, rhythmic cadence that sounded exactly like the ticking of a countdown clock.
Volt finally stopped just in front of Alaric as he looked beside him, glaring at Tylor. Volt raised his glass of wine high. "To my close friend !"
It was so loud that some people jerked, including Mark Kruch.
As Volt stretched both his hands and hugged Alaric, Alaric was at the edge of materializing his Lumen Siphon when Volt whispered to him.
"Don't..... No one wants to slaughter almost whole western sector..it will be hard for me to answer to crown."
Alaric opened his mouth, but no voice came as Volt continued. "You have something planned for me or if not for me then for those three sack of meats but...I don't care."
This time, Alaric finally opened his mouth. "We'll see how much you care."
Volt narrowed his eyes, still hugging him. "Is it ? Mr.Seller....We will definitely see."
As Alaric finally broke him from the hug, he finally got a proper chance to look at Volt's face. And the very moment he looked at him, he knew how to get authority over Volt.
As he leaned forward toward Volt, he whispered, "You have gotten your very eyes to sacrifice to use conduit.... amazing."
But it was completely the opposite of what Alaric expected.
"Amazing...isn't it ?" Volt said while sipping his wine.
Volt pulled back completely, his expression reverting to that same maddening, untouchable mask of noble detachment.
He patted Alaric on the shoulder with a heavy, patronizing familiarity, gave Tylor a final, dismissive glance, and turned his back on them.
He didn't offer another word. He simply glided away into the center of the ballroom, leaving the air behind him feeling thick and static.
Alaric didn't stay to watch him mingle. The revelation about Volt's sacrifice and the noble's absolute lack of fear regarding it had thrown a wrench into his immediate calculations.
His pulse was thumping too loudly against his ribs. Turning on his heel, he bypassed the staring crowd and marched back up the grand staircase, retreating into the absolute isolation of his bedroom.
He locked the door, leaning his back against the heavy wood as he took a series of slow, ragged breaths to calm his subterranean heart.
He had thought pointing out the flaw, the missing perception, would unbalance the man who had mutilated him. Instead, Volt had worn it like a badge of pride.
The calculation had to be revised. The margin for error was shrinking.
For nearly twenty minutes, Alaric stood in the dim room, staring at the floorboards, rebuilding the architecture of his masterpiece in his head until the frantic thoughts settled back into perfect, cold order.
When he finally unlocked the door and descended back into the foyer, the atmosphere of the party had shifted from suffocating dread to a bizarre, chaotic frenzy.
Near the ice sculpture, the elite facade of the Western Sector had completely cracked.
Mark Kruch, Will Amkrik lek, and Eldrin Ashworth were standing in a tight, aggressive circle, arguing incredibly loudly with a couple of high-tier trade auditors.
Their faces were flushed a violent crimson, their voices overlapping in a barrage of defensive shouts regarding frozen distribution lines and seized capital. The very mention of Alaric's company names was being thrown around like a curse word.
And right in the center of the madness was Lord Volt.
The noble was completely unbothered by the shouting of his merchant hounds. In fact, he seemed entirely amused by the chaos.
Holding a fresh bottle of Teal Charm wine in one hand and his crystal glass in the other, Volt smiled.
With a wide, theatrical sweep of his arm, he began tossing wine directly out of his glass, spraying the dark crimson liquid over the nearby guests and the polished marble floor in an extravagant, mocking display of traditional sector celebration.
The elite didn't dare complain about their stained silks, they simply cheered nervously, trying to match the predatory rhythm of the lord who pulled their strings.
Alaric stood on the bottom step, his immaculate charcoal suit completely untouched by the airborne droplets, watching the theater unfold with a cold, unyielding gaze.
The stage was set, the actors were unraveling, and the real transaction was closing in.
The thin veil of aristocratic poise shattered entirely over the next half hour. The dark, heavily poured vintage wine Alaric had distributed earlier was finally taking its toll, rotting the judgment of the three men who had stolen his distribution lines.
What began as a defensive argument with the trade auditors dissolved into a violent, internal meltdown.
Mark Kruch's deep, gravelly voice boiled over into a roar as he slammed his heavy gold-headed cane onto the marble floor, pointing it directly at Will Amkrik lek's chest.
"You think I don't know about the southern transit routes you intercepted, Will?!" Kruch bellowed, his face a sickening shade of purple. "You bypassed the registry and cut my factories completely out of the supply chain!"
"It was an open market, you fat pig!" Will fired back, completely unhinged, shoving Kruch backward.
His crystal glass shattered against the floorboards, splashing dark liquid over their boots. "You were too slow to claim the marrow, so don't cry to me when you starve!"
Eldrin Ashworth tried to step between them, his eyes wide with a mixture of panic and alcohol-fueled aggression.
But the moment he put a hand on Kruch's shoulder, the stout businessman swung his cane wildly, clipping Ashworth across the jaw.
A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom. The fight was no longer subtle.
Within seconds, the three primary merchant pillars of Volt's economic scythe were actively shoving, screaming, and tearing at each other's tailored coats in a chaotic, desperate display of greed turned inward.
The surrounding elite didn't wait to see the conclusion. The sight of the top merchants engaging in a back-alley brawl, combined with the unpredictable presence of nobility, made the room entirely unsafe.
Guests began to flood toward the exit in an anxious, hurried mass, scrambling for their coats and summoning their carriages into the freezing December night.
Volt stood just a few paces away from the brawl, completely untouched by the swinging limbs. He watched his three merchant hounds dismantle their own dignity with a cold, hollow amusement.
Slowly, he turned his gaze away from the chaos and walked toward the grand staircase where Alaric stood.
Stopping at the bottom step, Volt leaned in close. The scent of Teal Charm wine drifted off him, but his breath was perfectly steady, his voice a chilling, quiet promise that cut through the background shouting.
"We'll meet soon, Mr. Seller," Volt whispered, his exposed eyes narrowing into sharp, dark slits. "Make sure your ledger is ready."
Without waiting for an answer, Volt turned on his heel and glided out through the wide double doors, leaving the fading echoes of his footsteps behind.
It took less than ten minutes for the guards to clear the remaining stragglers. The shouting merchants were dragged out into the snow, their financial alliances thoroughly incinerated in the span of a single evening.
Finally, the mansion fell dead silent. Every single guest was gone.
Alaric walked slowly down the stairs, his boots clicking rhythmically against the marble floor, now stained with crimson wine and shattered glass.
He reached the heavy oak front doors and pushed them shut. The brass lock turned with a definitive, heavy click, sealing the estate off from the rest of the Western Sector.
He stood alone in the dim foyer. Reaching into the deep inner pocket of his immaculate charcoal suit, his right hand wrapped around the smooth, familiar texture of his hidden asset.
He pulled out the dark, polished wooden and bamboo mask.
With a calm, mechanical precision, Alaric raised it to his face and tied the thick straps securely behind his head, locking the faceless, unyielding visage into place.
The party was over. The variables had been calculated, the targets had fractured themselves exactly as intended, and the masterpiece was finally ready to bleed.