The leader pressed forward, every swing of his blade tearing the floor apart in shambles.

Azhriel met each strike with threads that hardened like blades, but even reinforced with frost, they trembled with every clash.

Cracks ran across the tiles beneath his feet.

Another slash came down—a black arc of fire.

Azhriel's body blurred.

The attack cleaved through empty air.

Space folded around him, a ripple so faint it was almost invisible, and he appeared several meters to the side, threads already lashing out.

Blink.

The last remaining Adept warrior to his right didn't even have time to react. A thin silver line appeared across his neck, and then blood. The man fell soundlessly.

The leader's eyes widened.

"Space…" he hissed.

Only two left.

The leader.

And the boy.

The room was littered with broken bodies, blood soaking the cracked tiles.

For the first time, the Adept+ leader looked unsettled.

"You've made quite a mess for someone at such a low rank," he said, his tone cold, though there was an edge of unease now. "But this ends here."

Black fire flared across his blade, brighter and hotter, twisting with demonic energy. The heat licked across the walls, turning frost into steam.

Azhriel tightened his grip on his threads, his breathing uneven. The wounds had taken toll however he can still go on.

He blinked.

The leader swung, and again, the strike hit nothing but the cold air.

Blink.

The leader turned, defending his back just in time to meet the next attack. Their weapons clashed, sparks bursting from the collision.

Blink.

Left. Then right. Then above.

Each time Azhriel appeared, he struck—threads lashing, frost slamming into the floor.

Small wounds began to appear on the leader's body, shallow but steady, as if death itself was carving away at him one cut at a time.

The Leader growled.

"You think you can whittle me down?"

His aura exploded outward. The floor shattered. Debris flew in every direction. Black fire spread in a wide arc, cutting through everything.

For a moment, it seemed as though the blast consumed the boy.

But then—

Blink.

It was the moment he was waiting for, when the leader would let his guard down in rage.

Azhriel appeared directly behind him, closer than before, threads tightening around both arms.

This time, there was no retreat.

He pulled.

Dozens of threads closed in all at once, like a hundred blades. Frost surged down them, a cold so sharp it cut deeper than steel.

The leader roared, spinning, black flames burning everything around him in a desperate attempt to break free.

But frost doesn't burn. It spreads.

The threads wrapped around his arms, his chest, his legs. The cold bit deep, freezing the corrupted energy, slowing it.

And then, with a final twist, Azhriel yanked.

The threads crossed.

The Adept+ warrior froze, his scream cut short as frost spread across his body, freezing him mid-motion. His sword clattered to the ground.

A heartbeat later, the ice cracked.

The leader went blank, falling into lifeless husk.

*****

The museum was silent now.

Only the faint whistle of the night wind drifted in through the broken windows, carrying the smell of blood and frost.

Azhriel walked down the cracked hall slowly, a black shard cold in his hand. His boots left faint prints in the frost he himself had made.

The rage that had burned in him during the fight was gone, leaving only a hollow calm.

Everywhere his eyes turned, there was ruin.

Broken furniture. Frozen bodies. Blood, dark and sticky, glinting under the moonlight.

He stopped near the center of the hall.

His fingers flexed slightly, looking at the shallow cuts from his threads. The small trails of blood on his hands seemed more vivid than everything else in the room.

He exhaled.

It misted in front of him.

This was the first time he had killed so many.

It didn't feel good.

But he didn't regret it.

If he hadn't, that family would have been slaughtered. And these seven… they were already long past saving.

He tilted his head back, looking at the pale moon through the broken ceiling.

Now, only one thing was left to do.

Azhriel's boots crunched over the frost-covered floor as he walked to where the leader's corpse lay sprawled. The man's lifeless eyes stared at nothing, frozen wide in disbelief.

Without hesitation, Azhriel knelt beside him and tugged at the black robe, his fingers moving with practiced precision.

After a few moments of searching, he found what he had come for—a small, round device, no bigger than a fist, hidden inside the inner folds of the garment.

The object pulsed faintly with a sickly red glow, almost like a heart still beating. However he didn't break it.

Cold blue light gathered faintly in his palm as he studied it, his expression calm, but his eyes sharp.

Instead, his gaze turned to the corner of the hall where the family huddled together. The man who had been stabbed earlier now sat upright, his wound already healed by the potion.

The man struggled to his feet, then bowed deeply before Azhriel, his voice trembling with gratitude.

"Thank you… thank you so much. If you hadn't come when you did, my whole family… we would have died here."

"It's fine," Azhriel said, his voice calm and even. "But you should leave. The investigators will be here soon. It'll be better if you're not involved in this mess."

"I see…" the man murmured, though his tone carried hesitation.

Azhriel caught it instantly. His eyes narrowed slightly. "What is it?"

The man hesitated, glancing back at his wife and children before speaking softly.

"Sir… as you can see, we're beggars. If we leave this place, we have nowhere else to go. No food. No shelter."

Azhriel stood silent for a moment, listening to his words. Then a thought crossed his mind.

'Ah, how stupid of me," he thought to himself. 'How could I ignore such free… uhm, workers.'

"Do you know how to handle basic management? Or simple calculations?" he asked suddenly.

"Pardon?" The man blinked in surprise.

"I asked," Azhriel repeated, "if you can do simple management or mathematics. If you can, I can give you a job."

The man's eyes went wide, hope flaring in them. "Yes! Though I'm not great at maths, my wife is excellent with numbers. And I… I may look like this now, but I used to work in an alchemy shop before life went bad."

"Good," Azhriel said simply. He raised his hand and a shimmering, faintly glowing parchment appeared in the air between them. "Then sign this."

The man's jaw dropped slightly. "A mana contract?"

"Yes. A safeguard so you don't run away," Azhriel said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The man hesitated for only a moment before nodding firmly. "Alright."

He pricked his finger and signed. The contract dissolved into white dust, scattering in the cold wind.

"Good," Azhriel said. "Now, my sla—" he coughed lightly, covering the slip. "—my future workers, take this."

He handed the man a small pouch of coins.

"Go to Morgan's Inn. Stay there until I come for you. Understand?"

The man thought he'd heard something strange a moment ago, but looking at the young man's cold, beautiful face, he dismissed the thought.

"Yes, sir! Thank you so much!"

"Go," Azhriel said with a slight nod.

The family quickly gathered their meager belongings and left, their steps hasty but full of relief.

When they were far enough away from the museum, Azhriel placed the strange device on the ground and whispered a small beginner's spell over it. A faint glow pulsed before dying out.

He also put up the letter for Alaric and hanged the seven bodies with thread.

And then he was gone. The ruined museum fell silent once again, the moonlight shining down on the frozen carnage as if nothing had ever happened.

*****

Vroom!

The roar of the bike echoed faintly as Azhriel leaned into the wind, his cloak snapping behind him.

His eyes stayed fixed ahead, calm but sharp, like he was watching something only he could see.

"This much time should be enough," he murmured under his breath.

With a snap of his fingers, a faint shimmer of magic rippled through the night behind him.

BOOM!

The muffled explosion came from far back at the museum.

The detonation spell he had left behind did its work perfectly—the device shattered, and with it, the barrier that had been suppressing the demonic energy broke apart.

Like a tide, the corrupt energy spilled out of the building, flooding the area. Anyone with senses sharp enough would feel it immediately.

Perfect bait.

Azhriel didn't look back. He simply tightened his grip on the handles slightly and let the bike glide faster, the hum of the engine steady and smooth.

By the time the moon had climbed high into the sky, the bike finally slowed. The tires screeched lightly as he pulled on the brakes, coming to a smooth stop in front of the tall, silent silhouette of the clock tower.

He removed his helmet, the night wind brushing over his face. For a moment, he just stood there, staring up at the tower.

"After a day like this," he muttered, almost to himself, "I guess some peace would be good."

And there was no better place to find it than here.

With quiet steps, Azhriel walked inside, the echoes of his footsteps lost in the vast stillness.