Meanwhile, in Wilfharm…
[Adventurers' Guild – Guild Master's Office]
The air in the dimly lit office was thick with tension. The scent of parchment and ink mingled with the faint aroma of aged liquor, but the Guild Master had no mind for either. His fingers drummed against the oak desk, the only sound accompanying the swirling storm in his thoughts.
"Damn it all… only nine bodies were found. But sixteen adventurers—gone. Just vanished into thin air."
His brows furrowed deeper as his mind raced. These weren't just ordinary adventurers; they were among the strongest in his guild.
"Nine sixth-order adventurers… and now we're down to two. Nine fifth-order… all missing."
He clenched his jaw, the veins in his temple throbbing. The guild had already been running thin on elite manpower, but this? This was a catastrophe.
"Could it be those two?"
His eyes narrowed as the memory of a particular silver-haired youth surfaced in his mind. There had been something eerily familiar about the mana that had erupted during the chaos.
Even the crowned prince had now issued a request for assistance.
The Guild Master leaned back, exhaling sharply.
"What the hell am I supposed to do? Should I just disband the guild? I have more than enough wealth to live the rest of my days in luxury…"
The thought flickered for a moment—tempting, logical—but he crushed it before it could take root.
No. He owed the previous king his life. The least he could do was fight by his side. Even if the odds were grim.
Grabbing a quill, he began scrawling a letter, detailing the guild's crippling losses and the laughable number of warriors he could still offer. His hand trembled slightly—not from fear, but from frustration.
To make matters worse, rumors had begun to spread.
Some adventurers had accused him of protecting those two strangers—of taking a bribe in exchange for letting them off.
"Tch. Fools."
His fingers tightened around the quill.
"Those two aren't normal. Not a single piece of information exists about them."
It was unsettling. No adventurer of such caliber could possibly be unknown. And that was the most terrifying part.
"I'll have to be careful… very careful."
Back in Aelfhim…
The grand hall of Aelfhim's royal citadel was bathed in the soft glow of enchanted crystals, their azure light casting ghostly reflections upon the polished marble floors. Yet, despite the serene ambiance, the air was thick with tension.
Three commanders stood before Princess Roselle, their expressions grim. Two remained silent, but the third had dared to voice his concern.
"Princess Roselle!" The commander's voice was urgent. "We cannot survive a war against Wilfharm! Thousands of lives will be lost if we engage them! Please, reconsider this path!"
His voice carried the weight of reason, but Roselle's eyes—cold, unyielding—bore into him with a silent challenge.
A slow, measured breath left her lips.
"The first step to winning a war… is cleansing your own ranks."
Her words were sharp, slicing through the air like a blade.
The commander stiffened.
His pulse quickened.
"Why is she looking at me like that? Has she… realized I'm a spy?"
No. Impossible.
Yet, as Roselle took a single step forward, her presence alone felt suffocating. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was like a waterfall—heavy, inescapable—yet calm, like the stillness of a pond before a storm.
"Amongst our ranks, I have discovered traitors."
A whisper of magic flickered in her obsidian eyes, an unseen force pressing upon the room.
"A pity," she continued, "but I will make an example of those who betray my vision. I will not tolerate disloyalty in my conquest to unite the southern regions."
Her piercing gaze locked onto him.
"So, Commander Phillip… what do you have to say in your defense?"
Silence.
A beat passed. Then another.
Sweat beaded along the commander's brow as he stumbled back, eyes darting to the other two commanders for support—only to find them frozen in place.
"I… I don't understand what you're saying!" His voice wavered, the once-confident military officer reduced to a man on the brink of collapse.
Roselle exhaled.
"It's fine," she said, her voice eerily gentle. "You don't need to understand. You only need to grasp the consequences."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"Which is instant death."
A sharp, tangible fear filled the space.
It was not just the words.
It was the certainty behind them.
The other two commanders felt their breath hitch.
Just a month ago, they had all been stronger than Roselle.
She was merely a fifth-order, while they had stood at the sixth.
Yet now…
Now, even they felt like insects beneath her presence.
Phillip's breathing grew erratic.
Then, suddenly—
"Hahaha… hahaha… HA!"
A manic grin spread across his face.
"If that's how it is, then I'll take you all down with me!"
His body ignited in a furious red glow, the volatile mana surging like a violent storm. The two other commanders leaped back instinctively—recognizing the unmistakable spell.
A self-detonation spell.
A suicide attack that even a seventh-order warrior could not escape unscathed.
For a fraction of a second, the hall was drenched in crimson light.
Then—
Roselle moved.
Her fingers brushed against the hilt of Excalibur, and a golden sphere expanded from her body, swallowing the entire chamber.
Time.
Stopped.
The glow in Phillip's body froze mid-surge.
The two remaining commanders stood motionless, their wide eyes locked in horror.
And Roselle—
Roselle walked forward, her obsidian pupils reflecting the unmoving world. With a deliberate motion, she raised Excalibur and thrust it into his chest, the blade severing something deeper than flesh—something abstract.
The Mana Heart.
A moment later, time resumed its flow.
A strangled gasp tore from Phillip's lips, his eyes widening in disbelief as all light drained from them.
His lifeless body crashed to the floor.
The two remaining commanders stood frozen, staring in horror.
Phillip was supposed to self-destruct.
And yet, now he lay dead, unmoving, with no trace of an explosion.
Their gaze snapped to Roselle.
She sheathed Excalibur without a word, her expression unbothered, unmoved—as if she had simply squashed an insect.
A shudder ran through their spines.
This…
This wasn't the princess they knew.
She had always been power-hungry, always chased strength… but this?
This was something else entirely.
And in their hearts, a single, terrifying thought began to take root.
"Did she form a contract with the Demon?"
They had seen him.
Luseraph.
The Demon Lord who had single-handedly crushed the fallen angels.
Had he… given her his power?
If so—
Then Aelfhim had changed forever.