SOTBW - 192

As night fell, the streets filled with gambling dens and taverns grew noisy. Kalki, who had grown gaunt in just a few days, entered the tavern with an anxious expression.

Seated in a corner, Kalki awkwardly gestured to place an order for a meal. The server gave him a strange look—ordering only bread and stew without alcohol was unusual—and then headed toward the kitchen.

Kalki, who had rushed straight here after finishing his shift at the Records Office, looked like someone who had narrowly escaped death. The experience in the forbidden archives had been so shocking that he had gone through his work in a daze, barely aware of what he was transcribing.

Kalki was now hypersensitive and exhausted, to the point where even hearing Najane’s name made him shudder. The more he mulled over what the elderly guardian of the archives had told him, the more chills ran down his spine, and his palms sweated as though he had committed some grave sin.

Though it was clear that Najane’s records were stored in the forbidden archives, Kalki had no intention of sharing even that much with the informant. He simply wanted out—gambling debts and all. 

He had brought along the advance payment he’d received, intending to return it. Normally, he would have rushed to the gambling den right after work, but after the old man’s warning, he no longer felt any desire to gamble.

Just as the server brought out a hastily prepared stew with rye bread, the burly informant Kalki had met at the gambling den sat down across from him. Without even glancing at the man, Kalki pushed the money pouch toward him.

The informant’s expression shifted oddly at the sight of the pouch.

“What’s this?”

“…It’s the advance I received earlier. I haven’t spent a single coin, so please check it.”

“I heard you worked at the Records Office. Did you fail to dig up any information? If so, I can give you more time…”

“No, no, I just want out of this whole thing.”

Without looking at the man, Kalki deliberately focused on his stew and bread. The informant eyed him suspiciously, squinting.

Kalki’s demeanor had completely changed in just a few days. Not long ago, he was desperate for money because of his gambling debts, but now he seemed eager to sever ties with the informant as if he were a pious priest wanting nothing to do with sin.

“You were so eager before… What’s with this sudden change? Are you short on cash?”

The informant probed cautiously. Kalki shook his head silently, his attitude stubborn and unyielding, as if refusing to say another word.

The informant glanced at his colleagues posing as customers nearby and opened the pouch. Sure enough, the full advance was still inside. His expression twisted into a scowl.

Desperate to bring back useful information to Rockbell, he found Kalki’s sudden reluctance infuriating. This man, whom he had thought would be an easy target, was now being utterly uncooperative.

After pretending to count the money, the informant sighed.

“Tell me what you want. I’ll give you anything.”

But Kalki flatly rejected him.

“There’s nothing. I don’t want anything. From now on, I’ll live an ordinary life—repenting and paying off my debts. So, please, find someone else. I… I must’ve gone mad for a moment, blinded by money. I’m truly sorry…”

With that, Kalki wolfed down the stew as if trying to escape. He had only ordered the bread and stew because sitting there empty-handed felt awkward, but the portion turned out to be larger than expected.

Kalki wanted to leave as soon as possible. He felt that if he returned home, prayed for repentance, and slept in his soft bed, everything might improve.

However, the informant was not one to give up easily. With persistent persuasion, he tapped the sticky table to draw Kalki’s attention.

“Do you feel guilty about doing something wrong? Leaking a few lines of information isn’t such a big deal… Didn’t I tell you before? There are nasty rumors swirling around Najane Schnicks!”

“Listen, sir.”

Kalki, who had been hurriedly eating his stew, gave the informant a look of exasperation. He recalled the conversation he’d had in the forbidden archives and shuddered.

“I admit I have accumulated debts and was driven mad by your offer because of my gambling addiction. But gambling requires being alive, doesn’t it? What’s the point if I end up dead? Huh?”

Kalki set down his spoon and whispered irritably. At his words, the informant’s expression subtly twisted. Mentioning life and death in connection with Najane Schnicks’ information carried ominous implications.

The informant stared at Kalki, urging him to elaborate. But Kalki shook his head and picked up his coat, which he had briefly set aside.

“This is all I can say… I can’t go any further…”

As the sharp gaze of the elderly man behind his magnifying glasses resurfaced in his mind, Kalki suddenly lost his appetite. He set down the rye bread and rose from his seat.

The informant tried to stop him, urging him to at least have a drink before leaving, but Kalki coldly brushed off his hand. After fastening his coat, Kalki sniffled and looked down at the informant.

“If I may offer some advice in return for the few coins you gave me that day—don’t dig too deeply into that knight. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss.”

With those cryptic words, Kalki left the tavern. The informant glared at the half-eaten meal Kalki had left behind and slammed his fist hard on the table. The coins in his pouch jingled loudly as they bounced around. The informant’s colleagues, who had been posing as customers nearby, clicked their tongues and picked up the scattered coins.

Though he had failed to obtain the information Rockbell wanted about Najane, piecing together Kalki’s recent words led to one conclusion: Najane Schnicks’ records were stored in the forbidden archives, and they were guarded so strictly that even mentioning them made Kalki speak of life and death.

“Being classified as forbidden texts means it’s connected to the Pope….”

Staring at the now-empty seat across from him, the informant clicked his tongue and stood up. As if on cue, the “customers” surrounding him also rose simultaneously.

The kitchen staff watched in surprise as the planted patrons flowed out like an ebbing tide, leaving the tavern eerily quiet.

The server, bewildered, stared at the untouched food on the table before sneaking a slice of ham into his mouth. For someone to leave such delicious food uneaten—they must all be incredibly busy.

---

Belshua sat perched by the window, surveying the magic circles spread across the entire room. He had transformed the space into a giant mana detector to track the moment Kieron used magic. This setup had earned him complaints from the maids who couldn’t clean the room, forcing him to come up with plausible excuses for Jacob.

Kieron, likely realizing he couldn’t defeat Mahilen at his current level, had remained hidden for quite some time. Gazing at the dense array of magic circles covering the ceiling, Belshua swallowed a sigh.

When Belshua had raided Kieron’s house, he had shattered the man’s body into pieces. In hindsight, that body wasn’t even his original one. To avoid losing himself, Kieron had been possessing corpses.

While he could use magic to delay decomposition, doing so would waste too much mana. It was far more practical to buy slaves from the black market and transfer into fresh bodies.

By Belshua’s estimation, Kieron had likely transferred bodies countless times—perhaps hundreds. That night, after losing his body, Kieron had hastily possessed a decaying corpse to escape the mansion. No matter how cold the winter, there was no stopping the decay of a dead body, so finding a fresh host must have been desperate business.

Unless the issue with Kieron was resolved, helping Najane—or even deciding whether to help her—was out of the question.

Leaning against the window, Belshua furrowed his brow, his head aching just from thinking about it. When Kieron turned twenty, the elder council of the Schnelia Kingdom’s Magic Association unanimously appointed him a Grand Magician.

The title of youngest Grand Magician boosted Kieron’s self-esteem, which had been crushed by his mother’s abandonment. That confidence soon became the foundation for his reckless courage to challenge taboos.

Belshua could still vividly recall that day.

On a stormy night in the border city, Kieron had come to Astrun, kneeling before the sister he had envied and hated his entire life.

“Please, please, Matis… Help me just this once…. Master’s gone… because of me, because of a wretch like me…. If you’ll cooperate with my research, I’ll give you everything I own. What do you want? The Bastronia family inheritance? Take it, take it all! I’ll do whatever you ask. Just help bring Master back to life, and I swear I’ll never show my face before you again…. Please, don’t turn me away…. You already have everything…. Everything I ever wanted, you still possess….”

But Matis, unwilling to break taboos, had rejected Kieron’s proposal. While she understood his desire to revive Bersha, Matis didn’t want to risk jeopardizing her newlywed life with Sains.

Moreover, Kieron had come shortly after Matis and Sains had married. Busy fending off the growing number of monsters near the border, they hadn’t even had time to enjoy their honeymoon. Politely, Matis sent Kieron away.

At the time, it seemed like the best decision. Back then, no one—not even Mahilen—could have imagined Kieron would go to such extremes.

Belshua gazed at the dormant magic circles and then out the window. Night had fallen without him noticing. Whether he liked it or not, it was time to head out to the field.

Rising from the windowsill, Belshua gathered his heavy armor. As he began changing his shoes, the floor beneath him suddenly lit up. The magic circles glowed faintly—a sign that someone in Noctis Fortress was using mana.

Belshua’s eyes sharpened as he quickly grabbed his manastone. Forgetting entirely that he was supposed to deploy, he instantly teleported to the top of the cathedral spire.

His golden eyes gleamed fiercely as they scanned the vast city below. Carefully tracing the flow of mana, Belshua eventually focused on the district filled with inns and taverns. A strange mana signature was emanating from somewhere within.

Belshua moved to the back alleys of the district. Walking naturally as if he belonged there, he followed the concentrated aura and arrived in front of an ordinary brick house, the kind found everywhere in the fortress.

Tucking the manastone into his pocket, Belshua glanced at the window, caked with layers of dust and dried rainwater. Inside, the house appeared to be a typical household, but residual mana was unmistakably detectable.

Belshua unlocked the front door’s latches using magic, acting as if it were his own home. There were no signs of life inside. After securing the door behind him, he calmly inspected the interior, where he noticed a suspiciously overturned carpet.

Lifting the carpet revealed a door leading to the basement. Without hesitation, Belshua descended. Following the chilly staircase, he arrived in a cellar where several female corpses lay abandoned.

Standing at the threshold, Belshua gazed at the bodies with a desolate expression, slowly stepping forward. Among the corpses, there were no men—only female slaves, all dead for reasons unknown.

There were no signs of experimentation or torture. Despite examining the cold, lifeless bodies multiple times, Belshua could find nothing unusual. He wondered why only female slaves had been killed, but reaching a conclusion here was impossible.

Belshua meticulously searched every room in the house. It seemed Kieron had anticipated being tracked, as intricate magic circles were drawn throughout the building. These were all designed to block mana and presence detection. If Belshua hadn’t turned his entire room into a mana detector, he might never have realized Kieron was hiding here.

Clenching his teeth, Belshua attempted to use his perspective ability to examine the house’s foundations when his gaze suddenly shifted to the fireplace. Something was burning inside the large hearth, more than enough to warm the spacious living room.

Kieron didn’t feel the cold. The notion that a possessing will could sense temperature was unheard of.

With mana enveloping his hands, Belshua carefully pulled out what looked like charred firewood. But it wasn’t wood—it was a human arm. Gazing at the crushed, charcoal-like fingers with revulsion, Belshua tossed it back into the fireplace.

Letting out a long sigh, Belshua glanced sidelong at the darkened window. Time was running out; he needed to change into his armor and leave before someone came knocking on his bedroom door.

With a heavy heart, Belshua surveyed the house one last time, clinging to a final hope as he examined Kieron’s magic circles. One thing was certain: Kieron had been in this house very recently.

Closing his eyes, Belshua traced the faint remnants of mana left in the magic circles. Though the chances of finding Kieron this way were slim, doing something was better than doing nothing.

Following the exceedingly faint and fragile thread of mana, Belshua closed his eyes. At one point, the mana trail abruptly ended. Keeping his eyes shut, he pinpointed the location where Kieron’s last trace of mana had lingered. It was a village within Noctis Fortress, inhabited by those with considerable wealth.

Belshua withdrew his hand from the magic circle and opened his eyes.

Directly across from where the mana trail ended stood a mansion that undoubtedly belonged to… 

“Lucas Elgort?”

Muttering the familiar name, Belshua’s face twisted in frustration.