Five minutes later, the man appeared, carrying a steel tray in both hands. Zay looked up, the warm, yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread drifting toward him as the man approached. His footsteps echoed across the marble floor—soft, deliberate thuds reverberating faintly in the cozy silence of the bakery.
"Here's the bread, sir," the man said with a friendly smile.
As he moved to set the tray down onto the wooden table, his grip slipped. The tray landed with a heavy thud, skidding slightly as it struck the table's surface. The impact made the cutlery clatter and caused the loaves to wobble for a moment before settling in place. The metallic ringing hung in the air like a distant chime, soon drowned by the steady rhythm of rain battering the bakery's windows.
"I-I'm so sorry about that!" the man blurted, flinching slightly. His voice carried a note of genuine remorse, nervousness creeping into his expression as he glanced anxiously toward the front door.
Zay lowered his gaze to the tray, then gave a small chuckle under his breath. "It's fine. No need to get worked up about it. Everything looks perfectly fine."
The man exhaled, visibly relieved, though tension still lingered in his shoulders.
"If that's the case… could you, uh, not tell my boss?" he asked quietly. "He'd kill me if he found out I dropped one of his trays—doesn't matter if it was on purpose or not."
Zay leaned back in the chair slightly and gave a calm nod. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone."
He flashed a reassuring smile, raising a hand to give a casual thumbs-up before returning his attention to the tray. A knife and fork rested beside the bread, catching the soft glow from the hanging lantern above. His fingers reached for the knife—long, clean, and sharp. He wrapped his hand slowly around the handle, the smooth grip fitting snugly in his palm. Then, with a quiet breath, he lifted it and began to slice into the bread.
The blade cut through with almost no resistance. The loaf yielded like butter, each slice falling neatly away with barely a sound. Zay raised an eyebrow in appreciation.
'This knife is amazing at what it does,' he thought.
As he glanced upward, he noticed the man still standing beside him. Their eyes met briefly. Zay gave him a small nod, and the man, interpreting it as dismissal, turned and walked away toward the counter.
Zay watched him go, his gaze lingering.
'Well… I guess it's better that I kill him than let his boss do it. At least somebody will actually gain something from it.' The thought came cold and smooth, like water sliding across stone. He nodded to himself, quietly validating the decision.
He picked up one of the sliced pieces and took a bite. The moment it hit his tongue, his eyes widened slightly in surprise—the crust was crisp, but the inside melted like soft cream, rich and delicate in flavor.
"Damn, this bread is good," he muttered with genuine admiration, his voice rising a touch above the rain. He took another bite, slower this time, savoring the warmth spreading through his chest.
A sudden cacophony of hooves and grinding wheels broke the quiet rhythm of the rain. Zay's head turned toward the noise, his gaze shifting to the window beside him. Through the fogged and rain-streaked glass, the world outside had changed.
The cobblestone streets were flooded—not with water, but with movement. Dozens of guards marched in solemn unison, flanking sleek black carriages and imposing warhorses that trudged forward with damp manes and water clinging to their coats. Rain clung to everything: the horses' flanks, the polished yet weather-worn armor of the guards, the wheels of the carriages that churned sluggishly through puddles. The guards said nothing. No shouted commands. No idle chatter. Only silence and discipline. Their expressions were hidden beneath helmets and shadow, but their posture carried a weight heavier than any weapon.
A few moments later, the man from behind the counter stepped back over to Zay's side. His brows furrowed as he peered out through the glass beside him.
"What the hell is going on?" he murmured, eyes scanning the slowly advancing procession.
Zay didn't answer immediately. He was still chewing, his jaw working methodically as he swallowed a small piece of bread. He kept his voice low and indifferent. "I couldn't tell you. Even if I wanted to."
The man leaned closer against the window, pressing a palm to the pane as if it might bring the scene into clearer focus. Just then, something even more striking came into view—a massive, rectangular structure that looked like a stone pillar hollowed and sealed shut. It was secured atop a broad carriage, drawn by fifteen heavily burdened horses, their muscles taut beneath soaked leather harnesses. At least a hundred guards lined its flanks, ten rows deep on each side, marching with the same speechless pattern.
As the column drew closer, an emblem etched in silver and gold shimmered on its side, momentarily visible through the veils of rain.
The man's breath caught. His eyes widened.
"That's… that's the royal family's crest," he whispered. "I read something—something about the king… passing away in the western advancements. Could that be…"
His voice trailed off, the weight of the thought too heavy to finish. Slowly, reverently, he raised a hand to his chest in a gesture of respect. His lips pressed into a thin line as he honored the fallen ruler of Ovaris.
Zay said nothing. He remained seated, chewing slowly as his violet eyes followed the movement beyond the glass. But in his silence, thoughts stirred.
'King Jinro... He wasn't just a ruler seated on a distant throne. He was a warrior in the truest sense. He rode into battle beside his men, challenged those who sought his crown, and faced them blade to blade. Not once did he falter. Not once did he lose. Those duels weren't just political—they were life and death, and he triumphed in each one. Power wasn't just his right… he earned it, every step of the way.'
The memory of the stories—some spoken in whispers, others carved into song—sat heavy in Zay's chest. Slowly, he pushed his chair back and stood. He closed his eyes.
A breath in.
Then out.
He dipped his head in a quiet, respectful bow. Not for the sake of appearances. Not entirely. There was truth in the gesture, even if part of him remained cautious. Was it really the king's body within that towering box? Or was this display merely a ruse, designed to distract or deceive? He didn't know. But the doubt didn't change the legacy of the man who may have passed.
When he opened his eyes again, he lowered himself back into the chair, his movements calm and deliberate. Without a word, he took another piece of the warm bread and brought it to his mouth, biting down slowly, letting the rich taste fill the silence. Outside, the sound of marching feet began to fade into the rain once more.
The man beside Zay returned to the counter with a casual gait before settling into his seat. From beneath the worn wood, he pulled out a folded newspaper, its edges damp and slightly torn, and began reading through the latest public reports.
Zay finished another bite of bread and exhaled softly. He stood without a sound; the chair had already been pushed back in anticipation.
"I do apologize for this... but it's a sacrifice that's needed."
[Predator's Hunting Grounds] activated.
Instantly, faint, glowing lines and shifting patterns painted themselves across Zay's vision. One line stood out sharply, leading directly to the man with his back to him, unaware, eyes scanning inked columns.
Zay's right hand drifted down to the sheath at his side, fingers wrapping tightly around the hilt of his katana. A thin violet aura pulsed into existence, coiling around his frame like mist clinging to bone.
In a single, fluid motion, the blade was drawn—a whisper of steel—and Zay surged forward. The edge of his katana met the man's neck with surgical precision, slicing through flesh and vertebrae with no more resistance than warm bread beneath a hot knife.
The violet aura dissipated into the air like smoke. Zay flicked his wrist sharply, spraying droplets of blood onto the floor and counter, before sheathing his katana in one clean, echoing click.
He glanced down. The man's severed head rolled across the marble floor and came to a gentle stop at his boots.
Zay burped from the bread.
"Excuse me," he said politely, performing a slight bow before turning on his heel.
Just then, the bell above the door jingled.
He looked up.
A young woman stepped into the bakery. Rain clung to her golden-and-black dress, her heels clicking sharply with each step on the polished floor. Her hair was a cascade of obsidian silk, laced with radiant veins of gold that shimmered like threads of fire. Her eyes—deep crimson—glowed faintly, and her irises shimmered with an unnatural golden hue.
Zay looked at her, and the moment their eyes met, he swallowed hard—he didn't feel the presence of a woman… or even a human. Her presence was that of a dragon, and he instinctively took a step back.
'A dragon... in human form? Who the hell is this?' the thought to himself, unsheathing his katana and pointing it toward her.
He reached for his katana again, unsheathing it in one smooth motion and pointing the blade toward her.
The woman's expression remained unreadable. She sniffed the air like a predator tasting the scent of blood and flesh. Drool began to bead at the edge of her lips.
"Flesh?" she asked, her voice soft—but wrong. Imitative. Like a beast that had studied human speech but hadn't quite grasped its rhythm.
Zay's aura burst to life, the midnight-blue energy of Evershade flaring out and wrapping around his violet aura like a storm. The floor cracked beneath his feet from the pressure.
The woman blinked slowly.
In response, a tsunami of black and gold aura erupted from her body. The two opposing forces clashed, filling the bakery with roaring energy that shattered windows, overturned tables, and cracked marble tiles beneath their feet.
Then—[Dragon's Fear] activated.
Zay's heart skipped. His legs felt heavy. Fear—not instinctive, but primal—surged up from his gut. He took a full step back before catching himself.
She exhaled. Just a sigh. Her aura faded, the [Dragon's Fear] ended, and she began walking toward the counter, her heels sharp against broken tile. The dress clung to her form, elegant and haunting. Twin slits along the sides revealed powerful, lean legs.
Zay watched her movements closely.
'She's not reacting to my aura at all... not even flinching.'
The woman sniffed again and halted before the decapitated corpse. Her pupils dilated. Drool pooled at the corner of her mouth, and a low, rumbling growl escaped her throat—a sound no human vocal cords could produce.
Zay stepped out from behind the counter, his blade still raised. But as he tried to use [Predator's Hunting Grounds], his eyes saw nothing. No lines. No patterns. No movements that could be predicted.
'I can't see anything. No trail. No read. She's completely blank... She feels like a dragon, but... something's wrong. Too unnatural. Like a broken mold trying to reshape itself.'
He continued backing up, step by step, until his spine bumped against the door. His left hand reached behind, gripped the handle, and pulled it open.
With one last look at her—the golden-eyed mimic, the dragon-woman—he slid his katana back into the sheath and stepped out into the rain. The cold drops soaked into his cloak as the door swung shut behind him.
From inside, he heard the unmistakable sound of fabric tearing, followed by the slow, eerie hiss of thick blue mist curling beneath the doorframe. The mist clung to the edges like living fog, eating away at the wood and iron. Within seconds, the door began to corrode. The windows followed—glass bubbling and melting—until the entire building started to dissolve, swallowed by the spreading haze.
He swallowed hard.
"At least… I'm not that bastard," he muttered under his breath.
'Only one thing I've ever heard of gives off a corrosive mist and an aura like that… a Vultirion. But they don't take human forms. So what the hell is she?'