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Chapter 50 - Ignoring me?

The Colonel's office was immaculate. Not a paper out of place, not a speck of dust on the polished shelves. At the center of it all sat a figure of composed authority, cradling a steaming cup of black coffee between her fingers.

She took a slow, deliberate sip, eyes half-lidded. Her gaze drifted—absently, but not without weight—toward the third drawer of her desk.

'The exchange should take place in a week,' she thought.

The pieces were falling into place, but the real work was just beginning.

Her mind flicked through logistics, permits, false reports. Layers of misdirection would be needed for the plan to hold.

She exhaled through her nose, the breath more a sigh than anything else. 'All this for one barrier. It costs a fortune… but still.'

It had to be perfect. If the operation slipped—if even one curious bastard started poking around the "damaged" barrier—it could all collapse. Perfection wasn't optional. It was survival.

Then her senses twitched.

It was faint, but undeniable—a swirling pocket of energy just a few hundred meters out.

Her heart skipped a beat.

That kind of presence… if hostile? She wouldn't last even a few seconds.

But something about it tugged at a memory. Her jaw tensed, brow furrowing. She remembered the first time she felt that kind of presence. And who it belonged to.

"What do the death bastards want here? I thought we agreed on next week." she muttered.

Her calm dissolved into a scowl.

Then—nothing. The energy vanished like it had never been there. Gone in an instant.

She didn't hesitate. With a flick of thought, essence surged through her limbs.

Power flooded her bones, her muscles, her breath. No dramatic crackle, no thunderous boom. Just silence. She vanished, carried like wind.

She reappeared five seconds later at the dungeon entrance, her expression stone-cold. Senior soldiers were already sprinting toward her, weapons in hand, eyes wary.

She stopped them with a single raised hand. "I'll handle it," she said.

That was all they needed. With tight nods, they backed away.

She took the stairs slowly, one step at a time. Her posture was alert, precise. Whatever she was walking into, it wasn't standard.

As she descended, the air thickened. Heavy. Metallic. It smelled like death.

She already knew where the energy came from. A conclusion formed in her mind before she even reached the door.

She opened it.

Inside was the shriveled corpse of a man. Skin tight on bone, veins turned gray, the last wisps of death energy still clinging to his frame like mold.

Her lips curled in a scoff.

"And here I thought they were sending professionals. Don't make me laugh."

She stepped inside, glancing once at the body.

Maybe it was suicide. Or maybe they'd come for him.

She didn't know which answer she preferred.

But then—mingled with the lingering death aura—she sensed something else. Something warmer.

It was faint, almost unnoticeable. Most wouldn't have caught it. But she wasn't most.

Her pupils narrowed. A flicker of memory rose from the depths. A face. A scent. A presence.

Her lips twisted into a grin, slow and sharp, stretching just a little too wide to be natural.

"Well, isn't this interesting," she murmured, voice like velvet over a blade. "What would that little puppy want here?"

She stood there for a breath longer, soaking in the air of the room. Then turned on her heel, walking out without another glance at the shriveled corpse behind her.

It caught fire the moment her back was turned—quietly, cleanly—reduced to ash in moments. She didn't even flinch.

Back at the top of the dungeon stairs, a handful of soldiers stood at attention, awaiting her report. But two among them looked more unsettled than the rest.

The warden.

And the guard who'd been assigned to watch the cell.

She gave them a brief look. Then waved a hand like she was brushing dust off her shoulder.

"There were… unforeseen circumstances," she said, tone light but dismissive. "It's sorted. Return to your posts."

And with that, she vanished. No sound. No flash. Just gone.

At the same time, deep in the other stairwell of the dungeon, another figure was very much not at peace.

Tarrin was still leaning on the wall, struggling to calm his breath, heart pounding like a war drum inside his chest.

He'd witnessed a death, sure. But that? That wasn't normal. That wasn't something you explained. That was power—raw and divine and terrifying.

'If that's what a god can do,' he thought, chest still heaving, 'maybe I should take faith a little more seriously.'

He forced himself up the stairs, each step dragging him away from that suffocating chamber, heart rate finally coming down from panic to barely manageable.

"I'm so royally screwed," he muttered under his breath. "Dude just self-destructed with a prayer or whatever the hell that was. Like, what am I supposed to do with that? Who does that? Bro?"

His voice echoed faintly in the corridor, and for once, he was glad no one was around to hear him.

He stopped in front of the hatch that led back into the tower, pressing his hand to the cool metal before slowly pushing it open. One last breath. Then Tarrin climbed out, eyes sweeping the area with the anxious hope of not spotting anyone nearby.

Empty.

'No one arresting me? Either the guy kept his mouth shut, or no one's figured anything out yet. Which… fair. I wouldn't suspect me either. I don't exactly scream "soul-sucker."'

He took a few cautious steps forward, easing back into the open air like a man who definitely wasn't fleeing a cursed corpse. Definitely not suspicious.

With a casual whistle—his favorite tune, naturally—Tarrin strolled as if he had purpose, like he belonged here. He didn't. But acting like he did was half the trick.

Then it hit him—a chill, crawling down his spine like fingers of frost.

He turned slowly, already regretting it.

There she was.

Irene Dio, watching him from the shade like a panther eyeing an injured deer. Her stare didn't just land—it pinned. And judging by the silent command in her gaze, she wanted to talk. Right now.

'What am I? Her pet? She just glares and expects me to come wagging? Delusional.'

He kept walking, still whistling, doubling down on the "nothing to see here" act.

But her stare turned colder by the second, until finally—unsurprisingly—she gave up waiting and closed the distance herself.

"Hey. You ignoring me? Still salty about how I treated you?"

He stopped, turned just enough to look over his shoulder. "Yes, I am, in fact, ignoring you. Thought that was obvious from how I didn't stop."

He shot her a grin. She didn't return it. Just stared.

Tarrin exhaled, irritation slipping into his voice. "Okay, what do you want? Can't you see I'm busy?"

Her eyes flicked around, scanning the area. When she saw that this part of the camp was mostly deserted, she finally spoke.

"You talked to him, didn't you? The supposed traitor." Her voice was low, but not devoid of edge. "You have no idea how lucky you are. She doesn't let anyone near him except her personal mutts. But I guess she didn't account for a rookie with balls bigger than sense."

Tarrin blinked. Was that… enthusiasm in her voice?

No. He shoved the thought aside. Must've imagined it.

He said nothing. The grin slipped from his face, replaced by a clean, unreadable mask. And in that instant, he caught something—just the slightest twitch in Irene's expression.

Realization.

'She's young too,' he thought. 'Still learning the game.'

He gave a soft shrug and offered a disarming smile. "Sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about. Maybe you're confusing me with someone else."

Her gaze sharpened. Whatever flicker of amusement or curiosity had been there vanished without a trace.

"You really want to play dumb?" she asked, voice flatter now, colder. "I could wreck your life with a single word. And don't forget—I am your direct supervisor."

Tarrin's jaw clenched. A hot flare of anger rose in his chest.

'Who does this bitch think she is?'

He forced a calm breath and responded evenly, "Apologies if I've offended you, Corporal. But I believe I'm only obligated to report one issue to you."

He let that hang for a beat. Then added, voice firm:

"And that issue isn't a traitor to the Union."

Her eyes flared with restrained fury, the kind that sat just beneath the surface, begging to be unleashed. For a moment, Tarrin thought she might actually try to kill him right then and there. But she didn't. She swallowed it down—barely.

"Don't get cocky, Private," she snapped, voice tight with venom. "That bitch probably already knows. You think you can protect yourself from her? Alone? Don't make me laugh. You?!"

Tarrin stared at her, unmoved. Eyes locked. No blink. No twitch. No fear. His nerves were ice. After what he'd seen in that dungeon, what could she possibly do to shake him?

"You don't have a family name. No power to your blood. No notable Gift. You're nothing." Her voice dropped to something quieter—more dangerous. "Your only shot is with me. Join me. Become mine. Or she'll grind you into dust. And you know she will. So why the act?"

A slow grin tugged at Tarrin's lips, subtle but steady. His dark eyes seemed to deepen, just a shade darker, as if shadows had crept inward from the edges of his soul.

Then, cool and casual, he said, "No thanks."

And walked right past her.

Irene blinked—stunned. She hadn't expected him to say yes, not exactly. But she'd expected hesitation. A flicker of doubt. Something.

Instead, his footsteps didn't pause once.

"You'll regret this," she hissed after him. "when you'll die on your first mission."

He didn't look back. Not at first. But then, halfway down the path, he glanced over his shoulder and offered a parting smile.

"We'll see about that. Oh—and I'll have the report ready by Saturday. Later."

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