In a dark, suffocating place, the stench of mold filled the air. Then, a man in elegant clothes stepped out of the stifling house, revealing it to be nothing more than a simple wooden shack. He wore a dark red blazer over a white shirt, paired with black trousers and boots. His short black hair swayed in the calm night breeze as he stood there, thinking quietly in front of the dimly lit house.
"Damn… they didn't even put up a fight. I thought at least they'd make me sweat…"
he thought to himself while gazing up at the night sky.
He soon noticed that one of his hands was covered in blood. Calmly, he decided to clean it. Fetching a damp cloth soaked in beer from one of the barrels inside the shack, he used the alcohol to wipe away the dried blood from his skin.
His eyes wandered back inside the house. Two corpses lay there: one sprawled across the counter, his neck twisted unnaturally, while the other was slumped over a table, his body bearing heavier wounds—an arm broken, blood streaming from his crushed nose.
The elegant man muttered calmly to himself as he looked around:
"Yeah… you picked a good place to hide. Too bad you raided a nearby tavern just to restock your barrel of beer."
With that, he filled a wooden mug from one of the barrels and took a casual sip.
Then, he pulled out a small orb-shaped device that shimmered with a faint holographic glow. Speaking into it, he said:
"It's done. You can come collect. The place isn't exactly well-hidden—it's near Lake Villewood."
On the other end, a mysterious voice replied:
"Excellent… thank you for your service, Mister Gregory. But I do hope you won't try to deceive me. You wouldn't be the first. Many bounty hunters have tried—and none met a pleasant end…"
Gregory, unbothered, answered flatly:
"Fine. I don't care. Now let's talk about what matters—where's the money?"
The voice bristled at Gregory's audacity, responding irritably:
"It's on its way… wait at the spot."
Time passed. Gregory remained where he was, calmly appreciating the moonlight above and the rustling of trees in the night. Suddenly, he heard the flutter of wings. A messenger bird landed nearby, carrying a small pouch and a scroll tied to its leg.
Gregory took the pouch—heavy with gold coins—and unrolled the scroll. One word was written across it:
**"BOOM."**
Before he could react, a surge of mana detonated. The bird swelled grotesquely before exploding, and in an instant the shack, the forest clearing—everything—was swallowed by the blast.
---
Meanwhile, in BrassHaven, the man on the other end of the arcane device reclined in a cushioned chair of red wool, grinning smugly in his office. Behind him hung a massive tapestry with his name and title embroidered upon it: **"Dorian the Ironclaw."** Many of his henchmen mocked the banner behind his back, but none dared say it to his face.
One of his men rushed in, interrupting his thoughts.
"Sir, the explosion was successful…"
Dorian, smiling wide, confirmed gleefully:
"Hahaha, excellent. He died along with the others, and the evidence wiped away in a single blast."
The henchman, uneasy, added:
"Sir, all signs suggest they were completely incinerated… only ashes remain."
Lighting a cigar with arrogant ease, Dorian smirked.
"As expected. The blast radius was close, and Gregory took it head-on. There couldn't be anything left, hahahaha."
The henchman forced a nervous smile.
"You're absolutely right, boss. Only scraps of clothing were found…"
But suddenly, the office window shattered. A figure leapt inside, smashing the desk before Dorian. Shocked, the mob boss shouted:
"WHAT THE HELL—!"
Before he could finish, his henchman—fumbling for an arcane weapon—was struck in the face and knocked unconscious instantly. Two more guards appeared at the door, but the intruder moved like lightning: twisting one guard's neck a full 360 degrees, dropping him dead, while breaking the other's jaw with a single punch.
The figure finally stepped into the light. Gregory. His once-elegant clothes were torn and scorched from the explosion, his defined physique showing beneath. Cuts marked his skin, blood trickled from his lips, but he stood firm. He calmly placed the small pouch of gold onto the mob boss's ruined desk.
"Not enough," he said coldly.
Dorian stammered in terror:
"M-my apologies, Mister Gregory—it must've been a miscount!"
Gregory seized him by the collar and growled:
"It'll cost you triple what I asked for before. All because of your little trick. Understood?"
"Yes… understood," Dorian muttered, trembling. He quickly grabbed a much larger sack of gold and shoved it toward Gregory.
"H-here it is…"
Gregory took the sack, loosening his grip on the man's collar.
"Good. A pleasure doing business with you, sir…" he said flatly, turning toward the door.
He paused, glancing back one last time.
"You're only alive because you're still a potential client. Got it?"
Dorian could only nod slightly, watching as Gregory vanished from the room. Thoughts churned in his head:
*He let me live… because he knows I pose no threat to him. He did it on purpose. To humiliate me.*
---
Later that night, Gregory walked through the streets of BrassHaven. Entering a tavern, he rented a room despite the stares of curious onlookers. Whispers rippled through the crowd:
"Who is he? What happened? How is he still standing…?"
Ignoring them, Gregory casually tossed three gold coins to the waitress and headed upstairs to rest.
As he lay down, his arcane device began to glow. A grin crept across his face when he saw the caller. The mafia boss of Brasswick was trying to contact him.
Gregory answered smoothly:
"Hello… go ahead."