“So this is the taste of power? What a thrill.”

In the shadowy alley at the edge of the Lower City District, Moen walked with a light step, casually toying with the metal container in his hands, a delighted smile creeping onto his face.

By sheer calculation, this black market excursion cost him not a dime, except for the tip he threw at that seductive woman.

Even so, he still secured exactly what he came for: the Tear of True Love and the Heart Blood of the Ancient Dragon.

Was there any better deal than such an exploitative free-for-all in the world?

The perks of being the son of a duke? Oh, yes, he loved it.

Perhaps not in all places, but at least in the Lower City District, Moen’s status meant he could truly summon storms with a wave of his hand, and shake the entire district with just a stomp of his foot.

“Seems I’ll have to frequent this place more often, especially the black market—what a treasure trove,” he mused.

Although, it seemed there was still an unsettled tab at the black market…

But no matter—he was in a good mood today, so he’d spare that cunning merchant.

He could always come back later and spank her good for it!

Amused by his thoughts, Moen’s steps became even lighter.

The time had long since crept into the latter half of the night.

In the distance, the bright lights had dimmed considerably—it seemed the city guard’s operation nearby was nearing its end.

At this hour, going back to the academy was clearly impossible.

“Guess I’ll have to find a inn to spend the night.”

Moen scanned the streets to either side, but, to his surprise, all the inns displayed ‘Closed’ signs. Whether it was because of the commotion in the Lower City District tonight or something else entirely, even the usually 24-hour love motels were shuttered up tightly.

“Looks like I’ll have to go to the Upper City District to find a place,” Moen said wryly, silently scolding himself for his self-made predicament as he headed toward Tower Bridge.

There was still some distance to the bridge, but the riverside breeze had already begun to creep through the narrow streets, bringing with it a chilling coolness.

The moon had tucked itself away behind the clouds, plunging much of the world into darkness. The surrounding buildings loomed like pitch-black silhouettes, their forms stabbing upward like the claws of monsters.

Moen suddenly stopped in his tracks.

The container holding the Heart Blood of the Ancient Dragon was swiftly stashed into his top-tier spatial artifact, his gaze sweeping alertly across the deepening fog as his expression hardened.

In the wind, he caught the faint whiff of blood.

And then, he heard footsteps.

Not just one set—there were many.

From the depths of the mist at the far end of the alley emerged indistinct figures.

They walked as though they had just emerged from a grueling battle, their steps heavy, armor infused with a dim, faint blue glow—but stained all over with blood.

Leading the group was a man whose face remained contorted, a fiery glint burning in his eyes. In his tightly gripped longsword, drops of blood fell steadily to the ground, while the weapon itself seemed to exude an unending wrath, as if its thirst for violence hadn’t yet been quenched.

Red Flame Gang?

Lorenzo?

Moen’s eyelids twitched as he cursed his bad luck. Of all the times and places in this enormous Lower City District, why now? Why here?

Still, being unlucky was something Moen had long since grown accustomed to, so he quickly calmed himself.

He recognized Lorenzo, but Lorenzo didn’t know him.

Having barely escaped the city guard alive, Lorenzo was likely at his most fatigued—and surely not foolish enough to provoke a well-dressed aristocratic young master at this moment.

Moen steadied his breathing, pretending not to notice them, and silently continued on his way.

Lorenzo’s group also remained silent, paying no attention to Moen. Whatever had just transpired seemed to have left them physically and mentally drained to the extreme.

In the cramped alley, Moen and Lorenzo’s group brushed past one another.

Through the corner of his eye, Moen observed them covertly.

Compared to before, their numbers were slashed to roughly a third, most bearing visible injuries; even Lorenzo’s trusted lieutenant was missing an entire arm, severed cleanly at the base. Yet, the man seemed a tough one, biting down hard and refusing to make a sound.

At the tail end of the group, however, Moen noticed two individuals who bore no traces of bloodshed. These two were carrying a burlap sack, out of which something squirmed faintly, accompanied by low, muffled sobs.

A person?

Moen’s fists clenched suddenly, a faint tremor flickering in the corner of his eye.

Even in such a battered state, these scumbags could still got time to abduct someone?

What filth.

With a deep breath, Moen suppressed his anger for now.

They were numerous and dangerous—rash action wasn’t wise.

No problem. I’ll just report them to the city guard later. Let’s see those tax-fed incompetents fail to handle this mess then!

Moen redirected his gaze forward, pretending not to see.

He moved briskly, his pace quickening imperceptibly as he was about to put significant distance between himself and the group.

Almost there. Almost there. Just a few more steps and he’d be totally—

“Hold up. You. Over there…”

The serene night was abruptly broken by Lorenzo’s voice, clear and chilling as it rang out.

“You… talking to me?”

Moen turned, forcing a stiff but friendly smile.

“Who else would I be calling? A ghost?”

Lorenzo stopped as well, jamming his unsheathed blade into the ground. From his pocket, he retrieved a cigarette, lighting it with casual nonchalance.

A heavy smoker by habit, Lorenzo typically tore through several packs a day, finding himself restless otherwise.

Tonight, however, this was his first cigarette.

And he smoked it with profound intensity. Intoxicating white fumes rolled through his lungs before escaping in fragmented wisps: from his mouth, his nose, and—oddly enough—from even his ears, curling languidly into the night.

Combined with his bloodshot eyes, the scene painted him as seething with rage—a fury so palpable it was, quite literally, smoky.

“Kid, do you think… I’m an idiot?” Lorenzo growled, sucking his cigarette down to its filter in a single pull before spitting it out disdainfully.

“Huh?”

Momentarily stunned, Moen blinked. “Bro, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Have we… met before?”

“Oh, still feigning ignorance.”

Lorenzo chuckled, then abruptly dropped the act.

His laughter vanished in an instant, his expression twisting into something terrifying: a stark, primal ferocity.

It was so sudden—and so complete—that it reminded Moen of the face-changing performances he’d seen in his previous life. He hadn’t even caught the change happening but was immediately engulfed by raw malice and loathing.

“Kid, you’re the one who tipped off the city guard tonight, aren’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Moen responded serenely, though his trembling pinky betrayed a flicker of unease. “I’m just a noble young master passing through, that’s all.”

“Pfft, a noble young master…” Lorenzo’s eyes scanned Moen’s opulent clothes with keen irritation before something dawned on him. Grinding his teeth, he spat:

“So that means you’re also Number Eighty-Eight, huh?”

There’s no such thing as coincidences—just like this encounter.

The notion that the auction earlier unveiled two big fish was laughable.

“I swear, I have no idea what you’re getting at. I was just passing through!”

“Oh! Passing through! What a fabulous excuse!”

Lorenzo laughed thrice, each sound more sinister, before his smile crumbled entirely.

He slowly raised one hand—pinched between his fingers were crimson threads, the eerie hue of fresh blood.

The threads swayed faintly and stretched outward, their length unbroken until it reached Moen’s hand, where they oddly swirled in an agitated search for something.

Moen’s face darkened instantly and understanding struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Damn it! The container holding the Heart Blood of the Ancient Dragon—it’s rigged for tracking?! I should never have taken it out to toy with earlier!

“What the hell is this? Cupid’s thread? You’ve got the wrong guy—I’m not gay!” Moen yelped in alarm, swatting at the blood-red thread and spinning on his heel to flee.

He hadn’t made it far, however, before halting in his tracks.

Standing at the alley’s exit, the Red Flame Gang’s armed elites emerged from the shadows, their wicked grins illuminated faintly by the bloodied weapons in their hands.

More of them?

Moen’s eyes widened in disbelief as he rapidly counted the figures. While they bore injuries, their overall number remained shockingly intact—unchanged from when they were surrounded by the city guard.

Damn it! How useless are those tax-guzzling parasites? Not one of them could take down even one gang member?

Later on, I’m going to lodge the most scathing report of their failure!

But at the moment, Moen had no time to concern himself with the degeneration of the city guard. Compared to that mess, his immediate predicament was far more perilous!

Lorenzo hadn’t initially made any move to recognize him on purpose, knowing exactly how to maneuver Moen straight into this trap!

Now, cornered at the alley’s dead-end, Moen had no means of escape!

“Kid, hand over the Heart Blood of Ancient Dragon. Don’t you dare try lying—this thread’s sole purpose is to track it, and it never falters. Surrender it now, and I might make your death swift.”

Lorenzo drew his longsword once more, its blade exuding a chilling aura.

“Keep dreaming.”

At this point, Moen dropped the charade. His eyes scanned for weak points in the encirclement, coldly sneering.

“What, you think I’ll just comply because you command it? That wouldn’t suit me. And do you seriously think you’ve got me?”

It was just a gang from the Lower City District. Moen reckoned he still had some chance at escaping.

“Ha. I like your attitude,” Lorenzo conceded with a twisted grin. “In that vein, let me send you—or rather, ‘Number Eighty-Eight’—a small gift.”

“A gift?”

“You know where we just came from? The black market. What better place to evade the city guard than that?”

Pausing momentarily, Lorenzo chuckled ominously.

“Well, while I was there, I stumbled across an unexpected ‘treasure.’ At first, I thought it might be handy, so I took a bit of a risk smuggling it out. And wouldn’t you know it—it’s already proving quite useful.”

Clapping his hands, Lorenzo motioned, and the two unbloodied gang members stepped forward, holding the burlap sack between them.

From within the sack, a faint whimpering accompanied a near-inaudible, stifled sob. Whatever was inside barely struggled, collapsing in defeat as though resigned to its fate.

“What’s this? Who’s in there?”

Moen’s face darkened with a sense of foreboding suffusing his heart. Though he couldn’t see the person, the faint sounds and vague silhouette beneath the sack struck a chord deep within that gripped his chest tightly.

“Who? Oh, you’ll see soon enough.”

With a devilish smirk, Lorenzo pulled the sack open.

The motion sent its content spilling out onto the ground—a woman.

Her matted black hair tumbled free, and through the disarray, her wounded, battered face still bore faint traces of heavy makeup.

Her body trembled against the chill breeze from the riverside as she tried to open her swollen, bloodshot eyes. But the swelling and bruises rendered them nearly shut, leaving her to squint feebly at Moen through narrow slits.

“Sir… Is that you?”

She couldn't make out the faces of people or the sounds around her. All she had was an instinctive sense that the person standing still nearby was familiar. Summoning all her strength, she pushed out a hoarse voice from her throat, weak and mosquito-like, yet it still reached Moen's ears clearly: "Run... run now... these people... are looking for you... They're... very dangerous..."

"You—"

Moen's mind exploded, buzzing with noise.

Of course, he recognized the woman in an instant—it was the alluring beauty he'd encountered by chance at the auction.

Indeed, it was just a chance encounter.

Their connection amounted to little more than her massaging his shoulders and him giving her a tip large enough to offer her a slight reprieve in life.

Yet at this moment, as he looked at her, the world seemed to fall utterly silent, leaving only a single phrase she'd once said lingering in his ears:

"Sir, I want to become a teacher."

That's right.

He had given her a large sum of money.

She should have escaped the black market, left the auction house far behind, gone on to apply to the Gulain Women's Academy, and eventually achieved her dream of becoming a teacher under the bright light of day.

So why was she here?

Why was she in Lorenzo's hands?

"You little brat, did you really think you could toy with rats like us who survive in the Lower City District? You think we're just here to be played with?"

"Such a pity."

Lorenzo clutched the woman's chin, inspecting her face—the features he could barely discern.

"She's quite pretty, really. I originally didn't want to be this rough, but she refused to talk about anything. If I hadn't marked the Heart Blood of the Ancient Dragon ahead of time, you really might have slipped away successfully."

"She knows nothing!" Moen snapped back to reality, shouting angrily.

"She has nothing to do with me—nothing at all!"

"Is that so?" Lorenzo's brows shot up in surprise, his confusion evident.

"But someone said she came out of your room with a large wad of cash after only spending minutes inside. If you weren't into her, why would you have been so generous?"

Even back then, someone had taken notice?

Moen's hands trembled slightly. Still, he retorted, "I have money, don't I? Is it so wrong to spend it? If I feel like it, I could hand a beggar on the street a house outright!"

"Ah, I see. That makes sense. Wealthy people like you—they think differently sometimes, and it's hard to comprehend."

Lorenzo tugged at the woman's hair, pulling her up. Her body dangled helplessly, swaying like a fragile weed in the wind.

She whimpered softly in pain but stubbornly kept whispering nonsense like "Run, run quickly."

Even though she was the one on the verge of losing her precious life.

"How revolting—utterly vomit-worthy, really. You handed her money like tossing scraps at a beggar, yet she seems to harbor some special feelings toward you."

Lorenzo held his blade to her neck, grinning ruthlessly.

"And it seems I didn't get the wrong person, eh, kid? You appear quite angry right now. So what is it? Is that your conscience ringing?"

"What the hell do you want?" Moen took a deep breath, clearing away the strange irritation coursing through him. He forced himself to remain calm.

"You want the Heart Blood of the Ancient Dragon? I could give it to you."

"Oh? For a woman you claim to have no connection with, you'd give it up so easily?"

"Lives are on the line here. It's only Heart Blood of the Ancient Dragon, after all. To me, a human life is worth far more."

"Human lives? Tsk, tsk. Truly spoken like a privileged lordling. Only someone like you could spout such naive sentiments. But it's the exact opposite for me—human lives are the cheapest thing there is."

The knife in Lorenzo's hand grazed ever closer to the woman's neck, leaving a faint red mark on her pale skin.

A little more force, and this fragile life would instantly be snuffed out.

Yet Lorenzo showed no signs of stopping. His eyes fixated on the boy before him, watching his fury and helplessness unfold.

He drank in those emotions as if they were the world's greatest delight, filling his chest with a wicked satisfaction that seemed to dissipate the frustrations accumulating all evening.

"Stop! Stop right now!"

Seeing drops of blood already spilling down the woman’s pale neck, Moen felt as though a raging fire had ignited within his chest. Anger twisted his face into a feral scowl.

"I order you to stop!"

"Order?" Lorenzo sneered. "What makes you think you can order me?"

"This!"

In the face of impending disaster, Moen grabbed the one thing he could rely on—his family crest. The badge bore the emblem of a dragon-slaying blade, as if it truly hung above everyone's heads, poised to strike.

Lorenzo's mocking grin froze in place.

"I am Moen Campbell, son of the Duke of Campbell!"

Moen's commanding voice rang out:

"Lorenzo, I order you to release her. If you let her go, I’ll consider this matter resolved. But if you take this further... I think you understand that one word from me could wipe out you and your Red Flame Gang completely!"

"Ca—Campbell?"

Lorenzo locked his gaze onto the crest in Moen's hand. His body began to tremble violently.

In the criminal underworld, knowing the crests of all noble houses was essential education. And in this world, no one dared impersonate the name of Campbell. From a single glance, he realized the crest was authentic.

The young man before him was truly Moen Campbell, the only son of the legendary Duke!

Lorenzo felt his vision blur for a moment, nearly fainting.

A duke!

A status that stood atop society itself.

The rats of the Lower City District could strive their entire lives and wouldn’t even glimpse the feet of such a name.

Yet now someone who represented a duke was standing right before him. Not only had he seen those feet, but he’d driven nails into the soles and spat upon them!

He had provoked the heir to a duke son!

“Ca… Campbell… Master? I… I thought… at best… you might be the son of a viscount. But you’re… actually… a duke’s heir?”

All color drained from Lorenzo’s face. The smugness vanished in an instant, replaced by an overwhelming cocktail of terror and regret.

His features contorted tightly, his expression folding as if he wished he could drop to the ground and kiss Moen’s boots then and there.

“Yes, I am the future Duke!”

"And you swear—if I let her go—this matter dies here?"

Lorenzo stammered and trembled, lowering his blade. This notorious figure in the Lower City District, once so dominant, shrank to a pitiful shell before the duke's heir. Even the knife in his hand seemed to shake now.

When the dangerous blade finally moved away from the woman’s neck, Moen exhaled in relief. “Of course it’s true. Upon the honor of the name Campbell, I swear if you release her, and I won’t—”

Moen never finished his sentence.

It was interrupted.

By a sharp, wet noise—“Pfft!”

Under the ever-deepening veil of night.

And amidst the blood that sprayed warm and thick in every direction.

Moen’s eyes widened as if frozen in time, staring at the man, who seconds prior had cowered in terror. Now, his face was twisted and monstrous once again, his grip firm on the long blade as he—

Thrust it into the woman’s frail body.

Like a flower snapped at its stem.

“You really think I’d trust you? Trust you conniving nobles?” Lorenzo hissed venomously, his eyes filled with rage and madness. With a maniacal laugh, he roared:

“Boys, you hear me? If we don’t kill this duke’s spawn tonight, none of us are walking out alive!”