The old woman waved her withered arms, her declaration sharp and powerful, completely at odds with her frail body.

Under her words, the eyes of the many gang leaders, who had been pushed to the edge of despair, lit up, as if they could already see the beautiful picture described by the woman.

Justice!

Peace!

Autonomy!

A Lower City District that belongs only to us!

How beautiful, how inspiring...

“Pfft—”

A sudden chuckle interrupted their pleasant fantasy.

“What nonsense? A council? Hahaha... a council? United? Did I mishear?”

At the bar, Moen clutched his stomach, laughing so hard he was nearly doubled over, as though he'd just heard the funniest joke in the world.

“Madam Mediator, you should happen to know, right? The current council is just a bunch of bloated, brain-dead aristocrats, a venue for petty insults as childish as playground quarrels. What good is that? And you still want to mimic the council?

Or do you believe these fellows here, who pull knives on each other at the slightest provocation, could actually sit together and calmly discuss matters?”

“Such issues, I think, could definitely be resolved,” the old woman replied earnestly, nodding with conviction in her words.

She was the mediator of the Lower City District, and under her reputation, she believed everyone could come together, peacefully and harmoniously, to plan the district's shared future.

“Oh, is that so?”

Glancing at the old woman for a long while, Moen wiped the tears from the corner of his eyes with a handkerchief.

“I thought you might be someone impressive. Turns out you're nothing more than an idiot flaunting your status as a ‘mistress.’

If you really do form this so-called autonomous Lower City District, I’m guessing that before fairness, peace, and autonomy arrive, what’ll come first will be the the Royal Knights.

Playing at a council right under the Emperor’s nose—kid, do you even know how to spell the word ‘execution’?”

“You—”

The old woman’s face twisted with rage, as if Moen had hit some sensitive nerve.

But soon, her gaze turned venomous, and she sneered back:

“Boy, laugh all you want. You won’t be smug for much longer. Once we are united, you’ll be nothing more than a lamb waiting for slaughter.

When the time comes, I’ll tear your whole face off and hang it in my collection room to let you understand the consequences of angering me!”

“But you won’t get that chance.”

“What?”

“I said, you won't get that chance.”

Moen lowered his hand, his face calm once more. Yet the light blue eyes under the shadow of his top hat radiated sheer mockery.

“Perfect timing. Let me use you to demonstrate to those still hesitating another aspect of my power. And at the same time, let’s test this so-called unity of yours to see if it holds.”

“What exactly are you doing?”

What—could it be? Another killing?

A powerful sense of unease suddenly surged through the old woman’s heart. She instinctively stepped back, seeking shelter from those behind her. But those very individuals, who had seemed moved by her impassioned speech just moments ago, now chose to retreat, all in unison.

The old woman's eye twitched, cursing these useless cowards in her heart.

But then, she suddenly puffed up her chest, straightened her neck, and glared angrily at Moen, shouting:

“Kill me if you want! Let everyone see for themselves that you're nothing more than a madman who kills indiscriminately. A madman will never gain anyone's recognition!”

It looked as though she was prepared to face death.

However—

As Moen’s eyes flicked past the old woman’s trembling legs, the ridicule in his gaze deepened. Lowering his eyes slightly, he softly asked:

“Do you know why I’m called Bruce Wayne?”

“W-why?”

“Because I might not have any superpowers, but I do possess another rather amazing ability.”

In the growing fear reflected in the old woman’s eyes, Moen raised a finger and pointed at her.

Is it coming... now?

Knowing she had no way to resist, the old woman resigned herself to close her eyes, preparing to embrace death.

But after a brief wait, death did not come.

Instead, what she heard was a deep, resonant voice, speaking words loud and clear for all to hear.

“Well then, Madam Mediator, your head is now worth one billion.”

“Hmm?”

The old woman froze in bewilderment.

She opened her eyes and frowned in confusion, struggling to comprehend Moen’s meaning.

A billion?

My head is worth a billion?

What does that mean?

You think you can kill me just by saying so?

Ridiculous.

But then, she heard breathing.

Heavy, beast-like breathing.

And sharp, skin-prickling gazes full of greed—all of them converging on her.

A bone-chilling coldness enveloped her body as she suddenly realized the full horror of her situation, spinning around to face the crowd with terror-stricken cries:

“Don’t fall for it! This is his trap! A trap!”

“This isn’t a trap. It’s a promise.”

Moen, ever the showman, adjusted his top hat, his expression a sardonic smile akin to a clown taking a bow.

“You all have climbed step by bloody step to reach your positions. Surely, more than anyone, you understand—I would never lie at a moment like this. One billion is one billion Emil, not a penny less.

And not only that, whoever successfully claims the lovely Madam Mediator's head will be allowed to walk out of here safely. And after that, I won’t pursue any form of retaliation against them.”

Moen raised three fingers toward the sky, adding gravitas to his words:

“I swear to the Goddess.”

Swear to the Goddess.

Those words, like an incantation, stirred restlessness even among the gang leaders who had previously chosen to merely observe.

One billion.

And a promise of safety.

To them, that was an offer hard to refuse.

And the price? All they had to do was kill the mistress of a noble.

Mistress.

Looking at her, so aged and worn—how could that nobleman even remember her?

Those supposed connections of hers no longer held any weight.

Her “reputation”? Does it matter?

It was practically a deal of pure profit.

Yet still, no one made a move immediately.

Everyone was hesitating, weighing the potential consequences of their actions.

To strike now, for that billion, was to tacitly acknowledge the man’s authority—to accept him as a figure above their own, as a ruler among rulers.

“Don’t fall for it! Don’t fall for it! Think about what I said earlier—unity! Only unity can save us in a time like this. Don’t let that man divide us! Are you truly willing to bow down to him?”

The old woman, her face pale, continued to shout through trembling lips.

Even if she's a dumb, she still knew this was her sole chance at survival.

But truthfully, no one was paying attention to her words anymore. A single glance at everyone’s eyes revealed the truth: the notion of “equal unity” was nothing more than a fairy tale.

Each of them was weighing their options, silently making their calculations.

One billion isn’t enough?

Moen’s eyes flickered thoughtfully.

Then let’s raise it—

But just as he prepared to add more to the offer, a high-pitched whizzing sound broke through his thoughts.

The old woman let out a piercing scream, collapsing to the ground in agony, writhing in pain.

Blood mist filled the air as a magically charged bolt had turned one of her legs into nothing but shreds of flesh and blood.

All heads turned, astonished, toward the one who had pulled the trigger.

Rat King—Sam.

“Sam?”

Even Moen was taken aback, raising an eyebrow with genuine surprise as he looked toward the goblin-like figure.

“I didn’t expect you to be the first to make a move.”

“Why the surprise? I’m just doing what I think is the right thing,” Sam replied, his face still expressionless, his true thoughts utterly unreadable.

He slowly approached the old woman, raising the crossbow in his hand once again.

“Sam! You, you traitorous scum—you really are in cahoots with him, aren’t you?”

Through her pain, the old woman howled, her bloodshot eyes filled with rage. But before she could finish, the sound of another bolt slicing through the air turned her screams into cries of agony once more.

This time, Sam pierced her other foot. He spoke lightly as though the act carried no weight.

“Don’t get me wrong. No one hates that guy more than I do. Pointing knives at my neck, deceiving me—all of it.”

“Then why—why would you!”

“But on one thing, I agree with him.”

Sam loaded another bolt and took aim again—still not at a vital spot.

“—If we all need a master to serve, why not him? At least, unlike those miserly and cowardly nobles—

He’s really willing to put up a billion.”