Shadows of the Past
Boom!
Hundreds of shattered crystal shards burst outward in every direction. The sheer explosive force was terrifying; an ordinary human would have been reduced to nothing more than a bloody mist.
The problem was that his pursuer was anything but ordinary.
"Wait... hold on...!"
A muffled voice filtered through the billowing dust and rubble.
You monster of a bastard!
Gritting his teeth, Reed unleashed his magic once more.
Boom!
Another deafening blast consumed the alleyway, shattering the brick walls on both sides and bringing them crashing down in a heap of debris.
Crash!
Detonating one final Crystal Bomb to cover his retreat, Reed threw himself over the collapsing masonry and sprinted down the narrow corridor of back alleys.
"Did that get him...?" he muttered under his breath.
His instincts gave an immediate, chilling answer: No. The bastard was still alive. That meant only one thing—he had to focus entirely on running.
Fortunately, these twisting passages were Reed's home turf. Tearing through the labyrinthine streets, he leaped over perimeter walls and raised artificial earth ramparts in his wake to throw his pursuer off the trail.
Just how long had he been sprinting?
By the time his lungs burned and his breath caught in his throat, Reed was finally confident he had shaken his tail. He ducked into the deep shadow of an overhanging wall and gasped for air.
"Damn it. I never thought they'd track me down this fast."
How on earth had they found him? Was it because his moniker as the Gravekeeper had gotten too well-known lately? Now that they had traced him this far, the enemy probably knew everything about him—his affiliations, where he lived, all of it.
"This is bad. Shaka, we need to run. We have to leave Morasil."
The lizardman peered at him and asked bluntly, "Where to?"
"Well, to..."
Reed trailed off, silenced by the question. It struck right at the heart of the problem. Where to? The enemy had already pursued him all the way to Morasil. Where further could he possibly run? Deeper into the Demonic Borderlands? Or back to Asterritz? Even if he fled to the ends of the continent, would they really fail to find him again?
His life had finally taken a turn for the better. He had comrades he could rely on, a solid roof over his head, and no longer had to starve. Above all, he was learning so much. Craftsmanship, scholarship, magic—diving into fields he had never dared dream of before was genuinely exhilarating. He was happy with this life.
And I'm supposed to throw all that away?
What would running give him in return? A miserable existence spent trembling in terror, waiting for the day the Black Blade Syndicate knocked on his door? A drifting, rootless life where he couldn't accomplish a single dream?
Reed closed his eyes tightly, then snapped them open. In the faint glow of the rising moon, his brown eyes shone with cold determination.
"Shaka. You were one of the greatest warriors in your tribe, weren't you?"
Shaka snorted, blowing a sharp puff of air through his nostrils. "Me, best warrior in tribe. And hunter."
It was no idle boast. Everything Shaka had demonstrated in combat proved he possessed instincts far beyond the ordinary.
"Then tell me, Shaka. If you have to fight an enemy stronger than you and win, what do you do?"
"Fighting is hard," Shaka replied flatly, before adding, "So, must hunt."
"Hunt?"
"Beasts are strong. Fight fair, die fast. Must be sly. Must use wits."
Shaka laid out the fundamentals of that cunning in plain, simple terms:
First, strike with greater numbers.
Second, use traps.
Third, ambush.
Fourth, strike in ways the enemy cannot predict.
That was how mortal hunters had survived against deadly beasts since time immemorial.
"Always strike from shadows. Strongest magic beast is just meat when it sleeps."
"In short, strike when they least expect it, right?" Tapping his temple with a knuckle to organize his thoughts, Reed lifted his head. "A plan just came to me. Let's move."
Reed set off immediately toward the Pioneer Guild East Gate Branch. As he stepped inside, a clerk busy wrapping up for the day stepped forward with an annoyed scowl.
"Guild business hours are over for today."
"Is Mr. Smith Leak in? It's urgent."
"Uh..." Taken aback by the direct mention of Smith's name, the clerk scrutinized Reed's face. Recognition suddenly dawned on him. "Ah! You're that mage! The one who brought down that demon worshipper! That was incredible! Could you maybe show me a little magic sometime?"
"Later. Is Mr. Smith upstairs?"
"Right this way! Go right on up!"
The clerk's sudden shift to fawning courtesy smoothed the way effortlessly. Guess having a reputation has its perks after all, Reed mused as he took the stairs two at a time.
Pushing open the office door, he found Smith frantically sorting through stacks of parchment. The administrator glanced up, his expression turning to mild surprise.
"Ah, Master Reed. I certainly didn't expect you back today."
"Busy?"
"We've had reports of consecutive explosions rocking the city streets. It happens from time to time—haha! Some deranged rogue mage must have slipped past the gates again..."
Reed met his gaze in dead silence.
"...Wait. Don't tell me?"
Leaving Smith frozen in shock, Reed pulled up a chair and leaned forward, locking eyes with the guild official. "Mr. Smith, you owe me a debt."
"Pardon? Er, haha. Well, of course. I'm deeply grateful to you in many ways, Master Reed, but—"
"Raphal."
Smith's awkward, placating smile vanished instantly at the name. His face stiffened.
"Hasn't the slave merchant Raphal gone missing lately?"
"...He did disappear rather abruptly," Smith admitted cautiously. "I assumed he skipped town in the dead of night to flee his debts, but... how do you know about that, Master Reed?"
"Raphal was a demon worshipper. More precisely, he had received demonic power and was horribly warped by it."
Smith's eyes blew wide.
"Whether he was a true devotee or just an unfortunate victim transformed into a monster, I can't say," Reed continued smoothly. "What I do know is that the moment I laid eyes on him, he was walking catastrophe."
It was Smith who had introduced Raphal to Reed in the first place. Anyone with half a brain could deduce the two had maintained a fairly close business relationship. And now that same merchant was tied to demon worship.
The Empire showed zero leniency when it came to demonic cults. If the truth came out, an official inquiry would inevitably target Smith. Needless to say, such a scandal would utterly annihilate his prospects of promotion, if not his life.
Smith's face went parchment-pale. His hands trembled as he removed his spectacles. Visibly rattled, he pressed his thumb and forefinger hard against the bridge of his nose, desperately fighting to steady his racing heart. After taking several deep, ragged breaths, he looked up.
"First... allow me to express my deepest gratitude. If not for your discretion, Master Reed, I would have faced utter ruin."
"Which is why I said it from the start. You owe me."
"A debt, yes..." Smith swallowed hard, composing his expression. "A debt must be repaid. What would you have me do?"
"I'm glad you catch on quickly. Mr. Smith, I need your help."
First claiming a debt, then immediately framing it as a request for help—Reed's blunt, mercurial manner of speaking might have appeared unpolished on the surface, but it held an unyielding momentum that never once relinquished control of the conversation.
"Speak," Smith urged. "If it lies within my power, I shall grant it."
"You're well-informed about the happenings in Morasil. You run background checks on me from time to time as well, don't you?"
It was only natural. Why would a shrewd administrator of the Pioneer Guild collaborate with someone he hadn't vetted? Though caught off guard, Smith didn't deny it.
"Hmph... yes. I have contacts here and there. I'd like to think I'm more knowledgeable than most."
"Then find someone for me. Or rather, a group. The Black Blade Syndicate. They're a gang from the slums of Asterritz, and I suspect they arrived here in Morasil about a month or two ago..."
Reed laid out every piece of information he had with exacting precision. Scribbling the notes onto a piece of scrap paper, Smith raised an eyebrow.
"The Black Blade Syndicate... If they're transients from out of town, locating them shouldn't be too difficult. But may I ask why you're searching for these people?"
"Because they're trying to kill me."
"..."
"So I'm going to strike first."
Smith flinched. Reed's declaration carried none of the hollow bluster typical of boys his age screaming empty death threats. In the youth's dark brown eyes burned a chilling, stone-cold resolve. An unflinching gaze that brooked no argument.
It was a stark reminder that Reed was the mage who had slain an apostle of demons. Smith had understood the fact intellectually, but now he felt it in his bones.
His presence is entirely different from usual. It's as if... he's awakened.
Gulping down a dry breath, Smith pushed back his chair and hurried out of the room. Nearly two hours ticked by before he finally returned, clutching a fresh report.
"Found them. Word reached me that a band of drifters from Asterritz popped up recently. The report confirms their leader is a capable fighter."
"...Faster than I expected," Reed said, genuinely surprised. He hadn't imagined the information could be procured so quickly; perhaps Smith was even more competent than he had credited him for.
"They've already established a hideout in the northern slums. Apparently, the entrenched local factions have been itching to wipe them out. It was only a matter of time."
"Makes sense. A formidable powerhouse isn't someone you pick a fight with lightly."
"Pardon? Well... the report paints him as somewhat questionable to be dubbed a true powerhouse, but regardless... Let me ask you one last time." Smith looked at him with profound gravity. "Must you handle this personally? There are plenty of other options. I could quietly assemble a squad, or we could request aid from the Stonemasons' Union. While the slum syndicates dislike newcomers, they despise outsiders barging into their turf to cause chaos even more. Besides, the city watch is already scouring the district for whoever caused those explosions earlier."
In short, it was simply too dangerous. But Reed shook his head firmly.
"This is my past, and it's my problem."
The wretched misery of the slums flashed through his mind. The desperate poverty where men gutted one another over a single coin. The gnawing starvation that made moldy bread taste like a feast. The hollow wretchedness of stepping over corpses in the gutter and feeling nothing but relief that it wasn't him.
Blood. Cold. Poverty. Starvation.
A cesspool where human beings were treated worse than sewer rats. And the shadow of that past had chased him all the way here. The Black Blade Syndicate was the very entity that had turned that cesspool into living hell.
"I have to sever it with my own hands."
He had no desire to drag the Stonemasons' Union into this mess. He had to put an end to it himself, severing once and for all the chains of his wretched former life.
Smith read the unshakeable determination in the boy's eyes.
"Understood. I will assign a guide to lead you straight to their doorstep."
"Thank you."
"Is there anything else you require?"
"No. This is more than enough."
Smith chimed a small brass bell on his desk, summoning a trusted operative to act as their pathfinder. Reed gave a crisp bow, then slipped out of the office under the guide's lead.
Left alone in the quiet room, Smith closed his eyes and leaned back, lost in thought for a long time. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, carrying a faint murmur.
"Completely overwhelmed..."
When he first met Reed, his impression had been that of a promising young prodigy—a raw talent with clear potential, someone who would make a useful asset if tied down early. Deep down, he had probably looked down on him as a greenhorn. He had assumed he could subtly manipulate the dynamic using his own seniority and bureaucratic experience.
As a guild official, Smith had dealt with every sort of person imaginable. The impoverished, the wealthy, the mighty, the feeble, the brilliant, the ignorant. He took pride in believing he had seen every facet of human nature, convinced he could easily twist an inexperienced fledgling around his little finger.
I was wrong.
From the moment the name Raphal crossed Reed's lips, the boy had seized total command of the conversation. Smith had been left dancing entirely to his tune. Above all, that gaze—the unwavering will in those eyes proved that Reed was no mere talker.
People who carried that kind of look in their eyes fell into one of two categories: they either rose to tremendous heights, or they provoked catastrophic disasters. Either way, it was blindingly obvious that Reed was going to stir up a massive storm in Morasil.
"In that case... I'd better prepare to clean up the mess. I just hope he doesn't blow things apart too loudly."
Smith calmly set about drafting contingencies. It never once crossed his mind that Reed might fail. It was difficult to articulate why, but in that state, the boy simply didn't look like someone who could lose.
Only one lingering question remained in his thoughts.
Just what kind of monster could he be facing to make him awaken like that?
The brighter the light, the darker the shadow.
Even in a thriving metropolis of hundreds of thousands like Morasil, darkness festered in the margins. The cost of living in the frontier city was exorbitantly steep. Food was expensive, and with no surrounding forests, residents were forced to burn coal instead of firewood—another drain on thin purses. As one approached the city center, property prices skyrocketed.
Naturally, the destitute were pushed toward the periphery, giving rise to sprawling slums. It was a common phenomenon observed across the continent, an inevitable byproduct of civilization. Yet the shadows clinging to Morasil ran considerably deeper.
Day after day, countless paupers flooded into the slums. Whores, gamblers, and cutpurses congregated in the muck, followed by thugs eager to bleed them dry. Factions rose and fractured in endless cycles within the city's underbelly, shedding blood in pursuit of meaningless ambitions.
And recently, a new challenger had thrown their hat into the ring: the Black Blade Syndicate.
With savage brutality and formidable prowess, they were currently conquering neighboring gangs while keeping up a relentless, obsessive pursuit of Reed—or rather, they weren't.
"Dammit all!"
Crash!
A dark-skinned southerner etched with serpent tattoos—Hashid, boss of the Black Blade—flung a liquor bottle against the wall, shattering it into spray. "Nothing goes right! Not a single damn thing!"
His subordinates shrank back as his thick southern drawl boomed across the room. Whether drunk or sober, their boss hurled bottles around with the exact same violent fervor as his late second-in-command.
"To think that I, Hashid, am groveling in a rathole like this...! Ha! If my brothers saw me now, they'd laugh their asses off!"
Just as he snarled, nothing had gone right for Hashid lately. His low-level lackeys had abducted some little girl, only for her to turn out to be the treasured daughter of House Evergreen. The noble house had thoroughly pulverized the Black Blade Syndicate in retaliation, and Hashid had been forced to burn every ounce of his skill just to slip away to Morasil by the skin of his teeth.
He had reason to be proud of that much, at least. He had evaded the wrath of the mighty House Evergreen! But his luck had run dry the moment he crossed the city gates.
Ever since arriving in Morasil, life had been a nonstop ordeal. The entrenched slum bosses refused to welcome outsiders, setting aside their own petty feuds to unite against the newcomers. What good was Hashid's individual combat prowess when his numbers were hopelessly outmatched? At this rate, the syndicate would either be swallowed whole by local organizations or wiped out to the last man. Unless Hashid bent the knee, his head would end up on a pike. Such was the law of the slums.
I have to find a way out. I need to gather strength, and fast. Who knows when Evergreen's hounds will catch up?
He couldn't run from House Evergreen forever. The only real answer was to amass power—to swell his ranks until even a noble house would hesitate to swat at him. But how? Because he had no answer, all he could do was vent his frustration on innocent bottles. The constant terror of being hunted was so suffocating that he couldn't steady his nerves without a belly full of cheap rotgut.
Right then, a dimwitted subordinate piped up, "Uh, boss? Aren't we gonna get revenge on that brat?"
"What?"
"Looking at how it went down, that punk's the one who offed Idiot Joe and turned the girl loose, right? Technically speaking, we're stuck in this dump all because of him. Shouldn't we teach him a lesson?"
"Yeah, boss! If we let him slide, people will walk all over us!"
The bottled-up grievances of the lackeys burst forth at once.
Hashid's jaw clenched so hard his teeth creaked. A string of vicious curses rose to his throat. You dare talk back to me?
The atmosphere turned hostile in an instant. Sensing danger, one particularly sharp lackey made a hasty excuse about needing to piss and bolted out the door. The rest, however, kept their scowling faces locked onto Hashid, refusing to back down.
In the old days, I would've chopped off all your fingers and toes to set an example!
Unfortunately, in their current dire straits, even brainless fodder like them were in short supply. Swallowing his rage, Hashid forced out a measured reply.
"Fine. You're not wrong. But right now, the local gangs are frothing at the mouth to swallow us whole, and Evergreen's lapdogs could kick in the door any minute. How the hell are we supposed to hunt down a nameless punk we know nothing about?"
It was sound, practical logic, but the grunts remained sour.
"B-but boss! Taking blood for betrayal is the first commandment of the Black Blade!"
"Did I say we weren't going to? Tell me, what kind of bastard was this 'Gravekeeper' kid anyway?"
"Uh... just a scrawny little urchin? Good with a shovel, but nothing special otherwise..."
Hashid sneered mockingly. "See? A useless little brat with no skills to speak of. A common sewer rat you could pluck from any gutter. We can track down a worthless maggot like that whenever we have breathing room. In fact, it's better to wait until he makes a family or finds a lover—that way, we can slaughter them all in front of him. Like waiting for dates to ripen on the palm."
"Ah."
"Such profound wisdom!"
The lackeys didn't entirely grasp the southern desert metaphor, but they nodded in eager agreement anyway. Slaughtering the kid's entire family alongside him! The boss had a master plan all along! Truly, their leader was a genius!
Seeing the rebellion quelled, Hashid leaned back into his rickety chair with a smug grin.
"Things are rough now, but we'll bounce back in no time. We can hunt him down then. Yeah, it won't be long at all. That treacherous little rat will feel the edge of my blade soon enough. I'm going to make sure he dies screaming... By the way, why hasn't that bastard who went to take a leak come back yet? Did he skip out on us?"
"I'll go check!"
One of the thugs jumped up and yanked the heavy wooden door open to step outside.
Right at that moment, an object rolled smoothly across the threshold through the gap.
Rumble, roll.
The thug reflexively bent down and picked it up. "Huh?"
It was a crystal orb—translucent, hefty, and glowing faintly from within.
Why the hell is this lying here?
When confronted with an entirely inexplicable situation, human cognition tends to grind to an absolute halt. The thug held the orb up to his face. Deep inside the crystal, a strange azure light swirled like an angry whirlpool.
What kind of crystal is this?
Pretty.
Wonder if it's worth some coin?
Wait... why is it getting brighter?
Uh...?
An instant later, the world erupted.
KABOOOM!!!
Reed's counterattack had begun!
...At least, Reed himself firmly believed it was a counterattack.