A Deficient Frontal Lobe
"Is drawing your sword the instant someone refuses you truly appropriate behavior?"
"My Lord, but—"
"Hush! Have I not told you time and again to mind your tongue? Speak like that, and even the morning dewdrops clinging to the grass will deduce who I am."
Between the archaic cadence and the unmistakable air of authority, the man might as well have pinned his family crest to his chest.
He's someone of immense stature, Erso realized with absolute certainty.
This was bad. Very bad. Nothing good ever came of underworld rats locking horns with high-ranking nobles. The power of the underworld remained absolute only so long as it stayed buried in the dark. The recent purge of Black Sky had proven that beyond a shadow of a doubt—when the imperial authorities put their minds to it, everyone down here could do nothing but tremble.
"Sir," the nobleman said, turning back to Ziel with practiced grace, "I find myself in dire need of that item, and so I formally request you yield it to me. I shall compensate you handsomely. Six million cel, the figure mentioned earlier, strikes me as more than fair. What say you?"
Senior, just hand it over! Erso screamed internally. That is our best possible way out of this—
"No."
Ziel's answer remained utterly unyielding.
"Am I not asking with utmost courtesy? While I cannot disclose its purpose, it is destined for a matter of the gravest importance."
"It matters not what you intend to use it for."
Cold sweat began pooling in Erso's palms. What on earth is he thinking? Senior was an apex professional, true, but to provoke such an obvious VIP in a direct confrontation like this was madness.
"My purpose is equally important," Ziel continued in his flat monotone. "Therefore, I cannot part with it."
"I am offering you a fortune!"
The nobleman's voice abruptly spiked, stripping away every shred of his refined, archaic veneer.
"Must blood truly be spilled? When I am humbling myself to ask so politely?!"
Ziel's tone didn't shift by a single pitch. "It matters not who you are."
"...Is there truly no price you will accept? Fine! How does eight million sound?"
He had hiked the offer by two million in a single breath.
"M-My Lord, that sum is—"
"Quiet, Sir Lelio. I am speaking."
"..."
"If need be, I will sell my very sword."
"Sire, you cannot!"
"I said, be silent!"
Erso's mind raced. Just which scion could this be? Kundel has three sons, but none sound like that... The Rihardt heirs aren't this young either. Then who? Siren? Or perhaps the House of Beauharnais?
"I ask again. Eight million. Three million in cash immediately, and I shall draft a promissory note for the remaining five million. One look at the guarantor's name and you will understand its worth. What do you say?"
"No."
"...Ha. Then words are useless." The nameless nobleman let out a heavy sigh and turned to the knight he had spent the last several minutes restraining. "Subdue him, Sir Lelio."
"Understood. Your High—"
"Mind your tongue!"
"M-My apologies..."
"Enough!"
A violent chill shot down Erso's spine. The slip of the tongue, the cadence, the deference...
Wait. Could it be?
Something had gone horribly, catastrophically wrong. No, it couldn't be. Could it?
I need to run, Erso thought frantically. But when he looked at Ziel, his breath hitched. The man hadn't moved an inch. Surely Senior had caught the same clues. Why was he just standing there like a statue, calmly watching Sir Lelio stalk toward him?
"Listen well," Lelio growled, stepping into striking range. "I will say this once more. Accept the offer peacefully. Otherwise—"
"Allow me to ask a question."
He figured it out after all! Erso rejoiced inwardly. He's going to negotiate!
"You have made four offers, and I have refused four times," Ziel said, his voice level. "Yet you still resort to physical force."
It wasn't a plea or a bargain. It was an almost clinical observation.
"Would it be fair to say that you disregard the will of others?"
"What nonsense are you—"
"I read a book recently," Ziel continued placidly. "It stated that civilized people reach consensus through dialogue. To enforce one's will through violence when that fails... is the conduct of bandits, it said."
In the span of a single sentence, the imperial entourage had been reduced to common highwaymen.
"The bastard has lost his mind," Lelio spat, barking a humorless laugh as he closed the final distance. "Bandits? Do you have the slightest inkling who this gentleman is to dare spout such drivel—"
Lelio lunged to grab him by the collar.
Or rather, he intended to.
SLAM!
Before his fingers could even graze fabric, the world inverted. Lelio's vision flipped upside down, and the back of his skull cratered violently into the cobblestones.
"Guh...!"
What in the hell...?
Erso froze. The nobleman and his guards froze. None of them could comprehend what had just unfolded before their eyes. In the space of an instant—faster than a concealed throwing dagger crossing point-blank range—a mountain of an armored man had been hurled straight into the earth.
As Lelio bounced off the pavement, his travel cloak fell open, revealing a glimpse of brilliant silver plate armor underneath. Erso's breath caught in his throat.
There was only one order in the entire empire permitted to don full plate of pure, gleaming silver.
"Y-You dog... How dare you... Do you know who this—"
"Sir Lelio!" The nobleman who had just been branded a bandit barked sharply, rushing to cut him off.
"There is no need to hide our identities any longer, Sire! Once we reveal who we are, this rat will soil himself and grovel!"
"I said no. Did you not hear me?"
"..."
"Subdue him first."
Clang!
Scrambling to his feet, Lelio drew his longsword with a harsh metallic scrape.
Wait, is he really from one of the great ducal houses? Erso panicked. Despite taking such an explosive impact, the knight had recovered instantly and fallen into a flawless battle stance—a clear testament to elite martial pedigree. Yet Ziel remained empty-handed, having not drawn so much as a basic hunting knife.
"To reject a generous offer and lay your filthy hands on me...!"
Whoosh!
Lelio's arm rose high, his blade cleaving downward in a vicious, controlled arc. I'll take his shoulder, the knight calculated. Just enough to break him.
That conviction lasted right up until his jaw shattered.
CRACK!
"Gaaahk!"
The sword clattered against the stone, followed immediately by Lelio's colossal frame crashing to the ground. Dark blood poured from his mouth. Ziel's fist had moved so fast it hadn't even registered as a blur—even Erso, standing right beside him, hadn't seen the strike land. The nobleman's retainers had been partially obstructed from view, which only made the sheer horror of the sudden collapse worse.
"S-Sir Lelio...!"
"How could he fall in a single breath?!"
Several guards rushed forward in panic to haul Lelio up. The knight staggered to his feet, trembling, blood dripping copiously from his ruined chin.
"Your mandible is fractured," Ziel observed neutrally. "You have lost four teeth. If you consult a physician immediately, there should be no lasting impairment."
"Y-You... shon of a... bish..."
"Your articulation is deteriorating. Leaving it untreated will worsen the condition."
Lelio shoved his comrades away with a wild, feral snarl and lunged at Ziel again, throwing his entire body forward to crush him beneath his weight. But Ziel merely pivoted his upper body—
THUD!
"Guh-urk!"
Ziel drove his knee cleanly into Lelio's solar plexus. The massive knight folded in half, trembled violently, and collapsed facedown in the mud.
A suffocating silence descended over the alleyway, broken only by Ziel's quiet, steady voice.
"Seeing as you persist in attacking despite the outcome, your frontal lobe function appears somewhat deficient." Ziel wiped an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve. "You will be unable to move for some time."
Sir Lelio... A Great Knight... laid out like a common drunk?
What kind of monster is this man?
A Great Knight. The supreme accolade of 'Imperial Knight' had been bestowed upon only thirty individuals across the entire history of the Empire. In practice, 'Great Knight' was the highest operational rank attainable by living warriors. Lelio was the sole Great Knight among their contingent—and he had been dismantled.
Effortlessly. In mere seconds.
Worse still was what Erso had just witnessed from his vantage point. Senior didn't even move his feet, Erso realized, a profound shudder rippling through his core. He took down an elite knight without shifting an inch from where he stood. Just how powerful is he?!
Ziel glanced up at the night sky, checked the hour, and turned back to Erso. "We have not wasted too much time. Let us depart."
"Y-Yes, sir!"
"Ah. One more thing."
Ziel paused mid-stride and looked back at the stunned retainers. "You said you wished to obtain the Velberg's Wing?"
One of the men swallowed hard and stammered, "A-And if we do?"
"Work harder."
"..."
"Revisiting the black market stalls might also prove beneficial."
The advice was so dry and utterly unhelpful that the guards stood dumbfounded, yet none possessed the courage to argue. The gap in sheer combat ability was simply too terrifying. But Ziel wasn't finished.
"Failing that, seek out Derza."
"Derza...?"
"I have given you your answer. We are leaving."
Ziel turned and walked into the shadows, Erso scurrying dutifully behind him.
"W-Wait!" one of the guards shouted after them, but the pair had already vanished into the darkness of the alleys.
"Tend to Sir Lelio at once! He is gravely injured!"
"M-My body... won't move..." Lelio groaned weakly from the ground. None of them realized that Ziel had struck a precise pressure point—the exact same technique he had used on Erso earlier—ensuring the knight remained paralyzed for the immediate future.
"To think Sir Lelio would fall like this..."
It was a day of utter disgrace. An impossibility made flesh. These men belonged to the Silver Wings, the greatest martial assembly in the realm, clad in dazzling silver plate as the personal vanguard of the imperial throne. Fifty knights in total, with only fifteen holding the rank of Great Knight—and one of those fifteen had just been humiliated in a back alley.
He hadn't been cut. He hadn't been stabbed. He wasn't dead. Yet the defeat was so thorough that being cut down might have stung his pride less.
"...I have never seen him defeated in such a manner," the nobleman murmured quietly.
"Forgive me... Sire..." Lelio wheezed, coughing up flecks of crimson. "I have failed you..."
"Save your breath, Sir Lelio. You are not at fault. We return to the palace at once."
"B-But, Your Highness... the ingredient..."
"We can find another Velberg's Wing. I cannot leave you to rot in an alley."
"Then... Her Majesty's illness..."
"You risked everything to accompany me on this reckless endeavor," the prince said firmly, his eyes softening. "Your lives come first."
"Your Highness..."
The fleeting warmth of gratitude gave way to cold, grim reality. Prince Dietrich looked toward the empty alley, his expression composed once more. "Besides, you know as well as I do that those two belong to a different realm. Even if we pursued them now, we could not catch them. Lord Horn, take Sir Lelio and withdraw to the palace immediately."
"By your command, Your Highness!"
Lord Horn carefully hoisted the paralyzed knight onto his shoulders. Dietrich watched them go, releasing a heavy breath.
A failure, he thought bitterly. Must I scour the black market again? There are so many other ingredients to secure besides the wing.
His mother, the Empress, deteriorated with every passing day. If time slipped through their fingers, all would be lost. And currently, he was the only one in a position to move freely in search of a cure.
Still... who in the world was that man?
The memory of the exchange sent an involuntary shiver through Dietrich's chest. To treat a Great Knight like an unruly toddler required strength on an absurd scale.
"Sir Eton."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Look into this 'Derza' the man mentioned. At once."
"I shall attend to it immediately."
"Tonight, by any means necessary, I will return with a Velberg's Wing."
Dietrich frowned. Why had that mysterious warrior pointed them toward Derza in the first place? Was it a trap? Even if it is, it's the only lead I have left. He was desperate enough to grasp at frayed ropes. Yet a strange sensation lingered in his chest. Why help us at all?
He hadn't seen the man's face beneath the cowl, but he had committed the features of the rat standing beside him to memory.
If I manage to secure the wing...
If they ever crossed paths again, Dietrich hoped it would be under vastly different circumstances.
What is going to happen to my life?
The thrill of passing Senior's recruitment test had long evaporated, replaced by an overwhelming dread born of the catastrophe he had just witnessed. Calling it a catastrophe was putting it mildly—they had just assaulted an imperial royal!
"You are quiet, Crow."
"Ah, haha! No, it's nothing, sir! Just... thinking about what happened back there..."
"What happened back there?"
"Well, yes..."
"Is there a problem?"
Erso blinked, the fog of panic lifting in a flash of realization. Right. Senior isn't worried in the slightest. Why would he be? When a man was that overwhelmingly powerful, a scuffle like that was nothing more than swatting away flies. He truly is an apex predator.
Confidence surged back into Erso's veins. With someone like this backing him, what was there to fear?
"A problem? Perish the thought, sir! Just reflecting on your greatness."
"I see. Very well. I shall summon you again when needed. I will take my leave."
"Safe travels, Senior! Call upon me anytime!"
Erso bowed deeply, a broad grin spreading across his face. My life is finally turning around.
Beating down imperial royalty wasn't reckless—it meant Senior had already prepared countermeasures for every possible outcome. Hadn't he casually thrown them a bone right at the end, telling them to seek out Derza?
Stupid high-and-mighty nobles. Go ahead and look for him. You'll be lucky if you leave with your shirts on your backs.
Derza was notorious throughout the underworld. He possessed everything, but he charged extortionate prices for every scrap. When desperate figures had nowhere else to turn, they crawled to Derza, and he bled them dry of far more than just coin.
To herd them straight into that shark's jaws... Brilliant, Senior! Truly brilliant!
Without even realizing it, Erso had developed the remarkable ability to interpret every single word out of Ziel's mouth in the most diabolically favorable light.
There is plenty of time remaining.
Having cleanly erased Erso from his thoughts, Ziel slipped back into the illicit back-alley clinic.
"Y-You're back?" Yurio greeted him eagerly, stopping himself just short of calling him 'Instructor.'
The back-alley physician stared wide-eyed at the bundle Ziel placed on the counter. "It hasn't even been two hours, let alone three. Did you really go all the way to the black market?"
"Yes."
"Good grief. You're fast. And these Edelin roots... they're prime grade. You picked exceptionally well."
Ziel ignored the praise entirely. "Can we begin compounding immediately?"
"Give me a moment to process the materials for the base."
Moments later, a neat array of crushed herbs and ground powders sat prepared on the surgical tray. The only untouched component was the Velberg's Wing, which needed to be utilized whole.
"Where is the liquid extractor?" Ziel asked.
"Right over here."
Ziel set to work without hesitation. The physician leaned in to observe, his casual curiosity rapidly turning into slack-jawed awe.
How on earth... is he doing that?
Ziel's hands moved with terrifying, machine-like precision. Tweezers darted with surgical rhythm, introducing ingredients in exact sequences to draw out distinct reactive phases without a single wasted motion. Concocting potent toxins was an extraordinarily demanding craft, particularly when dealing with substances that hovered on the knife-edge between lethal poison and miraculous medicine. The slightest deviation in timing, temperature, or mass would spoil the entire batch.
Yet this stranger executed every step with casual perfection.
Does he have scales built into his fingertips?
He wasn't even using the balance weights. He simply pinched portions by hand, tossing them into the crucible with supernatural accuracy.
"Commencing extraction."
The process unfolded like clockwork. The primary toxic essence was brought to a boil, cooled rapidly, and then reheated to condense the core concentrate. Finally, at the precise thermal threshold, Ziel dropped the Velberg's Wing into the mixture, extracting its catalytic enzymes for the exact required duration.
When the reaction settled, Ziel transferred the finished vial to the doctor's trembling hand.
"It is complete."
Total elapsed time: thirty minutes. Even a master apothecary would have required at least two hours.
Just who is this man? the physician wondered, a chill settling over him. He quietly made a mental vow: if anyone ever came asking, he had never laid eyes on this individual. Anyone who could brew a grade-nine metabolic compound this casually was an apex operative of the underworld. Down here, silence was the only path to longevity.
"Very well," the doctor said, clearing his throat to mask his nervousness. "Let us proceed. Boy, over here."
Yurio hesitated, taking timid steps toward the operating theater. Seeing the cold metal table and the array of sharp surgical implements, panic flared in the boy's chest.
What if something goes wrong...?
"When you open your eyes, you will be healed," Ziel's calm, steady voice cut through the boy's spiraling thoughts. "You will have nothing left to worry about."
A strange, profound sense of tranquility washed over Yurio.
Trust in the instructor.
Yurio nodded firmly and climbed onto the table, lying flat beneath the dim lamplight.
The boy's life was about to change forever.