A few days after Whitney's group swept through the underworld, in a shabby inn located in one of its poorest districts.
"Oo…"
A man, sprawled unconscious in the most run-down room of the inn, slowly sits up, clutching his hair.
"Cough, cough…"
Even though his eyes are still barely open, he gropes around on the floor, eventually picking up a discarded cigarette pack and a cheap lighter.
"Tsk."
However, the cigarette pack, stained with tar and grime, is empty. Clicking his tongue in annoyance, the man finally staggers to his feet.
"..."
His reflection appears in the mirror hanging before him.
Unkempt hair, a scruffy beard growing wildly in all directions. Deep, dark circles under his eyes and a face so lifeless and haggard that it's hard to believe he is only in his late thirties.
And above all, his empty, soulless eyes.
All of it tells the story of the miserable state he is in.
"…Ha."
Even after seeing his own near-death appearance, he somehow finds the will to step outside. Taking a rough breath, he begins moving toward the door with his feeble body.
Clack…
The sound of bottles clinking underfoot rings in his ears with each step, but he pays no mind. Gripping the doorknob, he pulls it open with a loud creak, only to grimace.
It's not that the outside is particularly bright—the sun has just begun peeking through the window bars.
But after spending days rotting away in a dark room without even lighting a lamp, even that faint light is unbearable.
Squinting, he turns his head sharply to the side and stumbles forward.
"What, still not dead?"
Just then, a sigh-laced voice calls out from a distance.
"If you hadn't crawled out today, I was about to call the cleaners, thinking you were a corpse."
A rare sight in the underworld—a young woman—leans against the counter, watching him with mild irritation. She had been observing his pathetic state since the moment he emerged from his room.
"So, when are you paying your overdue rent?"
"I get that times are tough, but I'm no charity worker, you know?"
The man, now sitting silently in the chair before the counter, doesn't respond. She, in turn, shoots him a cold stare and delivers her final warning.
"If you can't pay at least this month's rent within a week, you'll have to—"
"Cigarette."
Before she can finish, the man interrupts in a low, hoarse voice, his thin, trembling hand outstretched.
"Just lend me a cigarette."
"…Sigh."
The woman, momentarily taken aback, exhales deeply and tosses him a pack of cigarettes from her pocket.
"Let's just call this your rent. Now get out."
"..."
"This place is already overflowing with corpses, but I don't want to be the one cleaning them up."
For a moment, the man stares at her blankly. Then, without a word, he pockets the cigarettes and trudges toward the inn's exit.
"Once, he was a big shot. How did he end up like this?"
Watching his retreating figure with a mix of pity and indifference, she pulls out a pipe from the drawer and mutters to herself.
"…Well. Maybe if I had a family, I'd understand."
"But in this place, that's a luxury, Bergen."
At her offhanded remark, the man momentarily pauses before the door.
But instead of responding, he lowers his head and steps outside, into the dreary streets of the underworld, where sunlight can't chase away the lingering chill.
…
Thrust into the streets like a penniless vagrant, he pulls a cigarette from his one and only possession—the newly acquired pack—and lights a lighter.
– Clink…
But the gas is spent. Instead of a flame, only a weak metallic click echoes.
"Haha…"
After trying several times in vain, he finally gives up, throwing the lighter to the ground with a bitter chuckle before collapsing onto the pavement.
"Maybe it's about time I died."
He mutters with self-mockery, lifting his head as if to etch the sky into his memory—just in case he never gets to see it again.
"…Hmm?"
But suddenly, his expression hardens, his gaze sweeping across the surroundings.
"What the hell is this…?"
The back alleys of the underworld were places where bizarre events occurred daily, but that day, something particularly unusual was happening.
White posters, starkly contrasting against the dust-covered and stained walls, were plastered at regular intervals along the streets.
"Tsk, more of these damn papers…"
However, what was even more noteworthy was the attitude of the people passing by.
"Should we just rip them all off?"
"Shh, keep your voice down, idiot."
In the backstreets, filled with people leading miserable lives and brimming with discontent, it would have been normal for some of the posters to have already been torn down or defaced with graffiti.
Yet, although the passersby glared at them with displeasure, no one dared to touch them.
"Do you really not know who's behind something on this scale in this part of town?"
"…That old bastard just won't die, huh."
Because of this, the posters remained pristine, their pure white standing out unnaturally in the underworld.
"If they wanted to threaten someone, they should've done it discreetly, like usual."
"I told you to lower your voice."
But the man, who had no interest in what they were, soon lost interest. As the grumbling thugs pulled out cigarettes, he straightened up, thinking he might be able to borrow a light.
"What the hell is 'The Broken Lily'? Why plaster it all over the place?"
However, as he staggered forward with his dazed eyes, he abruptly froze upon hearing those words.
"And what are these meaningless codes supposed to be…?"
"…Excuse me."
"What the hell?"
As if possessed, the man squeezed between the thugs and swiftly scanned the contents of the poster.
– Grit…
A faint grinding noise emerged from between his clenched teeth.
"The hell's his problem?"
"…Hey, just leave him alone."
One of the thugs, irritated at the man who had suddenly pushed past him, reached for the knife in his pocket.
But another one stopped him.
"If he can understand that at a glance, it means he's tangled up with that old man, whatever the case may be."
"…You think so?"
"Look at him. He doesn't seem to have anything worth taking. Let's just pretend we didn't see anything, okay?"
"Tch."
Reluctantly, the thug clicked his tongue, spat on the ground, and bumped his shoulder against the man's as he passed by.
"Go get yourself stabbed in an alley and just die already."
Still grumbling under his breath, he reached into his pocket for his lighter to light his cigarette.
"Huh? Where's my lighter?"
"Hmm?"
"Wait, where's my knife?"
Finding nothing where they should be, he blinked in confusion and started looking around.
"Heh. You got pickpocketed or something?"
"Shut up. You know what I do to survive in this place."
"Well, that lighter and knife weren't really yours to begin with, were they?"
"That lighter had a magic stone in it, damn it. Just my luck…"
His companion, amused, chuckled at his misfortune. Annoyed, the thug dismissed it as nonsense and angrily threw his cigarette to the ground.
– Sizzle…
Meanwhile, behind them, Bergen silently watched the entire exchange.
With a cigarette in his mouth, he flicked open the brand-new lighter he had just acquired and lit it with a soft click.
"…Seems like it's still too soon for me to die."
He also quietly tucked away the newly acquired knife into his coat.
For the first time in a long while, his eyes burned with intensity.
°°°°°°°°°
"Haa…"
It had already been a week since I ordered Alfred to scatter a mass of handbills—no, posters—throughout the underworld.
"The more my name spreads, the busier I get…"
I would have liked to take a break, but the mountain of letters resulting from my newfound fame had kept me holed up in my office, drowning in work.
…Why are there so many audacious nobles trying to introduce their daughters to me when they know I'm Lady Meredia's fiancé?
Most letters were invitations for social connections, but quite a few were laced with ulterior motives. Sorting out and burning those alone had taken me until nightfall.
"Master, are you sure about this?"
"…About what?"
Exhausted, I welcomed the distraction when Runiel's worried voice reached me. Turning with a bright smile, I feigned ignorance.
"You included the Count's estate address in the coded messages scattered through the underworld."
Runiel, absently stroking the hilt of her sword, looked more uneasy than usual.
"Don't worry. Bergen is the only one who can decipher it."
But I had a reason to be confident.
The encoded message, which contained my estate's address, was originally a cipher Bergen had designed as a game with his missing daughter.
In the original story, only the player character—who had access to Bergen's history—was able to use it to make contact with him.
There was no way anyone else could crack it without enough references.
"I can decipher it, though…"
From my right side, Parsha's grumbling voice reached my ears as she methodically worked through the remaining stack of papers.
But considering her analysis skills were practically a superpower, she was an exception.
"And besides… I have Runiel, don't I?"
"…!"
Even if another genius like Parsha somehow figured out the code and came knocking, I had Runiel by my side.
It was no coincidence that, ever since the posters were distributed, I had stayed close to her whenever I wasn't sleeping.
"If we handle this properly, we can finally proceed with the second ritual soon."
"Ah…"
"And also, we should get you a new sword. Something worthy of you."
Runiel deserved nothing less.
Since I needed to acknowledge Runiel's remarkable dedication, I decided to bring up the welfare benefits I had been planning for her.
For a moment, she stared at me blankly.
"I will burn away the rest of my life if necessary to kill every single intruder who sets foot in this estate."
"Uh, no, that won't be necessary. Haha…"
"Then I'll cut off their limbs as a warning—"
"What exactly did they teach you at the knight academy?"
Listening to the terrifying statements she uttered with a chilling gaze, it seemed clear that she was *highly* motivated.
"Anyway, it should be about time for him to show up…."
Muttering absentmindedly, I picked up my pen, preparing to respond to the letters I had just finished sorting.
"That's true."
Just then, Parsha, having finished organizing the documents, suddenly perked up, her eyes gleaming with intrigue.
"Based on my analysis—no, my calculations—it should be happening right about now."
As she turned her gaze toward the door, I found myself tilting my head in curiosity and looking in the same direction.
Knock, knock…
Right on cue, a knock echoed through the room.
Thinking that perhaps Sasha had brought good news, I immediately responded.
"Yes, come in."
"…Hm?"
But instead of Sasha's usual nervous voice, there was only silence.
"Sasha?"
"Ah!"
Just as I stood up in confusion—
"Be careful!"
Runiel, who had also been puzzled, suddenly tensed and shouted with a sharp edge in her voice.
Sssss…!
The moment she spoke, a dense, acrid smoke began seeping in through the crack of the slightly opened door.
"Master—mmph?!"
Seeing this, I quickly covered Parsha's mouth and cast every protective spell I could on her.
"Hm."
A glint of metal flashed before my eyes.
I frowned slightly as a dagger shot out through the thick smoke.
…Well, of course. Only an idiot would use poison gas against a white mage skilled in healing and detoxification.
Though I was annoyed at the minor psychological defeat, I wasn't afraid.
Because there was no way that surprise attack would ever reach me.
Clang…!
As expected.
Runiel drew her sword in a single fluid motion, deflecting the knife that had nearly reached me.
For a moment, her eyes gleamed coldly—
"…Ugh!"
"How dare you threaten my master…!"
—and in the blink of an eye, the assassin, moving too fast for me to even discern properly, was sent flying by a powerful kick to the stomach.
"Don't move."
"Tch, damn it…!"
Despite staggering from the impact, the intruder tried to get back on his feet.
But Runiel's blade was already at his throat.
"It is disgraceful enough that I allowed an attack to reach this close to my master. Speaking at all in this situation is practically a crime worthy of death."
Now that the situation was under control, Runiel exhaled sharply, her face a mixture of guilt and frustration.
"…Before the attack, I didn't sense any killing intent or presence."
I understood why she was so shaken.
Normally, she would have detected an assassin long before they even crossed the estate's outer walls.
"He must be a top-tier assassin. We should execute him immediately—"
"Calm down, Runiel."
If this intruder was who I thought he was, then even at her best, Runiel wouldn't have been able to detect his approach.
"Even if his presence was hidden, he had no intention of killing me."
Like Meredia, Parsha, and the Emperor, I knew that this man possessed an ability that went beyond mere magic.
"If he killed me, the lead he's been desperately chasing would disappear forever. He likely planned to take me hostage and use me as leverage."
To confirm my suspicion, I casually murmured my theory.
At that, the intruder—pinned under Runiel's boot—began trembling slightly.
"Am I wrong?"
"You son of a…!"
"Instead of just glaring at me, why don't you answer?"
The way he reacted to my words told me everything I needed to know.
It was him.
"The world's greatest thief… Bergen."
Now, it was time to reel him in—to make him my ally.
Or rather—
"Don't you want to see your beloved daughter again?"
"…!"
It was time to throw him a lifeline.