At the same time, on the far eastern edge of the continent—

  inside a dim roadside tavern.

  A suspicious figure sits alone at the bar, quietly drinking a beer. A dark cloak conceals her body, the hood pulled low over her face. Only the faint outline of her silhouette suggests that the person beneath it is an attractive woman.

  The common room around her is loud and cheerful, filled with laughter and drunken chatter, yet none of it seems to reach her. She sits perfectly still, lost in her own thoughts.

  At a table several steps away, a group of intoxicated adventurers are loudly boasting.

  “If you’ve got the guts, you’ll take the next quest for half the reward,” jeers a dark-skinned man with a rapier at his hip.

  “Don’t bother,” slurs a bearded dwarf, leaning against his warhammer. “The kid doesn’t have the balls. Never even sunk it once. He chickens out every time we invite him to the brothel.”

  “I’ll do it! I’ll go—right now!”

  The young man downs another heavy gulp, staggers to his feet, and knocks over his chair in the process. Reeking of beer, he sways his way across the tavern and drops onto the stool beside the cloaked woman. The stench of alcohol reaches several meters.

  He takes a deep breath and slaps his cheeks.

  “You… you caught my eye right away,” he slurs. “How ’bout we go upstairs, huh?”

  The woman slowly turns her head.

  He finds himself staring into golden-brown eyes—eyes like those of a tiger, as if they might devour him whole. Her face is breathtakingly beautiful. Beneath the hood, he can only glimpse fragments of her features, but it is more than enough to steal his breath.

  His drunken confidence evaporates. He just sits there, mouth slightly open, unable to look away.

  “You really are unlucky,” the woman says, smiling at him with pity.

  “So young. So inexperienced. And you had to choose me of all people.”

  She sighs softly.

  “Unfortunately, I’m in a truly terrible mood right now.”

  She continues calmly, almost conversationally.

  “I’ve been stuck in this stinking mountain range for days, surrounded by filthy dwarves, just waiting. Why hasn’t he shown himself? Logically, he should have gone to the dwarves first—rally them to his laughable resistance, shouldn’t he? Amarasia lies right next to the Bluefang Mountains. And yet… nothing.”

  Her smile thins.

  “How am I supposed to fulfill my mission and ever show my face before His Majesty again if I can’t even find that idiotic little boy?”

  She looks at him expectantly.

  The young man just stares at her, uncomprehending.

  “As expected,” she says lightly. “As if you’d know the answers to my questions. Still… you’re perfect for venting my frustration.”

  She smiles seductively and locks eyes with him.

  He can no longer blink.

  Cannot look away.

  Her eyes shift from golden-brown to a deep, absolute black—like polished onyx. Every trace of warmth vanishes, as if storm clouds swallowed the light. The smile remains, making her face all the more horrifying.

  He struggles with every ounce of his strength. He cannot move. Cannot scream. He can only stare into those black eyes.

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  She leans close and whispers into his ear in a honey-sweet voice.

  “Take the dagger from your belt.”

  His hand moves on its own. Inside, he is screaming.

  Why is no one helping him?

  Where are his friends?

  He cannot turn his head. He cannot beg.

  “Good boy,” she murmurs. “Now, hold it tightly… and slit your throat.”

  The sweetness of her voice clashes grotesquely with her words.

  His hand trembles as it rises toward his neck. He resists.

  She presses her chest lightly against his arm.

  The last of his will shatters.

  He obeys.

  His lifeless body slides from the barstool and collapses into a spreading pool of blood.

  Silence falls over the tavern.

  Every eye stares in disbelief at the boy dying on the floor.

  Then—chaos.

  Shouting erupts. Chairs and tables are overturned. Weapons are drawn. The boy’s adventuring companions brandish their blades.

  All eyes turn to the cloaked woman.

  She rises slowly and calmly, shifting her gaze from the corpse at her side to the room at large. With deliberate grace, she pulls back her hood.

  Raven-black hair falls to her shoulders. From either side of her head curve two ram-like horns. Her jet-black eyes sweep the room.

  The men stare, transfixed.

  The tavern falls silent.

  “I’ll take care of the last one personally,” she says, smiling beautifully.

  As if on cue, steel flashes. Swords, daggers, and axes clash. Screams and battle cries merge into a violent cacophony.

  Within moments, the tavern descends into madness.

  No one guards their back. No one thinks. It is pure slaughter.

  She remains at the bar, unmoving, smiling, watching.

  Eventually… silence returns.

  A single dwarf still stands amid the carnage, warhammer raised. He lowers it and limps toward her, dragging one leg behind him. Each step looks like it might be his last.

  He stops directly in front of her and looks up.

  Terror. Fear. Disbelief.

  Yet no matter how desperately he tries, he cannot break free of her grip.

  “Well now,” she says pleasantly. “I didn’t expect that. A round of applause for our winner.”

  She claps.

  The sound echoes hollowly through the ruined tavern.

  Slowly, the applause fades.

  “And now, for your grand prize,” she continues lightly. “I do feel a little bad—you’re already so small.”

  In a blur, she draws two medarian scimitars.

  Faster than the eye can follow, the blades flash—and are sheathed again.

  The dwarf’s head slides from his shoulders.

  His body collapses backward with a dull thud.

  “Much better,” she sighs contentedly. “There’s nothing quite like a massacre to relieve stress.”

  She sits back down at the bar and resumes drinking her beer. Methodically, she draws her scimitars and begins wiping the blades clean with a cloth.

  Lost in thought, she mutters:

  “My master would quarter me if I neglected my weapons. His lectures still haunt my dreams.

  ‘We Medarians are a proud people of the desert. The only ones in the world capable of mastering these elegant blades. We are not vulgar assassins—we are artists of death. That is how we survived as nomads among the oases of the deadly sands. How we built magnificent cities in an unforgiving land.’”

  Her expression hardens.

  “Demon King Balaam came to our people first because he recognized our worth. We pledged ourselves to him with honor. His Majesty relies on us—and our talents. Do not disgrace our family in his service. You know the consequences.”

  She shivers briefly, then snaps back angrily.

  “Easy for you to say, you old bastard! I’m freezing out here while you bask in the sun! And I have to disguise myself constantly. My desert features and skin like dark sand would’ve been manageable—but these demonic traits? I stand out like a human in the desert.”

  She touches her horns with irritation.

  “I never imagined I’d have to hide them in shame. What were you thinking, sending me here, Master? A disgrace to Medarian pride!”

  As she grumbles and cleans her blades, a dark shadow slips beneath the tavern door.

  It glides swiftly across the blood-soaked floor toward her.

  Without turning around, she says calmly:

  “My master taught me—very painfully—to never lose awareness of my surroundings.”

  She sheaths her weapons, takes a sip, and continues.

  “You’re faster than I expected. No wonder His Majesty assigned you to this mission alongside me. What have you learned? Speak.”

  A chilling voice whispers from everywhere at once.

  “Lady Lilith. We have found him. He has departed the elven village in the west with two companions and is heading east. At his current pace, he will reach the Bluefang Mountains in a few weeks.”

  “What is he doing with the elves?” Lilith snaps, disbelief flashing across her face. “That makes no sense. Has he seen through my plan and deliberately chosen another route?”

  “That is unknown to us. Forgive us. What are your orders?”

  Lilith props her elbows on the bar and buries her face in her hands, as if a sudden headache has struck.

  “Are you nearby?” she asks quietly.

  “Yes. We have also discovered a bandit camp in the area. Resistance to our shadow control was… minimal.”

  “In other words,” she sighs, “you control a camp of mentally deficient thugs.”

  “Correct.”

  She exhales.

  “Better than nothing. Delay them. Weaken them if possible. I don’t expect much from bandits—but I want to at least annoy them for leading me on like this. I’ll move out immediately.”

  After a moment, she adds with a soft chuckle:

  “Keep watching them. Follow them quietly… from the shadows.”

  “Understood.”

  The shadow dissolves, fading as if it never existed.

  Lilith rises smoothly and surveys the tavern with satisfaction.

  “Well. That’s everything.”

  She drains the last of her beer, places a few copper coins on the counter, pulls her hood back over her horns, and walks out of the blood-soaked roadside tavern—unhurried, unbothered.