**One Month Since the System's Ultimatum**
Thalen Gray adjusted the borrowed tie around his neck for the seventh time, squinting at his reflection in a bathroom mirror that gleamed like a blade. The fabric itched. The collar choked. And yet he couldn't stop the smile from curling his lips.
He looked out of place.
Perfect.
The chandelier-lit ballroom outside was filled with power—real, terrifying power. Hunters in shimmering gear and gilded dresses walked through the venue like kings and queens among mortals. Laughter sparkled like wine; danger hummed beneath every smile.
And somewhere in that glittering sea of status, power, and rank… was his target.
Veylen Cross. Codename: Ashdrinker. A-Rank Hunter.
Thalen had spent the last month failing to engineer Veylen's death from a distance. Curses, relics, rogue monsters, even a manipulated B-rank pawn—none of it worked.
Veylen didn't fall for bait. Didn't care about reputation. Didn't even blink at threats.
But tonight, Thalen had changed the angle.
If he couldn't engineer the hunter's death through traps, maybe he could push him into a political corner—use guilt, exposure, and misaligned ambition. If not to kill him outright, then to force a duel he could rig. Or a scandal that would make him vulnerable.
So here he was.
The weakest man in the room, wearing a stolen name and a fake invitation.
Objective: Infiltrate the annual "Halls of Valor" gala and get close to Ashdrinker. Uncover a fatal flaw.
Secondary Objective: Stay alive.
---
Thalen entered the ballroom like he belonged.
Nobody stopped him.
He wore the face of "Theo Garent," a fictitious C-rank relic appraiser with an interest in acquiring a private hunter sponsor. The forged ID cost him four mana stones and a Ring of Grace. His nerves cost more.
A waiter drifted past with glasses of crimson wine. Thalen snatched one. Not to drink—just to feel like he had purpose. The glass shook faintly in his hand.
"Focus," he murmured.
There were nearly two dozen high-ranking hunters in attendance. Some recognizable, some hiding behind social masks. Among them: A-rankers.
And finally—there he was.
Veylen Cross.
Even in a gala suit, Veylen looked like a warzone personified. Scars along the neck, posture like a coiled viper. His tie was already undone, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, and his eyes glimmered with the kind of controlled violence that made men twice his size avoid eye contact.
He laughed loudly at a joke Thalen didn't hear, hand gripping the back of another hunter's chair like a predator marking territory.
Every instinct screamed: *Run.*
Instead, Thalen walked straight toward him.
---
"Theo Garent, relic appraisal,"Thalen said, offering his hand with just enough hesitation to seem authentic. "I've been meaning to meet you."
Veylen blinked once. Not like a man confused—but like a gun being cocked.
"You look like someone who gets nervous around real power," Veylen said, lips curling into a lazy smirk.
"I get nervous around people who burn trolls alive for fun," Thalen replied, meeting his gaze. "Seems like a reasonable survival instinct."
Silence.
A long one.
Veylen's gaze sharpened, cutting straight through the ballroom noise.
"You've been watching me?"
Thalen didn't blink. "Everyone watches you. You're the guy who turned Rift Zone 93 into a bonfire and walked out with zero injuries and three lawsuits."
That got a low chuckle from the hunter. The other men and women at the table stiffened—some amused, some alarmed.
Then: a deep, amused laugh. Rich, and slightly unhinged.
"You've got teeth, Theo." He motioned to the chair beside him. "Sit. Before I decide you're too boring to bother with."
Thalen sat.
A server walked by with drinks. Veylen plucked two glasses of amber liquor from the tray and passed one to Thalen without looking.
Thalen took it, swirling the contents.
"Cheers to what?" he asked, lifting the glass halfway.
"To the kind of men who survive rooms they don't belong in."
They drank.
The burn hit Thalen's throat, but he didn't cough.
Veylen nodded in faint approval. "So. Relic appraiser?"
"That's the mask tonight."
"Oh? And what's the face underneath?"
Thalen smirked. "Curious parasite. Leeching stories from the living legends before they get themselves killed."
Another chuckle.
"You think I'll get killed?" Veylen asked. Not offended—genuinely intrigued.
"Eventually," Thalen said. "So will I. So will everyone in this room. Some of them just don't know it yet."
That sobered the table.
Veylen leaned forward slightly, firelight flickering in his irises. "You've got a funeral voice. Like someone who's already buried something important."
"I've buried opportunities," Thalen replied. "Trying not to bury my last one tonight."
Veylen's gaze narrowed. "You're either reckless or desperate."
"I don't see the difference."
The Ashdrinker barked another laugh. "Maybe you're both. That's what makes this city so interesting."
He pointed the glass at Thalen. "So tell me, Theo the Appraiser—what kind of relics do you *really* deal in?"
"Not the kind you can hold," Thalen said. "Stories. Symbols. Myths wrapped in metal and stone. Most relics are only powerful because someone believes they are."
"Mmm." Veylen swirled his drink, thoughtful. "Belief's a poor substitute for firepower."
"Maybe," Thalen said. "But belief makes people walk into fire on purpose."
A silence settled again—this one heavier, more dangerous.
Then Veylen smiled.
Not kindly.
"You're clever. I hate clever people."
"I get that a lot," Thalen said, sipping again. "Clever people break the illusion that violence is the only form of control."
"You'd be surprised how far violence can go," Veylen said, low. "I've seen men with ideals melt under flame. Priests. Kings. Even heroes."
"You kill a man's body," Thalen said. "But you leave the story behind. That's what lives longer."
"And stories make weak men feel strong," Veylen added, venom softening into amusement.
"Or make strong men feel immortal," Thalen said.
The A-rank hunter studied him.
Something shifted then—almost imperceptibly. Thalen wasn't just a curiosity anymore. He was a possible tool. Or a threat.
Both were dangerous.
' don't kill me! Don't kil me! don't kill me!'
And of course thalen was scared
Veylen leaned closer, voice lower now. "You're not here to sell relics, are you?"
"No," Thalen admitted. "I'm here to learn which way the wind's blowing. And who might get scorched if they stand in front of the wrong storm."
"You think I'm a storm?"
"No," Thalen said. "You're the thing that's left after the storm forgets to stop."
A pause.
Veylen leaned back, smiling faintly.
"I might like you, Theo."
Thalen gave him a polite nod. "I'll try not to die from the honor."
Over the next hour, Thalen played the game.
He played dumb when needed, bold when required, and silent when the moment called for it. Veylen liked dangerous stories, violent men, and broken rules. He didn't respect strength—he respected gall.
Thalen fed him all of it.
"You know why I left Iron Dawn?" Veylen asked during a lull. His voice was low now, private. The others at the table were drunk or distracted.
"Let me guess," Thalen said. "They got tired of burying the collateral."
"Ha. Close." Veylen leaned in. "They wanted me to take orders from a C-rank girl with a healing fetish and a messiah complex. Said I was unstable. Dangerous. Needed to be reeled in."
He lit a cigar. The flame flickered orange from the tip of his finger.
"They were right, of course."
Thalen took a slow sip of wine to hide his racing thoughts.
Here was the weakness.
Veylen didn't just reject authority—he loathed it. Prideful. Isolated. A man running from something he didn't name.
Thalen opened his Quest Architect.
He couldn't assign a quest to Veylen directly.
But he could script a story around him. A divine warning. A prophecy. An inevitable doom that Veylen, in all his arrogance, would fight against.
"Make him fear fate,"Thalen thought. "Make him prove he's stronger than destiny—and walk right into it."
He left the gala before midnight.
He'd gotten what he came for.
Now, all he had to do was build a myth so convincing that even a monster like Ashdrinker would believe it.
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