Chapter 16

Coming out of the inn, Cier walked briskly, his thoughts sharpening with purpose.

"Now that I've completed the task, it's time," he muttered under his breath. His eyes grew cold as a single, burning thought settled in his mind.

'-Let's settle the account with Jef.'

Determined, he made his way toward a particular area of the outer city, pulling a simple mask from his bag and fastening it securely over his face. It was a cheap purchase from a roadside stall but enough to serve its purpose in this part of town.

The area he entered could only be described as the real slums. Filthy streets lined with beggars stretched ahead, their gaunt faces pleading silently for a scrap of food. From frail children to frailer elders, their eyes clung to him, desperate. Yet, he paid them no attention, his focus fixed on his destination.

Taking a narrow shortcut through the maze-like alleys, he finally reached a quieter section of the slums. Here, the misery seemed to vanish, replaced by an unsettling stillness. The air was cleaner, and the roads were better maintained. In the center of this contrast stood a well-maintained building, its exterior polished and pristine, a stark anomaly in the otherwise grim surroundings.

A few men loitered outside, their conversations halting as Cier walked past them. Ignoring their curious glances, he stepped into the building, his movements precise and deliberate.

Inside, the atmosphere shifted. The air smelled faintly of incense and ink, and the low hum of whispered exchanges filled the space. He approached the counter, where a masked man, clad in dark, inconspicuous clothing, greeted him with a nod.

"What do you need, sir?" the man asked, his voice calm and neutral, betraying no emotion.

"I need information," Cier replied, his tone measured but firm. "On Jef. His hobbies, the places he frequents—everything."

The masked man's eyes narrowed slightly, his fingers tapping against the counter as he assessed Cier. "That will depend on how much you're willing to pay," he said finally.

Cier's lips curled into a faint, humorless smile beneath his mask. "Price isn't an issue."

The man gave a slight nod. "Then, follow me."

Without another word, he gestured for Cier to follow him into the back rooms of the building, where whispers and secrets came at a cost.

The room Cier entered was surprisingly refined, especially given the grim surroundings outside. Polished wooden furniture adorned the space—a sturdy desk, a few comfortable chairs, and a small cabinet in the corner. The faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, carried by the soft glow of a brass lamp perched on the desk. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting abstract patterns, their intricate designs adding a subtle elegance to the room. It was a stark contrast to the slums outside, almost unsettling in its quiet sophistication.

Cier sat silently, his fingers lightly tapping the armrest of the chair as he surveyed his surroundings. The quiet tick of a clock on the wall filled the air, each second dragging on as he waited.

After a few minutes, the masked man returned, holding a small, folded piece of paper in his hand.

"Two silver coins," the man said, his voice steady. "You should know—Jef is a senior member of the Lizardborn gang. Their leader is an awakened individual, so this information doesn't come cheap."

Cier met his gaze without hesitation. "That's fine," he replied, reaching into his pouch and producing two silver coins. He placed them on the desk without a word.

The man picked up the coins, examining them closely for a moment before nodding in satisfaction. "Here," he said, handing Cier the folded slip of paper. "This contains all the information you requested, along with a few details you might find useful."

Cier nodded, taking the slip and tucking it securely into his pocket. He stood up as the man gestured for him to follow, and they made their way back to the main reception hall.

"Anything else you need, customer?" the man asked, returning to his usual position behind the counter.

"No, nothing else," Cier replied, turning to leave.

"Pleasure doing business with you," the man said, his tone neutral as Cier stepped toward the exit.

Cier said nothing, merely giving a slight nod before walking out. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving him once again amidst the slums. The faint hum of voices and the distant sound of shuffling feet greeted him as he adjusted his mask and strode away.

On his way out, Cier opened the note and read the details about Jef.

Jef, a senior member of the Lizardborn gang, was described as moody and cruel. He acted with the backing of the Lizardborn, doing as he pleased, but unlike the young master of the Gale Brotherhood, Jef was not reckless. He knew when to pick his battles and, more importantly, whom not to offend.

The note detailed how Jef had ruined countless lives for his own amusement, targeting those he considered insignificant—people without any real power or connections.

Jef was most commonly found at Scale's Casino, a well-known establishment run by the Lizardborn gang. Along with this information, an image of him was attached.

The man in the photo looked average—thin, with black eyes and hair—with a frivolous smile on his face. It was the kind of smile that spoke of someone who reveled in their power, someone who could decide the fate of others with a single whim.

Cier stared at the image for a moment longer, his eyes cold with determination. He then tucked it into his pocket and slowly tore the paper slip into small pieces, letting the wind carry them away.

Jef would pay for the pain he had caused, but Cier had other matters to address first.

With that thought, he turned and headed toward another destination—an ordinary residential area where civilians lived.

Upon arriving, Cier quickly made his way toward a house. He could hear the sounds of a man and woman conversing inside. Moving quietly, he approached an open window and glanced inside.

The sight of a middle-aged, overweight man conversing with a middle aged woman—presumably his wife—caught his attention.

A cold flash passed through Cier's eyes as he recognized the man. This was the supervisor who had been responsible for his father's death, the man who had treated the life of a poor slum resident with utter contempt. He had killed his father without hesitation, offering nothing more than a few copper coins to his grieving family in exchange for his life.

He still remembered the look the supervisor had given them while handing over the copper coins—an expression of utter disdain, as if he were looking at pests rather than people. The cold, contemptuous gaze still ingrained in his memory.