Silence lingered for a while. The only sound in the warehouse was the faint, mournful whistle of wind squeezing through cracks in the shattered glass. Alia lifted her gaze toward Jim, a faint glimmer flickering in her eyes. Her voice was calm, yet it carried a weight of meaning beneath the surface.
"It's still too early," she said slowly, her tone low and cool, carrying a trace of distant indifference. "Far too early for us to start dividing the spoils of victory."
Jim arched a brow. His eyes swept over her face as if trying to pierce through whatever thoughts she concealed. The air hung still between them—then, just as the tension peaked, Alia shifted her tone, speaking lightly:
"The message I bring you is simple—Marcellus once possessed two cup handles."
Her words fell like a stone into deep water, sending ripples through the stillness. For a heartbeat, the air itself seemed to freeze; even the flickering light above swayed uncertainly.
"What?" Jim's voice dropped, the edges rough with barely contained shock and greed. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward slightly, like a predator catching the scent of prey. "How do you know that? And how do I know you're not lying to me?"
Alia had expected this reaction. She didn't flinch. Calmly, she brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, her expression composed. "It's simple," she replied. "A long time ago, I saw them with my own eyes. Back then, I didn't know what they were—but I remember that day clearly. I accidentally saw Marcellus inside a sealed chamber… he was touching those two cup handles."
Her voice softened, dropping to an almost whisper, as if the memory itself still unsettled her. "His expression was… strange, as if under a spell. His eyes were hollow yet entranced. And then—he used his own blood to nourish them."
The last words fell like lead. A flash of something dangerous flickered in Jim's eyes, followed by a low, rumbling laugh.
"Hahaha… So you weren't lying after all." His laughter rose, laced with a thrill so sharp it bordered on madness. "Feeding the Holy Grail with blood—if you hadn't seen it yourself, you'd never even know that was possible."
There was such certainty in his tone that Alia's heart gave a subtle tremor. She had thought this was just a minor test—an exchange of information to gain a sliver of his trust. But from the way Jim spoke, there was something else, something far more dangerous. That was the tone of a man who knew.
"I see." Jim's laughter faded, his eyes sharpening again. "Whatever your real purpose is, at least now… we have a foundation for cooperation."
The word cooperation sounded less like an offer and more like the tightening of a noose.
Alia maintained her calm smile, though her mind was racing beneath the surface. Jim's response had revealed too much. Feeding the Holy Grail with blood—it had only been a theory, a suspicion that Marcellus might have been under some influence. But from Jim's reaction, it seemed this was no accident, and certainly no external control.
Her fingers curled slightly at her side as her thoughts spun rapidly.
"So you know it too," she said softly, her tone even, almost gentle. "Then tell me—what does feeding the Grail with blood actually do?"
The question was light, but the edge hidden beneath it was sharp—precisely aimed at Jim's core.
His expression shifted slightly. The smile froze at the corner of his lips, his gaze deepening as if he were weighing just how much to reveal. For a moment, the air in the warehouse thickened once again—tension wound tight as a drawn bowstring, ready to snap at any second.