"...Umbral Two?"
Mo Hamus uttered the name under his breath, as if to make sure he hadn't misheard it himself.
Instinctively, he turned to look at the figure clad in full armor.
Gen sat there, calm to the point of unreadability. It felt as though the entire room was waiting for an explanation to come from him.
Mo Hamus wasn't truly curious about the name itself.
Anyone could tell at a glance that "Umbral Two" sounded more like an alias—a title—than a real personal name. But that wasn't what mattered. What truly unsettled him was the question: who exactly was this stranger?
"He will remain in this town as my representative," Gen said, rising to his feet and pointing toward Umbral Two. "If anything arises, you'll report directly to him."
Umbral Two stood at attention. His eyes were serene yet commanding, his slight nod carrying the weight of absolute readiness.
A vague unease crept into Mo Hamus's mind. He wasn't a fool.
What made him shiver wasn't the name... but the voice.
It was identical.
The tone, the rhythm of breathing—every nuance matched perfectly. If he closed his eyes, he wouldn't be able to tell whether it was the man behind the cold steel armor or the unarmored young man speaking.
Gen tilted his chin slightly, his voice cutting through the air, cold as frost.
"Mo Hamus. Hand me George's spatial ring."
That ring was currently in Mo Hamus's possession. Before ordering his men to dispose of George's corpse, he had personally knelt to check the body. He wasn't sentimental, nor did he care for rituals of farewell. To him, death was simply the end.
He had only taken the ring—no more, no less. A spatial ring wasn't just a tool; it was a vault containing everything George owned. And now that Gen was the victor, the right of ownership naturally belonged to him.
Without hesitation, Mo Hamus bowed his head and presented the ring with both hands.
In that fleeting moment, he felt as though every servant and guard in the mansion were mere underlings—while he was the true servant standing before Gen.
Gen received the ring and rolled it lightly between his fingers. It looked almost identical to the one he already wore.
A faint pulse of mana flowed into it. Instantly, the interior space unfolded before his eyes—a realm filled with the scent of wealth, power, and sin.
Six sealed chests stood neatly inside, each mid-sized and knee-high, carved from dark oak and lined with silver along the edges. The dark wood grains curled like cold waves, exuding a sense of luxury only attainable by someone who had lived decadently within the shadows.
Beside them were several crates bearing the insignia of trade guilds, along with swollen leather pouches stuffed full of jewels—red, blue, violet—glimmering like the eyes of greed themselves.
There was a polished suit of armor, a few oil-wrapped swords, steel gauntlets, and rows of recovery potions lined up with meticulous care.
And amid that chaotic trove of goods lay a collection of excesses that mocked morality itself—fine imperial wine bottles, gold-plated antiques, glittering jewel-studded garments, and a golden masquerade mask, the kind worn in the underground balls of nobles where light, sin, and desire merged into one.
There were handwritten contracts as well—smuggling deals for weapons and opium, and lists of mercenary groups under George's control. A few names were crossed out, marked with terse notes like "Traitor", or even more chillingly, "Handled."
Gen took out the six oak chests and placed them on the floor, then opened one with a flick of his hand.
The moment the lid lifted, the room burst into a blinding golden glow.
Thousands of gold coins were stacked neatly inside, interspersed with sealed leather bags of silver.
Each coin bore the insignia of the Adelaide Empire on one side and a blazing phoenix on the other. Their reflected light danced across the metal surfaces like tiny flames. The soft chime of metal when Gen brushed his fingers across them rang like the very sound of power.
Gen calmly opened the remaining chests. Mo Hamus, knowing well what George had hoarded, showed little surprise.
Altogether, there were over six thousand gold and silver coins—an amount only high-ranking merchants or lords could ever dream of possessing.
Some of the pouches were labeled "Emergency Fund," "Payment for Northern Sanction Guild," or "Mercenary Expense — Black Hawk Squad." Every detail was recorded and organized, reflecting George's cautious nature and obsessive management habits.
In one corner of a chest lay a small cloth bag separate from the rest. Inside were ancient, misshapen coins dating back over three centuries. They were long out of circulation—but to collectors, they were worth far more than newly minted gold.
Gen tapped a finger lightly on the chest's edge, his eyes sweeping over the hoard.
"Not bad," he murmured in a low, even tone, as if appraising cargo rather than the spoils of a dead man.
Without a shred of hesitation, Gen flicked his wrist and tossed George's spatial ring to Umbral Two.
To him, it was nothing but an extra trinket.
His gaze returned to the six chests before him.
Under the silent stares of both men, Gen lifted his hand. Without a word, three of the chests vanished instantly—absorbed into his own spatial ring.
He turned toward the door. As his eyes drifted down to the cracked plate of his chest armor, a faint irritation crossed his face. He would need to repair that.
Before leaving, he paused at the doorway, not looking back. His voice cut through the stillness like a razor-thin blade.
"Work with him properly, Mo Hamus. I hate repeating my orders."
A gust of wind swept in through the window, rustling the curtain as Gen's figure disappeared beyond the doorway. His presence lingered only as a heavy echo in Mo Hamus's mind—a wordless reminder that he now had no choice but to obey.
Umbral Two remained standing, the ring in hand, his gaze calm and unreadable—like a mirror that reflected no emotion.
He did not store away the remaining three chests of gold.
Instead, he walked toward the desk and sat down quietly, as if he had been there all along.
Umbral Two closed his eyes and fell silent for a long while.
In truth, he was laying out a path of complete purification—a way to stay legitimate and untarnished.
But it would be difficult to make it official through the usual administrative process.
After all, this world too had its Merchant Guild—a power no less influential than the Church or the crown.
Every piece of private property, every trade association large or small, had to be registered under a legitimate identity or notarized by the local district magistrate.
If a merchant died without a legal heir, his entire estate would be sealed, inspected, and confiscated according to procedure.
At first, it was to prevent fraud; later, it became a way for the Crown and the Guild to take their share.
Of course, Umbral Two had no interest in George's wealth.
But without a legal title, he could never turn George's trade company into something new—something clean.
Something like the Venezia Commercial Union.
"George is dead. Among those who cooperated with him—who benefits the most?"
Umbral Two's breathing was steady, like the rhythm of someone weighing their cards.
"In theory… no one gains anything…" Mo Hamus answered slowly.
"But if you ask who wanted George dead—it would be Julia."
"Julia Asterfeld?"
"That's her," Mo Hamus confirmed with a nod.
"Why?"
Mo Hamus stepped forward, rummaging through the pile of scattered letters.
He pulled out one—a transport contract numbered 47: two thousand black-steel swords from Ravennica to Venezia.
The sender—Julia Asterfeld.
Holding up the letter as evidence, he began,
"Julia controls the steel, the forges, and the ore depots in the North.
But to sell her swords to the markets, she needs shipping routes—and George was that bridge.
He bought her steel at low prices, fixed the output, and sold it again for a higher margin.
Julia's value was suppressed; she lost her profit share.
If George dies, she can sell directly, raise her prices, and above all—she can seize his client list.
With that list, Ravennica could flood steel everywhere, and Julia's commercial power would skyrocket."
Umbral Two frowned, his breathing slowing before he muttered,
"So Julia doesn't just want money—she wants monopoly.
Exclusive routes, exclusive distribution.
George was a bottleneck. Remove him, and everything flows as Julia wishes?"
Mo Hamus nodded, anxiety flickering in his eyes.
"She's bound to have eyes and ears in Venezia.
Her spies are in taverns, merchant caravans, even among the guards.
Once she learns George has fallen, she'll move immediately."
Umbral Two remained silent, his gaze shadowed as though calculating each step of the board.
Finally, he spoke, "Mo Hamus. I need to know—what kind of person is Julia Asterfeld?"
Mo Hamus didn't answer right away.
He looked up, as if recalling the years he'd spent trading under George.
"Julia…" he murmured, voice low.
"She's not the kind of woman you can predict.
Not as cruel as George, but neither kind nor merciful.
She's smart, pragmatic—and ruthless when necessary.
She knows exactly when to kill a pawn and when to keep it alive for its last drop of profit."
Umbral Two stayed still, quietly listening.
"She once saved George from a Guild inspection," Mo Hamus continued.
"But in exchange, George had to raise her profit share for three straight years.
When the profits dried up, she didn't hesitate to cut him off—or stab him in the back."
"So if I offer Julia profit, she'll cooperate?"
Mo Hamus nodded.
"Exactly. Julia lives for profit.
She doesn't care about morals or spilled blood—only the numbers at the end of the ledger.
If you prove that doing business with you earns more than it did with George, she'll not only cooperate,
she'll protect your reputation to keep the money flowing."
Umbral Two's lips curved slightly.
Then came the moment to redraw the outlines of his plan.
First, he had to handle Julia delicately.
He didn't intend to seize everything the way George did.
Thinking that, Umbral Two smiled faintly.
Perhaps this wasn't beyond saving after all.
Three possible paths appeared in his mind.
First, to let go entirely—withdraw from the steel trade and switch to another business.
That would end the conflict with Julia and prevent bloodshed.
He could "sell" the transport route through the town, exchange it for a farewell payment or a peaceful agreement.
It suited perfectly with his goal of "total purification."
Second, to revise the contract and reduce his profit share.
Let Julia take eighty percent, while he keeps twenty as commission—remaining part of the game.
Julia profits; thus, she might no longer oppose him, even consider him a more "agreeable" partner than George.
The trick would be negotiating carefully, ensuring she never feels powerful enough to turn on him and seize the town—a delicate balance between profit and influence.
Third, to offer her the client list—the ultimate gift.
Addresses, contracts, the names of every buyer.
Turn an enemy into an ally by pleasing her so deeply that she feels indebted.
Once Julia holds those documents, she could become either a strategic partner—or a double-edged blade that might strike back at any moment.
But for any of these plans to work, one thing was essential:
He had to become George's legal heir—at least on paper.
Umbral Two sat still, studying Mo Hamus like a man weighing a sword in his hand.
He didn't rush.
He let the silence stretch a few heartbeats longer—long enough to taste the consequences.
Then he spoke, voice calm but each word carrying weight.
"Find Mayor Garon.
Force him to sign a temporary authorization—acting on George's behalf.
Use George's seal and the old ledger as evidence.
Stamp it, date it—make it look legitimate."
Mo Hamus hesitated. "On paper, the name 'Umbral Two' won't be valid.
The Merchant Guild won't accept nicknames or secret code identifiers."
Umbral Two was quiet for a moment, his finger tapping lightly on the table.
"…Then write Alessander Venn," he replied softly.
"A name distant enough that no one will question it."
"I'll handle it. With the seal and ledger, the paperwork should pass easily," Mo Hamus said,
adding in a lower voice, "The Guild rarely looks too closely anyway—as long as the renewal fee is paid… and a little bribe is included."
Umbral Two smiled faintly, his eyes cold.
"Then do it."
"And one more thing, Mo Hamus."
Umbral Two leaned back in his chair.
Mo Hamus stopped, waiting for the next order.
"Tonight, gather all of George's former subordinates—from warehouse managers to transporters, even the dock enforcers."
"Where shall we meet?" Mo Hamus asked.
"The tavern in the southern quarter."
Mo Hamus bowed deeply, then strode toward the door once more.
His footsteps echoed faintly across the wooden floor, carrying with them the scent of blood and sealing wax—
a silent reminder that everything had just begun.
A legal play was about to unfold amidst the gloomy winds of Venezia.