The air in the Spectre office was thick enough to choke a draft horse. Freddy sat behind his desk, his fingers trembling as he adjusted his spectacles. The suggestion Rayn had just made—that a mid-level bureaucrat like him should seize the throne of the Ashburg Secret Services—wasn't just ambitious; it was a goddamn suicide note written in dragon's blood.
"Don't joke around with these things, Rayn," Freddy hissed, his voice cracking like dry parchment. "This isn't some back-alley brawl or a game of dice at a tavern. To claim Dawinton's seat is to paint a target on your soul that can be seen from the moon. It will end badly. Not just 'bad,' but 'public execution and family-erased' bad."
Rayn didn't even blink. He leaned back in his chair, his boots thudding onto Freddy's pristine mahogany desk with a disrespect that would have earned a normal man a decapitation. He pulled a serrated combat knife from his belt and began cleaning his fingernails, the cold steel reflecting the dim magical light of the office.
"What the fuck are you talking about, Freddy?" Rayn's voice was a low, dangerous rumble, dripping with pure, unadulterated venom. "Are you seriously pissing your pants over some 'titles' and 'rankings'? You're scared of the people above you because you've convinced yourself you're a worm while they're eagles. In this world, the only difference between a king and a corpse is the size of the balls on the man holding the blade. If you have the guts to seize what you want, you succeed. If you don't, you die in the dirt, forgotten."
Rayn spat on the floor, his eyes narrowing into slits of icy fire. "When I joined this pathetic team, I thought Freddy was a daring man, a strategist who knew how to play the game. I didn't think I was signing up to work for a fucking coward who wants to hide in a hole so small only a rat could fit inside. Is that what you are, Freddy? A goddamn rat?"
The insult hit Freddy like a physical blow. His face turned a deep, bruised crimson, his veins bulging at his temples. The "Spectre" in him—the part of him that had survived a decade in the shadows—flared up with a sudden, violent spark of motivation fueled by pure spite.
"Rayn... you arrogant little shit," Freddy growled, slamming his fists onto the desk so hard the inkwells rattled. "I've seen things that would turn your hair white! I'm not a coward, I'm a realist! I am weaker than every single member of Dawinton's personal squad. When the strongest fighters in the entire country are too terrified to claim the leadership of Ashburg, who the fuck am I to step up? I don't have that level of power! I'd be assassinated before I could even finish the swearing-in ceremony!"
Inside Rayn's mind, Silas let out a dark, purring chuckle. "He's hooked, kid. He's justifying his weakness, which means he's already looking for a reason to be strong. Twist the knife a little more. Give him a map of the enemies he needs to fear, and then show him how we're going to butcher them."
Rayn smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. His manipulation was working like a charm. If he could turn Freddy into his puppet-leader, he'd have the entire resources of the Ashburg Secret Services at his beck and call.
"Fine," Rayn said, his tone shifting from insulting to cold and analytical. "If you're so worried about the 'strong' people, tell me who they are. Explain the divisions. Tell me how many towns we're dealing with, who leads them, what their powers are, and where their weaknesses hide. If we're going to take the throne, I need to know whose throats I'm going to be cutting."
Freddy sighed, the anger draining out of him, replaced by a weary resignation. He gestured for Rayn and Vespera to take their seats properly. Vespera sat with a predatory grace, her emerald eyes fixed on Freddy as if she were deciding which part of him to eat first.
"Sit," Freddy commanded. "If you want to know the truth of the world you've stepped into, then listen well. Because knowledge in this country is more expensive than gold, and ten times more lethal."
Freddy cleared his throat, his expression turning somber. "Rayn, there are five towns in this country that are considered 'Superior.' You come from a low-value, backwater shithole, so I suspect you don't even know the name of the ground you're walking on. This country is called 'King Slay.'"
Rayn's eyebrows shot up. "King Slay? That's a hell of a name."
"It's earned," Freddy replied. "It is one of the strongest nations on the entire continent, built on the ruins of empires we've dismantled. We'll talk about the global stage later, but for now, let's look at our own backyard."
Freddy paused, his eyes drifting to Rayn with a flicker of suspicion. "But I have to ask... how does a boy from a low-education, starving town like yours have this much energy? How do you and your 'wife' possess this level of knowledge and combat intuition? It doesn't make sense."
Rayn had expected this. He had lived in the shadows long enough to know that a lie needs a kernel of truth to be swallowed.
"See, Freddy," Rayn said, leaning back and weaving a web of deception. "You're right. My town was the poorest of the poor. But I wasn't just some peasant staring at the mud. I cultivated my own crops—specialized strains that I didn't sell to the local market. We ate the best of what I grew. I only sold when tourists or traveling merchants passed through, and we hoarded that money like dragons. And books? I traded crops for books. While other kids were playing in the dirt, I was reading about history, geography, and the Dao of power. I may be from a shithole, but I'm not uneducated. I hope that's a good enough answer for your suspicious ass."
Freddy looked at him for a long time, then gave a small, tight smile. "Fair enough. Books and good food can make a man, I suppose."
He turned his attention back to the map. "In King Slay, we have 24 towns in total. But nineteen of them are nothing but dead weight—trash towns used for producing food, mining ores, and providing cheap labor. The people you see working the stalls in Ashburg? Those are the 'refugees' from the trash towns, lucky enough to find work here. But there are Five Superior Towns that represent the glory of this nation. Until a week ago, Ashburg was Rank 1. Because of Dawinton. He was the only man the King truly feared. But now that he's dead, the King has officially demoted us to Rank 2. The new Rank 1 is the town closest to the capital."
"Tell me their names," Rayn interrupted. "Tell me who we have to kill to get that Rank 1 spot back."
"The Rank 1 town is Sterling," Freddy said, his voice dropping an octave. "It sits right at the foot of the King's Palace. Their Spectre divisions are monsters in human skin. To put it in perspective, a regular officer in their divisions can slaughter 1,000 normal humans without breaking a sweat. They could kill a creature like Elza—the one who almost ended you—in the time it takes to blink."
Rayn didn't flinch, but he committed the name to memory. Sterling. "Sterling controls three divisions," Freddy continued. "Division 2, Division 4, and Division 6. Remember, we are Division 7. In terms of raw ranking, we are the third strongest from the bottom now."
"Who leads them?"
"The leader of Division 6 is a brat named Sandy," Freddy said, his lip curling in a mix of fear and annoyance. "Their division is called 'Fairfield.' Sandy is the youngest officer in the history of the Spectre divisions—he's only 14 years old. But don't let that fool you. He awakened the 'Actor Power.' He's a Turn-6 Actor. He can mimic the appearance, voice, and even the aura of anyone he's seen. He's naughty, childish, and treats life like a game, but if he gets bored or annoyed, he'll disembowel you with a smile on his face. He kills adults like he's swatting flies."
Rayn grunted. "A 14-year-old killer. Wonderful. Who's next?"
"Division 4," Freddy said, his hands clenching into fists. "Their team is called 'The Night Watchers.' The leader is Andromeda. She is one of only three female leaders in the entire Spectre organization. She awakened the 'Gambler Power' and is a Turn-6 Gambler. She is a stone-cold bitch, Rayn. I've seen her play a game of cards where the stakes were the lives of a hundred men. She won, and she watched them be executed without missing a beat. She treats her own team like slaves, and she has a pathological hatred for men. If you meet her, she won't just kill you; she'll humiliate you until you beg for death."
Rayn's eyes flickered to Vespera, then back to Freddy. "A gambler and an actor. These aren't just fighters; they're specialists."
"And then there's the big one," Freddy whispered. "Division 2, known as 'GoldCrest.' The leader is a man who makes the others look like amateurs. He awakened the 'Clock Maker' power. It's a strange, terrifying ability. He can perceive time differently than us. He can see the 'mechanics' of a fight before they even happen. He can kill a parasite like Elza in a second because he knows exactly where the strike needs to land before the enemy even moves. He and his entire team are the elite of the elite. They are the King's personal shield."
Rayn leaned forward, his interest piqued. "So this Clock Maker... is he the strongest in the country now that Dawinton is cold in the ground?"
Freddy suddenly burst into a fit of dark, hysterical laughter. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes wide and wild.
"Strongest?" Freddy wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "You think because they have the Rank 1 town and some fancy titles, they're the pinnacle? Just because the King smiles on them? God, Rayn, you really are a country bumpkin."
Rayn's face darkened. "Then who is it, Freddy? If it's not the Rank 1 leader, who the fuck is the strongest person in King Slay?"
Freddy stopped laughing, his face suddenly becoming deathly pale. He leaned across the desk, his voice a ghost of a whisper that seemed to chill the very air in the room.
"There is a man," Freddy said. "He doesn't have a division. He doesn't have a town. He lives in the 'Dead Zone' between the trash towns and the superior ones. We don't even say his name out loud. Even Dawinton, at the height of his power, would detour for three days just to avoid crossing that man's shadow. He is the reason the King stays inside his palace. He is the true apex."
Rayn felt the hairs on his arms stand up. The sheer weight of Freddy's fear was palpable.
"Tell me," Rayn demanded. "Who is he?"