— Flick of Death —
The prison gates stood open.
Moonlight spilled across the stone courtyard, outlining a figure standing at the center of the threshold.
Hawthorne.
He stood with his back straight despite the obvious strain, a cold sneer carved into his pale face. His severed arm had been crudely wrapped in layers of bloodstained cloth, the bandages already darkened through. Cold sweat clung to his temple, yet the murderous intent rolling off him was sharp enough to sting the skin.
Behind him, indistinct silhouettes remained motionless, half-swallowed by darkness.
The moment Selene stepped outside, Hawthorne's gaze locked onto her.
"Miss Selene," Hawthorne said slowly, savoring each word. "Did you truly believe hiding in a prison would keep me from finding you?"
His voice carried, low and venomous, echoing faintly against the surrounding walls.
He shifted his weight slightly. The movement pulled at his wound, and his jaw tightened—but his eyes burned brighter for it.
"How foolish," he continued. "Come with us quietly. I might be generous enough to spare you... some suffering."
Eren stepped forward half a pace.
Only then did the shadows stir.
Figures emerged at Hawthorne's back—black-clad cultivators, weapons at their sides, internal energy restrained yet coiled tight, filling the courtyard with silent pressure.
Hawthorne's gaze slid to Eren at last, disdain flickering briefly before rage resurfaced.
Eren, however, seemed entirely uninterested.
He tilted his head just slightly toward Selene, as if the dozens of armed cultivators before him were nothing more than background noise.
"Dead or alive?"
The question was casual. Almost bored.
Selene's heart skipped violently. She grabbed his sleeve without thinking, fingers tightening.
"Alive," she said quickly.
Her answer came without hesitation.
The courtyard fell silent.
Then Hawthorne exploded.
"You little bastard!" he roared. "How dare you speak so arrogantly when death is already licking your heels!"
His face twisted, veins bulging along his neck. Though his cultivation had been severely damaged and his arm lost, the pride of a Great Grandmaster burned violently within him.
That pride could not tolerate being ignored.
"Kill him!" Hawthorne barked. "Tear him apart!"
At his command, the black-clad subordinates surged forward.
Internal energy erupted in unison. The air trembled as blades were drawn, killing intent condensing like a storm front. Their footsteps thundered against the stone as they charged, expressions feral, eyes fixed on Eren as though he were already a corpse.
Three steps.
That was all they took.
No flash of light.
No violent explosion.
Just a sound—soft, almost delicate.
Shhhk.
Several heads lifted cleanly into the air.
For an instant, the bodies did not realize they were dead.
They took two more staggering steps forward, weapons still raised—then collapsed heavily to the ground.
Blood followed a heartbeat later.
It burst upward like fountains uncorked all at once, splashing across the courtyard stones, soaking boots, staining the moonlit ground a deep, nauseating red.
Selene's breath caught sharply in her throat.
The remaining men froze mid-stride, eyes wide, minds struggling to catch up with what they had just witnessed.
Hawthorne's pupils shrank.
His gaze dropped slowly... then snapped to Eren's hand.
Between Eren's fingers was something almost impossible to see—a thin, blood-darkened thread, trembling faintly in the night air. It reflected no light, yet carried death so cleanly it left no resistance behind.
"Y-You..." Hawthorne's voice cracked. "You killed them with... that?"
Eren did not answer immediately.
The thread vanished with a flick of his wrist.
"Surrender," Eren said flatly. "Cripple your cultivation yourself."
He met Hawthorne's eyes.
"Or the next strike takes your head."
For a fraction of a second, fear flashed through Hawthorne's expression.
Then it drowned beneath wounded pride.
"I am a Great Grandmaster!" Hawthorne roared. "I will not kneel to a nameless brat!"
With a hoarse shout, he forced his remaining arm forward. Frigid energy surged wildly, ice-blue palm force roaring outward, freezing the air itself as it rushed toward Eren.
Eren stepped forward once.
Just once.
THUD
His kick landed squarely against Hawthorne's lower abdomen.
The sound was dull, heavy—like a stone crushing wet clay.
Hawthorne's eyes bulged.
A scream tore from his throat as the impact crushed his core.
His gathered energy imploded, then scattered violently, decades of cultivated power unraveling in an instant.
He collapsed to his knees, convulsing.
"M-My..." His voice trembled, hollow with disbelief. "My cultivation...!"
Eren stood before him, unmoved.
Selene stared, her grip on Eren's sleeve slowly tightening—not in fear, but in stunned realization.
This wasn't a fight.
It had never been one.
---
— Truth Behind the Coup —
Eren withdrew his foot.
The strike that had fallen like thunder moments ago left no lingering echo in his posture. He did not spare the man on the ground another glance. Instead, he casually brushed off his sleeve, his voice mild—almost indifferent.
"He's yours."
The words landed with finality.
Selene snapped out of her stunned silence. Her heart was still pounding, the dull, crushing impact of that kick lingering in her ears as if the air itself had not yet settled.
She looked at Eren.
In that moment, awe and relief flooded her at once, blurring into something she could not immediately name.
Drawing in a steadying breath, she stepped forward.
Hawthorne lay curled on the stone ground, his face ashen, breath shallow and uneven. His body twitched uncontrollably, no trace remaining of the Great Grandmaster who had once commanded fear with a glance.
Selene stopped before him and looked down.
Her voice was calm—but cold enough to cut.
"Speak."
"Who sent you?"
"What's the situation at headquarters?"
"My father—what happened to him?"
The questions came one after another, leaving no space for evasion.
Hawthorne struggled to lift his head. His lips twitched, and then, unexpectedly, a low, distorted laugh escaped his throat.
"Heh... hehehe..."
"No harm in telling you now."
He coughed up blood, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction.
"I serve Vice Leader Kenelm."
"Your Drax family has ruled the Sixfold Trade Guild for centuries. Too long."
"It was time for new hands to take control."
Selene's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly.
Hawthorne continued, savoring her reaction.
"Kenelm has already launched the coup."
"By now... the headquarters is probably firmly under his command."
He squinted, his grin widening.
"As for your father—Magnus Drax?"
"Hah... he's most likely a prisoner already."
"Vice Leader... Kenelm..."
Selene repeated the name softly.
She should have known.
The polite smiles, the carefully concealed ambition, the subtle probing over the years—everything aligned with terrifying clarity.
A chill crept up her spine.
She raised her eyes again, her gaze turning sharp and merciless.
"And Grandfather Seven?"
For a brief moment, the air itself seemed to freeze.
Hawthorne's smile twisted into something grotesque.
"That old fool?"
"Chopped to pieces and fed to the dogs."
He threw his head back and laughed.
"Hahahaha—!"
The laughter cut off abruptly.
The last trace of hesitation vanished from Selene's eyes.
She said nothing.
Her palm lifted. Internal energy surged, cold and decisive, gathering in an instant.
No hesitation.
No pause.
—She struck.
Thump.
The sound was dull and final.
Hawthorne's body jolted violently. The laughter froze on his face as blood poured from his seven orifices. The light in his eyes faded at once, extinguished like a snuffed flame.
Silence followed.
Selene remained where she stood, her palm slowly lowering. A faint tremor lingered in her hand, her chest rising and falling once.
This was the first life she had taken with her own hands.
Eren glanced at her, a flicker of surprise crossing his eyes.
He had not expected such decisiveness from the seemingly delicate daughter of a noble house.
Selene turned to him and took a deep breath, steadying herself.
"Eren," she said quietly.
"Thank you."
This time, there was no calculation in her voice—only sincerity.
Eren waved his hand lightly, his tone unchanged.
"We both got what we wanted," he said.
"It was just a transaction."
The words pierced Selene's chest like a thin needle.
Not enough to draw blood—but impossible to ignore.
So in his eyes, it had always been nothing more than a cold exchange.
She lowered her gaze briefly, then lifted it again, pressing the bitterness deep into her heart.
"Rest assured," she said solemnly. "Once the rebellion is quelled, I will mobilize the full power of the Guild to gather your herbs and Spirit Stones. I won't break my word."
Eren nodded, offering no further response.
His gaze shifted past the fallen body, toward the darkness beyond the prison walls—calm, focused, and faintly sharp.
—It was time to go meet that person.