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Scarlette paid no attention to her surroundings.
The murmurs, the whispers, the panic lingering in the air meant nothing to her. Her crimson lilac–colored eyes remained locked on the man before her—the one who dared raise his weapon against her companion in an unfair confrontation.
As expected, she thought coldly. My instincts were right from the start.
There was something wrong with this man even before he acted.
The rage Fenix displayed earlier was not ordinary anger—it carried a resonance that clawed at familiar memories. A pattern she had seen before. A pattern that belonged to those people.
The ones she had hunted.
The ones she had killed without remorse.
Scarlette's gaze sharpened when she noticed the faint but unmistakable black veins spreading across Fenix's neck. They pulsed irregularly beneath his skin, like something alive and struggling to stay hidden.
That sight alone confirmed her suspicion.
No wonder, she thought. Every time I saw him at the guild, there was something off. He reeked of contamination no matter how carefully he tried to mask it.
Dark forces always left traces.
And Scarlette had always been sensitive to traces.
Since the moment she opened her eyes again in this life—since the moment she discovered those marks—her perception had changed.
They were not scars.
Not wounds.
Not remnants of injury.
What lay imprinted across her right shoulder blades was something far more deliberate.
A symbol.
Scarlette remembered the moment she first saw it—reflected faintly upon a fragment of polished steel. At first, disbelief flooded her veins. Then fear. Then recognition.
She had seen that symbol before.
Not etched into flesh—but printed in history books. Recorded in weathered archives. Referenced cautiously, often deliberately omitted from public circulation.
It was not a mark commonly spoken of.
Nor was it something modern.
The symbol belonged to an era buried beneath myth and partial records—an era most believed to be legend, or worse, deliberately erased.
And now, for reasons she still could not comprehend, it was carved into her body.
Not burned.
Not branded.
Etched so deeply it felt as though it existed not only on her skin, but within her being itself—as if something long dormant had recognized her and answered.
Scarlette did not know why it chose her.
Only that it did.
She kept the symbol hidden beneath layers of fabric and enchantment, knowing instinctively that allowing others to see it would spell disaster. Scholars would chase her. Fanatics would hunt her. And some—more dangerous than either—would try to claim her.
The marks changed her.
Not forcibly.
But irrevocably.
Her senses sharpened unnaturally after that. She could feel the undercurrent beneath people's expressions—the way mana clung to them, twisted, or roiled. Malice no longer hid easily. Hostility no longer whispered; it echoed.
That was why crowds exhausted her.
Why conversations grated her nerves.
Why she preferred solitude.
People were too loud—not with words, but with what they carried inside.
That was also why she trusted so few.
Very few.
She could name them without hesitation.
The Silveria Royal Family.
And the House of Valehart.
Their auras felt… clean. Controlled. Shielded by discipline rather than deception.
Scarlette was not naïve.
She knew very well that bearing such a symbol marked her as an anomaly. As a potential asset. Or a liability to be removed.
She had lived through exploitation once.
She would not allow it again.
That was why she made the only choice that ensured survival.
She faked her death.
Erased her former name.
Abandoned that life completely.
And took on a new one.
Scarlette Overland.
She knew where the symbol came from.
What she did not understand was the why.
Why her?
Why this life—
Why not back then—
Scarlette caught herself and forcefully silenced the thought.
Those questions led only to anger she no longer wished to nurture.
There was a more immediate issue at hand.
Fenix.
She clenched her fists slowly, channeling her bloodlust inward before it spilled outward. Ending his life here would be effortless—but she was not reckless enough to execute someone in public.
Not now.
It isn't time yet, she reminded herself. Whatever infected him didn't originate with him.
Fenix wielded power he did not fully understand.
That meant someone else stood behind him.
A certain person, she thought darkly. Possibly watching this exact moment.
If that were the case, then Fenix had more value alive than dead.
So, I'll use you, she decided silently. As bait.
Scarlette stepped forward.
Fenix lay sprawled on the ground, the impact of her earlier intervention having shattered more than just his weapon. He did not dare lift his head. His body trembled violently, reacting to her presence as much as to fear.
Scarlette stared down at him without expression.
Fenix felt it instantly.
The pressure radiating from her was not explosive or violent. It was absolute—like the weight of the ocean pressing down from above, stealing breath and thought alike.
Fear rooted itself deep in his bones.
Why… why is she here?! his mind screamed.
The realization was brutal.
I can't win.
The infamous Scarlette Overland stood before him—an adventurer whose presence alone had sent monsters fleeing and veterans dropping their weapons.
He could not even raise his head.
"Fenix," she said calmly.
There was no anger in her voice.
That made it infinitely worse.
"What do you think you're doing right now?"
The sound of her words caused his limbs to seize. He scraped weakly against the ground, trying to retreat, but found no room to escape her gaze.
Ryan watched silently from the side.
From his perspective, Scarlette's voice carried far more weight than simple admonishment.
That's not a question, he realized. That's judgment.
He glanced back at Fenix and nearly failed to recognize the man who had tried to crush him moments earlier.
The bulky adventurer was shaking.
Reduced.
Earlier he wanted to kill me, Ryan thought. Now he won't even look at her.
Ryan stepped closer, standing beside Scarlette.
"Where did you go?" he asked, frustration creeping into his voice.
Scarlette didn't look away from Fenix.
"Inn," she replied curtly. "Talked to someone."
Ryan stared at her.
That was it?
He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled heavily.
Trying to get a full answer out of her is like pulling teeth, he thought. Violently frustrating.
But he let it go.
His attention returned to Fenix.
"Do you know this guy?" Ryan asked. "He ambushed our wagon and destroyed it. Picked a fight for no reason."
All I wanted was rest, he thought tiredly. My injuries haven't even healed yet.
Now his condition worsened—new bruises layered atop old wounds.
Why does today feel cursed?
Scarlette finally answered.
"Adventurer. Party leader. Regular in subjugation missions." Her voice remained emotionless. "Notorious for bullying novice adventurers."
Ryan blinked.
"…That explains everything."
She's saying a lot, he noted. More than usual.
He looked at Fenix again.
The bulky man remained motionless, his head pressed low.
Just being near her is breaking him, Fenix thought desperately. I want to vanish.
Scarlette stepped closer once more.
For that moment, Scarlette bends down to align herself with the cowering man below her and Fenix could feel the immense pressure because the crimson-haired woman closed the gap between them.
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