The following day, at the White Stone Mansion, midday. A fierce sun poured down like liquid fire upon the tranquil rear courtyard.
The flagstone ground had been baked to a searing heat, and waves of warmth shimmered through the air.
A handsome dark-haired young man stood in the training yard enclosed by high walls, his posture straight as a spear, drenched in sweat as he pushed through the rigors of martial cultivation.
In both hands he gripped a heavy black-wood training staff.
This specially crafted weapon was of staggering weight, difficult for an ordinary person to even lift off the ground, yet in his hands it moved like an extension of his own will, swinging with fluid ease.
Beneath the blazing sun, white vapor rose from every inch of the young man's body, as though a furnace burned inside him at smelting heat. Every pore vented steam, creating a dramatic spectacle of rising mist.
Most striking of all was the rhythm of his breathing. That deep, deliberate cadence was nothing like ordinary respiration; each inhale and exhale plunged several times deeper than what any normal person could manage.
Between breaths, a low resonant howl emerged, as if the chest cavity housed not flesh-and-blood lungs but a great iron bellows.
This was the exclusive breathing method of the Iron Heart Style, created personally by the legendary grandmaster who had founded Iron Heart martial arts.
It was the core secret technique for helping practitioners rapidly grasp the essence of the school's discipline.
This specialized breathing method allowed martial apprentices to comprehend the true principles of Iron Heart more quickly and steadily, and was the indispensable foundation of entry-level training.
The Iron Heart Style pursued explosive power taken to its absolute limit, built on the ruthless philosophy of "move like thunder, kill in one strike," with every technique delivered at full force.
If the first blow failed to fully destroy the enemy, the second killing blow was launched without hesitation, leaving the opponent no room to breathe or counterattack.
Each ferocious strike was the perfect expression of physical force pushed to its extreme, a union of power and technique that aimed to achieve an effect of total, sweeping devastation.
An Iron Heart practitioner had to possess agile neural reflexes, movement swift as crashing thunder, and attack power heavy as ten thousand catties.
All three were non-negotiable. Only by fusing these three elements perfectly could one utterly destroy an enemy in the shortest possible time, and that was precisely the ultimate combat ideal the Iron Heart Style pursued.
At its core, offense was the best defense.
But this was no reckless, mindless charge. Fluid footwork was equally vital.
Even wielding the heaviest of weapons, a true Iron Heart grandmaster could still move with the lightness of a cat, weapon and body unified, power and speed combined in perfect harmony.
They could weave away from the enemy's lethal strikes and, in the same instant, deliver a thunderous, annihilating blow that shattered their opponent completely.
When the Iron Heart breathing method had built Orum's inner momentum to its peak, his entire frame ignited into motion.
His figure burst forward like an arrow loosed from a bow, hurtling toward the target directly ahead with terrifying kinetic force, so fast he left a faint afterimage hanging in the air.
Before him stood a black-iron training dummy, set there imposingly for exactly this purpose.
This was a specialized training apparatus built to absorb heavy impacts. Its thick, solid metal shell was covered in dents of varying depths, clear evidence of how many brutal strikes it had already endured.
Every one of those impressions had been left just that morning, bearing witness to the sweat and effort he had poured into his martial cultivation.
The dense field of impact marks etched across the black-iron dummy faithfully recorded Orum's grueling hours of training.
From the clumsy initial movements to the gradually sharpening techniques, every increment of progress was stamped into that training apparatus.
Orum drew a deep breath. With a low shout, he brought the black-wood staff crashing down onto the black-iron dummy.
Iron Heart Style, Basic Cleave!
A resounding boom rang out like metal striking stone, exploding through the quiet courtyard and setting the surrounding leaves trembling.
The force of that single blow was so immense that even the heavy black-iron dummy shuddered violently from the impact, proof of the terrifying power it contained.
A fresh dent appeared on the dummy's head, deeper and cleaner than anything left there during the morning session. Clearly, after hours of repeated practice, Orum's technique was improving rapidly.
He could feel it precisely in the instant the staff came down: every inch of muscle in his body had twisted and fired together, releasing explosive force on a scale he had never felt before.
The sensation was extraordinary, as if a surging current had erupted inside him, originating at the ankles, traveling through calves, thighs, waist, and back, then converging into both arms and finally discharging through the black-wood staff in a single violent release.
That feeling of the entire body coordinating to generate power gave him a vivid understanding of what made Iron Heart techniques so elegant. Every movement carried within it a profound theory of force transmission.
In the past, when Orum swung a weapon, he had relied mostly on raw strength. His power already far exceeded that of an ordinary person, but his technique was clearly lacking, like a savage with an inflatable mallet who charges into a nursery and simply bludgeons everything in reach without any craft whatsoever.
Now, things were different. Iron Heart training had taught him how to use his strength more efficiently, how to draw the maximum effect from every ounce of force he possessed.
Strikes like that, both in power and speed, were more than twenty percent stronger than anything he could have managed before he began Iron Heart training.
Twenty percent.
That figure might not sound extraordinary at first, but for Orum, who already possessed tremendous baseline strength, an improvement of that magnitude was genuinely significant.
This was the clear tempering effect that the system's martial cultivation had on weapon mastery. A practitioner who had truly internalized their weapon was naturally far more formidable than someone with no foundation at all.
Just then, a familiar system chime sounded in his mind.
[Iron Heart Force Proficiency +1!]
[Current Proficiency Level: LV2 (23/50)]
As Orum had anticipated, the panel was equally effective at supporting the cultivation of personal proficiencies.
He had also begun to notice certain patterns in how the panel worked.
Although the training progress for the [Iron Heart Force] proficiency was somewhat slower than training pure combat techniques, and the requirements were considerably more complex and demanding, technique training only required him to repeat the same action over and over to accumulate proficiency.
Training [Thrust], for instance, was simply a matter of continuously stabbing forward.
Proficiency training, by comparison, was far more involved. He had to maintain the Iron Heart breathing method at all times while cycling continuously through multiple basic forms: Basic Cleave, Basic Diagonal Strike, Basic Thrust, Basic Horizontal Slash, and others.
Each technique had its own method of generating force and its own set of movement principles. Basic Cleave emphasized vertical force transmission from top to bottom.
Basic Diagonal Strike demanded mastery of angle and the element of sudden surprise.
Basic Thrust called for explosive linear acceleration. Basic Horizontal Slash required the waist to rotate in concert with the arms.
Under those conditions of intense, multifaceted training, it took roughly five minutes to earn a single point of proficiency, and the efficiency was indeed lower than single-technique training.
Even so, Orum had noticed something significant: the proficiency cap required to advance each level of a proficiency was a full half less than what combat techniques required.
Advancing a combat technique from LV1 to LV2 required fifty points of proficiency, but advancing a proficiency from LV1 to LV2 required only twenty-five.
This meant the total difficulty of taking a proficiency to its fully mastered state was dramatically reduced, saving him exactly twice the time.
Running the calculation in his head, Orum estimated he could bring [Iron Heart Force] to mastery in roughly a week, which was already a remarkable pace.
From what he had carefully observed, ordinary practitioners in this world generally required years of grueling training to truly master a single proficiency.
And without the assistance of a panel system, they had no way of seeing exactly what level their techniques or proficiencies had reached. They could only rely on vague subjective feeling to estimate where they stood.
Practitioners could only gauge whether they were approaching the breakthrough threshold by how their strength and technique felt from the inside.
Synthesizing all of this, Orum arrived at a key conclusion: he would need to bring a proficiency to its maximum level of LV6 in order to fulfill the prerequisite conditions for a class transition.
This inference was grounded in his understanding of the class requirements for Blade of Military Path.
To become a Blade of Military Path, he had to master the core proficiencies of three schools: Stone Dragon, Iron Heart, and White Raven.
And the standard for mastery was very likely bringing the relevant proficiency to its maximum level.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Three more ear-splitting detonations rang out in rapid succession through the courtyard, and the black-iron dummy absorbed three more violent strikes. Three shallow but clearly defined new dents appeared on its hard metal skull.
[Iron Heart Force Proficiency +1!]
[Current Proficiency Level: LV2 (24/50)]
The system prompt sounded again, and Orum found himself satisfied with the pace of his progress.
It was at that moment that a bright, melodious voice, clear as a nightingale's song, rose behind him. "Master Orum, your hot water is ready."
Orum paused his training and turned to look.
Standing in the doorway to the rear courtyard was a beautiful young woman with pale golden hair pinned up in an elegant arrangement.
She had a delicate, fine-featured face, and her lovely ice-blue eyes were as cold and clear as crystal, bearing an innate air of nobility and the otherworldly quality unique to half-elves.
Her figure was graceful and upright, elegant as a work of art. She wore a finely tailored black-and-white lady's dress, its hem embroidered with intricate silver morning star patterns.
She was like a beautiful swan, and she offered Orum a slow, refined curtsy.
In that same clear voice, the young woman added, "Master Orum, after your bath, lunch will be ready for you to enjoy."
"Very well." Orum looked up at the blazing sun overhead and realized it was already noon. Time had passed with surprising speed.
He hadn't noticed the hunger until it was pointed out to him. Now that it had been, the emptiness in his stomach surged up like a cresting wave, nearly unbearable.
The two powerful hearts in his chest, which had been hammering furiously through the intensity of the training, gradually settled back into a slower, steadier rhythm.
With his training momentarily suspended, sweat flooded out of every inch of Orum's body in a sudden rush, instantly soaking him through.
Looking at the lovely young woman before him, Orum couldn't help asking, "Are you Carolina, or Ristina?"
The previous afternoon, when Orum and Toby had arrived at the White Stone Mansion together, he had met the pair of beautiful half-elf twin maids for the first time.
Both possessed the same pale golden silken hair and the same ice-blue eyes as clear and brilliant as gemstones, and both carried an air of nobility they could not conceal.
They had behaved with great deference and courtesy toward Orum, their clothing immaculate, their posture upright and refined.
Beyond that, their gaze remained respectfully fixed near Orum's feet, perfectly expressing the distinction in rank between a subordinate and their superior.
One was named Carolina Lorran. The other was named Ristina Lorran. That distinguished surname carried within it the faded glory of a once-prominent family.
Because the two sisters looked so completely identical, Orum had never been able to reliably tell which was the elder, Carolina, and which was the younger, Ristina.
Under the careful management of the two sisters, the interior of the White Stone Mansion had been kept in perfect order, spotlessly clean, every corner as pristine as new. It had left a deep impression on Orum.
The trial meal the twin maids had prepared the previous evening had also been excellent in appearance, aroma, and flavor.
Both in its visual presentation and in the layered complexity of its taste, it had left Orum thoroughly satisfied.
All in all, whether it was the living environment of the White Stone Mansion or the quality of service the twin maids provided, everything fully met his standards.
The only real drawback was the price, which was admittedly high. Nine hundred gold coins was a staggering sum for ordinary people.
Fortunately, Orum was not short of funds. And soon enough, Felix would be settling the generous reward for the most recent adventure, at which point a substantial new sum would come flowing in.
Compared to the rank-and-file adventurers who scraped along at the edge of survival, straining endlessly for every meager coin, the treatment Felix provided through the Ice Hawks Company was like paradise.
After careful consideration, Orum had pressed his name solemnly onto the magical contract parchment that Toby had brought, formally making himself the twin sisters' legal master.
"I am Ristina, Master Orum," the young woman replied in a respectful tone, extending a clean dry towel toward him so he could wipe the sweat from his face after the intensity of his training.
"How am I supposed to tell the two of you apart?" Orum accepted the towel and looked at the young woman in front of him, slightly at a loss. "Even remembering your names is a challenge. They're both quite long."
"Master--"
Ristina's ice-clear gaze flickered, just slightly. Her cherry-red lips pressed together in a faint, thoughtful line.
She paused for a moment, as though organizing her words, then said in an even voice, "On the inside of my thigh, there is a small black mole. Carolina does not have one."
"Would you like to see it, Master?"
Her ice-blue eyes remained fixed respectfully on the ground, her tone calm and composed, as though she were commenting on the weather. As though this were simply an ordinary, everyday matter.
"Ah?" Orum froze at her words, caught completely off guard by the turn things had taken.
"Wait, something about this doesn't seem right."
After a few seconds of blank silence, Orum collected himself.
He wiped the sweat from his face and neck with the towel, composed his thoughts, and turned to ask her, "Does that mean every time I can't tell the two of you apart, I'm supposed to lift your skirts and take a look?"
What an absolutely scandalous thing to say.
"That is correct, Master Orum." Not a ripple crossed Ristina's ice-blue gaze. Her expression remained composed and elegant, as perfect as the finest porcelain doll from any royal court.
Her voice stayed clear, cool, and unhurried, without a trace of shyness or unease.
She continued in that same serenely unruffled tone, "After all, you are our lawful master. Whatever you choose to do with us, Carolina and I will accept it completely."
"I see." Watching that matter-of-fact compliance on Ristina's face, Orum realized at once that his frame of thinking was still too modern.
The core values of the modern world centered on freedom, openness, and equality, rejecting oppression and coercion in any form. Slavery had long since been swept into the dustbin of history.
But in this society, structured much like the feudal world of the Middle Ages, the hierarchy between master and servant, the obedience of child to parent, the absolute command of lord over vassal, all of it was commonplace social reality and accepted moral principle.
As female members of the Lorran household with no right of inheritance, Carolina and Ristina had been raised under a specialized system of education from early childhood.
From their youngest years, the two sisters had been carefully shaped into instruments for politically advantageous marriages, the entire purpose of their upbringing being to serve a future husband and his household to perfection.
This kind of ideological conditioning, which stripped away individual will and autonomy, had been reinforced over years and years of relentless repetition until it had taken root deep within their spirits, immovable and absolute.
And so it was entirely natural for them to believe that devoting everything they were to the service of "Master Orum," without condition or reservation, was simply the right and proper order of things.
Within their understanding of the world, a master could demand anything from a servant, because the master owned everything the servant possessed, including their labor, their freedom, and their body.
If Orum were to press his progressive views on them, lecturing them about modern ideals of equality, the two sisters would only find it strange and baffling.
Beyond that, Toby had taken him aside at some point to remind him that if Carolina and Ristina had not been sold by the time the deadline set by the kingdom's laws arrived, they would be forcibly auctioned off to a brothel in Roen City at a fraction of their worth.
That was when the twin sisters would have truly fallen into an abyss beyond salvation, with no hope of climbing back out.
It had been Orum's arrival that changed their fate and gave them a relatively dignified place to land.
The afternoon sun fell through the branches of the silver-leaved sycamores filling the courtyard, scattering dappled patterns of light and shadow across the ground.
A gentle breeze passed through, and golden flecks of light danced and shimmered across the white stone floor.
Inside the White Stone Mansion's broad and bright bathroom, invisible currents of warm steam drifted softly through the air.
At the center of the bathroom, the small bathing pool had already been filled to the brim with hot water still rising in gentle wisps.
A splash of water sounded as Orum slowly lowered himself into the pool, which was warm to the point of mild heat, perfectly calibrated. The warmth enveloped his tired body, and every muscle relaxed completely in an instant.
The bathing pool at the White Stone Mansion had not been filled with the lavish bath salts and rare aromatic oils of the Dragon-Heart Jade Inn. It held nothing more than pure, clean hot water.
Yet when the warmth wrapped around his entire body, Orum still felt his muscles ease and unknot, and much of the fatigue from his training dissolved away.
He reflected inwardly on how rare and precious this kind of luxury was.
In an era where the level of productivity resembled the medieval period, a full hot bath was an extraordinary indulgence for ordinary citizens.
To soak in hot water, one first had to boil it. Boiling water consumed large quantities of firewood, and firewood was a precious household resource, given priority for daily cooking and winter heating.
Moreover, the forests near large cities had been largely stripped bare, their timber long exhausted, which meant peat or coal had to be transported in from distant regions at staggering cost.
And so the pleasure of soaking at leisure in a comfortable hot bath was something common people could rarely afford. It was an exclusive privilege of the nobility.
After Orum had soaked contentedly in the warm pool for a little over ten minutes, the soft sound of footsteps approached outside the bathroom door.
Two twin maids in finely tailored uniforms stepped lightly into the room, each carrying a bucket of freshly boiled scalding water.
Their movements were graceful and unhurried, like two quiet breezes drifting into the bathroom, leaving no disturbance in the air around their resting master.
"Master Orum, we are adding fresh hot water for you," they said, their voices soft and deferential, as pleasant as a nightingale's.
"Go ahead." Orum gave a small nod.
The two twin maids carefully poured the hot water into the pool.
Their technique was practiced and precise: first testing the temperature with a hand to ensure the newly added water would not scald their master, then pouring slowly and evenly while stirring gently with their hands to blend the hot water seamlessly with what was already in the pool.
After adding the hot water and adjusting everything to the most comfortable temperature, the two beautiful young women began providing Orum with a professional massage service.
With hands as smooth and fine as silk, they kneaded with practiced skill at the various muscle groups that had been tightened and aching from the intensity of his training.
One young woman sat behind Orum and focused attentively on massaging his broad shoulders and neck. The other knelt at the edge of the pool and worked on the powerful muscles of his thighs.
Their technique was equally expert and assured, as though they had received dedicated instruction in massage.
At first, Orum felt slightly self-conscious about such an intimate form of service.
But the skill in the four soft, boneless-seeming hands working at him was genuinely masterful, and the comfort it produced was too exquisite to deny. The fatigue and soreness melted out of him swiftly, replaced by a sense of ease he had rarely experienced.
Before long, Orum had fully adjusted to this luxurious service and allowed himself to relax completely, giving himself over to the double massage of the twin maids.
"I can't tell the two of you apart again," Orum remarked, looking at the two pale-golden-haired young women as he enjoyed the massage. He could not suppress the question and spoke up.
There in the warm pool, four slender hands were working at him with professional diligence. And he still could not accurately determine which hands belonged to the elder sister Carolina and which to the younger Ristina.
"I am Ristina, Master Orum," said the golden-haired maid attending to his thighs, her voice bright and clear.
Her hands kept moving through their massage without missing a beat, not pausing in the slightest at her master's question. Her ice-blue eyes were fixed attentively on her work, making sure every press and stroke landed with precisely the right pressure.
"I am Carolina, Master Orum," replied the golden-haired maid working on his shoulders, her tone carrying a faint, natural shyness.
Her voice was a touch softer than her sister's, with a thread of inherent timidity to it.
Orum filed away the subtle difference between their voices.
Ristina's voice was clearer and more crisp. When she answered, she sounded calm and self-possessed.
Carolina's voice was gentler and more retiring, carrying a kind of fragile quality that seemed to invite protection.
"Understood." Orum gave a small nod and continued enjoying the luxury of the massage.
Twenty minutes later, Orum rose from the pool. The two twin maids immediately presented him with clean, dry towels, their movements light and prompt.
Their instinct for service was finely tuned; they always seemed to have what he needed ready at the precise moment he needed it.
"Master, your lunch is prepared," Ristina reported respectfully. "Please come through to the dining room."
It was time to eat.
The spread laid out in the dining room once again struck Orum as a feast for the eyes, every dish releasing appetizing aromas with rich, complex layers.
Carefully prepared stuffed swan, rabbit braised tender in fragrant spices, creamy mushroom bisque, sweet honey-roasted apples, candied figs.
Every dish was presented with striking beauty, its colors and arrangement as pleasing to look at as a work of art.
These were all ingredients that could be purchased at any market, nothing approaching the extravagant spread Felix had hosted at the Dragon-Heart Jade Inn after the hunt for the Bull Troll, with its rare monster meats and high-grade seasonings, each dish priced beyond ordinary reach.
And yet every one of these apparently ordinary dishes had been crafted with extraordinary skill.
The combinations of ingredients and the handling of heat had both been achieved with flawless, calibrated precision.
The result was a stunning presentation in which appearance, aroma, and flavor were each perfect, and Orum actually had an impulse to drag Father Ronald over, grab him by the head, and force him to study a few techniques properly.
If Ronald could absorb this level of refined cooking craft, the food quality for the entire Ice Hawks Company would rise by a considerable margin.
Though, considering the sparse conditions of outdoor adventuring, without a proper kitchen or professional equipment, something more suited to those circumstances would probably be a hearty pot-braised stew or food cooked over an open campfire.
These refined household dishes called for complex preparation and specialized equipment. In the field, they would likely be impossible to recreate.
Orum settled into his seat at the table, preparing to enjoy the meal. What happened next, however, exceeded his expectations once again.
Over the course of the meal, he watched as Ristina and Carolina carefully cut every dish into small, bite-sized pieces.
Their knife work was smooth and practiced, each cut producing pieces of uniform size, whether tender rabbit or sweet roasted apple, everything reduced to neat, manageable morsels.
They then lifted these pieces onto elegant silver dishes and presented them respectfully to Orum, taking up spoons and forks to feed him themselves.
Their movements were slow and gentle, handling everything as carefully as though it were a priceless artifact, conveying the food to his lips one small bite at a time.
Their eyes were focused and serious, as though any lapse in attention might mar their master's dining experience.
Every action they performed was an expression of the flawless refinement expected of a true professional maid.
Faced with this level of care, so thorough it had crossed into something almost excessive, Orum felt a tremendous jolt of shock run through him.
Feeding me directly? Are these maids, or nannies?
Nobody has ever fed me like this in my entire life, not even Lila.
If they keep taking care of me like this, I'm going to turn into a completely useless person who can't lift a finger without help.
Orum knew clearly that life made too comfortable could wear away at a person's will. Long immersion in this kind of luxury could very easily erode the drive to strive.
As a professional adventurer, he needed to stay sharp and hungry at all times.
And yet, after twenty solid minutes of being waited on in full aristocratic dining style, Orum found his thinking beginning to undergo a subtle and quiet shift.
He had to admit: this was genuinely, deeply good.
Now that he had truly let himself enjoy it, being cared for this way was not so bad at all.
After all, he pushed himself hard through dangerous adventuring, and the purpose of all of it was to hunt monsters, grow steadily stronger, and eventually unravel the mystery of the Black Gate so he could return to Earth.
But throughout that process, the weight of pressure on Orum's spirit was immense. The things he suppressed inside himself had no one to be told to.
Now that an opportunity had appeared to improve the quality of his daily life and ease the tension he carried, why refuse it?
When he turned his head to the left, gentle Carolina was there at precisely the right moment, holding a piece of fine dessert to his lips. Her timing was perfect, as though she could anticipate his every movement.
The sweetness of the honey-roasted apple bloomed across his tongue, almost cloyingly sweet.
When he turned his head to the right, he could take the next mouthful of tender braised rabbit that Ristina had already lifted on her silver spoon. The temperature and portion were exactly right: not too hot, not too cold.
The rabbit had been slow-braised with skill, the meat soft enough to yield with almost no resistance, the flavor of the spices worked perfectly through every fiber.
The coordination between the two twin maids was astonishing, as though they could read his mind at a glance.
This feeling of being attended to with such meticulous care was genuinely easy to become addicted to, Orum admitted to himself.
There was also the fact that whenever one of the two maids leaned forward to present him with food, her body naturally tilted forward with the movement. The rise and fall of her chest with each quiet breath became fully visible.
A pleasant scene, offered without any obstruction.
And neither maid showed any reaction to the direction of "Master Orum's" gaze.
Their expressions remained natural and relaxed, without a trace of discomfort or reproach, as though being looked at was simply another standard item on the list of services they provided.
And there would be warming the bed tonight as well.
He could not deny it: this was quite a life.
Meanwhile, fifteen hundred kilometers away, on the outskirts of Blackwater Town.
Deep in the shadow of dense forest, a wraith-like figure appeared without a sound.
It was a tall, cold-eyed woman whose face bore a vicious scar, her entire frame shrouded beneath a black cloak.
Her gaze was that of a poisonous serpent, fixed unblinking on the direction of the town gate.
She stood close to one hundred and eighty centimeters tall, her lean figure made all the more enigmatic by the voluminous cloak wrapped around her.
The fabric of that black cloak appeared to be of some extraordinary material, seemingly capable of absorbing the light around it, causing her form to flicker in and out of visibility within the shadows.
Most striking of all was the scar on her face, running from the outer corner of her left eye all the way down to the corner of her mouth.
The scar was a lurid, unnatural dark red, as though it were a wound that had never healed, radiating an aura of fear and malice.
Her name was Margaret. She was a Wanderer, a professional killer with blood on her hands beyond counting and a name that inspired dread, with a fearsome reputation that had spread through the river valley region near Port Zobek.
At this moment, Margaret stood only a single step away from advancing to the higher class of Assassination Master.
That threshold was the dream of every lower-ranking assassin. Once she crossed it, she would gain terrifying abilities that surpassed all ordinary human limits, becoming in truth the nightmare that people already believed her to be.
But completing this final breakthrough required more than the refinement of technique. It demanded a special convergence of circumstances and a sufficient accumulation of killing.
Beyond all of this, Margaret held another identity: she was a Chosen of Misfortune.
Margaret lowered her head, her slender fingers tracing the skin of her neck.
Branded there was the emblem of a red field bearing antlers, the mark of the Goddess of Misfortune. A flash of bone-deep killing intent crossed her eyes.
That mark was the sign of the Goddess of Misfortune's favor, and the source of her power. Whenever she touched it, she could feel the divine force flowing through her veins like a current.
The red-and-antler emblem grew faintly warm beneath her fingers, as though responding to the murderous intent within her.
Whenever a new Chosen of the Goddess of Misfortune appeared somewhere in the world, she, as an existing Chosen, would automatically receive approximate information on the newcomer's location along with basic details about them.
Drawing on this special ability granted by the Goddess of Misfortune, Margaret had already successfully eliminated two Chosen of Misfortune located in the southern territories, and had received generous blessings from Beshaba in return.
Through the divine power and enhancement bestowed by the Goddess Beshaba, Margaret had advanced rapidly in the art of assassination, touching the threshold of her class breakthrough in a mere fraction of the time it would normally take.
A boundary that should have required ten years to reach had been realized in a dramatically shortened span with the goddess's aid.
This extraordinary pace of progress had only deepened her reverence for the power of the Goddess of Misfortune.
And then, not long ago, through the mysterious resonance of the Beshaba brand on her neck, Margaret had sensed with absolute clarity that a new Chosen had appeared.
And they were right here, within the southern territories of the kingdom.
That familiar resonance had sent her pulse spiking in an instant.
New prey had emerged.
More critical still, and the detail that filled Margaret with excitement, was that this new Chosen of Misfortune was extremely weak. They had not even advanced far enough to take on a class yet.
A Chosen without even a class, appearing within the southern territories. It was practically a gift dropped in her lap.
For Margaret, this was extraordinary news.
A weak Chosen was the perfect sacrifice she needed to complete her final breakthrough.
And so Margaret had set out immediately, making her way to the outskirts of Blackwater Town, where she intended to carefully search the shadows for the newcomer's precise location before moving in for the kill.
She had already been lying in wait within this forest for a full day, studying every person who came or went through the town gates. She had not yet located her target, but she had patience to spare.
For a professional assassin, patience was the finest virtue of all.
"I am sorry, young Chosen. I will use your head as the precious offering that consecrates the pinnacle of my assassination path."
In that moment, the eyes hidden beneath the shadow of her hood blazed with a murderous fire as fierce and consuming as hellfire itself.
And then that tall figure wrapped in black, like shadow dissolved into darkness, vanished without a trace into the depths of the mountain forest.
In the forest, only the soft rustle of wind through the leaves and the distant twitter of birds remained, as though nothing had ever been there.
In the air, a faint and wordless killing intent spread silently outward, heralding the beginning of a bloody hunt.