Chapter Two: The Guest

Morrie Stevenson sat on the sofa near the fireplace, his complexion poor. The hearth before him was cold, no flames burning, and the gas lamps in the house remained unlit, shrouding the room in somber gloom.

The ever-growing influx of people into Saltwell Town was beginning to wear on this fallen aristocrat’s nerves.

It had been a long time since anything had so disheartened him, not since his youngest son, Carlos Stevenson, inherited the pure bloodline of the Winter Moon.

“Is Augusta really planning to stand by and do nothing?”

The old nobleman sat motionless on the sofa, sneering as if muttering to himself.

In the shadowy corner of the room hunched a figure: short in stature, yet solid and powerfully built, sinewy muscles visible against his dark skin.

At Morrie’s words, the dwarf lowered his head further and replied meekly, “Sir, the Steam Guardian works independently. No one knows what that one is thinking.”

Morrie muttered a curse under his breath.

“Sir?”

He shook his head slightly, neither confirming nor denying, and continued, “I heard his steam turbine malfunctioned today?”

The dwarf in the darkness shook his head.

“The salt mine’s operations have not ceased. The steam elevator is still running as usual.”

Morrie’s gaze remained flat, but his lips moved ever so slightly, the stubble on his skin bunching into the shape of a bolt. “Julio, as the overseer of the salt mine tunnels, pay closer attention to the machinery’s maintenance. Go keep watch at the mine—and see what Augusta is really up to in the steam valve house.”

“Yes, sir.” Julio nodded, finally stepping a little out of the darkness, though he still dared not approach the murky light filtering in from the window behind him.

The dwarf paused, then added, “There’s one more thing, sir. Young Master Carlos went to the treehouse outside town early this morning.”

Morrie Stevenson was silent for a moment before replying, “I see.”

The other bowed respectfully and withdrew, grabbing something like a manhole cover from the floor. He lifted it with ease, then leaped down, vanishing into the vertical shaft beneath.

The house was silent for a moment.

“It seems I must arrange for some contingencies,” Morrie Stevenson thought to himself as he slowly rose from the sofa.

Suddenly, his body swayed, the act of rising freezing him in a moment of stiffness.

“Mister Morrie, it’s been a long time.”

An uninvited guest stood just a few steps behind him, a slight, cold smile playing across his devilishly handsome, sharp features as he gazed at the nobleman’s rigid back.

“Gale, the whelp from the Shetley family?”

Morrie was startled, but quickly identified the intruder.

The man’s voice was distinctive enough.

It was a voice rough with smoke, hoarse to the point of raspiness.

Gale Shetley seemed equally unsurprised that this nobleman could recognize him instantly.

But as he watched the silver-haired noble’s tension melt away, saw him calmly settle back into the sofa without so much as bothering to look over his shoulder, a strange anger welled up within him.

Once seated, Morrie Stevenson leisurely drew a cigar from his case and lit it with practiced ease.

Gale cursed him inwardly, annoyed.

He lurked in the darkness, a cold, mocking chuckle rattling from his throat, the sound both chilling and guttural.

“It’s a great honor that you still remember my family name, sir!” Gale’s wrinkled, weathered face twisted, and the words that squeezed from his throat were as hoarse and tremulous as a damaged radio.

He went on, “You never expected we’d meet again, did you? Yes, when I was thrown into the deepest dungeon after the salt mine collapse, I never expected it either. Fate is always unpredictable.”

Morrie Stevenson exhaled a long plume of smoke, his expression distant, as if searching his memory.

“That’s right, Gale Shetley. I truly never expected it—just as your father, loyal to the Holy Light, never imagined his son would betray the light, become a sorcerer, and fall to being a servant of demons.”

“It was the foolish Holy Church that killed my father, and you were the executioner!” Gale Shetley shouted, pulling from his black tunic a short, gray-black wand and aiming it at the man on the sofa.

“Great sorcerers have no need for the Holy Light’s pity.”

Morrie Stevenson only shook his head, seemingly unafraid of the death that might be moments away. He ignored the wand behind him, glowing with a deadly, spectral light.

He took a deep drag of his cigar, the rich nicotine flooding his lungs until he coughed, and said with contempt, “The Holy Light certainly doesn’t pity fools. Greatness? Ha! What a joke. A lackey for muddy rabble, hardly worthy of the Shetley name…”

“Don’t use that slur to insult the friends of humanity! You’re provoking the Sorcerers’ Alliance and the entire Underworld!”

“Sorcerers? All I see before me is a rat chased into the sewers by the Light—a fool who killed his own father. And demons are no friends of yours, just more muddy lackeys of the underworld…”

“Damn you, shut up!”

Gale cursed furiously, twisted a cruel smile, and unleashed his sorcery.

A crimson serpent of fire burst from his wand.

A thunderous explosion shook the room.

The searing heat of the fireball illuminated Gale Shetley’s contorted features in the shadows.

The underworld is no demon—at least, not in his eyes or those of his fellow sorcerers. To them, these privileged nobles were the true butchers and devils, persecuting them relentlessly.

The heavy rumble of Gale’s withered wand eased the tension on his face.

The crimson flash faded.

Gale stepped from the shadows, eyes fixed on the pool of blood spreading behind the sofa. Morrie’s body slumped forward, his head drooping, the burning cigar rolling away across the polished floor.

Gale’s throat worked as he sneered at the corpse.

“Lord Enzo has arrived. The whole of Saltwell Town will pay for your ignorance.”

He mocked the dead man loudly, satisfaction contorting his face.

But his words had barely faded when his throat seemed to twist shut, silenced as if by a bolt, his mocking expression instantly replaced by terror and astonishment flooding his every fiber.

“Oh? A commander-class demon abyss incursion this time? The Sorcerers’ Alliance has pulled out all the stops. So the crisis in Xilin City was their doing, was it?”

A familiar voice sounded at Gale Shetley’s ear, so close it could only belong to Morrie Stevenson—the very man he had just killed.

Half his face still shrouded in shadow, Gale was seized by uncontrollable tremors, his eyes widening into lifeless orbs, disbelief etched across every feature.

“This… this can’t be.”

Only when he felt the bite of cold pain at his throat—Morrie Stevenson pressing a slender silver needle into his artery—did Gale begin to understand, but far too late.

The final, emotionless words of the man assured that he did not die in confusion.

“Thank you for the intelligence. By the way, your fireblast was formidable—pierced the sofa and shattered my puppet’s core, you bastard.”

Morrie Stevenson of the Winter Moon, a puppeteer inheriting less than thirty percent of his bloodline’s power, regarded the body at his feet and frowned in contemplation.

Then he strode to the corner of his study, crouched down, and laid his hand on an old lacquered cabinet.

A series of mechanical clinks sounded as the cabinet spun like a puzzle box, finally opening with a crisp snap.

Morrie reached inside and fumbled for a moment before retrieving a mechanical pocket watch.

There were no numbers on the watch face; a slender hand turned slowly around a tiny golden orb of light at the center. Beside the golden point, an inky black sphere orbited in parallel.

His expression grave, Morrie snapped the watch closed, tucked it into his breast pocket, donned his black top hat and coat from the rack, and stepped over Gale’s corpse—its eyes still wide open—before exiting into the night.

At that very moment, Carlos Stevenson was awakening from a violent headache. He slapped his forehead heavily as he sat up on a wire-framed iron bed, bewildered by the scene before him.

The air was thick with the scent of burnt coal. Black steel walls closed in around him. A flickering gas lamp hung overhead, the dim yet glaring light stinging his eyes.

He stood, shook his head, the pain slowly ebbing from his body.

He wandered to the heavy steel door.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

Heavy footsteps, like a hammer pounding iron, echoed closer and closer, finally halting before the massive iron portal.

With a clatter, the door swung open. Carlos stared into the entryway.