Chapter Twenty-Two: The One Hidden Behind the Scenes

His steps faltered ever so slightly.

Amy was not one to simply dismiss the sensation she had just experienced as a trick of her imagination. In truth, for several years now, she had sensed a subtle difference between herself and others—not a difference in body, but in mind and spirit. Words would slip from her lips that no one else could comprehend, but more crucially, images and knowledge she had never seen or learned would surface in her mind.

At first, she believed this to be an innate ability.

But when she later discovered her power to foresee death, she began to sense something amiss. Since the dawn of history, when the Ancestors first kindled fire from chaos and established order, their descendants—those blessed with the blood of glory—had each awakened to only a single extraordinary power. Not even the chosen ones, who could turn the tide of battle single-handedly, were exempt; their vast arrays of skills all stemmed from a single, inherited talent.

Therefore, these memories could not be right.

They were unlike the innate inheritance of ordered blood; rather, they seemed concepts grafted onto her mind later. Thinking back to the serious illness she suffered years ago, and the memories now lost to her, it was easy to deduce—there was a secret within her, a secret both terrifying and profound.

But what good was knowing this? She had considered telling her parents but instinctively recoiled from confiding in anyone. She had pored over countless tomes in the library, yet found no answer to her condition. As for strengthening herself by honing her abilities, she dismissed the idea immediately—her intuition warned her that the omen of death was nothing to trifle with. Reckless use could well result in her dying for real.

In the end, her gaze turned to the darkness and chaos beyond the world of order. Perhaps there, she might find her answer. Yet, it was far too early for that. Forget the chaotic wastes, forbidden to all life since ancient times—even the vast, endless Night was enough to halt her steps. She was far too weak—so weak that she was unworthy of discovering the truth hidden within her.

And as for growing stronger, she lacked the means.

The powers of the Glorious Descendants were rooted in bloodline inheritance; training only deepened one’s control, not one’s power. Thus, most of her kind, besides tempering their blood, sought out swordmasters for instruction in the arts of combat, so as to make the most of their physical gifts.

But unfortunately, Amy was incapable of either tempering her abilities or learning swordsmanship. The former, given the perilous nature of her power, was fraught with risk—one misstep, and the omen would become reality, her death no longer a mere warning. The latter, hiring a true swordmaster, cost a fortune in gold, and no renowned instructor would ever teach someone as powerless and obscure as she.

Moreover, the true terror of the Deepest Night was not monsters, but the corrosive influence of dark chaos.

Neither raw power nor pure swordplay could compare to the innate protection conferred by the blood of order. Even Amy had to admit that the Glorious Descendants were a people living on the inherited wealth of their ancestors.

Worse still, the strength of one’s ordered blood was determined at birth and could not be altered. Resistance to chaos was not something that could be improved—it was written in one’s very being.

Realizing this, the young woman ceased to obsess over her strength, and instead devoted herself to knowledge, delving into the mysteries of order and chaos. Over the years, her efforts had not been entirely fruitless, though her lowly status limited her discoveries. Her greatest gain had been a meeting with Ignatius, a traveler returned from the darkness, who shared knowledge never recorded in written volumes, greatly broadening her perspective—whatever his motives might have been, she could not deny the immense help he had offered.

But it was not enough.

She had no confidence she could survive even in the White Zone of the Deepest Night. Even there, the land teemed with endless monsters. Though ordinary fiends posed little challenge to the Glorious Descendants, there were limits to human endurance. To be constantly hunted, never able to rest with closed eyes, always on edge—even the strongest could hardly last three months. Worse, among the lesser beasts lurked greater horrors.

Amy had never faced a high demon herself, but judging by the killer who had grafted high demon flesh to his body, she was no match for them yet. To venture into the Deepest Night unprepared would be suicide—she might not last a week before becoming their feast.

She needed power, but power would not simply appear.

Her death-omen ability held infinite potential to turn the tide, yet in direct combat, it was nearly impossible to wield effectively. As for swordplay, hers was rudimentary at best—while she could hold her own thanks to natural instinct, she was a far cry from a true master and had much to learn.

But time was not on her side.

The Lower District was a tangle of trouble, and she could scarcely find fitting instruction. As for returning to the Upper District—the young woman glanced through a gap at the assassins scouring the area, her brow furrowing—unless she unmasked and dealt with the mastermind behind this plot, returning was impossible. She had no wish to live forever under the shadow of hired blades, never knowing when death would strike from behind.

Even with her death-omen, she did not wish to risk dying over and over.

The sensation of blood draining away, of life ebbing, of falling deeper into eternal, silent darkness—no one would ever wish to experience such a thing. Even knowing it was her own power, she could not shake the sense, again and again, that she was about to die—or perhaps, already dead.

What frightened her even more was her inability to distinguish between the omens’ illusions and reality.

Her power was so uncanny it terrified even her.

She shook her head, refusing to let her thoughts wander further. There was no point—besides, this was hardly the moment for daydreaming. The assassins were growing impatient, their search ever more rough and hasty. If she did not break through their encirclement soon, she would surely be discovered. Though she might hold her own in a chaotic fight, she had no wish for another needless battle to the death.

Violence so often solved nothing, especially when the assassins of the Upper District were as numerous as autumn wheat: cut down one crop, and another would rise the next season.

With that, Amy withdrew her watchful gaze and set off along her chosen route.

She needed to move quickly.

The Upper District’s greenery was dense, offering many places to hide, but even so, a group of twenty could search the area in mere minutes. Worse, there was no telling if her last hiding place had been spotted by the assassins; if so, her situation was all the more dire, and the seconds she’d lost in distraction could prove fatal.

Still, she did not allow herself to panic.

The carefully-laid ambush had already unraveled with the first volley of gunfire. The assassins, now scattered and disorganized, posed a far lesser threat. If she wished, she could exploit her knowledge of their positions and pick them off one by one.

But she had no intention of doing the mastermind’s work for them, eliminating assassins whose fee remained unpaid.

Moving steadily along her escape route, Amy kept a close eye on the assassins' movements. She seemed to have luck on her side; the smoke from the first volley masked her from the distant attackers, and those nearby, wary of her striking back, had only managed to narrow her location to a vague area, granting her precious time to act.

She relaxed a little, growing more composed.

But then—

Just as she was about to slip the net, her expression changed once more.

Perched on a nearby treetop was a crow with blood-red eyes, watching her intently.

“A familiar…” Amy enunciated each syllable, abandoning all attempts at stealth. In an instant, she shot from the woods like an arrow—but she was still a step too slow.

With a rush of wings, hundreds of crows gathered before her, coalescing into a shadowy human shape that gradually resolved into the form of a grown man: a young man with mismatched emerald and crimson eyes and long grey hair, dressed in an elegant black dinner suit and carrying a cane befitting his noble bearing. He seemed a figure stepped from a painting, exuding an otherworldly, unreal beauty.

But at that moment, Amy desperately wished he were nothing more than a figment, a man from a canvas.

“You’re quite the escape artist,” the young man said, tugging at his hat brim. His dangerous crimson eye narrowed as he smiled with devastating charm. “You almost got away… little mouse of the Ulysses family.”

Amy instinctively took a step back, but quickly smothered the bitterness on her face. “I never expected the infamous Black Warlock to remember my name. I’m almost flattered.”

She raised her guard.

No matter how powerful the rumors claimed him to be, she had no reason to flinch. With her death-omen, she still had a fighting chance.

She exhaled deeply, focusing all her will on what was to come.

But nothing happened.

“After all, you are a Ulysses. Worth remembering,” the man murmured, as if from within a painting, lifting his shoulders in a careless shrug. He extended a hand for a crow to alight, glancing sideways at the still-beating heart clutched in its beak. Then he turned and walked away. “So, the Ulysses are down to one… but the Church is a far