Chapter Twenty-Four: The Feast of Crows

"Good evening, dear friends of the assassin's trade. I am the host, Crow of the Banquet. I wonder if you are satisfied with tonight’s feast.”
The elegant young noble in a black formal suit removed his hat and bowed, his demeanor gentle as he regarded the assassins.
The overwhelming murderous intent from before had flashed like lightning, now replaced by a warm and amiable smile.
Yet every assassin present was a solitary figure in the upper district, bereft of status or background. To survive alone in such a place left no room for luck; each of them was a formidable character not to be underestimated, their sensitivity to shifts in atmosphere acute to the extreme. Even the slightest rustle could set them on edge.
The visitor was anything but friendly.
Subtle glances exchanged, the assassins saw uncertainty and suspicion in each other's eyes.
In this line of work, it was never advisable to engage too closely with the employer. Such contact not only tightened the inherently unbalanced relationship but also heightened the risk of being silenced—a risk no assassin wished to take.
Yet now, it seemed there was no choice.
Judging the situation was how assassins survived the daily dance with death, and those alive understood this well. They also understood… Anyone who could appear so suddenly before them could not be ordinary. This man was at least someone who had awakened his bloodline, favored by Order—a true powerhouse of Hemtica’s upper district.
And before the strong, they had always shown the humility of jackals on the plains—quietly, the solitary killers bowed their heads.
“It seems I have not been a proper host.” The black sorcerer smiled gently, his hawk-like gaze sweeping over everyone, including Amy. “Not only was the payment too modest, but I’ve neglected the young guest from House Ulysses. Truly a failure. I’ll punish myself with three cups as an apology.”
Paying no mind to the tense and enigmatic atmosphere, he lifted his glass and drank.
One cup followed another, and under everyone’s eyes, he drained three glasses of red wine—no one knew from where he had produced them—then squinted slightly, his voice tinged with drunkenness: “Now then, our young guest from House Ulysses should be satisfied. Please show yourself.”
Silence. Still silence. Only the sound of the night wind rustling through the trees reached their ears.
“It seems you all still harbor deep prejudice against me,” the nobleman, like a figure stepping from a painting, said, his tone cooling though his face remained warmly smiling. “But that’s fine. I believe our little guest who loves hide-and-seek is among us. Don’t you agree?”
“Sir, we have already searched every inch of this place.” A killer wrapped head to toe in white bandages sensed the mysterious employer’s intentions and braced himself to speak, meeting those mismatched eyes. “I’m very sorry, Amy Ulysses is not here—he has obviously escaped, slipped from our net.”
“Oh?” Alfred turned to the speaker, a mocking curve at the corner of his mouth, his expression playful. “Are you sure—”
“I am sure.”
Exhaling deeply, the bandaged assassin replied, but before he could finish, he noticed terror in the eyes of his nearby colleagues. As he tried to ask what was wrong, a sharp pain stabbed his chest, forcing him to double over, then he fell silently into the grass, blood staining the earth beneath him.
He was dead.
“I am likewise sorry,” the nobleman, as if stepping from a painting, gently stroked the raven perched on his hand, his gaze passing over the still-bleeding heart clutched in its beak. His expression did not change in the slightest; he remained composed and elegant. “I am very certain our young guest hasn’t escaped. Absolutely certain.”
No one spoke.
More precisely, no one dared to speak.

Before them stood an employer, without doubt a devil in noble’s guise—a devil who killed without blinking.
At moments like this, silence was perhaps the best response.
“Very good, it seems you’ve accepted my apology.” Black sorcerer Alfred smiled, releasing the red-eyed raven from his hand, his tone cheerful. “Since that’s so, I think we can all be more honest with each other—there’s no need for masks or disguises here, don’t you think?”
Danger flashed in his crimson eyes.
But no one moved.
For solitary assassins, concealing their identities was almost instinctual. Forever walking between light and shadow, life and death, they guarded their personal information with unusual caution and vigilance. Even with death looming, they hesitated.
He was just one man, while they numbered over twenty…
Their collective inaction gave them greater comfort and ample justification for their own hesitation.
Naturally, this was just what Amy hoped for.
Yet, while the boy welcomed this, he knew well that Alfred was not someone who believed in mercy by numbers. The assassins’ unity would not improve their situation, but instead invite calamity—invite a bloodbath.
Perhaps, from the very start, he never intended to let these killers walk away alive.
The impression of the “person stepping from a painting”—Glorybearers had not misjudged the infamous devotee of Chaos. Alfred was indeed the man in the wanted posters, still displayed on both the first and top floors of the city hall—the former so every citizen would know Hemtica’s upper district harbored such danger, the latter a reminder for Duke Galsworthy, the city lord, that the upper district’s peace was but an illusion, and true danger always lurked in the shadows.
The powers controlled by Glorybearers were beyond question. Even the enigmatic black sorcerer dared not confront them directly, for years lurking in the shadow of Order, quietly gathering strength.
Given this, he could not let anyone who had seen his face leave alive.
A massacre was only a matter of time.
The real dilemma was the boy’s own fate.
Whether he fled amid chaos or fought beside the assassins, Amy saw no hope for survival—Alfred’s power was far beyond mortal comprehension. Even the most seasoned Glorybearer stood little chance one-on-one. Twenty-odd assassins might be considered a formidable force in Hemtica, but against the black sorcerer’s uncanny magic, they would fare no better than a rabble—let alone hoping for an even match; even a one-sided slaughter might not occur.
In a single instant, all would die.
Even he—might only outlive them by a breath or two.
This was the upper district’s supreme power. The young Glorybearer had no room to resist, completely crushed. Even the legendary Swordbearers or Chosen Ones rumored to be stronger could not surpass him by much.
The Dark Consuls—people spoke of such cultists with fear.
It was said they were darkness incarnate, the root of every city’s unrest, the greatest threat before the flame of civilization was extinguished, and the sworn enemies of all living beings under Order.
More a natural disaster than a man-made calamity.

A calamity no mortal could withstand.
And what mercy could a disaster offer mankind? The black sorcerer named Alfred had never possessed a human heart.
He was a monster—utterly and thoroughly a monster.
Clearly, not everyone realized this. Many of the assassins present were fooled by his noble appearance, still harboring illusions about him.
“It seems our little guest is still watching. That won’t do—” Alfred pressed his finger to his lips, a strange half-smile on his face. For him, this was merely a pastime to ease his mood, and even if every soul here united, they could not stir the slightest ripple. “Since that’s the case, it’s time for your host to take the stage—to help him, and help you all make up your minds.”
“Three seconds—”
Dragging out his words, the young noble gestured. “I’ll give you three seconds. After that, anyone still wearing any disguise will be my enemy.
“—Enemy to the death.”
He licked his pale, dry lips, reading out the countdown to death.
“One!”
The assassins fell silent again, but this time, Amy saw the hesitation and uncertainty in their eyes—the foundation for united resistance had already crumbled. This group of killers had devolved into a rabble.
But… what did that matter to him?
Whether united or scattered, before the black sorcerer, a human-shaped calamity, it made no difference—they were all meat on the chopping block, soon to perish.
Frankly, the sense of helplessness unsettled him.
But only that. He was not about to despair, simply because—
An invincible foe, a doomed fate… Such things, he was long used to.
The young Glorybearer narrowed his eyes; in his racing blood, a flame seemed to burn quietly.
That was—
—Anna’s Fire.