Chapter Eighty-Six: The Lord of the Realm of Death I

“So noisy.”
The howling of the wild wind outside startled Simon from his sleep. He turned over, adjusting his posture, seemingly intent on indulging a little longer in the beauty of his dream world, easing the exhaustion brought by recent days of overtime.
Only six days of rest per week! He’d never seen anything so exploitative.
But what could he do?
His life was held firmly in another’s grasp; unless he gave absolutely everything, he could never feel secure.
—Show your worth.
He knew full well how ruthless and unfeeling the Mask was, and had no doubt that should he lose his usefulness, the Shadow King of the Lower District would cast him aside without the slightest hesitation.
Therefore, for the sake of the mission… he had to work hard.
But before that, at least he should catch up on some sleep.
Sleeping at three in the morning and waking at eight—this was hardly bearable.
Yet there was no choice; his current tasks were many and complex. The alliance of nightmare murderers during the Fog Night a century ago in the Lower District was no trivial matter, and the war with the House of the Lost was not child's play either—it required extensive preparation, from personnel movements to supplies, and the details were endless. Even though Simon was only responsible for matters related to the Eastern District, it was enough to wear anyone out.
Well, while there were still two days of rest left, he might as well get some sleep.
With that thought, he turned over again.
Unfortunately… fate sometimes liked to play harmless little tricks. Before he could close his eyes, a thunderous boom sounded, and he could have sworn the ground shook a bit this time.
Damn it!
Would they ever let him sleep?
With dark circles under his eyes, Simon struggled for a long time between checking what had happened outside and simply going back to bed. He only snapped out of it when a soft “click” sounded from his chest, and he hurriedly removed the pendant from his neck.
Then he fell silent.
As expected…
“It’s broken.”
He murmured after a while—though he told others it was a relic left by his parents, the colorless, transparent bead on the pendant was actually a connector from Obadiah. Crushing it and calling Obadiah’s name in his heart would immediately summon flame and transport him to the castle of the House of the Lost. Besides that, it had another vital function: conveying information.
Simon rubbed the inconspicuous clear bead, thinking.
Then he uttered the demon’s name:
“Obadiah.”
And so, flames rose from emptiness.
“Intelligence officer Simon.”
A shadowy figure appeared in the scarlet flames, its features indistinct amid the flickering fire, but the familiar, somewhat weak voice was enough for Simon to confirm the identity of the “Messenger.”
“First Officer Wilson.”
He spoke, unconsciously straightening his back.
“Your wife and child are under the organization’s protection,” the blurry figure said in a calm, even cold voice as the flames danced and twisted. “Now, it’s time for the Sindero flower to bloom in the shadows.”

Sindero was a strange plant commonly found in the wilderness of the Four Domains. Its blue buds exuded a honey-like sweet fragrance, and its delicate form and cold, gorgeous hue gave it a unique allure, unlike any other flower. Yet, its deadly toxicity matched its beauty; even the high demons, renowned for their mighty constitutions, would become “fertilizer” on muddy ground within three seconds of contact with its roots or buds.
The plan was named after Sindero for a simple reason.
Because… the twin edges of the dagger he carried close to his chest were coated with poison extracted from the Sindero flower.
“It’s not time yet,” Simon frowned—not out of fear for impending death, but because… the Mask still didn’t truly trust him. Acting rashly would make success dangerously unlikely. “I don’t think this is the right moment.”
As a frontline operative, he had the authority to reject his superiors’ interference when justified.
“The Fog Night murderers are dead,” Wilson explained after a brief silence. “And now the killers are in the forest beside the estate. I need you to provoke the Mask—at least enough to make him show his true colors.”
So the noise just now was their doing?
Such trivial details flashed through his mind, and Simon lowered his gaze.
“Understood.”
He spoke, then took out his dagger, drawing the blade and carefully examining the cold gleam along its edge.
“May we tread the path of righteousness.”
The figure in the flames watched him, then bowed silently.
“May we tread the path of righteousness.”
Simon repeated, and in that moment, all the weakness and confusion in his eyes vanished. As the flames flickering in emptiness returned to nothing, the former attendant had fully reclaimed the warrior within.
“There’s no need to arouse unnecessary suspicion.”
Knowing he was about to face his destined fate, sleep had abandoned him completely. He dressed swiftly, washed up, and stared at the stern face reflected in the mirror, pausing for a moment before laughing quietly, patting his taut cheeks, and relaxing his expression slightly.
“Just like before.”
He strode out of the room.
“Simon,”
The master of the bronze mask stood statue-like in the living room, only raising his head when Simon approached. In those cold blue eyes was not the slightest trace of human emotion, as icy as steel in winter.
“What happened outside?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” the attendant replied as calmly as possible. “I only heard a very loud noise from my side—it seems something significant occurred in the east.”
“Go investigate.”
The Shadow King of the Lower District ordered.
“I’ll prepare a few things.”
Simon avoided the Mask’s chilly gaze, but did not act impulsively. He simply rummaged in the storage chest for anything he might need, then stood, carefully controlling his steps and breathing, approaching his nominal master naturally.
The snakeskin scabbard slipped away, and in silence the dagger was drawn.
One step, two steps—
The intelligence officer of the House of the Lost suddenly lunged, closing the distance between them in an instant. As a white lightning bolt split the dim sky, the dagger coated with Sindero venom plunged straight into the Shadow King’s back.
“Clack.”
Only then did the sound of the scabbard hitting the floor reach his ears.
Then—
As blood dripped, Simon gasped heavily.
It was finally over.
Though it had gone so smoothly as to seem surreal, humans were always fragile creatures. No matter how cunning or skilled, a moment’s lapse—a dagger, a poisoned cup, or a trivial accident—could end anyone’s life without warning. He felt, more keenly than ever, that money, power, even strength—all were meaningless before the absolute equality of death.
And for that, he was deeply grateful to fate, grateful for its favor.

—He was still alive.
That was enough.
But in the next moment, his expression changed.
For a voice arose from the depths of hell:
“Tell me,”
The one who should have died turned his head, cold blue eyes devoid of sorrow or joy—indeed, lacking any human emotion—giving off an uncanny terror.
“The reason for your betrayal.”
“Impossible!”
The intelligence officer’s voice trembled in disbelief. The Sindero toxin was among the deadliest in all the lands of Order—even the mighty high demons would succumb to it. From the moment the dagger struck, the man before him had been exposed to the venom for at least four or five seconds; by rights, he should be dead beyond saving.
“Sindero’s poison doesn’t affect you?”
“It is Sindero’s poison,”
The Shadow King nodded knowingly, clearly familiar with the flower.
“So it was Ignati who sent you.”
The Sindero flower grew only in the wilds of the Four Domains—within Hemtica, only the Dark Traveler could access it.
The intelligence officer could only remain silent.
Yet in the next moment, he burst out laughing.
“So that’s it,”
He said, pulling the dagger from the man’s back and plunging it again, deep into his heart.
“You kept talking and didn’t act—just bluffing.”
He paused, then spat:
“You’re impressive; you almost had me scared.”
The dead, naturally, do not speak. The world returned to quiet, to a solitude of one.
But then—
Footsteps approached.
One person’s footsteps, two, three… a crowd—the sound of countless feet from every direction.
Surrounded?
He felt a bizarre sense of absurdity.
What a joke—Paul’s estate should have only him and the Mask; how had so many been lurking here?
He instinctively wanted to find a place to hide or a weak spot to break through. But just as this thought arose, a cascade of silver laughter rang out from the house; countless hands appeared around the doors and windows, painting and writing on the glass in crimson blood:
“I see you.”
Then pounding sounded from every door, and the exposed hands grew like wild grass.
The intelligence officer stood bewildered before this eerie scene, gripping his dagger and scanning his surroundings warily.
But then, his pupils contracted suddenly and his face turned pale as snow.
For—
The corpse on the floor opened its eyes, cold blue as sapphires.
He… was watching him.
With deliberate or incidental intent, the dead man’s lips curled into a mocking smile.