Chapter 49
“Ambush! Everyone, defend!”
The enemies blocking their way drew their weapons and began to counterattack.
Clang, clang!
Sparks burst from clashing blades, ringing out with harsh metallic sounds.
Suleiman cut down a young swordsman in front of him, then kicked another attacker in the gut as the man lunged from behind.
While friend and foe tangled in a chaotic melee, Suleiman’s sword flashed again and again—three enemies fell before they could even blink.
Screams and shouts blended together as blood splattered across the filthy warehouse floor, pooling and spreading.
Even though they had the numbers, the enemy quickly lost ground. Desperation crept across their faces.
“These bastards… they’re not normal! Where did these monsters come from?!”
“Damn it, what are the ones outside doing?! Send the signal, now!”
But those stationed outside had already been subdued by Suleiman’s men.
Unaware of that, the remaining enemies fought on in vain, waiting for help that would never come.
“We can’t hold them any longer! Move the goods first!”
“Protect the guildmaster! We’re retreating now!”
At those words, Suleiman’s crimson eyes flashed sharply.
He flicked the blood from his sword and kicked off the ground, charging after the men who were fleeing in panic.
One middle-aged man, seemingly their leader, was being escorted toward the back door by two bodyguards.
“Gah—!”
A dagger flew from Suleiman’s sleeve. One of the bodyguards screamed and dropped to the ground, the blade buried squarely in the back of his skull.
The remaining large man froze in shock, then cursed furiously and rushed Suleiman.
“You bastard!”
Whoosh! The massive greatsword sliced through the air with a chilling sound—but Suleiman slipped past the arc smoothly, his fist snapping forward into the man’s abdomen.
“Ghhhk!”
As the man doubled over, clutching his stomach, Suleiman struck his vital points a few more times, then drove his sword into the man’s shoulder, disabling him completely.
“Pathetic.”
Suleiman’s voice was cold as he wrenched his sword free.
The large man convulsed once, then collapsed to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Even after taking down nearly half of the enemies himself, Suleiman didn’t have a single scratch.
Yet the blood splattered across his hair and face made him look like a demon risen from hell.
“This is the end. Drop your weapon.”
The tip of his icy blade hovered at the middle-aged man’s throat.
“…You monster.”
Meeting Suleiman’s emotionless gaze, the man shuddered and threw down his weapon.
“Who are you people? How did you learn about the trade?”
“I’ve no obligation to answer you. Best save your breath—you’ll need it soon enough when you’re the one forced to talk.”
“Hah! Arrogant fool. I have nothing to say to the likes of you.”
“You’ll talk whether you want to or not.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Suddenly, the man ripped off a necklace hanging from his neck and hurled it toward Suleiman.
BOOM!
A deafening explosion rocked the room, filling it with acrid smoke.
“Lord Suleiman! Are you all right?!”
Eblan and his men rushed in through the haze.
At the far end of the wrecked, smoke-filled space stood Suleiman, still upright.
He’d suffered only a few scrapes. Brushing the dust from his face, he glanced around.
The man who had been speaking moments ago now lay motionless on the ground.
Suleiman strode over and nudged the body with his boot, rolling it over.
“…Dead.”
Blue froth bubbled from the corpse’s mouth—the mark of a powerful poison.
Suleiman stared coldly at the lifeless man, then jerked his chin toward his subordinates.
“Search the area. Find anything that could be a clue. Move quickly.”
His men pressed their hands to their chests in salute and dispersed, combing through the wreckage.
But those they’d managed to capture alive had long since killed themselves with hidden poison.
Only a few abandoned wagons and crates remained.
Within the large building, Suleiman’s party were the only survivors.
“Damn… stubborn bastards.”
One man spat on the floor, scowling deeply.
They could trace the source of the smuggled goods through the supply routes—but without testimony, it meant little.
Their plan to capture a living informant had failed completely. Suleiman clenched his teeth.
“There’s no sign of anything useful, sir. What are your orders?”
Eblan bowed his head in apology. Suleiman swallowed his fury before replying slowly.
“Gather the bodies and send them to forensics. Also, get me the port entry records for the past week. There has to be a lead somewhere.”
“Yes, my lord. At once.”
As his men began cleaning up the scene, Suleiman stood with his fists clenched tight.
A few hours later.
In a hidden safe house near the now-quiet warehouse, Theron was receiving a report from his subordinate.
“All operatives involved in today’s transaction are confirmed dead, sir. The wagon carrying the goods was taken to the palace.”
“What of my stand-in?”
“He threw the magic stone containing the explosion spell and then took his own life, as planned. Our informant confirmed it.”
“I see.”
A faint smile played on Theron’s lips as he rhythmically stabbed and withdrew a dagger into the wooden table before him.
The man known publicly as the Fourth Prince of the Kingdom—Theron—was secretly the head of the largest underworld guild, Diader.
His network extended not only across the capital and the kingdom but into neighboring countries as well—making him one of the most powerful figures in the criminal world.
What had begun years ago with Roxelana’s support had, thanks to Theron’s cunning, become the empire’s most dominant black-market guild in just five years.
Recalling those early days, he chuckled softly.
“Well, well. To think Brother Suleiman chased me all the way here. He’s quite persistent.”
“The loss of the shipment may give him a trail to follow. Shall we take precautions?”
“Leave it. The cargo’s been transferred across several ships already—they won’t trace it back to us. I only worry that Mother will be upset. What a pity…”
Theron’s expression softened with mock sympathy. His smile could have fooled anyone into thinking he was the very picture of filial devotion.
“Since my dear brother insists on being such a thorn in my side… perhaps I should send him a little gift.”
“A gift, sir?”
“Yes. Something to keep him too busy for petty matters—maybe a few incidents here and there across the capital.”
His subordinate immediately understood and bowed deeply.
Theron gently caressed the keen edge of his dagger, murmuring to himself.
“Yes… so busy he won’t even have time to return to his chambers. Just imagining him trapped in his office brings me such delight.”
His grin was pure, unfeigned satisfaction.
But when his thoughts drifted to Ishtar, who at that very moment would be in his brother’s chambers, his smile vanished.
Expression hardening, he slammed the dagger into the table with a loud thunk.
“I’ll head back first. Handle the cleanup yourself. Find a new double—someone competent. I can’t stand fools who make a scene.”
“Understood, my lord.”
Rising swiftly, Theron swept his dark-blue cloak around him and strode down the dim corridor of the hideout.
Dozens of subordinates bowed deeply as he passed.
He exited through a secret passage unseen by anyone.
The cold night air brushed his cheeks, crisp and refreshing. Midnight had long since passed; silence hung heavy over the surroundings.
Listening to the rustle of the trees in the faint breeze, Theron felt an odd sense of melancholy.
It had been years since he began building his power in the shadows.
At first, the underworld business had been exhilarating—but once it stabilized, his excitement had faded like smoke.
To Theron, everything in the world was dull.
If he wanted something, he could have it easily. If he wanted it gone, it disappeared just as easily.
Even the sultan’s throne was no different.
Roxelana, his mother, had spent decades amassing power with the support of her homeland.
If her influence combined with his strategy, even a coup d’état wouldn’t be impossible.
But Theron had no real desire to be sultan.
Even if he wore the crown, what would truly change? What more could he gain?
Only his mother Roxelana and his uncle Berhan—souls long sold to ambition—would find joy in that outcome.
What meaning was there in living for such people?
“…Then again, perhaps I’m no different from them.”
Clever and calculating, Theron had sworn early on never to be his mother’s puppet.
Having abandoned all hope for her twisted affection, he had spent his life desperately searching for his own purpose.
For that, he had learned to kill and betray without hesitation.
Promises, to him, were tools for deception—nothing more.
Theron had lied with honeyed words, stabbed people in the back, and climbed his way to power.
He believed it was the only way to escape the wretched existence of a prince treated as nothing more than a disposable pawn.
He trusted no one.
He kept nothing.
And nothing in this empty world could ever truly fill the void within him.
“…Looks like it’ll rain tomorrow.”
Lifting his head, Theron gazed at the sky. Dark clouds slowly gathered, veiling the moonlight.
Only one star remained visible—a lone, familiar beacon he knew by name.
Venus—Ishtar.
The brightest celestial body beside the moon, rival of the sun.
“Perhaps you belong more to the darkness than to the light… Ishtar.”
He whispered softly, mounted his horse, and pulled on the reins.
With a sharp cry, the horse galloped into the night.
Under the faint moonlight, the man rode on, gripping the reins tighter as a strange thrill stirred within him.
