In the wagon en route to the campsite, a slow, haunting melody filled the air. The sound came from a box-like device, reminiscent of a modern speaker, powered by a magical sound crystal embedded within it. The melody resembled a somber reverbed rendition of Mozart's Requiem Lacrimosa in D minor, casting an eerie atmosphere over the wagon's interior. It seemed fitting—villains should have their own unsettling theme music, after all.
The wagon's interior was predominantly black, with purple linings and intricate patterns decorating the plush seats. Seated in one corner was a large man clad in luxurious orange robes, his fingers adorned with a gaudy array of rings. He sipped wine from an ornate glass, gazing out the window with an air of indulgent detachment. Prestige and opulence were clearly second nature to him.
Opposite him, a silver-haired woman sat silently, inspecting the blades of her twin swords with meticulous care. Her piercing blue eyes scanned every edge and curve, while her silver armor gleamed faintly in the dim light. Draped over her shoulders was a red cape, its hem adorned with fiery orange patterns resembling dancing flames. Despite being a Tier 8 fire mage, she favored her swords—a preference rooted in her past life as an assassin.
The man's appearance was striking, though not without its imperfections. His shiny black hair bore thin streaks of gray running above his ears and down the back of his head. A neatly groomed cowboy mustache curled slightly upward at its ends, complementing the light stubble on his jaw. His physique hinted at a muscular past, though years of indulgence had softened it, giving him a modest potbelly. The scar etched across his right cheek, however, betrayed a history of violence—a tale not even his noble airs could fully conceal.
That scar was a constant reminder of a near-fatal encounter. Years ago, not long after his ascension to nobility, he'd fought off an assassin sent to end his life. The woman now sitting opposite him was the very one who had nearly succeeded. Noma, the assassin, had been hired by a vengeful relative of a family he'd robbed and murdered during his days as a bandit.
Though she had come perilously close to killing him, he had offered her an irresistible deal: ten times the gold her employer had paid her. The cliché "I'll pay you more than what they're giving you" had, for once, worked like a charm. In exchange, she not only spared him but also joined his ranks, eliminating the one who had sent her.
Noma's loyalty was as fluid as the highest bidder's purse, but her value proved undeniable. Despite the scar she left on his face, the man soon realized her worth far outweighed the grudge he'd initially held. Ruthlessly efficient and brutally strong, she rose to become his most trusted enforcer, a role she played with unflinching precision.
Moments like this only reinforced her importance. As the wagon rocked gently over uneven terrain, the two of them sat in silence, their partnership forged in blood and betrayal.
"I sense two exceptionally strong presences and another, much weaker, in that direction," Noma said, her finger pointing toward the campsite.
The large man furrowed his brow. "Our men, perhaps?"
Noma shook her head. "No. None of your men possess magical signatures of this caliber. These three... they're different. And I don't sense anyone else nearby with significant magical energy. If your men were here, they're either dead or gone."
The large man leaned back, his face darkening as he processed her words. Had he angered a powerful noble who sent mercenaries to wipe out his operation? And what of his men? Had they been slaughtered, or had they fled like cowards, leaving the camp to these intruders?
As he wrestled with these questions, the wagon jolted to a halt, followed by the other two wagons in the convoy.
Balduino, one of his more loyal men, approached the wagon, his face grim. "I can smell blood—lots of it—coming from the camp." His nose, enhanced by his wolf transformation abilities, twitched as he spoke. Even without shifting, the stench was overwhelming, detectable from this distance.
The large man's jaw clenched. Whether it was his men or the slaves who had been killed, this was an act of war.
"Can you and I take them?" he asked Noma, rage simmering in his voice.
Noma's response was a burst of hysterical laughter. "Do you even know who I am?" she said, still chuckling.
Her grin turned wicked as she unsheathed her twin swords, flames erupting along their edges.
The large man allowed himself a small smile, comforted by her confidence. He was a Tier 8 mage, and so was she. Together, with the five Tier 7 men in their company, victory felt inevitable. Whoever dared to challenge him had made a grave mistake.
"Good. Let's crush them," he said, his hands already moving to prepare his battle gear. This time, he swore to finish at least one of the interlopers himself. Once this was done, he'd use every connection he had to track down whoever had orchestrated this and destroy them.
Turning to Balduino, he barked an order. "Drive us closer to the campsite. Tell the others to prepare for battle."
When the convoy halted 30 meters from the campsite's gate, six men and Noma stepped out of the wagons, forming a line. Their gazes locked onto the two figures standing in the middle of the road: Lord Canning and Menzine.
The gate behind the two was closed, its contents hidden. Yet, the calm demeanor of the pair made it clear they were unshaken.
The large man bent down to whisper to Balduino, who nodded and began conjuring a spell. Moments later, his body shifted and grew, morphing into a towering, two-meter-tall black wolf. Tendrils of dark smoke curled off its fur, adding to its menacing appearance.
With a guttural snarl, the wolf vanished completely, as if he had not been there to begin with.
Lord Canning raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement flickering across his face. "A nightmare wolf as a scout?" he remarked with a small grin. "I hope Annabeth's ready for some troublesome company."