The night stretched deep as Ulrich Verren finished bolting the doors of the Greywater Exchange. He moved with the slow meticulousness of a man accustomed to routine, checking every lock and ensuring everything was in place before heading to the back of his establishment.
His living quarters were nothing extravagant—at least in terms of space. The room was modest, with a simple bed, a sturdy desk, and a well-worn armchair near a fireplace. But what set it apart was the sheer wealth on display. Expensive artifacts lined the shelves, delicate trinkets sat in glass cases, and rare magical ornaments gleamed under the soft glow of enchanted lanterns.
Ulrich let out a satisfied sigh, his eyes sweeping over his collection.
This—this—was what mattered.
After suffering a crippling injury in his youth, he had abandoned the path of magic and turned his focus elsewhere. Gold. Power. Influence. Survival.
He had outlived many of his peers, those foolish enough to chase glory or power beyond their reach. In the end, only the patient survived.
With a weary groan, he lowered himself into his favorite swing chair, its polished wood creaking slightly under his weight. His gaze flickered toward the table beside him, where a large bottle of Emberbrew Ale sat—his latest acquisition from Lennox Morgan's tavern.
His fingers traced the rim of a clean glass before he poured himself a generous serving of the ale.
The mere memory of the drink sent a strange thrill through him.
At the tavern, when he had taken his first sip, he had felt it. A pulse of energy, something stirring in his bones—something he had thought was lost to him forever.
His old wounds, the ones that had robbed him of his magic, had ached in response to the drink's potency.
That was why he was here now—to confirm what he suspected.
Bringing the mug to his lips, he took a deliberate sip.
The moment the ale touched his tongue, the effect was immediate.
Warmth spread through his body like liquid fire, seeping into every muscle, every fiber of his being. It was unlike any normal alcohol. The power infused within it coursed through him, settling deep within his weary bones.
And then, it happened.
A faint tremor ran through him—his old injuries, the ones that had long plagued him, stirred. The pain that had become a part of him for decades dulled.
His breathing hitched.
This was no ordinary drink.
This was alchemical.
Something in it was working against the very limitations of his body.
He set the mug down with a slow, measured motion, his fingers tightening around the wooden handle. His expression flickered between hunger, expectation, and even yearning.
If he could continue drinking this…
If he could obtain the source…
His lips curled into a sharp, almost predatory smile.
He didn't just want the Emberbrew Ale. He wanted the Mystic Tavern.
More than that—he wanted Lennox.
He wanted to know who the boy's backer was, where the drinks came from, and how he had transformed a worthless, run-down tavern into something this valuable in such a short time.
But he was no fool.
Ulrich Verren had built his wealth and influence through caution. He knew better than to move recklessly.
From what he remembered, the tavern had once belonged to Kimberly Morgan, a castaway single mother who had died two years ago.
He even knew the men responsible for her death—greedy fellas who had wanted to seize the land and the tavern for themselves.
But now, her son had grown up, turning a worthless drinking hole into a thriving business selling magical drinks.
That wasn't normal.
No one could do something like that alone.
Lennox must have a powerful backer. A noble? A Rank One powerhouse? Perhaps even a hidden organization?
And then there was the mysterious warrior who sat in the tavern each day. The one who radiated danger.
Yes, he had to tread carefully.
Recklessness had never been his style.
Ulrich considered his next move before reaching for a piece of parchment from his desk. He dipped a quill into ink and scribbled a few signs, marking the message with symbols only a select few would recognize.
Then, he whistled—a sharp, calculated sound.
From the shadows near the ceiling, a dark-feathered crow fluttered down, its red eyes gleaming as it landed on his outstretched arm.
Ulrich smirked, feeding the crow a small piece of dried meat before tying the message to its leg.
With a small flick of his wrist, he sent the bird into the night, its dark form vanishing into the shadows beyond the window.
Then, he waited.
Leaning back in his chair, he poured himself another mug of Emberbrew Ale, its rich aroma stirring around him. He swirled the liquid absentmindedly, watching the deep crimson color catch the light. He had time—he always had time.
Roughly thirty minutes passed.
He wasn't impatient. The ale was too exquisite to rush, and besides, he had long mastered the art of waiting. Power didn't come to those who acted recklessly—it came to those who planned, who played the game with patience and caution.
Just as he was about to pour himself another serving, a sensation rippled through him.
His instincts, honed over years of dealing with dangerous individuals, prickled at the edges of his mind.
He narrowed his eyes, his body going unnaturally still.
And then—they appeared.
Two shadowy humanoid figures emerged from the dark corners of his room, as if they had manifested from thin air. Their movements were fluid, their presence suffocating. They stood cloaked, their faces obscured, save for the faint gleam of their eyes—deep, unreadable, predatory.
Ulrich let out a slow breath, relaxing slightly as he recognized them.
They had come.
Good.
For most, the sudden presence of these two would have been terrifying. But Ulrich knew better. He had summoned them.
The leaders of the Grim Fang Marauders.
The very same two men who had miraculously vanished right before the Elite Town Guard could capture them.
But Ulrich wasn't surprised. He knew exactly what they were capable of.
He straightened, setting his mug aside, and clasped his hands together. There was no need for preamble.
"I have a job for you," he said smoothly.
The two figures remained motionless.
"I need you to capture someone," Ulrich continued, his voice calm. "Quietly. Discreetly. And bring him to one of your hideouts near the base slopes of the Ebonridge Mountains."
Still, the two figures remained silent.
Ulrich didn't falter. Instead, he reached into a drawer beside his chair and pulled out a small leather pouch, setting it on the table. The soft clinking of beast cores inside was unmistakable.
"Five Rank One magic beast cores." His lips curled slightly. "Yours, if you complete the task."
Silence stretched between them.
Ulrich tapped his fingers against the wooden armrest, his patience wearing thin. He had expected them to immediately accept such an offer.
But neither moved.
A faint tension settled into the air.
Then—one of them finally spoke.
His voice was deep, cracked, carrying an eerie weight.
"Why?"
Ulrich blinked. "Why what?"
The second figure shifted slightly, his aura growing suffocating.
"Why did your backer betray our understanding and attack our base?"
Ulrich's breath caught.
A cold sweat formed at the back of his neck.
Shit.
So that was it. They were angry.
He had to fix this—fast.
His mind raced as he quickly straightened, lifting his hands in a placating gesture.
"Wait, wait," he said hastily. "This wasn't my backer's decision."
The first cloaked figure tilted his head slightly, a silent demand for an explanation.
Ulrich swallowed. He had to choose his words carefully.
"It wasn't Lord Edwin Rathmore who ordered the attack," he clarified quickly. "The decision came from someone else—a young princess."
A heavy silence followed.
Ulrich exhaled and continued.
"She's the daughter of Count Dorian Velmont—the ruling noble of Ravenmere County." He leaned forward slightly. "The mayor had no choice but to comply. She's highly favored by the count and, more importantly, rumored to be a student at the Celestial Spire."
At the mention of the Celestial Spire, the two figures exchanged a glance.
Ulrich felt the tension ease slightly.
He pressed on.
"The mayor couldn't risk openly defying her," he explained. "But he did send a message to warn you. Otherwise, the entire raid would have gone differently, wouldn't it?"
Another heavy pause.
Then, finally, the second cloaked figure spoke again, his voice filled with quiet menace.
"You're lucky."
Ulrich suppressed a shudder as the figure's piercing gaze bore into him, cold and unreadable.
"If the mayor hadn't sent that warning," the figure continued, his tone laced with quiet threat, "the entire Blackthorne Parish would have suffered the consequences."
Ulrich kept his expression neutral, but inside, his mind raced.
He knew exactly what that meant.
If these two had been captured, if their escape had failed—the retaliation wouldn't have been small. It wouldn't have been limited to just the town guard or the mayor's forces.
It would have been swift. It would have been bloody.
Because these two were not just ordinary men.
And the organization behind them?
That was something else entirely.
A mere Greywater Town or even the entirety of Blackthorne Parish wouldn't be able to handle its wrath.
Hell, even Ravenmere County—with all its noble forces, its town guards, its trained warriors and spellcasters—might not be enough.
Ulrich inwardly cursed. Dealing with these people was always like walking on a razor's edge. One wrong step, one misplaced word, and he could just as easily become the next cautionary tale whispered through the underworld.
Finally, the first figure exhaled slowly, as if making a decision.
"We will take the job," he said flatly.
Ulrich suppressed the urge to visibly relax. Instead, he nodded sharply.
"Good," he said smoothly. "I will have your reward ready."
The second figure shifted. "Tell us about the target."
Ulrich leaned back, regaining his usual confidence.
"His name is Lennox Morgan," he said, a slow smirk creeping across his face. "He runs a tavern in Greywater called the Mystic Tavern."
The first figure stilled. "A tavern?"
"Not just any tavern," Ulrich corrected. "It's… special."
He didn't bother explaining further. They didn't need to know everything.
The two figures didn't push the topic. Instead, they simply stepped backward—and vanished into the shadows as suddenly as they had appeared.
Ulrich finally exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he reached for his ale once more.
Those two were terrifying.
They came and went without a single sound. If they wanted, they could slit his throat before he even knew what happened.
So, he didn't dare curse at them.
Instead, he took a slow sip of his drink, his mind already plotting his next move.
With the Grim Fang Marauders' leaders handling this test, he could assess the true strength behind Lennox and his tavern.
And if things went as he hoped…
Well.
The Mystic Tavern would soon be his.