Clayton and the hooded figure eyed each other warily. Neither made the first move, and an awkward, tense silence stretched between them.
Clayton hesitated. He had no idea what the other person wanted. A part of him suspected the figure was standing still on purpose—waiting for him to lower his guard before launching a surprise attack.
But after a few monts of absolute stillness, Clayton sensed that the figure wasn’t planning to act first either.
They were locked in a passive standoff, neither willing to break the silence. Clayton wanted to leave, but a persistent fear gnawed at him—if he turned his back, would he be struck down from behind?
The tension lingered.
Then, as if silently agreeing to end the encounter, both began moving—cautiously and in opposite directions.
Their footsteps were quiet, yet heavy with unease. For a mont, it seed like things would end peacefully.
Until—
Crack!
A sharp sound broke the silence. Instantly, both of them spun toward the source, eyes sharp and alert, braced for an ambush.
What they saw, however, was... completely unexpected.
The culprit was one of Clayton’s mini skeletons—standing innocently, having just stepped on a dry twig, blissfully unaware it had triggered a near-disaster.
The hooded figure’s eyes narrowed in irritation, clearly assuming Clayton had done it on purpose to provoke or mock him.
Clayton, caught between embarrassnt and amusent, could only offer a sheepish smile at his minion’s clumsiness.
Realizing it was just a false alarm, both resud walking—this ti without incident.
Once they were out of sight of each other, Clayton finally turned toward ho. But his mind lingered on the mysterious figure.
"Why did he feel so familiar?" he wondered.
He tried to recall any clues, but nothing ca to mind. The figure’s posture was generic, and their oversized cloak concealed nearly every identifiable feature.
Eventually, Clayton gave up—but the unease remained.
There was sothing deeply unsettling about soone who acted like they knew you... yet deliberately kept their identity hidden.
As he pondered it, a mory surfaced: the Blood Raiders. The group of robbers Arthur had warned about earlier.
He tried to connect the figure to that infamous group, but no clear similarities ca to mind. No symbols. No familiar aura.
His curiosity gradually turned to frustration. There were no reliable clues to pursue—only a vague sense of dread.
With a tired sigh, Clayton shook his head and continued walking.
anwhile...
In a narrow, grimy alleyway, the hooded figure made their way to a dead-end wall.
Without hesitation, they knocked in a strange, rhythmic pattern.
To the untrained ear, it sounded random. But if one listened closely, there was a hidden lody in the knocks—subtle, eerie, and impossible to forget once heard.
At first, nothing happened.
No hidden doors. No reply.
Yet the figure remained still, calm, and patient—occasionally glancing over their shoulder to scan for observers.
Monts later, a rope was tossed down from a third-story window of a nearby building.
The figure caught it smoothly and began to climb. Reaching the top, they slipped through the open window without a sound.
Inside, they were t by several others—each clad in the sa black robes.
No words were exchanged. Only silent nods.
The room was deathly quiet, the air thick with tension. It felt like everyone was waiting—for sothing... or soone.
Minutes passed. More mbers slipped through side windows or hidden doorways, silently taking their positions.
Then, without warning, he appeared.
A towering figure materialized at the center of the room—as if conjured by magic itself.
He was tall, with deathly pale skin and jet-black hair. From beneath his hair peeked sharp, pointed ears—evidence that he wasn’t entirely human.
His eyes swept across the room—pupils pitch black, like ink that had swallowed all light. Anyone who t his gaze felt themselves being pulled into an endless void.
After a long, silent inspection, he closed his eyes and gave a slow nod.
Every motion radiated power and authority—calm, deliberate, and terrifying.
"I appreciate all of you being here," he said softly, but with unmistakable firmness.
"But before we begin, let make one thing clear: if any of you ca here with chaos in your hearts... leave now. Before this becos sothing you’ll regret."
The silence grew heavier.
No one moved. No one spoke.
A few glanced around nervously, wondering what kind of horror awaited the disloyal.
The air grew dense—thick with magic and the unmistakable scent of blood.
Still, none of the so-called traitors stepped forward.
Satisfied, the tall figure—Lord Blood—nodded again. This ti, a faint smile curved his lips.
"Very well. Since everything appears to be in order... let us proceed."
A collective sigh of relief rippled through the room. But the dread hadn’t vanished.
What if soone had been discovered?
Just as the group began to settle—
"ARGHHHH!"
A blood-curdling scream tore through the room.
"No! Lord Blood, please—!"
"Forgive ! I won’t betray you again!"
Screams erupted one after another.
Panic flared.
One by one, the traitors were identified—how, no one knew. But it was clear that Lord Blood could see through them all.
Betrayal ant death. A grueso, soul-rending death.
Their bodies twisted, contorted, and finally dissolved into red mist—until nothing remained but crimson puddles on the floor.
Lord Blood stood unmoved, cold and calm.
He raised a hand.
Servants stepped forward, distributing empty wine glasses to everyone in the room.
Though uneasy, no one refused. Each person took a glass with trembling hands.
Once every mber held one, Lord Blood slowly raised his arm.
The blood pooled on the floor began to rise—floating as if weightless. Slowly, it stread into each glass with a sickening beauty.
The scent of iron filled the air.
"Drink every last drop," Lord Blood commanded. "Not a single drop is to be left behind."
The group in the room fell silent, stunned and unsure of what to do. Each person stared at the glass of red liquid in their hands, their eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and unease.
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