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A gentle breeze swirled slowly in the vast hall, stirring the thin curtains and the hair of the dancing spirits.
These beings were not human. Nor were they gods.
They were spirits.
Entities born directly from Tenkai—nature's souls given form.
Most of them were bound to elements: wind, fire, water, and earth. Elemental spirits who maintained the world's balance, directing river currents, blowing storms, nurturing forests. Yet not all were that simple. Some spirits could take the form of animals, and others who transformed into sacred weapons—spears, swords, or shields—lent to chosen heroes.
Long before the gods descended to the mortal world, before Falna, before Orario stood—
Spirits were the first to walk in Genkai.
That era was known as the Age of Heroes.
A time when humans fought side by side with celestial beings.
The most remembered name from that time was Aria, the legendary Great Spirit of Wind—the one who guided the hero Albert, healed his wounds inflicted by monster hordes, and buffed him with a wind that never faded.
But time changes.
When the gods finally descended from Tenkai and began the Age of Gods, the role of spirits gradually faded.
The gods took over.
Falna replaced the blessings of spirits.
Slowly, one by one, spirits stopped descending to the lower world.
Some disappeared in the dungeon.
Some fell into slumber.
And others... chose to remain in Tenkai.
To become servants.
To become attendants.
To become entertainment for the gods.
Like the girls now dancing in this hall.
Their bodies were slender, shimmering faintly like morning mist. Long hair flowed like rivers of light. Though their age might be hundreds—even thousands—of years, the look in their eyes remained innocent, almost childlike. Little laughs. Whispers. Playfully nudging each other's shoulders like children who did not yet understand the world.
Their dancing came to a complete stop as the god's laughter echoed.
One of them stepped forward.
This spirit girl was different from the others.
She was the lead dancer.
Her long hair was wavy, bluish-black with a purple sheen when it caught the light. Small bell ornaments circled her ankles, tinkling softly with every movement. Her clothing was thin, layered with golden silk, revealing the pale, luminous skin characteristic of spirits. Her eyes were large, warm, full of curiosity—not fear.
She approached with light steps.
"God..." her voice was soft, almost like a song of the wind.
She tilted her head slightly, gazing at the bluish-green feather in the god's hand.
"That... what is it?"
She knelt beside the throne, her hair spilling like a curtain of silk onto the marble floor.
"So beautiful. It doesn't belong to a spirit... but it doesn't belong to a god either..."
Rudra glanced at her briefly.
His smile remained the same—thin, full of secrets.
The girl gazed at the feather again, then asked softly, "Is it a gift? Or... a prayer?"
Silence for a few seconds.
Then the god's large hand rose.
He called her in a low voice, almost indulgent.
"Lasya."
His finger touched the girl's hair, stroking it slowly.
"It's a long story."
Rudra still played with the bluish-green feather between his fingers, turning it slowly as if weighing the value of a small object. The hall's light reflected off its surface, making the peacock hue shimmer faintly.
Lasya knelt at the side of the throne, resting her chin on her knee, watching the god with innocent curiosity. The other spirits also drew near, forming a semicircle on the marble floor. The small bells on their ankles tinkled softly whenever they moved—cling... cling...—filling the palace's silence.
"What is the story, God?" Lasya asked gently.
Rudra leaned back comfortably. His smile was thin, like an adult about to tell a story to children.
"There was a boy," he said softly. "A human. Red hair. A stubborn gaze. He came to my world with strange abilities even gods rarely see."
He sighed, pretending to be tired from remembering. "He wasn't alone. He was with an elf girl. Cold. Full of hatred."
Lasya tilted her head. "An elf...?"
"Mm." Rudra nodded. "They infiltrated my headquarters in the middle of the night. Without warning. Without speaking. They attacked immediately."
His tone was soft, but every word was deliberately chosen.
"My children... fell one by one. Even those not ready to fight. The weak ones. Those only handle logistics. No one was given a chance to explain."
Some of the spirits exchanged glances. Their expressions grew tense.
"I thought maybe it was a misunderstanding," he continued. "I thought they were lost. But apparently not. They truly came to slaughter."
He gave a small laugh, as if bewildered. "And that boy... always talked about 'justice'."
"Seigi no Mikata," he murmured, uttering the term with a mocking tone.
His words flowed smoothly, like poison mixed with honey. Facts were twisted without notice. Bandits became victims. Revenge became cruelty. Shirou and that elf—in his story—were not hunters of evil, but bloodthirsty executioners.
Naturally, spirits were drawn to heroic souls. They loved courage, sacrifice, and goodness. Yet the image Rudra painted was the opposite: a young man who smiled while cutting down others, forcing his dream onto anyone, regardless of who had to die.
"Scary..." whispered one of the spirits.
"Like a devil..."
"He's not a good person..."
Lasya clenched her small hands. "So then... he's evil, right, God?"
"I suppose so," Rudra answered lightly. "I was just... a victim of his evil."
He twirled the feather again, pretending to be indifferent.
Another one of the spirits—the smallest among them, with her hair in two short braids—raised her hand hesitantly.
"Umm... in that case..." her voice was soft, almost a whisper, "was it the god of that criminal who attacked you, God Rudra? I mean... how could a mortal possibly injure a god..."
An innocent question. Logical.
Rudra stopped playing. His smile widened slightly.
"No," he said casually.
"It wasn't his god."
He looked at them one by one, savoring the gathered attention.
"Shirou himself killed me."
The room instantly froze. The small bells stopped tinkling. The spirits' eyes widened, their breaths caught in unison.
For the first time in their long history, they heard of a mortal daring to kill a god.
The expressions on the spirits' previously pale faces gradually softened. Some still whispered to each other, the small glimmers of light on their bodies flickering anxiously.
Seeing the gloomy atmosphere, the god only chuckled softly, then waved his hand as if shooing away dark clouds.
"Enough," he said lightly, his tone casual as if calming frightened children. "You're overreacting. He's just a normal human. Flesh and bone. Time will erode him like any other."
He twirled the bluish-green feather between his fingers.
"When the time comes... that naughty boy will come before me himself. And then," his smile widened, "I will punish him. Slowly."
His tone was sweet—too sweet.
The spirits immediately became cheerful again.
"Eeh—really?"
"So we can watch later?"
"Lasya, Lasya! Let's prepare the stage again!"
"Hehehe... that foolish human will surely cry!"
Their laughter tinkled, light, childlike. Giggles filled the hall, mingling with the sound of small ankle bells—cling cling cling—like wind chimes.
Lasya, who stood closest to the throne, tilted her head. Her long, smooth hair shimmered like silk as she took a step closer.
"In that case..." she asked innocently, her large eyes full of curiosity, "because he spilled your blood... that's why his prayer reached here, right? In the form of that feather?"
Rudra nodded slowly.
"Correct. Blood bonds are far stronger than any prayer. Ironic, isn't it? The more he hates me... the easier I can sense his presence."
Some of the spirits grimaced.
"Ugh... creepy..."
"But... what kind of prayer is it actually?" asked another, her face a mix of disgust and curiosity. "Why is it such a weird feather?"
Rudra snorted.
"The stupidest prayer I've ever heard."
He raised the feather high.
"That boy... prayed."
"Huh?"
"For what?"
Rudra sneered, then said flatly,
"For a monster."
Half a second of silence.
Then—
"Pfft—"
"Hahahaha!"
"Seriously?!"
"Is he sane?!"
"A human praying for a monster?!"
Laughter exploded throughout the hall. The spirits held onto each other, their shoulders shaking, some even floating upside down from excessive amusement.
Not a single one of them realized...
That the story they heard was merely a twisted fragment of the truth.
The spirits' laughter gradually subsided, replaced once again by the soft tinkling of ankle bells and the rustle of thin fabric brushing against each other. Divine music played again, slow but steady, like the very heartbeat of the palace. Light notes echoed in the vast hall, making the air tremble gently.
The spirit girls began to spin again. Their bare feet barely touched the marble floor; those luminous bodies floated, twirled, forming graceful circles like petals blown by a spring breeze. Innocent smiles returned to their faces, as if the conversation about murder and mortal prayers had never happened.
But the god on the throne was no longer truly watching.
Normally, Rudra would lean back comfortably, amused by their dance, or make teasing comments. Now his attention was completely captivated by the bluish-green feather in his hand. He twirled the light object between his fingers, letting it spin slowly with the movement of his wrist.
Fwuup... fwuup...
The feather vibrated softly, reflecting the divine light of Tenkai.
"Strange..." he murmured.
It wasn't just its form that was intriguing. Something clung to it—the trace of a prayer, the residue of warm, straightforward emotion. Too sincere. Too pure. A feeling that didn't belong in the palace of the storm god.
And for some reason... it felt familiar.
Like the scent of old blood.
Like a wound not fully healed.
The shadow of a red-haired boy appeared in his mind—a stubborn gaze, a body full of wounds, yet still standing defiantly.
That is a fair price for achieving my dream.
"Tch... foolish human," he hissed.
But the corner of his lips curled upward slightly.
The longer he gazed at the feather, the harder it was to focus on the dance before him. Finally, he rose from the throne, his robes billowing slowly.
"That's enough. Continue without me."
The spirits paused for a moment, then bowed.
Lasya immediately approached with light steps. Her long hair swayed gently, the small bells on her ankles tinkling softly. "Are you going to your room, God Rudra?" she asked coyly. "Tonight... would you like company? Just me? Or with my sisters like yesterday?"
Her tone was seductive, but innocent—more like a child offering to play.
Rudra chuckled softly, patting her head. "So tempting. But this time, I want to be alone."
"Eh—alone? Boring..." Lasya pouted.
"Even gods need to think sometimes."
He raised his hand, then clapped once. The unrestrained divine power in Tenkai instantly responded. The space around him folded like cloth, a brief flash of light, and his body vanished from the hall.
The next second, he was lying in his private room, flopping casually onto the large bed as if returning from a stroll. One arm behind his head, the other still holding the feather.
He stared at the dark ceiling, twirling the light object in the air.
"A prayer for a monster..." he murmured, almost laughing.
"Truly a strange boy... Shirou Emiya."
Rudra lay relaxed on his spacious bed, one arm folded under his head, the other playing with the bluish-green feather with lazy movements. The feather spun slowly between his fingers, reflecting the golden light of the divine room like tiny, lost fragments of sky.
Every time he twirled it, the residual prayer clinging to the feather whispered faintly in his mind—warm, gentle, and... irritating.
...please let her be reborn... happy... loved...
Rudra clicked his tongue softly.
"What kind of prayer is that..." he muttered, half-mocking.
He should have laughed like before. But for some reason, those innocent words felt sticky, unwilling to leave.
He flicked his hand, as if he could shake off that strange feeling.
"Unfortunately, it's useless, boy," he continued lazily. "A monster's soul never reaches Tenkai. They shatter, return to the Dungeon, then are born again as monsters. No heaven. No judgment. Just an endless cycle."
He yawned widely, his shoulders rising and falling.
"Your prayer doesn't even have a destination."
Even so, his eyes followed the pattern of the feather. Gradients of green, blue, gold... beautiful for a monster.
Suddenly, his movement stopped.
His brow rose slightly.
"...Hm."
He sat up halfway, looking closer.
"This pattern... is familiar."
Old memories surfaced slowly—a dark elf kneeling before him, breath ragged, clothes soiled with blood. Behind him, a harpy in chains. Its wings bound by force, but its eyes... weren't the eyes of a normal monster.
Sharp. Full of hatred.
And—yes—that monster could speak.
"Release me, you knife-eared bastard," it had snarled back then.
Isama kicked it. "Shut up!"
The harpy just laughed mockingly.
Rudra remembered clearly how intrigued he was at that moment. A monster that could talk. A girl who didn't beg, didn't cry, but instead insulted its captor.
Funny.
Different.
Isama bowed deeply. "God Rudra... please give me chains and a control ring. And... don't tell the other members."
"A secret?" Rudra chuckled. "You want to keep it as a pet?"
The dark elf didn't answer, only gritting his teeth.
Meanwhile, the harpy thrashed, its claws and wings beating the floor, remaining fierce as if defending something invisible—its pride, perhaps.
To Rudra at that time, it was all just entertainment.
A little experiment.
He laughed lightly. "Take whatever you want. Chains, a collar, anything. Do as you please."
He didn't care at all how it ended.
Now, gazing at the feather in his hand, a thin smile appeared on his lips.
"...So that strange harpy..."
Rudra slowly twirled the bluish-green feather between his fingers. Its tip glimmered under the divine light of his private room, reflecting faint hues of emerald and sea blue. He narrowed his eyes, and then pieces of the incident began to arrange themselves neatly in his head, like puzzle pieces finally finding their place.
When he thought about it... It all made sense.
"So that's how it is..." he murmured, almost like a bored sigh.
The corner of his lips curled up slightly.
"That sword brat must have found the harpy's body in our secret base."
He could imagine it clearly—a dark corridor, a stuffy underground room, the smell of dried blood mixed with iron. The harpy's body hung like scrap. And amidst it all, Shirou stood frozen, his face surely hardening at the disgusting sight.
Rudra snorted with amusement.
"I hope his expression was funny."
A mischievous grin spread across his face. He knew exactly what condition that monster was in before its death. Isama never truly considered it a weapon of war. Not a weapon. Not an experiment.
More like... a toy.
A broken toy to satisfy his twisted lust.
"Hah... Isama..."
His tone was half-mocking, half-lazy. That name brought back memories of the night everything collapsed—when Shirou stormed their headquarters, and Familia members fell one by one.
Strangely, only two people weren't there at the time.
Jura... and Isama.
Rudra's gaze sharpened slightly.
He still remembered the sensation of being stabbed—a cold blade piercing his chest, ichor gushing, then the world turning white. That knife... he recognized it. Its shape, weight, aura.
"That was Jura's knife," he murmured. "Or more precisely... a copy of it."
A magical projection.
If that boy used a replica of Jura's weapon, it meant the original owner had already died. The conclusion was simple.
"So Jura got cut down first, huh?"
No sympathy. Just a fact.
That left only one.
Isama.
Rudra leaned back against the headboard, looking at the glittering ceiling of his palace. He still remembered accepting that dark elf long ago—a survivor from a destroyed Evilus faction, coming with a body full of wounds and eyes full of hatred.
Filthy. Sly. But interesting.
Such a person made a suitable tool.
And now history repeated itself. Familia destroyed. Members dead. While the dark elf... disappeared again.
Like a cockroach.
Always escaping at the last second.
Rudra laughed softly, his shoulders shaking slightly. "Damn bastard... we all died, but you managed to run away alone?"
It wasn't an angry tone—more like amusement at someone's stupidity.
He raised the harpy feather again, gazing at it for a long time, as if this small object held traces of the strange fate between him and the sword boy.
"Keep running..."
His smile widened, his eyes gleaming.
"But how long can you hide from Shirou Emiya, hm?"
His low laugh echoed softly in the empty room, like the echo of a storm that hadn't truly subsided.
***
Deep within Knossos, the light of torches reflected dimly off rough-hewn stone walls. A tall man walked leisurely ahead, his brown leather jacket creaking softly with each movement. His hair was dark, almost pitch black, but what stood out most were his eyes—red pupils shaped like the letter D, now hidden behind black goggles. His gaze was sharp, like a predator sizing up prey.
He was Dix Perdix.
"So... you're the one who wants to join our Familia?" Dix's voice sounded light, almost joking, but there was a cold pressure in every word. He turned halfway, leaning his face towards the dark elf behind him. "Pretty bold, huh. Coming to Knossos without an invitation."
The dark elf stood straight, though his shoulders were slightly tense. His silver hair was disheveled, his clothes dirty with dust and dried blood from the long journey. He bowed appropriately—low enough to appear obedient, but not completely degrading himself. "I am merely seeking shelter," he answered flatly.
"Hah?" Dix chuckled. Tap. He slapped Isama's shoulder hard enough to make the dark elf's body sway slightly. "Sounds sweet. But here, sweet things usually die quickly."
What followed was more like hazing than interrogation. Dix circled him, sometimes poking Isama's chest, sometimes kicking towards him, throwing out questions that were clearly traps. Any answer that slightly deviated was met with rough laughter and vague threats.
"If you lie, you die."
"If you're weak, you die."
"If you bore me... well, you die too."
Isama endured it all. He bowed his head, clenched his fingers behind his robe, swallowing each insult one by one. Inside his chest, smoldering indignation raged wildly.
You're level five, he grumbled inwardly, while I... don't even have Falna anymore.
The thought was bitter. His god had returned to Tenkai—whether killed or erased by an unknown hand. All that remained was himself, a dark elf without divine protection, forced to humble himself before a human whose power far surpassed his own.
After sufficiently toying with his prey, Dix finally yawned widely. "Alright then," he said as if bored. "You haven't whined, so you're passable. Ikelos might want to see you."
Isama raised his head, his eyes narrowing for a moment. "I am grateful."
"Hahaha!" Dix laughed loudly. "Don't get the wrong idea. If Ikelos doesn't like your face, I'll bury you in this corridor myself."
He turned and started walking, his boots hitting the stone floor—tok, tok, tok—the echo of his steps tracing the winding, misleading labyrinth of the Daedalus-made maze. The walls of Knossos seemed to close in behind them, swallowing sound and light.
Isama followed from behind, his steps firm even as his mind churned. Anger, humiliation, and determination mixed into one.
Hold on for now, he told himself. As long as I live... I will find what I desire.
Isama walked a few steps behind Dix, keeping his distance like an uninvited shadow. Every echo of the man's boots sounded heavy and confident, in stark contrast to his own nearly silent steps.
He knew his limits.
Even if his Falna were still active, he would still be no match for the man in front of him.
Dix was level five—a monster in human form. While he himself once... was only equivalent to level three. In the old Rudra Familia, only he and Jura had reached that number. The rest? Trash. Cannon fodder. Meat sent to the chaotic frontlines to die for their god's amusement.
Level three against level five... he thought bitterly. Even if I were reckless, I'd die before uttering a single spell.
That's why he bowed. Held back. Swallowed his pride.
Life was more important than dignity.
Before, that power had given him a bit of "privilege". Being among the strongest meant he wasn't treated like a pawn. He was given his own room in the secret headquarters on the eighteenth floor, assigned to manage supplies, weapons, logistics—behind-the-scenes work that was safer than hunting on the front lines.
Ironically, that position gave him freedom.
The freedom to do anything.
Without supervision.
Isama's tongue unconsciously licked his lips, slowly.
Memories of that harpy came unbidden.
Beautiful wings, bluish-green. Eyes still alive, full of hatred. The way that creature thrashed even while chained. The way it spat and tried to bite even as its body trembled.
And how it ended...
That body just hung limp.
Like a wall decoration.
Like a trophy.
A faint smile etched itself at the corner of his mouth.
"Damnable creature," he murmured, almost inaudible. "Playing saint till the end."
Dix's steps suddenly stopped.
BRAK.
Isama almost bumped into him.
They had arrived before a large stone door with strange carvings—eyes, hands, and circular symbols that felt disgusting just to look at. The aura around it was different. Heavy. As if something was watching from behind the walls.
"Here we are," Dix said casually.
Without ceremony, he slapped Isama's shoulder hard.
BUK.
"Good luck, noob."
His strength was so great that Isama's body was pushed back half a step. Pain radiated to the bone.
"—Tch..." Isama grimaced, enduring the pain while massaging his shoulder.
Dix had already turned, waving without looking back. "If you vomit, don't be loud. It'll disturb my sleep."
His steps receded, tok... tok... tok..., then vanished, swallowed by the corridor.
Silence.
Only Isama and the door.
He took a deep breath, then pushed it slowly. Kreeeek...
The room beyond was dark, damp, with a smell of iron and something fishy.
But Isama was undaunted.
He felt not a shred of nostalgia for his old familia. No regret.
Rudra? Jura? The others?
All fools.
If they died, it was their own fault.
What mattered... was that he lived.
And from the rumors he'd heard...
About the Ikelos Familia...
About their experiments.
About the "pet" monsters that could be tamed, tortured, and used as one pleased.
His eyes narrowed, a flash of greed appearing beneath his cold expression.
If I can get a new one...
Yesterday's harpy was just a warm-up toy.
His lips curved slowly upward.
The next one... will surely be more interesting.
The stone door closed slowly behind Isama with a heavy sound—grruuuk... thud—as if cutting off his return path. The air in the room felt stifling, mixed with the smell of damp cloth and something sweet-rotten like expired medicine.
The room turned out not to be a magnificent hall as he imagined, but a simple chamber. A thin mattress in the corner. A wooden table cluttered with strange bottles of liquid. Walls covered in scribbles and sketches of monster anatomy.
And in the midst of all that chaos—
A god sat cross-legged on his bed.
Relaxed. As if waiting for a guest, not a potential subordinate.
His appearance was far from divine. He wore a worn tracksuit jacket with a half-open zipper, wrinkled sweatpants, and his black hair parted carelessly down the middle. His skin was dark brown, and his eyes...
Empty.
Like dead fish floating in a river.
But his smile—
Thin, slanted, sly.
The smile of someone taking apart a toy to see what's inside.
"Yo," he said lightly, propping his chin with a hand. "Just come in. Don't be so stiff."
Isama swallowed, then stepped forward and knelt.
The god observed him from head to toe as if appraising livestock.
"Name," he said shortly.
Isama bowed his head. "Isama. Former member of the Rudra Familia."
"Ohhh?" The god's brow rose. "A fellow Evilus, huh?"
His tone was like finding an old friend at a tavern.
Isama quickly explained, "Our God... has returned to Tenkai. The base is destroyed. I need the protection of another god."
"Hm."
The god leaned back against the wall, his legs still comfortably crossed.
"You survived alone?" he asked. "Where are the others?"
Isama pretended to hesitate, then shook his head. "It seems... only me."
A moment of silence.
Then—
"Heh... heh... heh..."
A low laugh escaped the god's mouth. Soft, but piercing.
"A coward who isn't loyal, huh?" he said, his smile widening. "I like that type."
Isama didn't know whether to be offended or relieved.
He hurriedly added a reason, "Yesterday at the Rivira market... I saw Gale Wind. Her aura of hatred... insane. So I chose to hide."
He stopped there.
He didn't mention Jura.
He didn't mention that he fled without giving any warning.
He didn't mention that he abandoned everyone.
"Gale Wind, huh..." the god clicked his tongue softly. "Ryuu Lion. The history of the Rudra Familia sure gets messy when it involves her."
Isama nodded quickly. "Yes... But she wasn't alone."
"Hmm?"
"A red-haired man was with her. An adventurer who seemed strong."
The god stopped smiling for a moment.
Only a fraction of a second.
Then he spat to the side. "Tch. That troublesome brat."
His tone became annoyed.
Like mentioning a pest that wouldn't die.
The god stood from his bed lazily, stretching his back until krek-krek sounds were heard. He scratched the back of his neck, then glanced at Isama with a half-bored look.
"Follow me," he said curtly.
No majesty. No commanding tone.
But Isama obeyed.
He rose and walked behind the god through a narrow corridor. Ikelos's steps were heavy and slightly hunched, like someone who just woke up. His sandals dragged on the stone floor—srek... srek... srek...—creating a sound that disturbed Knossos's silence.
As he walked, Ikelos yawned widely.
"I don't mind taking in refugees from other Evilus Familias," he said casually. "Actually, the more the merrier. But well... there's one final test."
Isama frowned. "A test...?"
"Yeah. Consider it a job interview."
"What form does the test take, God?"
Ikelos didn't answer directly. He just chuckled softly.
"You guys in the Rudra Familia tamed monsters too, right?"
Isama immediately nodded quickly. His heart beat faster, not from fear—but from eagerness. "Yes. We used iron collars. To control them."
"Mm-hmm."
"We also keep monsters," Ikelos continued. "But the kind we handle... is different."
His tone changed.
Softer.
Heavier.
More... relishing.
They stopped before a large iron door. Ikelos pushed it open with one hand.
GRAAAANG—
The door opened, revealing a damp smell mixed with rusting metal.
Inside was dark.
Only a few dim lamps hung from the ceiling.
The spacious room was filled with rows of iron cages. Large. Small. Tiered. All covered with thick, dull cloth like animal cages in a black market.
Ikelos walked to the center of the room, then grabbed one of the cloth covers.
"Let me introduce you," he said casually.
KREEEES—
The cloth was pulled away.
"Xenos. Monsters that can talk. Have intellect. Almost like humans."
The lamplight illuminated the cage's contents.
Isama froze.
Behind the iron bars was not a ferocious monster like a minotaur or hellhound.
But figures... too "human".
A lamia with long hair coiled her serpent body tightly, protecting her chest while looking on fearfully.
A female harpy with tattered wings huddled in a corner, eyes wide, lips trembling.
Other creatures—some monsters in female forms—huddled together, whispering, clearly terrified.
Their gazes were not those of animals.
They were the gazes of people who were aware that a bad fate awaited them.
Isama could hear small voices.
"...please..."
"...don't come near..."
"...not again..."
Faint whispers.
Broken.
Ikelos watched Isama's face from the side.
"This is your test," he said lightly. "We smuggle them out of Orario. Sell them to perverted nobles. Weird collectors. Rich people with sick minds. The money's huge."
He grinned.
"People's reactions vary. Some are disgusted. Some are indifferent. Some even feel pity. If they feel pity... well, they fail. Not a good fit."
He waited.
Waited for Isama's expression to change.
But what he saw instead was—
Isama's eyes are widening.
His lips curving upward.
His tongue slowly licked the corner of his mouth.
Not fear.
Not disgust.
Not pity.
But...
Lust.
The same look as when he remembered his favorite harpy.
Ikelos was silent for two seconds.
Then—
"Heh."
A short laugh escaped him.
"You pass."
He slapped Isama's shoulder hard.
"Congrats, pervert."