Noon.
Before renting an alchemy room to prepare the medicine, the girls decided to stop for lunch at a restaurant with a curious name — The Chewing Demon.
The name stirred memories of her second home in Qin Xuan, causing her — after ordering her food — to fall silent and sink into her thoughts.
Delia, on the other hand, was in high spirits. They had recently acquired high-quality leather armor and a new sword for her.
Her upgraded gear looked impressive — a red leather vest and pants, reinforced with protective plates, reliably covering vital areas, while sleeves made of strong, lightweight silk allowed free movement.
Her new black boots fit snugly, providing comfort and stability.
Sitting at the table, the tall girl rested her hand on the hilt of the sword hanging at her waist — carefully observing her surroundings.
The Chewing Demon wasn't the most popular establishment in the city, yet the hall was nearly full. Its cozy and elegant interior invited relaxation — clean, well-kept furniture, walls of redwood adorned with paintings of flowers, and a pleasantly sweet aroma filling the air.
The patrons were varied — in one corner, a group of merchants animatedly discussed recent changes in commodity prices, while in the center, a group of ten mercenaries — men and women armed to the teeth — sat together.
Their loud jokes and laughter drew the attention of other diners, many of whom looked wary.
The blur-eyed couldn't help but notice the mercenaries. Studying their weapons and movements, she wondered who among them was the strongest and most dangerous. Her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of one of four men seated at a neighboring table.
— Today, one of the merchants from Harmony told me something interesting, — he launched into his speech confidently, though with a hint of caution.
— And what was that? — one of his friends prompted.
— Don't drag it out, tell us! — another added.
— …
The fourth man remained silent but listened with evident interest. The storyteller took a sip from his mug and continued.
— About a week ago, disciples from several sects got into a fight in one of the Empire's border towns.
He sipped his beer again and, belching loudly, continued —
— During that scuffle, innocent civilians were killed. The Imperials, as you can imagine, didn't hold back. They rounded them all up, and for the particularly bold, they just — cut off their heads.
The listeners fell silent, tense, until he took another sip of beer, set the mug down with a dull thud, and added.
— Of course, the sects were furious and demanded their people be handed over. The Empire refused. Now the tension at the border grows by the day.
After these words, the men went quiet. The weight of the news hung in the air — a war between the Empire and the sects threatened to draw the Alliance into the conflict.
The alliance of sects and the historical enmity with the Empire placed the Alliance cities on the opposite side of the barricades.
— What, knees already shaking? Dishonoring the memory of your ancestors, cowards! — a loud voice broke the silence.
It was one of the mercenaries — a bald man with a goatee. His aggression was directed at the four men, and his words drew the attention of the diners.
The previously silent man among the four stood, unafraid — and challenged the bully:
— You are not the one with the right to judge us. When the war begins, I'll be surprised if you volunteer. Talking about shame? Ha! A hundred years ago, that war benefited only the sects, who pitted one people against another. I see nothing good in our independence from the Empire. People like you thrive here, while the rest merely try to survive. We stopped bowing to the Emperor, but our heads remain low.
The bald man snorted and stepped toward him.
— I misjudged you. You're not a coward, but a rebel, a traitor!
With that, he grabbed the man by the neck and lifted him off the ground.
His companions, frightened, stepped back, preferring not to intervene, like most of the patrons. The mercenaries seemed unwilling to break up the dispute — continuing their conversation.
— With people like you, my words are short.
«Crack.»
Before the man could utter another word, his body crashed onto the table he had been sitting at — splintering it. A groan of pain escaped his mouth. The aggressor seemed only more fired up — pressing his heavy foot against the victim's chest, preventing him from rising.
As an ordinary man, the victim had no chance against a mercenary of Mortal rank. Those around were either indifferent or frightened — no one wanted to intervene. Guards, as usual, appeared only when it was far too late.
Delia watched, torn inside — she wanted to intervene, but feared putting her companion at risk. One opponent was no problem, but there were nine more, and the risk to Qin Xuan was too great.
Yet the sound of cracking bones and the victim's agonized groan became the last straw. Silently apologizing to her friend, the short-haired rose from the table.
Her movements did not go unnoticed. Both diners and mercenaries turned their attention to her, but due to her speed and the short distance, no one could react in time.
The heroine approached the aggressor — grabbed him by the collar and, with apparent ease, flung him toward the central tables. His heavy body slid across the floor, barely missing a few chairs.
— Bastard — so you have an accomplice! — the man roared, rising to his feet. However, seeing who had thrown him, he faltered.
— Jason, as always, you're on point! — came a teasing voice from his companions.
— Ha-ha-ha, nice flight!
— Maybe we should take her into the team instead of you?
— Oh-oh, you're too relaxed, buddy.
These barbed remarks drew a light chuckle from the onlookers — but only made Jason angrier. His face twisted with rage.
— Baby, you're playing with fire, — he hissed threateningly, stepping forward.
He tried to grab her, but the girl once again kicked him to the same spot — prompting another wave of laughter. Rising again, Jason lost his patience entirely.
He charged — striking with the kind of determination meant to instill fear. Yet his attacks were futile — Delia easily dodged every strike. Not a single blow even touched her clothing.
The mercenaries gradually stopped laughing — and leaned in, watching the fight with much greater interest.
The youth, assessing her opponent's movements, quickly concluded his level — and, deciding to slightly unnerve him, calmly said:
— You're Level Three, right? You can stop. You're no match for me.
These words only poured oil on the fire. Jason's face turned red — and grabbing a dagger, he lunged forward. Delia, seeing this, decided not to hold back — but at that moment, a voice rang out:
— Jason, enough!
— Yes, Captain, — he replied, restraining his anger, and obediently returned to his companions.
The leader of their group — a man with a heavy gaze — stood. He silently looked at a daring upstart, approval evident in his eyes.
— Not bad, — he said shortly — then gestured for his people to leave.
The blue-eyed watched them until the mercenaries left the restaurant. She then turned to the injured man, who was already being attended by Qinxuan.
He struggled to stand, wincing in pain, and managed to mutter a thanks. Tossing a handful of coins onto the remains of the table, he staggered toward the exit.
Relative silence fell over the restaurant. People returned to their meals, discussing what had happened. The waitstaff, as if nothing had happened, cleaned up the mess and continued their work.
Delia returned to her table — but her mood seemed to have dropped. She sat with her head down, poking at a chicken drumstick with her fork.
Qinxuan noticed, paused, and tilted her head, asking:
— Is something bothering you?
Receiving no answer, she added.
— If you're worried about that guy, don't be. He'll lie in bed for a week — and be as good as new. You already did more for him than he could have expected.
Delia stopped tormenting the drumstick, lifted her eyes, and quietly said.
— I'm not worried about him. His fate is in his own hands. I just…
— Just what?
— I… I feel sorry, — she muttered, lowering her head again.
Qin Xuan, barely suppressing a smile, moved closer — hugging her friend.
— You have nothing to apologize for. You did everything right.
— But… — Delia tried, but was interrupted.
— Besides, I was planning to intervene myself. Of course, differently, but your method wasn't worse.
— How so? — Delia asked, surprised.
— Their captain, judging by skin tone, hand tremors, and voice, has an unpleasant illness. So even if a fight had broken out, it wouldn't have gone far.
The dark-haired brightened a little, but still asked.
— Can you tell an illness by voice?
— A good doctor can do a lot. Now finish your food — we have more to do.
***
In one of the many dark alleys of the city, pressed against a cold wall, a middle-aged man sat on the ground. His figure was motionless, his gaze fixed on emptiness — reflecting deep internal collapse.
Michael looked like a man life had cornered, then coldly stripped of the will to resist.
Loss of business, a wife leaving for another, a quarrel with his daughter — all these blows of fate had struck him like an avalanche, destroying the last remnants of his will.
Nothing remained of the man he once was — only cold loneliness and a piercing pain, seeming to envelop not just his body, but his soul.
That morning he had resolved to take the final step — to die for an idea, for relief from suffering. But even here, life had taken away his right to finish.
The attempt failed, and now he simply sat on the cold pavement, feeling his soul fill with icy indifference with every breath.
Violently he noticed movement before him. Raising his eyes, they met an unusual creature. On the ground, barely writhing, lay a small snake. Its shiny, black-as-night scales shimmered in the distant lantern light, and its eyes, like emeralds, glowed with a magnetic light.
Those eyes… Michael felt their deep, hypnotic gaze pierce to the core of his soul, reopening wounds he thought long closed.
"Well, dying by poison isn't so bad," — he thought.
But when the snake sharply spoke, a pleasant female voice pierced his consciousness like thunder on a clear day.
— Pain, despair, thirst for death… — it whispered, savoring each word. — Magnificent.
Michael shuddered — not from fear, but surprise. He looked at the creature with genuine interest, which gradually pushed away his apathy.
— What are you? — he asked, his voice hoarse but steady.
— It doesn't matter what I am, — the snake replied, slowly writhing as if enjoying the moment. — What matters is what I can offer you.
— And what is that?
— An exchange.
— What exchange?
— You will become my source… the source of your beloved negativity. And in return, I will give you what you crave — power. The power to accomplish whatever you wish.
Michael froze, closing his eyes. His thoughts were heavy, yet unusually clear.
Power. Its absence had brought him here, to this miserable state. He lowered his head, recalling his mistakes, his enemies, his inability to resist.
But what would her appearance change?
Could he reclaim what was lost? Unlikely.
Could she grant him revenge? Secondary.
His thoughts turned to the recent evening at the restaurant — to the conversation he had overheard, leaving something strange, inexplicable, yet persistent in his soul.
He found a purpose.
The price?
Michael smirked coldly. What could be worse than what he had already endured?
When he opened his eyes, the snake was still watching him, its emerald eyes burning with impatience.
— I agree, — he said calmly.