Ancient Ruins Somewhere Outside Vans City
Night smothered the forgotten ruins like a velvet cloak.
Broken stone pillars—gnarled by roots and half-swallowed by the forest—stood scattered across the clearing. Whatever civilization once built them had long since lost the argument with nature.
Now the ruins served a new purpose.
A secret meeting spot.
Several Vandorian soldiers patrolled the perimeter with the stiff posture of men who knew they were guarding something important, but had absolutely no idea what that something actually was. Their officer waited near the center of the ruins, arms folded, impatience visible even under the pale moonlight.
High above them, hidden inside the tangled branches of an old tree, two silhouettes watched everything.
Megan adjusted the scope of her rifle.
Beside her, young Mo sat casually on a branch, swinging one leg slightly. For someone currently participating in an infiltration mission inside enemy territory, he looked far too relaxed.
"This Marco is a paranoid bastard," Megan muttered quietly.
Her eye stayed glued to the scope.
"Even though he's already inside his client's territory, he still insists on meeting in the middle of the night so none of the Third Prince's spies get a look at his face."
She flicked the focus ring, scanning the ruins again.
"Then again, paranoia is usually how idiots like him end up dead," she continued. "He doesn't trust anyone and insists on personally overseeing every major transaction."
Beside her, young Mo wasn't looking at the ruins at all.
He was staring at Megan with wide eyes. Highly entertained.
"That," he said thoughtfully, "was the longest changing-the-topic sentence I've ever heard."
Megan paused.
"You really don't want to tell me why you're still a virgin, do you?" Young Mo continued.
Megan's eye twitched.
"Ask me again," she hissed, "and I'll file a complaint with HR… boss."
"Well, you know," young Mo replied with a grin, "this version of me isn't officially registered in the employee roster."
"Tch."
"Oh well," he shrugged. "I'll dig more on the next truth-or-dare."
Mid-sentence his head suddenly snapped toward the right.
"Uh oh."
Megan raised an eyebrow.
"My demony sense is tingling," young Mo said. "Some groups approaching."
"Where?"
"Two o'clock. Twelve people. Wagons."
Megan shifted the scope in that direction.
A moment later, flickering torchlight appeared between the trees.
A convoy slowly emerged from the forest path — several wagons escorted by armored bodyguards. Even at this distance, the cargo was obvious. Crates stacked high and strapped tight.
Swords. Muskets. Cannons. Armor pieces.
The Vandorian officer at the ruins stepped forward as the convoy arrived.
Megan quietly swapped her rifle for a camera fitted with a ridiculously long telephoto lens.
"Now…" she murmured while adjusting focus. "Marco, which one is you?"
She scanned the arriving group.
Her attention quickly locked onto a well-dressed man stepping down from one of the wagons. Elegant coat. Confident posture. Flanked by an attendant.
The man approached the Vandorian officer and shook his hand enthusiastically.
"There you are," Megan whispered.
Click-click-click-click.
The camera fired a rapid burst of photos.
Beside her, young Mo lifted a pair of binoculars.
"Fufufu…"
Megan kept shooting.
"What's so funny, boss?" she asked without lowering the camera.
"This Marco is cautious to the point of lunacy," young Mo said. "I bet Marco is not even his real name."
"What makes you say that?"
Young Mo lowered the binoculars slightly.
"Because that guy in the fancy suit," he said, pointing casually, "is most likely not Marco."
Megan frowned.
"He's too chatty. Too visible. Drawing attention onto himself." Young Mo shrugged. "It feels like he wants everyone to think he's Marco."
Megan zoomed in again.
The well-dressed man was laughing loudly now, shaking hands with the Vandorian officer like a politician campaigning for reelection.
She sighed.
"Yeah… you're right... it doesn't fit his profile," Megan muttered. "You think our agent gave us bad intel?"
"No," young Mo scoffed. "Call it pride, but I don't believe any agent trained by my older selves would hand over false intel."
He scanned the ruins again.
"Marco is here." He paused. "Somewhere."
Megan adjusted the camera again.
"Fine," she said. "Then I'll take pictures of everyone. Let the analysts sort out who he is."
"Kukuku." Young Mo shook his head. "Don't bother."
Megan frowned slightly.
"They're already doing that."
"Huh?" she asked. "How?"
Young Mo tapped his eye.
"Did you forget you have an 'online presence' sitting right next to you?"
---
Langley, BICH Headquarters
The analyst room was a controlled storm.
Officers moved rapidly between desks, carrying reports, sketches, and data tablets like a swarm of overworked bees. Screens flickered with incoming information while printers spat out fresh sheets non-stop.
Janet slapped a stack of papers into an officer's hands.
"Cross-check these. Next batch incoming."
At a desk near the back of the room, an Mo's worked with terrifying efficiency.
His hand moved across the paper like a possessed printer.
Scratch scratch scratch.
One face appeared.
Then another.
Then another.
Each sketch was completed in seconds — perfect reproductions of the exact faces young Mo was currently seeing through the tree canopy miles away.
"And someone bring a teardrops here for the old man." Janet shouted.
---
Ancient Ruins
"Then why did I bother bringing this big-ass camera…" Megan groaned.
"Chill," young Mo said lazily. "Just put it back into the subspace bag."
Below them, the arms dealers finished transferring the cargo wagons. Papers were exchanged. Bags of gold changed hands.
Once the transaction was complete, the merchants mounted their horses.
Within minutes, the wagons were already turning back toward the forest path they came from.
"They're on the move. Let's go," Megan said.
The two demons packed up quickly.
Then they launched themselves into the night sky.
---
They followed the convoy for hours, gliding silently above the forest canopy.
From the ground, nothing could be seen but the occasional rustle of leaves. From above, however, the convoy was easy to track — torches flickering like a trail of fireflies crawling through the woods.
Then suddenly, the convoy split.
Half the riders continued along the main path.
The other half veered off into a completely different direction.
"What the?" Megan frowned. "Why did they split?"
She watched the two groups drift farther apart.
"That's… overkill, even for escaping the Third Prince's eyes."
Young Mo crossed his arms mid-flight, watching with clear amusement.
"Unless," he said with a grin, "it's not the Third Prince's they're worried about."
Megan sighed.
"Ours, then."
"Yep."
Megan pressed a finger to the small communicator in her ear.
"Overlord, you seeing this?"
"Yeah," Janet's voice replied through the comms. "And the analysts report just came in."
A brief pause.
"It's the attendant."
Young Mo smirked and pointed downward.
Not at the larger group.
At the smaller one.
He and Megan angled downward slightly, adjusting their trajectory as they began tailing the smaller group from above.
Janet continued over the line.
"His real name is Dillian Walric. A respected Meridinian philanthropist and slave merchant. Alias Marco."
Janet kept reading from the report.
"Public image: saintly donor, church builder, orphanage sponsor."
A small pause.
"Privately, he sells weapons with questionable origin."
"No wonder he personally visits Vandoria," Megan commented.
"Yep," Janet replied dryly. "Delivering weapons and picking up war orphans."
Another pause.
"Efficient business trip."
---
Forest Hut
After another hour of travel, the smaller group finally slowed down.
Their destination turned out to be a small hut buried deep within the forest.
It looked unremarkable — wooden walls, simple roof, smoke drifting lazily from the chimney. The kind of place travelers would pass without a second glance.
Another man stepped out from the hut as the riders arrived.
Greetings were exchanged.
Soon a crude campsite formed outside. A small fire crackled. A few bedrolls were unrolled. Two guards lazily patrol the perimeter.
High above the trees, Megan and young Mo hovered silently.
"I don't think that's their base," Megan whispered.
"Probably a transit point."
"Agreed."
They descended quietly.
From the edge of the tree line, they watched the disguised merchant — Dillian Walric, alias Marco — enter the hut while the others began settling down around the campfire.
Young Mo leaned against a tree.
"Let's wait until they're asleep," he said. "They must be exhausted."
He stretched slightly.
"You rest. I'll keep watch."
Megan glanced at him.
Something about his demeanor had changed.
The relaxed, joking attitude from earlier had faded.
Now he looked calmer.
Sharper.
Focused.
Maybe because their target was finally within reach.
Megan didn't comment on it.
---
Eventually, the campfire burned low.
One by one, the guards began nodding off.
The forest grew quiet.
When the last conversation around the fire died out, the two demons moved.
They slipped past the dying fire.
Stepped around a half-asleep patrol guard.
And reached the hut.
Before opening the door, young Mo raised his hand.
Mana shimmered briefly in the air.
A sound barrier formed — a faint, transparent veil that sealed the hut from the outside world.
Now whatever happened inside would remain inside.
They entered.
The interior of the hut looked deceptively plain.
Simple furniture.
Plain wooden walls.
A modest fireplace.
The only things that betrayed the occupant's wealth were the expensive wine bottles sitting neatly on the table and a fancy dinner tray that clearly didn't belong in a hut like this.
On the bed, Dillian Walric slept peacefully.
Snoring gently.
No words were exchanged between Megan and young Mo.
They both knew the routine.
Megan began searching the room.
Quietly.
Bags.
Cabinets.
Pockets.
Anything that could hide documents or useful information.
Meanwhile, young Mo walked directly to the bed.
He placed his glowing hand near the merchant's forehead and began channeling mana.
Then suddenly—
He pulled his hand back.
Immediately casting a second sound barrier, this one tightly wrapped around the sleeping merchant.
Megan looked up.
"What happened?" she whispered.
Young Mo chuckled softly.
"Kukuku… someone installed a firewall on this guy's mind."
"Seriously?" Megan frowned. "What kind?"
"A holy one."
Megan winced.
"Damn. No normal succubus can get through that…"
"Yeah."
Young Mo rolled his neck slightly.
"At least we know the church is involved."
Then he placed his hand back on Dillian's head.
"But lucky for us…" A grin slowly spread across his face. "…I'm not normal."
Mana flared.
"Well then, Marco — or should I say Dillian —" Young Mo's voice dropped into a quiet, amused whisper. "Let's see how you enjoy having the King of Incubi and Succubi pry open your firewall."
Dark energy swirled around his hand.
On the bed, the merchant began trembling.
His sleeping face twisted.
Muscles tightening as silent nightmares flooded his mind.
The interrogation had begun.