Chapter 14: The Crystal Ball of the Avenger

“My father… he should have been honored as a hero. It was he who discovered the way to fight against the crimson vanguard of the Helfa forces!”

Inside the cramped, suffocating hut—its wooden walls nailed shut to block even the faintest breeze—the thin young man standing in their way continued to speak. His voice trembled as though the weight of memory pressed on his chest. Perhaps it was because he had spoken of his father that his emotions grew visibly agitated, swelling with grief and fury until they threatened to overflow.

Yes… grief and fury—that was exactly what one could feel radiating from him.

The young man quickly revealed the cause of this torment.

“My father was struck down by the Curse of Madness. Within a few days he lost himself completely, dying in confusion and pain. And yet, the knowledge he traded his very life for—the discovery that could have changed everything—was immediately stolen! Carlos Wilkin! The deputy director of the Arcane Research Institute of the Republic of Loring! It was he who seized my father’s work and claimed it as his own!”

The young man’s voice cracked, his pale face flushed with blood.

“And worse still, to ensure the secret would never be revealed, Carlos Wilkin ordered my house to be set aflame. My mother and sister… they were burned alive in their sleep. And I…”

He stopped.

The thin youth, his cloak hood drawn low to hide his features, finally lifted his head high with defiance.

The hood slipped back.

Marlon’s breath caught. He stared in stunned silence at the young man’s face—or what remained of it. His head was almost completely bald. The skin of his scalp was twisted and knotted with raw, rope-like scars. Angry red flesh rose and fell in grotesque ridges, while his forehead was mottled with fleshy welts and greenish tumors that pulsed faintly like something alive.

Fortune alone spared them from being in a busy street where countless eyes could see this horror. In such a place, the sight of him might have caused screams, panic—perhaps even stones thrown in fear.

The young man bared his ruined visage without hesitation, his eyes—two pale green flames—burning with hatred. His voice dripped with a bitter sneer.

“Carlos Wilkin thought he had killed me. He thought fire would silence me forever. But he never imagined that his attempt to erase me would awaken within me the latent power of my mother’s bloodline.”

Hatred flickered in his pale eyes, mingling with a strange, unnatural glow.

“The blessing of nature—the bloodline of the wood-spirits,” murmured the Druid master known as Claw. His brows furrowed as understanding dawned. “No wonder… when I first laid eyes on you, I sensed a faint trace of nature’s aura clinging to you.”

Yet, as he spoke, he hesitated. The pause was telling, for what he had chosen not to say lingered heavily in his thoughts: a chaotic aura.

Indeed. The breath of nature that clung to this youth was not merely disordered—it carried a faint stench of decay, something disturbingly akin to the aura of the Withered.

The Withered. Traitors among the Druids. Destroyers of nature, mad desecrators of all that lived…

But no—Claw reassured himself—this boy’s aura came from his maternal bloodline alone. He was no Withered, not yet.

Marlon, who had stood silently until then, finally spoke. His voice was calm, though his eyes were thoughtful.

“Having suffered such tragedy, why did you not report this to the authorities? Why not go to the city guard?”

Even as he asked, Marlon already suspected the answer. If reporting had been of any use, the boy would not be standing before him now, broken and burning with vengeance. His question was less inquiry than a thread—one meant to draw forth deeper truths.

The young man’s lips twisted. He met Marlon’s gaze, then answered with slow, heavy words:

“I did go. And that is why… I lost my hands.”

The reply sent a chill crawling down Marlon’s spine. He could not help but shudder.

So dark, so corrupt—was this truly the Republic, a nation that cloaked itself in lofty ideals?

The youth caught every flicker of Marlon’s expression. His smile was sharp, bitter.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it? Yet it is the truth. To survive, to carry my hatred forward, I fled from the capital, Fenico. South I ran, barely clinging to life, escaping death again and again until I reached this coastal city—five thousand nine hundred li away.”

“Yes… it is hard to believe,” Marlon admitted softly. A sigh escaped his lips. “You must have suffered greatly on that road.”

But the boy shook his head, his voice flat.

“To live is not suffering.”

It was a proverb well-known in the Republic, though when he repeated it, a hollow, bitter laugh escaped him.

“How ironic… If not for the Helfa Empire’s great bombardment across the sea—if not for that firestorm that reduced this city’s slums to ashes—I doubt I would even be alive to say these words.”

The weight of his sorrow settled heavily on the room. Even Amy, the little fox-girl clinging to Marlon’s hand, felt it. She tightened her small fingers around his, her sapphire-blue eyes glistening as she looked up at him. Her gaze pleaded silently, a message clearer than words: Help him.

Marlon gave her a small nod. Then he turned back to the scarred youth.

“What is your name?”

“Musa. Musa Mein.”

Marlon’s tone sharpened, cutting to the heart of the matter.

“Musa, why tell us this? Why reveal to strangers such a weighty, personal hatred? Surely vengeance of this scale is not a story you would share so freely.”

Musa’s green eyes burned hotter.

“Because I saw the pamphlets of The Count of Monte Cristo. Though they were only fragments, that tale of vengeance struck me to the core. It showed me that to take revenge, one must first gather wealth—wealth vast enough to make vengeance possible!”

His words rang with conviction, his fury naked and unashamed.

Marlon’s brows rose slightly. So that was it…

“And so, you sought us out?”

Marlon still found it difficult to grasp. After all, The Count of Monte Cristo was only a story. How could it inspire such resolve that this boy would seek him specifically?

But Musa Mein was no fool. To flee across thousands of li, to survive pursuit and fire, to hide in White Sand City’s shadows—such a youth could not be dismissed as naïve. He had not mistaken Marlon for some priestly savior from the novel. No, there was another reason.

Marlon’s eyes drifted, almost unconsciously, to the cheap crystal orb the boy cradled carefully in both hands.

Yes… there lay the true reason.

“Not ‘you all.’ Just you,” Musa corrected firmly, lifting the crystal. “I want to cooperate with you to produce this. A crystal orb that countless people will pay to buy.”

He held it up, his thin arms trembling with restrained urgency.

“Place your hand on it.”

Marlon eyed him with caution. His voice was measured.

“And what will happen if I do?”

He was not one to throw away prudence. Sympathy did not equal trust.

Musa licked his lips, hesitation flickering in his scarred face before he steadied himself.

“It is… difficult to explain. If I tell you outright, you may not believe me. But I swear, it will not harm you.” His gaze hardened, almost desperate in its sincerity. “Please. Place your hand upon the crystal. I swear by the gods themselves—there is no danger!”

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