Clink!

  An exquisite wine glass struck the floor, its fragments scattering like flower petals.

  The alcohol-loving old wizard apprentice drifted casually out from the shadows behind a pillar.

  "Oh, my apologies. Once a man gets old, his hands sometimes act as if they belong to someone else—they become less and less cooperative. It's easy for the hands to tremble when one sees something shocking," the old drunkard said with a chuckle.

  All eyes were drawn to him.

  The elder of the Fendis family seemed to recognize the old drunkard; seeing him interrupt so suddenly, he showed no resentment, only a look of slight surprise.

  "Put it away. After several hundred years, the Fendis family surely doesn't have many of those runic stones left," the old drunkard said cheerfully. "From what I know, trouble is coming to Starry City very soon. You'll have your hands full dealing with it; better save the good stuff for then."

  "I know what you're worried about. I can determine whether he's been occupied by a Faceless One. I trust you can still take the word of an old man who's just come home to die," the old drunkard added.

  "Of course. Your presence brings honor to the Fendis house."

  The Fendis elder holding the Sun Stone was remarkably respectful toward the old apprentice. Nevertheless, his grip on the stone never loosened for a second, nor did he make any move to put it away.

  Ignoring these minor details, the old drunkard tottered over to Tars.

  Tars, having fully regained his senses, bared his teeth in a grin. His face, matted with blood and gore, caused the old man to furrow his brow.

  "It seems you hold quite a position in Starry City. And those who recognize you are the older generation of rulers in these Great Houses, rather than the young fools," Tars said. He laughed and swung his foot, kicking Edgar's head. With the strength of a Dragon-blood kobold amplified by Bull's Strength and Demonic Body, the head struck the wall with a wet thwack, exploding into a dozen splatters of flesh.

  "It amounts to nothing. I am merely a failure—an old man who fled back to his hometown to wait for the end."

  The old drunkard smiled, surveying the carnage surrounding them. He leaned in closer and whispered, "I know you weren't influenced by those Faceless Ones. It shows your mental energy is exceptionally stable. This makes me even more certain you can master that spell."

  Tars smiled back, knowing that wasn't the main point.

  "These transcendents might look insignificant, and perhaps in your eyes they are no different from commoners," the old man continued, scanning the aftermath of the battle. "But in a cavern domain like this, even a large mercenary group only has a handful of transcendents of this caliber. Men like these are the foundation upon which a noble family establishes its local rule. Of course, the Fendis family has other, stronger transcendents, but the ones who died here today are enough to make them pay a heavy price."

  Tars looked around. Roughly thirty to forty people had died by his hand today; the exact count was a blur of mangled remains. In truth, if he hadn't succumbed to the rage, fewer might have died.

  "Those two... who were they?" Tars asked, glancing at the Fendis elder in the distance before looking back at the old drunkard.

  "Bishop-level monsters of the Redeemers. They can no longer be called human. Usually, a cavern domain only has one Bishop; seeing two appear at once is quite rare," the old drunkard explained.

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  Tars understood his meaning perfectly. However, he couldn't stop his eyes from darting toward the stone in the Fendis elder's hand.

  "Don't get any crooked ideas, kid. Those stones were bestowed at the city's founding to stabilize the situation—to give the fledgling cavern city room to breathe and develop. From the start, they were keyed to the bloodlines of each family; they're useless if stolen by anyone else."

  The old drunkard's tone was one of weary helplessness. In the distance, the Fendis elder looked visibly startled.

  "Haha, I was just curious," Tars said with a laugh.

  The spells buffing his body were nearing their expiration. He chose to manually deactivate them one by one and pulled out a fresh robe to change into. Seeing the spells vanish and Tars return to his normal form, the gaunt Fendis elder let out a genuine sigh of relief.

  Taking action was a form of making a statement.

  Tars understood the old man's subtext: the Fendis family had stronger transcendents and the Sun Stone, but they couldn't afford a pyrrhic victory. They wanted to cut their losses, and stopping now was the wise choice. Still, Tars felt they were likely bewildered by his background. Even the mastermind behind the scenes might suspect they had been fed false intelligence.

  Tars decided to toy with them one last time. He shook out his robes and strode toward the exit. As he passed the Fendis elder, he reached out and patted the man on the shoulder.

  "When I reach the Wizard Domain, I'll have a chat with the Fendis there. I'll tell him the family is developing quite well," he said with a grin.

  He walked out without looking back. The old drunkard looked at the messy, blood-soaked hall reeking of filth and followed Tars out.

  Thanks to the powerful recovery of a Dragon-blood kobold, Tars's wounds were mostly healed by the time he reached the carriage. He stood there in silence, looking at the darkening streets and the starry reflections beginning to manifest on the cavern ceiling.

  "Give me a lift, young man," the old drunkard said, climbing into the carriage ahead of him. Tars followed him in.

  The carriage groaned into motion, heading toward Young Master Rodrigo's manor. Once inside the cabin, Tars leaned into a corner, letting himself go limp.

  "Is life difficult for ordinary transcendents?" he asked.

  During the earlier farce, before he had lost his mind, he had heard Edgar's words of encouragement to the transcendents. He could infer that many of them weren't family retainers, and that some clearly weren't living well.

  "Heh, at least it's better than being a commoner." The old apprentice leaned against the opposite wall of the cabin and pulled out a glass of wine to sample. Judging by the liquid, it was leftover stock from the party.

  "Some people spend three generations of savings just to scrape together one dose of Fighter's Elixir. An entry-level Fighter is at the bottom of the transcendent ladder, but it's still much more comfortable than being a regular mercenary. As long as they don't die too quickly, it's enough to change a family's destiny," the old man said, draining his glass.

  "If one can become a caster like a Gem Summoner, that's even better. I was a Gem Summoner once. I was so happy I couldn't sleep for days..."

  The old man gazed up at the carriage ceiling, seemingly lost in memory. Tars looked at him, tempted to say that in his own homeland, when people started constantly dwelling on the past, they were usually nearing the end of their lives.

  "You must be a Level 5 wizard apprentice, right? Your talent can't be that bad," Tars said. His subtext was clear: why would such a person settle for being a Gem Summoner?

  "Bad? My talent isn't bad! I'm a genius. If anything was bad, it was my luck," the old man poured another glass and took a tiny sip. "During my prime years, I caught a mysterious illness. It took over a year to recover. That sickness made me miss the decennial talent testing. After another year of recuperation, I was already in my teens, so I ran off to be a mercenary, traveling between cavern cities. It was only after I became a Gem Summoner that things started looking up."

  "By the time the next test came around, I was an adult in my twenties. I had lost ten years, but I was still the best. I used my hard work and talent to chase down those wasted years. Back then, still relatively young, I was the pride of Starry City—the only one among those who left this city who was on the verge of becoming a formal wizard. Everyone in the city knew my name. But alas, every time, I was just a little bit short. Always just a little bit. Always just a hair's breadth away from becoming a formal wizard."

  The old drunkard pursed his lips, savoring the wine in his hand.

  "I tried three different advancement rituals to become a formal wizard, and all of them failed. If I hadn't gotten sick and missed that test, if I hadn't wasted those ten years, if I had been ruthless enough the first time to use the life-force conversion ritual, if I had progressed just a tiny bit faster... perhaps everything would be different."