Lord of the Mysteries: Catalyst of Shadows

After hours of relentless, agonizing screams, the miserable man remained slumped in the chair, barely conscious. Bloodied and broken, his body trembled with shallow, labored breaths, his strength drained by excruciating pain.

"Done, boss. He's weak enough to be blown out like a candle," said Kieran Solas, an Imperative Mage, stepping back from his handiwork. His voice carried a hint of satisfaction as he wiped bloodied tools with practiced efficiency.

"Well done, Kieran," came the reply from the corner of the dimly lit room. The words were smooth, almost amused. "You've done your job quite nicely. Dare I say, it was rather entertaining."

The speaker stood out against the grim surroundings—a petite figure with vibrant red hair that seemed almost styled in its messiness. François, a man in his twenties, exuded an androgynous charm, his delicate features softened by light makeup. He was dressed in a blend of feminine and casual style: a fitted black top, skinny jeans, and silver chains that glinted faintly in the dim light.

With a graceful motion, François finished the last sip of his wine, setting the glass aside as he rose from his chair. His movements were casual, unhurried, as though the gruesome scene before him was nothing out of the ordinary.

He approached the bloodied figure slumped in the chair, his steps soft yet deliberate.

Behind him, Kieran began cleaning the tools of torture, the clinking of metal against water the only sound breaking the heavy silence.

"Tsk, such a shame, Malric," François said softly, his voice laced with mock regret. "If only you'd been more cooperative during my earlier, friendlier attempts at conversation, things wouldn't have had to escalate like this."

The sound of that gentle voice seemed to stir something in the battered man. Malric's swollen eyes fluttered open, his gaze struggling to focus as he sucked in desperate, uneven breaths. His body twitched weakly, as though trying to respond, but the pain had left him paralyzed.

François crouched down, his crimson hair falling slightly over his face as he leaned closer to Malric. His soft smile was chilling in its sincerity. "But don't worry," he whispered, his tone almost comforting, "we're not quite finished yet."

"But no matter," François said, a sly smirk curling his lips, "I can get what I need from you right now."

"You can... try all... you like," Malric rasped, his voice barely audible. "But I won't... give you... anything..."

François' smile deepened, radiating a satisfaction that was as chilling as it was calculated. For a moment, Malric's defiance seemed unshaken—until his bloodied features contorted unnaturally, betraying a sudden shift in intent.

Distortion.

As a seasoned Frenzied Mage, François was a master manipulator, adept at bending reality and intent to his will. With a subtle exertion of his power, he twisted Malric's declaration, morphing it from "I won't give you anything" to "I will give you everything." The distortion seeped into Malric's very psyche, warping his resistance into compliance.

Under normal circumstances, such manipulation would require precision, effort, and time, especially against a trained opponent. But with Malric weakened, bloodied, and dazed, he stood no chance of resisting the insidious influence.

"I understand," François said smoothly, his tone almost mockingly empathetic. "Say whatever you like. Now, let's begin—what were you doing in the Matani area?"

Malric's response came haltingly, his voice shaky but honest, compelled by the distortion. "I was ordered to... arrange and observe... the peculiarity... of Tizamo Town."

François tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze narrowing as Malric continued.

"It has... traces of Death... within it. Rumor has it... that it's involved... with the special Festival... in dreams."

A flicker of interest crossed François' face, his crimson eyes darkening with thought. The Artificial Death Faction had sent Malric to investigate the Dream Festival and the mysterious tomb associated with it.

"Fascinating," François murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

"For what reason? And what are the next steps?" François pressed, his voice low and measured, yet tinged with impatience.

Malric gasped for air, his breaths shallow and ragged, before he managed to reply. "The higher-ups believe... it might... hold clues... to revive Death."

François' eyes narrowed, the weight of Malric's words settling like a storm cloud over the room.

"I was sent... just to confirm... the situation," Malric continued weakly. "The next festival this year... will involve two demigods... to connect with this specialness... of Death."

The revelation hung in the air, thick with implication, as François leaned closer, his gaze unrelenting. "And the whereabouts of the artifact? The Entropic Crown?"

Malric hesitated briefly, his lips trembling as though fighting against the words being drawn from him. "It is held... in the hands of... the Pale Empress..."

François' composed facade faltered for a fleeting moment as a sharp curse flared in his mind. Shit. Of course, the Angel characteristic for my advancement is in the hands of the leader of the Royal Faction.

His brows furrowed, his frustration evident. Just my luck.

The faint clinking of Kieran cleaning the tools continued in the background as François considered his next steps, a subtle sense of triumph glinting in his eyes.

As a member of the Twilight Hermit Order, François had always navigated the shadowy undercurrents of power. During the war six years ago, he had uncovered clues pointing to the location of the characteristic of a Duke of Entropy while searching Backlund. However, the ascension of George III—and François' staunch opposition to it—thwarted his plans. George III's death, coupled with François' own demise amidst the chaos, robbed him of the chance to claim the prize.

But death had not been the end for François. Upon his transmigration, he had resolved to pick up where he left off, focusing first on advancing to Frenzied Mage. His pursuit of the artifact eventually led him to the Southern Continent, where he established his base of operations in Matani after the war. Gaining influence and securing Anchors, François meticulously prepared for his eventual advancement, each step calculated and deliberate.

Now, as the echoes of Malric's revelations lingered in his mind, François' mood darkened further.

François' gaze flicked toward Kieran, who stood silently in the corner, awaiting further instructions.

"Finish him," François ordered coolly, turning his back to the tortured Undying. "And make sure nothing remains that ties this to us."

"Understood, boss," Kieran replied without hesitation. He moved swiftly, dragging Malric's broken form into the shadows of a dark corridor, his destination as ominous as the task at hand.

François left the bunker, his footsteps steady despite the storm of thoughts within him.

Returning to the sanctuary of his private quarters, he sank into a plush, overstuffed couch. The room was dimly lit, its ambiance both luxurious and austere. Reaching for a decanter, he poured himself a glass of Iron Oak whisky.

He swirled the amber liquid thoughtfully before taking a slow sip. The bitter, smoky taste grounded him, gradually washing away the tension of the evening. François leaned back, staring into the glass as if it held the answers he sought.

The artifact's location, the Pale Empress, the Dream Festival—threads of fate intertwining into a tangled web. François knew he would have to navigate it with precision. But for now, he allowed himself this fleeting moment of reprieve.

Suddenly, the door to François' room opened, and his assistant stepped in with measured precision.

"Sir, a representative of Admiral Querarill is here to meet you in your office," Liora informed him.

"Oh? What delightful matters does the good Admiral have for us today?" François quipped, his tone light but his expression betraying mild curiosity. Rising, he adjusted his attire and made his way to the office.

Upon entering, François found the representative already seated on an intricately adorned sofa. The man exuded an air of composed professionalism, dressed impeccably in a neat brown suit paired with a dark-blue vest, tailored pants, and polished black shoes.

"Nice to see you again, Kian," François greeted courteously, extending a hand.

"Greetings, Sir François," Kian replied with a firm handshake, his black eyes fixed on François with a calm but penetrating gaze.

Settling into his high-backed leather chair, François gestured toward the main table.

Kian leaned forward slightly, his tone clipped and direct. "I've been instructed to confirm the situation regarding Malric."

"Ah, you can assure Admiral Querarill that the matter has been resolved appropriately," François replied smoothly, his tone a perfect blend of politeness and dismissal. "Malric was sent here by the Artificial Death Faction to observe Tizamo Town and lay groundwork for their future actions."

Kian's eyes flickered briefly with a questioning glint, though his expression remained neutral.

"And what progress has been made on their end? The Admiral remains particularly watchful of any movements from these factions."

François allowed a small, knowing smile to play on his lips as he leaned back in his chair.

"Malric's progress is now… nonexistent, thanks to my intervention. However, the Artificial Death Faction's next step will involve dispatching two Demigods to Tizamo later this year. They seem intent on retrieving something significant during what is expected to be a pivotal event."

Kian's brow furrowed slightly, but he quickly nodded. "Understood. I will relay this to the Admiral, along with your continued diligence in overseeing these developments."

Kian hesitated for a moment before continuing. "The Admiral also wishes to assess the overall state of your operations. There have been reports of increased activity from unidentified individuals—some of whom appear to be your acquaintances. He expects greater control from both your organization and yourself."

François sighed audibly, leaning back in his chair as he fixed Kian with a piercing stare. "Inform him that everything is functioning perfectly fine, with no notable issues. And kindly remind him of our agreement—endorsed by Feynapotter, no less. I was placed here to manage this region discreetly while he enjoyed the public spotlight. I take care of the messes that arise here, making decisions he neither wishes to nor can make in his position. Politics, as you must understand, are a rather delicate matter."

Kian's brows knit together in a display of controlled frustration, but he pressed on. "I understand, but the Admiral has been stri—"

"No buts," François interrupted sharply, his

tone dropping to a cold, commanding register. "These are the terms, and it would behoove the Admiral to remember them. Unless, of course, he believes he's ready to face the consequences of... deviation?"

Kian shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his posture stiffening under François' unyielding gaze. "N-no, Sir. That won't be necessary. I will convey your message."

"Splendid." François' expression softened slightly, though his tone remained nonchalant.

"Safe travels, Kian. Until we meet again."

Kian rose and offered a curt bow before making his exit. "Good day, Sir François."

Tsk. The Artifact, and now this debacle. François scowled inwardly. Fortunately, he reminded himself, the organization he had as a safety net, the Twilight Order, alongside his own, could help smooth over such complications. There are options to consider.

He leaned back in his chair, swirling the remaining whisky in his glass. Additionally, it's around the time Lumian Lee begins his little escapades. This year's Dream Festival will undoubtedly be formidable... but manageable. He allowed himself a moment to let the thought settle.

His musings were interrupted by the door creaking open once more. Liora stepped inside, holding a neatly folded letter in her hand.

"Sir, the Raven has sent a letter," she announced, extending it toward him.

"Thank you, Liora," François replied with a nod of appreciation, taking the envelope.

As Liora departed, he broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter. His eyes scanned the contents carefully, a faint smile creeping across his face as he read.

"The Ace has expressed interest in Tizamo Town and is open to negotiations and cooperation. He requests a prompt response regarding your stance."

François chuckled, his lips curving into a broad grin. Oho, how convenient.

But the smile faded as his brows furrowed in contemplation. Why? Why would the Ace suddenly show interest in Tizamo Town? Could it be the Dream Festival? No, that seems unlikely. Only a select few individuals and organizations know of its existence—and none outside, including the Secret Order, should have such detailed intelligence...

He tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest, his thoughts taking a cautious turn. This is suspicious. Very suspicious.

Setting the letter down on his desk, François let out a measured sigh. I'll accept his offer, but I'll tread carefully. Until I uncover his true motives and intentions regarding Tizamo, I won't lower my guard.

With his decision made, François straightened his posture, the smile returning to his face—this time colder, calculated, and ready for the games to come.