Borgath's face and torso were severely burned. His lips, in particular, had been completely charred away, leaving his teeth exposed even though his mouth remained closed. Under other circumstances, seeing the leader of an underground crime syndicate reduced to such a state might have been shocking. But in the end, even in this magical, fantastical world, an ordinary person could be killed by something as simple as a shard of glass.
What makes a human remarkable is not their resilience against something as trivial as glass, but their capacity to use it to kill.
Areth knew that, in his current condition, the only way to kill a crime lord like Borgath was through an unexpected attack. That, too, was one of the reasons he had sought to establish a connection with the merchant.
Finding a product that could trigger an explosion and, afterward, release poisonous fumes to weaken enemies had not been easy. On top of that, he needed potions to counteract the toxic smoke. Thanks to the connections he had quickly established with the Merchants' Guild, he had managed to acquire all of it.
Through days of preparation and the sign language he had developed with Rosavelle, Areth had also set contingencies for a surprise attack. The reason Rosavelle kept her hand at her neck throughout the meeting was precisely this. If Borgath or his men showed any intent to attack, she would signal Areth by applying pressure with her fingers.
In short, with a solid plan and thorough preparation, the underground lord had been reduced to this state.
Areth swiftly slit the throats of the two strongest men who had once served the underground lord. The room was filled with a white smoke that dulled coordination and weakened control over one's limbs with every breath. Under its effects, the men posed no real threat, and Areth finished them off without resistance.
Meanwhile, Rosavelle focused on her assigned task. She pushed the heavy iron table by the door into place, ensuring no one could enter. Thanks to the physical enhancement potion Areth had given her, she completed it quickly.
At that moment, Borgath placed his arm on the scorched table and tried to rise. Areth immediately closed the distance, grabbing his shoulder and forcing him back down. Borgath's charred skin tightened as his muscles trembled beneath the burned flesh, straining upward. Where his lips had once been, only a cracked, blackened line remained, yet his teeth were still visible, as though a skull were preparing to speak.
Despite Areth's pressure, Borgath's strength remained terrifying. Even in his burned state, his muscles resisted, his legs trembling as he forced his body upward. Thin wisps of smoke rose from his scorched flesh, and that ominous determination had not left his eyes.
"Rosavelle," Areth said, his voice sharp, an unquestionable command.
A single word was enough.
Rosavelle's fingers tightened instantly. Her gaze sharpened as she directed her mental pressure toward Borgath like an invisible wave. Another weight settled into the room, blending with the white smoke, unseen yet unmistakably felt.
Borgath's body faltered for a moment.
But he did not fall.
Instead…
A strange rasp escaped his throat. Foam began to seep from between the burned flesh. White froth spilled from the corners of his mouth as his eyes widened further. His veins bulged. It was as if his mind was fracturing, yet his will still resisted.
One step.
Then another.
Despite Areth's grip, he kept rising.
Sweat gathered on Rosavelle's brow. Suppressing a mind this strong was no easy task. She increased the pressure. Her fingers trembled.
But Borgath…
Smiled.
On his burned face, that smile was nothing short of a nightmare.
"Y… you…" he rasped, his voice tearing through his ruined throat. "I'm not… afraid of you…"
Areth's eyes grew colder. There was not the slightest trace of hesitation.
"Is that so?" he murmured.
He raised his sword without haste. The movement was calm, almost ritualistic.
"Then…"
He stepped forward.
"Die without fear."
The blade he had wielded during Tiamat's conquests pierced Borgath's chest in a single decisive thrust. The metal tore through burned flesh and bone, reaching his heart. Borgath's body tensed for an instant. His eyes widened one last time.
Then…
All resistance collapsed.
His knees gave way, his body sagging as if it would fall onto Areth, but the sword held him in place. The foam ceased. His muscles slackened.
The underground lord died quietly, without grandeur.
Only the heavy smoke and the stench of burnt flesh remained in the room. Rosavelle took a deep breath and, as she released the mental pressure, realized her knees were trembling slightly.
Areth, meanwhile, slowly withdrew his sword. There was not the faintest sign of hesitation in his eyes. The first phase of the plan had been executed flawlessly. Now he needed to proceed to the second.
He crouched immediately and tried to remove the ring from Borgath's finger. His brow furrowed slightly. The burned flesh had swollen, the skin seeming to have fused around the ring. He did not want to waste time.
He did not hesitate.
With a short, precise motion, he angled his blade and severed Borgath's finger in a single clean cut. The bone, already weakened by burns, offered almost no resistance. The severed finger hit the ground with a dull thud that echoed unnaturally in the heavy silence.
Rosavelle flinched instinctively.
Areth bent down and picked up the severed finger. The ring was still there, gleaming faintly against the blackened flesh. He took it and slipped it onto his own finger.
The moment it settled, something cold spread through his veins.
His breath hitched for an instant. But this was not the first time Areth had experienced such a sensation. He gave no reaction. He clenched his hand, ensuring the ring fit perfectly, then turned to Rosavelle.
"We're short on time."
He touched the other ring on his hand.
A faint vibration ran across its surface, and from a brief, translucent rift in the air, bottles began to spill out one after another. The sound of glass clinking echoed through the room.
Small, colorful potions.
Red. Blue. Green. Pale violet.
Areth wasted no time. He grabbed several, bit the cork off a red vial, and drank it in a single motion. Then a blue one.
His body responded instantly.
His muscles tightened. His pupils dilated slightly. His breathing steadied.
Rosavelle crouched and picked up the potions as well. Her hands were still trembling faintly, but she suppressed it. She drank a strengthening potion, then a mana restorative. Finally, she downed a small vial that sharpened her reflexes and relaxed her mind. With each one, color gradually returned to her face.
Areth watched her for a few seconds. Then, briefly and directly, he asked:
"Ready?"
Rosavelle closed her eyes and took a breath, forcing the tension deep inside. When she opened them again, her gaze was clearer.
"Yes."
Areth gave a slight nod.
That was enough.
He turned toward the door. The heavy table Rosavelle had pushed still blocked it. With one hand, Areth shoved it aside. Empowered by the potions, his muscles dragged the iron with almost no effort.
The moment the door opened, the murmur in the corridor cut off, replaced by a sharp tension. Borgath's men first noticed the smoke and the stench spilling out, but before they could process it, Areth had already moved.
As he stepped forward, he raised his right hand. Mana gathered between his fingers, condensing with a brief tremor. The next instant, a fireball shot from his palm into the corridor.
When it detonated in the narrow space, a blinding flash and a wave of heat surged outward. The flames did not kill directly but shattered the enemy's formation. The men at the front recoiled instinctively, some stumbling as they tried to shield their faces, others frozen in confusion. Those few critical seconds were exactly what Areth needed.
He plunged into the chaos without delay. Passing through the flames, his silhouette seemed to vanish for a moment. The first man fell before he could properly raise his weapon, Areth's blade slicing cleanly through his throat. The cut was so precise that the man's eyes still struggled to comprehend what had happened as his body collapsed backward. Areth did not pause. For him, fire merely set the stage. Death was always the work of steel.
Behind him, Rosavelle's eyes were focused. She spread her mental waves through the corridor, bringing each enemy's intent to the surface. A racing heartbeat, a sudden decision to attack, someone hiding… all of it appeared in her mind like glowing markers.
"Left, against the wall!" she warned.
Areth had already changed direction. The man hidden in the corner was just about to leap forward when Areth's blade severed his arm, then split his chest.
The corridor descended further into chaos. Under the heat of the flames and the suffocating smoke, Borgath's men slowed, their coordination collapsing. Areth exploited the advantage mercilessly. He hurled another fireball, this time directly into the center of the group. The explosion did not kill, but it threw them back, burned their eyes, stole their breath. That moment of disorientation sealed their fate.
Rosavelle's voice rang out again, faster, sharper this time:
"Two behind you, one's about to strike!"
Without turning, Areth pivoted, parried the incoming blow, used the momentum to break his opponent's balance, and drove his blade into his heart in a single motion. The other tried to flee, but under Rosavelle's mental pressure, his knees buckled. His eyes went vacant, and Areth stepped in to finish him quietly.
As they advanced, the corridor became a choke point. The narrow space, the smoke, the flames, and the fear turned it into a trap for Borgath's men. Areth led the way, cold and methodical, turning each movement into maximum lethality with minimal effort. Behind him, Rosavelle followed like an unseen yet decisive force, tearing through minds, exposing the enemies' weakest moments, clearing his path.
When no one remained standing, only the stench of burning, blood, and a heavy silence lingered. Areth flicked his blade lightly, clearing it of blood, and paused for a brief moment. His eyes were still cold, his breathing surprisingly calm.
When they stopped before the massive iron door, Areth immediately used the ring to open it. As the door opened with a deep rumble, the air that flowed out was entirely different from the corridor. Heavier. Damp. And carrying a decay that was difficult to describe.
Areth pushed the door fully open. The sight revealed itself. Rosavelle's expression froze. The room… was not a storage area or a dungeon. It was far more organized. Far more systematic.
Hundreds of people.
Chained to the walls, to the floor, to fixed metal contraptions. Some were seated, some kneeling, others forced to stand. Thin iron collars were locked around their necks, chains extending to the ceiling or the ground. Numbers, markings, brands were etched onto them. Their skin was filthy, frail, in places wounded.
But the most terrifying part… Was the silence. None of them screamed. None of them begged for help. They only watched. With empty eyes.
Areth said nothing for a few seconds as he observed the room. His gaze was swift, but nothing escaped it. These were not ordinary slaves. This was Borgath's true power. The labor, the production, the manpower he relied on for war.
The very foundation that had made him an underground lord.