Chapter Twenty-Five
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The forest gleamed beneath the moonlight.
Intertwined branches veiled the sky, and rotten trunks jutted from the earth like dead fingers.
Every step Fargas took made a sound, and every sound seemed loud within this stillness.
Then—he stopped.
He saw it.
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At the heart of the forest, where the branches of a colossal tree intertwined like the ceiling of a dark cathedral, the corpse hung.
Silver threads wove into a precise geometric pattern, gripping the body by its shoulders, wrists, and ankles, suspending it in the air like a puppet in a marionette theater.
The body leaned slightly forward, as if bowing to a nonexistent audience.
Under the moonlight filtering through the branches, the threads resembled the strings of a giant lyre, and the corpse—a musician fallen mid-performance.
The Lord of Transparency.
His face was tilted slightly upward, his eyes wide and unblinking, fixed upon the sky as though seeing something no one else could.
Blood had dried upon his lips, leaving a dark red line like aged wine.
His body—that body which once vanished from sight with ease—was now declared to all, exposed, stripped of every veil.
The threads had not killed him.
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Fargas stood in silence.
His blue eyes traced the threads upward, following their interwoven paths, examining the knots that bound them to the branches. They were precise. Perfect.
This was not the work of a desperate fugitive, but of a hunter who knew his prey would be watching.
He wanted me to see it.
He stepped forward. Then another.
He approached the corpse until he stood within arm's reach.
The scent of dried blood and dampness filled the air. He raised his hand—not to touch the body, but to touch the thread.
It was cold. Sharp. He brushed his finger against it gently, leaving a pale mark upon his skin.
Metal threads. Not the kind used by an ordinary Lord of Threads. These… were special.
He looked back at the body.
At the wide eyes of the Lord of Transparency.
At his slightly parted lips, as though he had wanted to say something before he died.
He did not die from a wound. He bled to death. A slow, painful end.
He closed his eyes for a moment. The scene formed in his mind:
The Lord of Transparency sneaking in, believing himself unseen.
Karsu waiting.
Not attacking—just waiting. Until the Lord of Transparency realized he had been discovered.
Terror filled his eyes.
Then—he fled. And that was when he fell into the trap.
Fargas opened his eyes.
He could have killed him easily. But he chose to let him kill himself. Then hung him here. As a warning. As a message.
He lifted his gaze to the sky between the branches.
A perfect trap.
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"Ingenious."
He whispered it so softly it was nearly inaudible. No mockery in his voice. No anger. Only acknowledgment.
Then he looked again at the corpse. At that body hanging like a piece of art in a gallery of horror.
I have seen soldiers die. I have seen Qaz Lords fall. I have seen cities burn. But this…
Silence.
This is the first time I have seen someone turn killing into art.
He turned his back to the corpse. Took a step.
Then stopped.
He glanced back one last time.
He raised his hand and cut a single thread holding the body.
It snapped with a sharp sound, and the corpse tilted slightly—but did not fall.
He placed the thread in his pocket.
A souvenir.
Then he walked.
Leaving the Lord of Transparency hanging there, beneath the moon, among the branches of a colossal tree—like a masterpiece understood only by those who know how to kill.
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The forest in this part was denser than Fargas had expected.
Interwoven branches blocked the moon, and rotten trunks rose from the ground like dead fingers.
Every step he took made a sound, and every sound seemed loud in the stillness.
He stopped.
He bent down and picked something up from the ground. A small clay vial, still damp inside. He smelled it.
The scent of strange herbs, and a sticky white mixture still clinging to its edges.
An antidote.
He placed it in his bag and continued walking.
But he was no longer searching for a trail.
Now, he knew that Karsu was aware of his approach. And that meant only one thing:
He would not find him. He would find what had been prepared for him.
The forest was not silent.
It was… listening.
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Fargas moved slowly, his eyes scanning the ground as though he was not looking… but reading.
A broken branch.
An incomplete footprint.
A drop of dried blood upon a tilted leaf.
He stopped.
He bent slightly, ran his finger over the mark… then lifted it to eye level.
"He stopped here."
He said it in a low voice.
Not to anyone… but to himself.
He raised his head and looked ahead.
No trail beyond that point.
He smiled.
"Good."
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Above…
Karsu was watching.
Lying upon a wide branch, his body still as though he were part of the tree itself.
His breathing steady, his eyes half-closed… yet he saw everything.
He has arrived.
He did not move.
He did not flee.
He did not set a trap.
He… waited.
This man… is not like the others.
He observed him.
Focused.
Analyzed.
His movements are slow… but not cautious.
Calculated.
He is not searching for me.
He is reading me.
His gaze slipped downward.
To where… he had left the trace.
Deliberately.
He understood.
He is not following the trail. He is following the absence.
Karsu smiled.
A small… cold smile.
"So… you understood."
He closed his eyes for a second.
Then opened them.
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On the other side of the forest—
The bull exhaled vapor into the cold night air.
A massive beast, black in color, its horns curved backward like iron bows, its eyes glowing with a faint red light.
It stood still, its nose testing the air, its ears alert.
On its back sat Cox.
He carried no weapon. Wore no armor. Only his black uniform, his messy hair swaying in the wind.
He looked ahead.
Behind him, the walls of the Adventurers' City rose high in the darkness, guarding the only entrance.
Before him stretched the dense forest, where trees and shadows hid.
"Here."
He dismounted slowly, placing a hand upon the beast's neck.
"Go back. Don't wait for me."
The bull looked at him for a moment. Then turned and ran back toward the city, leaving deep prints in the soil.
Cox stood alone at the edge of the forest.
He stretched his arms outward like wings. His muscles expanded beneath his black attire. He inhaled deeply.
"The left side is sealed by the city wall. The right side behind me is closed as well."
He looked into the forest, his eyes gleaming.
"If you wish to flee, Lord of Threads… you won't pass through here."
He smiled.
A wide, eager smile.
"Come. Show me what you can do."
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Karsu moved between the trees like a ghost.
No sound from his steps. No trace left behind. His body leaned slightly forward, as though swimming through an unseen current.
Sweat still lingered on his brow, the poison not yet fully purged from his blood—but he could move. Think. Choose.
Fargas is behind me.
He did not turn. He did not need to.
He follows the absence, not the trail. Clever. But slow.
Deliberate. He reads the forest like an open book.
A cold smile formed.
If I fought him now, I would win. Not because he is weak, but because he wants to understand me first.
He wants to know who I am before he strikes.
And that is his mistake.
He suddenly changed direction.
Veered left, ducked beneath a low branch, climbed a broad trunk with ease, then descended on the other side. It was not escape.
It was reshaping the map within his mind.
Fargas wants me in one place. In an open ground, where he can see me, where he can analyze me.
There is no benefit in killing him. It may harm my original plan.
It is better to avoid killing a member of the High Council at this stage until I achieve my goal.
He headed north. Toward the wall. Toward the only remaining exit of the forest.
Toward where… someone was waiting.
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At the edge of the forest—
Cox still stood.
Arms open, chest wide to the cold air, eyes fixed upon the shifting shadows of the trees. The bull had returned to the city, the soldiers were far away, and the night was silent.
Too silent.
He smiled.
"Come… come."
He whispered it as though singing to a child.
"Don't be afraid. I won't bite. Maybe."
Silence.
Then—something moved among the trees.
Not a sound. Not a violent motion. Just… a change.
As though the shadow deepened slightly, or the air grew heavier.
Cox stopped breathing for a moment.
Then he stepped out.
A young man. Tall. Black-haired. Eyes cold as the depths of the sea.
His body lean yet taut, marked with both old and fresh scars across his exposed arms.
He wore a torn black jacket at the shoulder, and loose trousers stained with dried blood.
He stood five meters away.
He said nothing.
Cox stared at him for a long moment.
Then burst into laughter.
"Ha! You!"
His laughter was loud, booming, filling the emptiness between the trees.
"You're the Lord of Threads? That's you?!"
Karsu did not respond.
"Don't even try to run! Hahaha! I've exposed you! Look how clever I am!! Hahaha! I can't see your features, which means you're exactly as they described: faceless. The Lord of Threads!"
He spread his arms as if describing something grand.
"Oh, right… before I begin my performance… why do you look like you haven't eaten since childhood? Are your parents that cruel? Even mine didn't go that far—well, perhaps they died before I saw them—maybe that's why—hahaha!"
Karsu remained silent. His expression did not change.
Only his eyes—they followed every movement of Cox, every breath, every smile.
Cox suddenly stopped laughing.
He looked at him with narrowed eyes.
"But…"
Silence.
"There's something about you… that isn't right."
He took a step forward. Karsu did not retreat.
"You're standing before me. Your wounds haven't healed.
The poison is still in your blood. You should be afraid. You should be tense. You should run."
Another step.
"But you don't."
His smile faded.
"Why?"
Karsu was silent for a moment. Then he spoke in a calm, cold voice:
"Does a predator fear its prey?"
Cox's eyes widened for a brief moment.
Then the smile returned. But it was different this time. Less mocking. More curious.
"You're interesting."
He said it quietly.
"Truly."
He stepped closer. The distance between them shrank to less than twenty meters.
"Tell me… why do you think I'm the prey and you're the predator?"
Karsu looked at him. Then said:
"I said nothing. Yet you defined predator and prey from a glance. Isn't that enough?"
Silence.
A long silence.
Then Cox laughed.
But this time, his laughter was not mocking. It was a laugh of recognition.
A laugh of someone who had discovered something unexpected.
"You… you are truly entertaining."
He raised his hand and pointed at Karsu.
"But I'll tell you something, sharp-tongued one."
He smiled.
"Usually… those with deceptive tongues have nothing else. So, are you different? I hope you amuse me."
Then he added:
"I'm here to decide whether you leave this forest alive… or as a corpse."
Karsu looked at him, unmoving.
"And how will you decide?"
"With one thing."
He stepped closer.
"Now that I've seen you… are you afraid?"
Karsu smiled.
A cold smile.
"No."
Cox stared at him for a long moment.
Then suddenly turned his back.
"Run."
He said it simply.
"Run. I won't chase you. I won't stop you."
He looked at Karsu over his shoulder.
Karsu, for the first time since the beginning of the day, let a tone slip into his voice—a warning, dangerous, serious tone.
"Run?"
Karsu appeared calm as he thought, but gradually that calm cracked:
"Normally, I would exploit the situation—either to kill by surprise or to avoid a futile fight… but I am Karsu! Run from a mere villager…? Hah!"
Karsu spoke in a loud voice, laced with a sharp edge:
"Come… I'll show you how a hunter humiliates his prey without killing it."
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