The marquess leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the dark oak table. His fingers came together, steepled neatly beneath his chin. Pale gray eyes moved between the two men at the head, sharp and calculating. His voice came out smooth.
"You have Invanne—one of the Thirteenth Star Magicians. She created her own original magic at thirteen. Mastered Pocket Dimension at fifteen." He paused, letting the weight of that settle into the room.
"That kind of talent could surpass every other Star Magician alive today."
His gaze sharpened. "And yet you keep her as a maid. Dusting shelves and serving tea."
Silence stretched for a brief moment.
"You have others like her," he continued, quieter now, "people with absurd potential… and you hide them away as house workers."
A faint crease formed between his brows.
"What exactly are you doing?"
Kumi leaned back in his chair, his broad frame sinking into the velvet with an easy, careless motion. One shoulder lifted in a loose shrug. His purple eyes glinted faintly, amused.
"They came to us on their own," he said lightly. "We didn't force anyone."
The marquess's lips pressed into a thin line. He exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Then send them to the royal warriors," he said, his tone tightening just a little.
"They would serve the kingdom far better there than polishing silver and folding linens."
His fingers pressed harder into the table.
"Think about the strength you're wasting."
Dean hadn't moved. His massive arms stayed crossed over his chest, his posture solid and unshaken. His brown eyes remained locked on the marquess, heavy and unmoving. When he spoke, his voice came out low and deep.
"Beral…"
The name alone felt heavy in the air.
"I might have overlooked other things," Dean continued slowly, each word deliberate.
"But you tried to take our children from us."
A faint shift passed through his expression. "And that… I will not forgive."
The marquess's eyes widened. For a split second, the calm mask cracked. Sweat formed along his hairline, sliding down his temple in a thin, cold line. His fingers tightened against the edge of the table, knuckles turning pale.
'Did those two get caught?' The thought hit fast and sharp. 'Damn those adventurers…'
Kumi shifted in his seat, leaning back even further as he crossed his thick arms over his chest. His expression carried a hint of disappointment now.
"Huh. You're telling him already?" he said, glancing sideways at Dean. His tone was almost bored.
"I thought we could have a little more fun first."
Dean turned his head slightly, meeting Kumi's gaze. A quiet, dangerous calm settled over him.
"What are you waiting for then, partner?"
Kumi's lips curved. A small, sharp smirk. He turned his attention back to the marquess, purple eyes narrowing just a fraction.
"You can tell your people hiding in the ceiling to come down now."
The marquess froze again. His breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he couldn't move.
'They knew…?!' His thoughts scrambled.
'Then… I don't have a choice.'
He sucked in a breath and shouted upward, the control in his voice breaking.
"Come down! Now!"
The ceiling exploded. Wood splintered apart with a deafening crack. Plaster burst into dust, raining down in thick clouds. Six dark figures dropped through the opening, cloaks snapping around them as they fell fast—blades already drawn, flashing in the light.
To Kumi—everything slowed. Dust hung in the air like frozen mist. Every movement stretched. Cloth rippled. Steel glinted.
A slow smile spread across his face. Then he vanished. One instant he was sitting. The next—he stood in mid-air between them.
Before their feet could even touch the ground. His fist moved. Once. Twice. Three times. Each strike landed with raw, crushing force. The sound of impact echoed sharp and heavy. The six figures jerked violently, their bodies snapping backward mid-fall.
They were thrown upward. Lifted clean off their descent. Sent crashing back toward the shattered ceiling in a tangled, broken arc.
Kumi dropped lightly onto the table, his boots making no sound against the polished wood. He glanced back over his shoulder at Dean.
"Take care of things here."
Then he bent his knees slightly—and leapt. Straight up. His figure shot through the hole in the ceiling and disappeared into the drifting dust.
The marquess's hand shot inside his coat, fingers scrambling as he pulled out a small glass bottle filled with thick red liquid. His movements were rushed, desperate. He brought it up toward his mouth, lips already parting.
He never got to drink it. Something cut through the air. Invisible and sharp. The bottle shattered in his hand.
Glass burst outward in a spray of red and glittering shards. The force tore across his face—skin splitting open along his cheeks, his lower jaw ripping apart in a jagged line. Blood sprayed across the table.
A piece of his tongue slipped free, severed clean, falling against his chin before dropping with a wet sound. Broken teeth followed, scattering across the polished wood.
A scream tore out of him. Wet. Broken. His hands flew up to his face, trying to hold it together, but blood poured through his fingers, soaking into his velvet coat almost instantly.
He staggered forward, knees buckling beneath him. His eyes bulged wide with panic as he tried to scream again—only a choking, bubbling sound came out.
Dean stood slowly. His chair creaked softly as his massive frame rose. Heavy footsteps echoed against the marble as he walked forward in unhurried phase.
He stopped in front of the marquess. Looked down. His expression didn't change.
"Do you know what is precious to everyone?" Dean's voice came out low, steady.
"Their life." A brief pause. Then—
"But do you know what is more precious to a man?"
His gaze didn't waver.
"His family."
Another cut sliced through the air. Clean. Precise. The marquess's hands jerked violently. All ten fingers fell away at once, severed at the knuckles. They hit the floor in a scattered pattern, blood following in sharp bursts.
Before he could even react—two more slashes crossed his face. Both eyes popped free, dangling by threads of nerve before falling to the table with wet plops.
Blind and broken. The marquess collapsed fully now, his body thrashing against the floor. High, animal sounds forced their way out of his ruined throat. Blood spread beneath him, dark and thick, pooling across the marble.
Dean reached down, with one hand he grabbed the marquess by the throat and lifted him easily, like lifting nothing at all. Blood dripped from the torn jaw onto his wrist. He didn't react.
"Nobles like you are the reason I will raise my son and daughter-in-law far away from corrupted politicians."
His voice stayed calm. "Too bad."
A small pause. "You couldn't do the right thing that might have let you return to your family."
He raised the marquess higher—then slammed him down. The impact cracked the marble. Once. Twice. Again. Each strike sent blood spraying outward, staining the banners, splattering across old portraits, painting the floor in thick red streaks.
By the fifth impact, the marquess's body went limp. Only small, weak twitches remained. Dean lifted him again. The body hung in his grip, broken, barely breathing, his face no longer recognizable as human.
Dean stared into the empty sockets. Cold. Unmoving. "Thank you for your service."
There was no warning. No sound. A clean hole opened in the marquess's chest. His heart burst free, suspended for a brief second in the air—beating once… twice—then it fell.
A soft, final thud and went still. Dean released his grip. The body dropped, hitting the floor in a wet heap.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then his gaze lifted toward the shattered ceiling above.
"Finish up fast, Kumi."