The mouth of the alley was deep and dim. The stench of rot mixed with despair, thickening into a filth that felt almost visible in the air.
"So this is the place?" Voss frowned, scanning the tangled, maze-like lanes with open disgust.
Inside were abandoned stalls, long since emptied. Only a few people remained—starved to the brink of death—slumped where they lay like hollow shells, reeking of decay.
"Damn it. Sewer rats love holes like this," he muttered, covering his nose and mouth, though the smell still seeped through.
"Vice-Captain," one of his sharp-eyed subordinates stepped forward, tactfully choosing a more respectful title, "this place is filthy. Perhaps you could wait here while we search inside?"
"No need." Voss raised a hand, stopping him, his gaze sharp. "This was ordered personally by Viscount Goldrich. I'll handle it myself."
He formed a hand seal. A strand of murky black spiritual power seeped out, forming a thin veil before him that filtered the polluted air.
He approached the nearest collapsed figure and nudged the man's leg lightly with his iron-tipped boot.
"Hey. Can you hear me?" His voice, filtered through the veil, sounded dull and distorted. "Vice-Captain of the Enforcement Hall of Bitter Sea Sect. Answer truthfully."
The man barely lifted his eyelids. His cloudy eyes drifted over Voss's luxurious robe before closing again, his throat rattling with phlegm.
To someone on the verge of starvation, sects and titles meant nothing—far less real than the cold stone beneath him.
"Looking to die?" A flash of irritation crossed Voss's eyes. His blade slid half an inch from its sheath with a metallic clang, cold light reflecting off the man's filthy face.
The man didn't even blink.
Voss stared for two seconds, then suddenly chuckled and sheathed the blade again.
"Forget it. No point arguing with mud."
A faint glow flickered from his storage ring. A small sack of coarse but real grain dropped beside the man's face with a dull thud.
That tiny sound struck like thunder.
The man's head snapped toward it. His lifeless eyes ignited with savage light, a beastlike whimper escaping his throat.
"Answer my question," Voss said calmly, stepping on the edge of the sack. "Answer, and it's yours. Understand?"
The filthy head nodded frantically.
"Recently, have you seen a black-market dealer named Vile? Sells all kinds of strange, shady goods—crow feathers, snake scales, that sort. Always in a black robe, sneaky-looking."
The man racked his brain, but ultimately shook his head in confusion.
"Then… a redwood box?" Voss gestured roughly with his hands. "About this long. Big enough to hold a finger."
Another shake of the head. Saliva now dripped uncontrollably from the man's mouth, his gaze glued to the grain sack.
Voss's patience wore thin.
He leaned closer, voice lowering. "Last question. Have you seen… a severed finger? A special-looking one. Think carefully."
"A… finger?" the man repeated blankly, then shook his head in despair. "No… no. I've answered… can I have the grain…?"
"The grain?" Voss suddenly pressed down hard with his foot, grinding the sack into the filthy ground. The last trace of calm on his face vanished. "You didn't answer a damn thing and still want food? Weren't you bold enough to ignore me just now?!"
Before the words finished, he kicked hard into the man's ribs.
The frail body flew like a rag doll, slamming into the wall with a sickening thud.
"Trash! Vermin! You think you can play games with me?!" Voss advanced step by step, releasing the full pressure of his Baron-level cultivation. The already thin air seemed to solidify.
He stopped before the broken figure, gathered spiritual power at his foot—and stomped down.
Pop.
A short, wet sound—like a watermelon bursting.
Wrapped in pure spiritual power, his boot remained spotless. Only a red-and-white splatter bloomed across the ground.
Voss withdrew his foot, expression unchanged, as if he had merely crushed an insect.
He turned toward the next corner, eyes falling on another trembling figure.
"Next."
One dull, brutal burst followed another through the alley, like overripe melons exploding.
Until he stopped before a small figure curled behind a broken basket.
"I… I think I've seen that black-robed merchant…" the person whispered, voice trembling.
Voss halted. A sharp glint flashed in his eyes.
"Oh? Where did he go?"
"N-not sure… he didn't sell much… seemed disappointed… went toward the west side of town…"
"Wait." Voss cut him off, then quickly forced a smile onto his face. It looked twisted behind the spiritual veil. "You said he sold something? What did he sell?"
"I-it looked like… a redwood box…"
"What kind of box?!" Voss's voice rose sharply, then dropped again. "About this long? Just enough to hold a finger?"
"Yes! Yes, about that size!"
"And the buyer? What did they look like?!" Voss leaned forward eagerly.
"Clothes… clean… not like us…" the person tried to recall, but only vague impressions remained. His eyes drifted back to the grain. "Th-the grain…"
"You'll get it." This time, Voss was unusually generous, even placing the sack into the man's shaking hands himself. "I always keep my word."
A short while later, Voss walked out of the alley.
His dark-blue robe remained immaculate, his steps calm and steady.
Yet somehow, the grain sack that had been given away had returned to his hand—its corner now stained with fresh, sticky blood.
"Hmm. I gave it to you, and you really thought it was yours? I never said I wouldn't take it back." He tossed it casually to a trusted subordinate waiting at the entrance. "It's yours."
His voice turned cold.
"Remember this. Not a single word about what we asked here leaves this place. No one learns what we're looking for. Understood?"
He paused, then drew a finger lightly across his throat—a graceful gesture with a chilling meaning.
The subordinate bowed stiffly and gripped his weapon before disappearing back into the blood-soaked alley.
Voss remained at the entrance, staring toward the western part of town. His fingers absently rubbed the storage ring.
Clean clothes… not a beggar…
The search had narrowed—from a sea of unknowns to the "non-poor."
Cultivators. Merchants. Townsfolk with some means.
"Still too many possibilities…" he muttered softly. "Looks like I'll have to find that merchant."