"Have you cleaned her up?"
The words hung heavily in the dimly lit, suffocating space of the empty cafe. They were not spoken with a sudden flare of anger, nor were they laced with the frantic, breathless panic of a normal man discovering a brutal murder.
They were delivered with the flat, bureaucratic boredom of a shift supervisor checking off a mundane daily task on a wooden ledger.
Before Devin could even begin to process the sheer, terrifying sociopathy of the question, Dunkan followed it up. The chef's gravelly voice dropped a fraction of an octave.
"Why didn't you call me?"
The air inside Marinakas suddenly felt as thick as cold syrup. The stoic, quiet chef standing before him, casually wiping his massive, calloused hands on a stained white towel, was entirely unbothered by the brutal maiming of a girl he had worked alongside for nearly a cycle.
Devin's heart hammered frantically against his ribs. The stolen Cyprian venom in his veins began pulsing in a sudden, aggressive, defensive rhythm. His muscles coiled tight.
From the icy depths of this horrifyingly calm interrogation, Devin suddenly recalled a fleeting, seemingly insignificant discussion he had shared with Fenrys.
It was years ago. They were in their first year at the United Educational Institute, the UEI, long before Devin's world had burned to the ground. They were hidden deep in the restricted section of the grand archives, the air heavy with the scent of old parchment and settling dust. Fenrys had a towering stack of banned tomes from the Mortipian historical vaults spread out before her.
She had looked up from a heavy, leather-bound book, her intelligent dark eyes wide in the flickering candlelight, and whispered a single word to him:
Watchers.
Fenrys was absolutely confident they existed. She had painstakingly theorized that Count Sapien's dark nation didn't just lock their abominations away in subterranean, venom-soaked dungeons. When a biological experiment was nearing completion, she fiercely argued, the venom-infused lab rats of Cypris were not kept in iron cages.
They were sent out into the world. They were seamlessly integrated into normal society to operate under the watchful eye of Cyprian handlers scattered across the Northern kingdoms.
Fenrys would often say that every single kingdom, every major city, and every prestigious institution in the North was secretly infiltrated by Cypris. She believed they were quietly mapping the North's weaknesses, testing their biological weapons in real-time environments, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Her and her wild conspiracies... or so it had seemed to Devin at the time. As an arrogant, sheltered prince, he used to laugh at her paranoia, playfully teasing her for reading far too many dark fantasy novels in the dark.
But looking at Dunkan now—the cold, calculating eyes, the lethal knife skills, the absolute, chilling lack of human empathy—the terrifying truth slammed into Devin like a warhammer.
She was right. Fenrys was knowledgeable far beyond her years.
Dunkan was a Watcher.
Absolutely nothing else would make sense. The chef was stationed here, in a cafe known locally to be a safe haven for sub-humans, not to serve roasted meats and bitter bean water, but to meticulously monitor Zain Ricky's exposure to the Holy Gene. Dunkan was the handler. He was the dark shadow officially assigned to watch the time bomb tick down until it finally detonated.
And last night, it had detonated on Emerald.
Devin knew he couldn't freeze. If Dunkan suspected for even a fraction of a second that the entity residing in Zain's mind was a horrified, resurrected Trangdar prince and not a cold-blooded Cyprian sleeper agent, the massive chef would gut him right there on the polished floorboards.
Devin had to play the part. He had to sink his royal soul deep into the venomous filth of this vessel and act like a monster.
He deliberately straightened his posture, forcefully suppressing the trembling in his hands. He smoothed his face into a rigid mask of arrogant indifference. He channeled the haughty, untouchable pride of the Trangdar royals and violently twisted it into the sociopathic detachment of a killer.
"I cleaned it up by myself," Devin said. His borrowed voice was steady, flat, and chillingly devoid of emotion. He met Dunkan's piercing gaze without blinking. "It was easy. Don't worry about it."
Dunkan stopped wiping his hands. He tossed the damp towel onto the wooden counter and took a slow, deliberate step toward the boy.
The physical intimidation was immense. Dunkan looked at Devin as if examining a piece of faulty, volatile machinery. His dark eyes scanned Zain's face, his neck, noting the coiled tension in his broad shoulders.
Suddenly, Dunkan reached out. His massive fingers gripped Devin's jaw with bruising, undeniable force. He tilted Devin's head toward the lantern light to inspect his pupils for the tell-tale, cloudy signs of venom sickness.
"How did it happen?" Dunkan asked, his tone purely analytical. "Did the proximity trigger the mutation? Were you conscious during the incident?"
The grip on his jaw was agonizing, threatening to pop the bone out of its socket, but Devin didn't wince.
"I wasn't," Devin told him, keeping his breathing shallow and expertly controlled. "I blacked out completely. I went to sleep, and the next thing I knew, the heavy scent of blood woke me up. The room was already... painted. The job was done."
Dunkan studied the dark eyes for what felt like an eternity, searching for the slightest micro-expression of a lie.
Finally, he released the jaw. He seemed satisfied with the clinical, detached accuracy of the description. He stepped back, crossing his massive arms over his broad chest.
"The Holy Gene exposure is actively accelerating the venom's integration," Dunkan deduced, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. "The girl was a sub-human. A weak one, yes, but more than enough to trigger your primal state. The fact that you completed the kill autonomously means the experiment is moving into its final phase."
Dunkan turned his back, walking slowly toward the swinging kitchen doors.
"You can't stay at Marinakas anymore," the handler stated flatly. "The local guard will eventually notice the girl is missing, and we cannot risk your exposure to the authorities. Not when you are this close."
"Close to what?" Devin asked, perfectly feigning Zain's supposed blind loyalty to the dark cause.
Dunkan paused, glancing over his heavy shoulder.
"Your primary objective Zain; You are instructed to report directly to Dr. Langstrum immediately."
Dr. Langstrum.
The name hit Devin's ears like a physical blow. It was a concussive shockwave that nearly brought him to his knees right there in the cafe.
Dr. Langstrum was not a myth. He was a highly decorated, universally respected, brilliant figure. He was the United Educational Institute's Head of Venom Research.
Devin's mind spun violently, desperately trying to comprehend the sheer, unadulterated audacity of Count Sapien's infiltration.
Why would the prestigious UEI have a Head of Venom Research? The institute was considered the absolute best in the North not solely because of its intense academic rigor, but because of its practical, life-saving contributors. They were the scientific backbone of the known world. They researched resilient crops to survive the brutal, freezing Northern winters. They pioneered advanced, miraculous medicine.
And crucially, they did extensive, heavily guarded research on Cyprian venom in order to synthesize antidotes and combat the dark nation's biological warfare. They received massive, continuous funding from every monarch in the Mortipia Federation specifically to protect the innocent from Count Sapien.
And it made perfect, sickening sense.
The man sitting comfortably at the very top of the anti-venom food chain—the brilliant mind entrusted with the survival of the Northern kingdoms—was a Cyprian handler.
No wonder no viable progress had ever been made since the department was founded. No wonder Trangdar soldiers always died screaming on the battlefield, their expensive antidotes failing them when they needed them most.
The department was entirely, systematically compromised. Dr. Langstrum was sabotaging the vital research from the inside out, burning millions of gold coins, and feeding the entire North false hope while diligently protecting Count Sapien's greatest weapons. The level of subterfuge was brilliantly, horrifyingly evil.
That was the man Devin was just told to meet. That was his new commanding officer in this twisted, stolen life.
As Dunkan disappeared through the swinging doors into the dark kitchen, leaving Devin entirely alone in the dim shadows of the cafe, a cold, terrifying clarity washed over the prince.
The quiet, hidden life of a simple barista was over. The universe was forcibly dragging him out of the shadows and placing him directly onto the grand, blood-soaked chessboard of the world.
God wanted entertainment. Count Sapien wanted a weapon. And his grandfather, Lotjed, wanted a survivor.
Devin looked down at his hands in the dim lantern light. The hands of Zain Ricky. The hands of a brutal murderer. The hands of a fallen prince.
His path was set in stone. To destroy the rot, he had to walk directly into the beating heart of it. He had to go back to the crucible of intellect and power. He had to face Fenrys, Ferran, and the lingering ghosts of his past while wearing the skin of their mortal enemy.
His journey was leading him right back to the UEI.