Chapter 119: Special Alchemy Commision
Valtheim Kingdom - Capital City.
The alchemy shop smelled of dried herbs and simmering remedies, its shelves lined with vials of emerald greens and ruby reds. Behind the counter, a handsome red-haired man lounged with his boots propped up, idly flipping through an old ledger.
His customers—a pair of Resonators fresh from an Echo Realm dive—had just left with their healing pills, the bell above the door jingling in their wake.
Then—
Tremble.
The ring on his left hand shivered, its silver band vibrating like a struck chord.
The man’s relaxed demeanor vanished.
In one fluid motion, he snapped the ledger shut, swept behind the counter, and slipped into the backroom. His fingers danced across the wall—tapping hidden mechanisms, disengaging locks—until a section of the floor slid open, revealing a staircase descending into darkness.
The air grew colder as he climbed down.
At the bottom, a single crystal orb sat on a stone pedestal, its surface dull and lifeless. The man took a seat before it, exhaled, and pressed his palm against the glass and injected aura.
Flicker.
Light erupted from the orb, coalescing into a holographic figure—a silhouette visible only from the waist up, their face shrouded in impenetrable shadow.
The red-haired man bowed low, his voice uncharacteristically tight.
"Apologies for the delay, Esteemed Warden."
Silence.
Then—
Two violet eyes ignited in the darkness, their glow casting eerie highlights across the room. They fixed on him, unblinking, like twin deadly stars in a void.
"Report."
The voice was genderless, toneless—a blade wrapped in velvet.
The red-haired man straightened, clearing his throat. "The branch’s operations are proceeding smoothly. Our ’alchemical commisions’ have increased by twelve percent this quarter, and the new recruits—"
"Enough."
The Warden’s voice sliced through his report like a scalpel through flesh. Those violet eyes burned brighter, the shadows around the figure seeming to pulse with restrained energy.
"I am talking about ’the other’ matter." Each word dripped with icy precision. "Why is there no news of it yet?"
A bead of sweat traced down the man’s temple. His fingers twitched at his sides, the ring on his left hand now ice-cold against his skin.
"I-it’s being handled, Esteemed Warden," he managed, throat tight. "You don’t have to worry about it. I sent one of our best—meticulous, tricky with ’potions’. They should have finished the commission brilliantly by now. I’ll have confirmation soon—"
"No need."
The orb’s light flickered violently, casting jagged shadows across the walls.
"The one you sent is already dead."
The red-haired man’s breath caught. His lips parted—to protest, to question how the Warden could possibly know—but instinct clamped his jaw shut. The weight of those violet eyes pressed down on him, a silent warning.
One wrong word, and you join your failed operative.
The shadows deepened as the Warden spoke again:
"Go settle it yourself."
A final decree, absolute as a headsman’s axe.
"This will be your last chance. I will not tolerate another failure."
The man bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the floor. "Y-yes, of course. Your words are my command."
For three heartbeats, there was only silence and the oppressive chill of the chamber.
Then—
"Succeed..." The Warden’s voice softened, a razor wrapped in silk. "...and you will be promoted to..."
The violet eyes vanished.
The orb went dark.
Left kneeling in the sudden blackness, the red-haired man didn’t move until his trembling stopped. When he finally climbed the stairs, his shopkeeper’s smile was already back in place—but his hands, as he locked the hidden passage, were steady as a surgeon’s.
Time to hunt.
The red-haired man emerged from the hidden stairway, the floor panel sliding shut with a muted click behind him. With a long breath, he exhaled the cold of the underground chamber, rolling his shoulders as if shedding the Warden’s lingering presence. The shop’s familiar warmth and scent welcomed him like an old friend—herbs, dried lotus root, and the faintest tang of spirit vinegar.
He slipped behind the counter to pick up the keys, and just then, the bell above the door chimed again.
Strange.
He hadn’t heard footsteps.
His eyes turned to the entrance—and for a heartbeat, he paused.
"!"
Framed in the doorway was a figure wrapped in layers of elegant robes from the Eastern Isles, their flowing fabric stitched with subtle silvers and forest-green silks. The hood of her mantle was drawn up, and beneath it, a sheer veil draped over the lower half of her face. But her eyes—cold, glacial, and utterly still—met his gaze like two perfectly honed needles.
Long, dark emerald hair spilled past her shoulders like ink brushed across moonlit paper. Graceful, composed, and deathly quiet.
For a single moment, the red-haired man forgot his lines.
He cleared his throat, a corner of his mouth tilting into a well-practiced grin. "My apologies, lovely guest, but the shop is—"
He stopped.
His gaze lingered, just long enough to take in the curve of her silhouette beneath her robes, the delicate posture, the way moonlight touched the edge of her veil. He couldn’t see her full face—but some women didn’t need a full face. Those eyes, that voice waiting to be heard, and that body?
Even behind a veil, she might as well have walked straight out of a highborn courtesan’s dream.
His thoughts curved with a quiet, lecherous amusement.
A beauty before a mission, eh?
Smiling now—elegantly, with just the right amount of charm—he stepped out from behind the counter.
"—closed, but for you? I’ll make an exception." He gestured grandly. "Whatever you need, it’s yours. Free of charge, if you’ll grace me with your company over dinner."
For the briefest second, her gaze sharpened.
A flicker—like the faintest glint of a blade catching sunlight.
He didn’t notice it since he was too busy playing the gentleman.
The woman stepped forward with measured grace, the soft sound of her boots against wood as silent as falling petals.
"No need."
Her voice was winter given sound—cold, enthralling, the kind that made men lean closer even as their instincts screamed to run.
"I’m here for a ’special alchemy commission.’"
Click.
The words slid into place like a key turning a lock.
Special alchemy commission.
It was the passcode.
However, he didn’t let his grin falter, though something in his eyes sharpened. "In that case," he said smoothly, pushing off the counter, "please follow me."