Fire Mage

Runeth exchanged a glance with Rhea and nodded. "Yes. Are they here?"

"Indeed. Ten members arrived yesterday and are staying in rooms on the third floor—317 to 327. Shall I notify them of your arrival?"

"Do so," Runeth said. "And tell them to meet in the common hall after sunset."

The receptionist made a mark in the ledger with a flick of his quill. "Understood."

With that, the trio took their room keys and went upstairs. The hallways of the inn were quiet. Sconces lit with soft blue flames lit the path as they reached the east wing.

Rhea paused before her door, Room 214, and glanced at the others.

"I'll rest for a bit. Wake me if something urgent comes up."

"I'll go out after refreshing," Edith said, turning toward Room 216.

Runeth said as he pushed open his door. "Don't get into trouble."

The three entered their rooms, doors clicking shut in sequence.

…

After entering her room, Edith didn't waste time. She filled the wooden tub with warm water and stepped in, letting the grime of travel and tension wash off her skin. Steam curled around her as she closed her eyes, breathing slowly and steadily.

Fifteen minutes later, she stepped out, dried herself, and changed into a plain linen shirt and rough gray pants. She tied her hair into a low braid and left the inn through the back entrance.

Instead of a fancy carriage, she picked an ordinary one with no crest, no decorations. The driver didn't ask questions. When she told him the destination—the slum borough—he just gave her a strange look and flicked the reins.

She quietly looked outside through the window and fell into deep thought.

'What we lack now is information… Then, I need money to buy some artifacts for myself.' Unlike Charles, Edith had no artifact in her.

But buying artifacts needed a lot of money.

'I'll think about it after taking over the Slum Borough.'

They arrived half an hour later. The buildings here were broken, and the air was heavy with smoke and rot. Dogs barked in the distance. The streets were narrow, with alleys darker than a moonless night.

Edith stepped down without a word and walked in. Her boots made soft taps on the stone as she entered one of the back lanes.

A few men leaned against the walls, their eyes narrowing as they saw her: dirty coats, crooked teeth, the stink of drink and blood.

One of them whistled.

"Lost, pretty girl?"

Another chuckled. "Want some company?"

She ignored them and kept walking.

A bald man with a rough face stepped forward, blocking her path. His eyes dropped to her chest, then her waist, moving like grease. He grinned widely, showing yellow teeth, and reached out.

Edith caught his hand mid-air.

Crack!

The bones in his wrist snapped with a loud crunch. He howled in pain and dropped to the ground.

"Wha—kill her!" one of the others shouted.

Three thugs rushed at her with blades.

Edith moved without a word. She stepped to the side, snatched the dagger from the first thug's hand as he lunged, then spun.

Steel flashed.

Blood sprayed.

The man dropped with a long cut across his throat.

Before the other two could react, Edith dashed forward. Her movements were like a blur. In one heartbeat, she was in front of them.

She slashed one across the chest, turned, and sliced the other clean across the neck. Both dropped before they could scream.

Silence.

The alley, just seconds ago full of noise and breath, was quiet again.

The bald man was still alive, crawling back with one hand, eyes wide with terror. His mouth trembled as Edith approached.

She squatted in front of him, calm as still water, and gently placed the bloodstained dagger on his chest.

"I'm looking for the leader of this street," she said coldly. "Name. And location."

In truth, Slum Borough always had few leaders. They were the ones who maintained law and order in this Borough and paid some amount to the Churches to disregard the crimes they committed.

Edith didn't care much about the crimes they did. What she needed was manpower to gather information. The best way would be to train children for years and turn them into spies before sending them all over the city to work in different sections.

Unfortunately, she didn't have enough time to form a new organization.

So, she thought of controlling the back streets.

The man gasped, blinking through the pain. "T-Targa… Boss Targa! He's in the south quarters… in the old smokehouse… by the burned warehouse…"

Edith stared at him for a second longer, then nodded.

"Thank you."

She pressed the dagger into his chest. Slowly. Deeply.

The man let out a choked gasp, eyes wide as life slipped away. She stood up before his body hit the ground.

Without turning back, Edith raised two fingers to her lips and let out a soft, sharp whistle.

A sound like a bird's call echoed through the alley.

Then she walked deeper into the slums, toward the smokehouse—and Targa.

The old smokehouse stood like a scar on the southern edge of the slums, its roof patched with rusted tin and moldy wood. The faint scent of charred meat, stale smoke, and sweat hung in the air. Cracked glass windows glowed faintly from the lanterns inside.

Edith stopped in front of the entrance. Two ruffian men leaned against the walls—bare-chested, tattoos sprawled across their skin, both smoking something foul from rolled-up paper. The moment they saw her, their faces lit up with interest.

"Well, well," one of them said with a grin. "Who do we have here?"

"New girl?" the other chuckled, eyeing her up and down. "You lost, sweetheart? How much for a night?"

Edith didn't respond. Her eyes were like cold stone.

"I said," the first man stepped forward, his grin twisting nastily, "how much?"

She looked at him with quiet irritation. "Bring me to your leader."

The second man scoffed. "Tough one, huh? Think you got choices?"

The first one's grin turned into a snarl. "Bitch—"

He raised his hand to slap her.

But he never finished.

There was no flash, no shout, no warning.

Just a clean, quick slice—and a spray of red painted the air.

The man staggered back, clutching his throat. He gurgled, his eyes wide in disbelief, and collapsed.

The other man's eyes bulged. "S-shit—!"

He turned, reaching to shout, to run, to warn.

Too slow.

Edith stepped in, grabbed the back of his neck, and drove the dagger up under his jaw. The blade disappeared into his throat. His voice died with him. His body slumped in her hands.

She let him fall.

The sound inside the smokehouse never changed. Laughter. The rattle of dice. Moans of women. No one heard.

Edith pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit. The air was thick with the stink of alcohol, smoke, and cheap perfume. A round table sat in the middle where five men played cards, their voices loud and slurred. Three naked women danced around them, pouring drinks and laughing.

In the far back, on a torn bed against the wall, a bearded man lay with a young woman straddling him, their bodies half-covered by a tattered sheet. His clothes lay scattered beside him, a thick gold chain glinting on his neck.

None of them noticed her right away.

Edith didn't speak.

She moved.

The nearest man didn't even get to look up before her dagger carved through his throat. Blood sprayed across the cards. The others blinked, confused—was it part of the game?

She grabbed a bottle from the table and smashed it into the second man's skull. He collapsed without even making a noise.

The third jumped up, but she kicked the chair under him, sending him crashing down. Her dagger found his chest before he hit the floor.

The fourth man tried to draw a blade. Edith didn't give him time. She flipped the table, knocking him back, then threw her dagger.

It sank deep into his eye.

The last one—young, tattooed—scrambled back, slipping on the blood.

He screamed.

Edith picked up a second dagger from a dead man's belt and hurled it.

It struck his chest, just beside the heart.

He gasped once, then slumped.

The women shrieked and backed into corners, shaking and clutching whatever cloth they could find. Edith ignored them.

The bearded man on the bed—Targa—had frozen. The woman on top of him scrambled away in terror. Targa's eyes were wide, sweat pouring down his brow.

"You…" he whispered, too stunned to move. "What… what the hell are you?"

Edith stepped closer, blood dripping from her boots. Her face was blank, her hands steady.

"I'm here to take over this place."

Targa reached for something under the bed—a knife, anything.

She was faster.

In one motion, Edith flung a small hidden blade. It struck his hand, pinning it to the bedpost.

Targa screamed.

She walked up slowly, pulled her original dagger from a corpse, and placed it against his neck.

"Let's talk," she said softly.

At the same time, an oppressive aura came out of the young woman and dominated his mind.

It was the [Overlord of Domination] spell.

A chill went up Targa's spine.

For a moment, he felt an irresistible fear and horror as if death was looming over his head.

"W-What do you want?" Even though he was a Rank-3 Mystic, he felt his legs and hands shivering.

'She's much stronger!'

A smile crept onto Edith's face.

At the same time, she cast the [Curse of the Overlord] spell on Targa and spoke.

"Simple. I want you to take over the Slum Borough before tonight. Of course, I'll help you subjugate the strong foes."

It wasn't a statement but an absolute order!

That was how Targa felt in his mind.

"Y-Yes, Ma'am!" He stiffly nodded.

"Gather your men." She ordered.

"My men?" Targa looked at the corpses of his men and spoke in a stutter.

"T-They are already d-dead, Ma'am!"

Edith couldn't help but chuckle.

"I know you have more men than these few." She turned her gaze towards the young woman with blonde hair and ordered.

"Go call his men. If they aren't here in an hour, I'll kill him."

The blonde-haired young woman was terrified by her words and hurriedly ran outside while nodding.

Meanwhile, Edith turned her gaze towards Targa and asked.

"How many Gang Leaders are there in the slum?"