NOVEL NEXT 118- Guzman In Trouble
Volume 03, Chapter 118
Guzman In Trouble
The entire town of Eñeforte lies beneath a thick, heavy, and unnatural blanket of purple fog. The fog twists through the air like a living curse, curling around buildings, lampposts, and corpses littering the cobbled streets.
Hundreds of bodies lie still, their skin mottled in dark hues of violet and black, veins ruptured beneath poisoned flesh. The silence is absolute. Not even flies dare to buzz near the rot.
Guzman steps through it all, his coat swaying gently as his boots crunch through ash and bone. His plague mask hisses with every breath, filtering the air he has corrupted.
"The town is finished," he mutters beneath the mask. "Now it's time to find the corpses of Dominic Eñeforte… and Célestin Moreau."
His voice is devoid of urgency—cold, clinical.
"But why would a Moreau stay in the slums of the Golden Fields Region?" he muses aloud.
He continues forward until he reaches a modest house, barely two stories high. The paint is faded, the walls worn with time. In this region, it passes for a decent home. To Guzman, it is a shack.
"So this is where the Eñefortes live," he mutters. "Small. Nothing like the Lyons' chateau… pathetic, really."
With one swift kick, he shatters the front door. The wooden frame cracks inward, slamming against the wall with a sharp bang.
The interior is suffused with smoke. The walls are tinged purple. And there, just beyond the coffee table, lying motionless on the living room floor—
A woman.
Guzman approaches with the same detachment he gives to every other corpse.
The body has long black hair. Her limbs are sprawled at odd angles. Her skin has gone a sickly black-purple, the mark of his poison.
He uses his boot to roll her over.
Her eyes are open. Blue. Glassy. Lifeless.
"Celine," he says flatly. "André's wife. Dominic's mother."
For a moment, he pauses. Then he bends down, takes a folded blanket from a nearby armrest, and gently drapes it over her face.
Not out of respect, but out of pragmatism.
Dead eyes make some people uneasy. Guzman doesn't like the feeling.
He straightens up and wanders through the rest of the house, moving like a man cataloging a ruin.
He ascends the stairs slowly, his boots thudding on the creaking wood.
Each room he enters is sparse. Functional. Quiet. Until—
A single bedroom.
Smaller than the rest. Modest in size.
He steps inside.
A neatly made bed. A desk lined with gold medals. A framed photograph.
He lifts the photo off the shelf and stares at it.
A man, a woman, and a boy.
André. Celine. Dominic.
The frame trembles slightly in his hand before he sets it back down.
"This must be Dominic's room…" he mutters. His gaze sweeps the space. "But he's not here."
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A low hiss escapes from behind the mask. His brow furrows beneath the lenses.
"He's not here. And Célestin isn't either." He clenches his fist tightly, rage flickering behind his calm tone. "They were supposed to die here."
His voice drops into a growl. "Where are you, Dominic?"
He turns on his heel and returns downstairs, every step heavier than the last. He pauses at the front door, glancing at the home.
Guzman moves deeper into the town. Each breath through his plague mask hisses with effort, filtering out the poison he unleashed.
He combs through every structure with mechanical precision.
First, he passes through a bakery—its walls still warm from the now-dead oven. A body slumps over the counter, purple-streaked bread clutched in stiffened hands. He steps around it without a glance.
Next, a school. Empty desks. Open notebooks. Child-sized chairs were knocked over in a panic. He checks the nurse's room. The halls. The faculty office.
Nothing.
He makes his way through a tailor's shop, a clinic, a general store. Each one holds the same result—bodies. Smoke. Silence.
No Dominic. No Célestin.
"Where is he…" he mutters under his breath, frustration beginning to bleed into his usually detached tone.
He reaches into his coat and pulls out his Commlink, tapping the screen.
Static.
His fingers tighten slightly.
"Tch. I can't even contact Colleen. The smoke doesn't just poison…" he murmurs, narrowing his eyes at the faint hum of interference in the air. "It scrambles the mana frequency. No Magi-tech communication."
He slips the device back into his pocket with a sigh.
"It seems I have no choice but to exit the town and regroup…"
He takes a single step forward—then freezes. He feels something soft roll beneath his boot.
He looks down and sees a small red ball.
Scuffed. Weathered. The kind a child would chase through the street.
It looks… familiar.
Guzman bends slightly, picking it up with one gloved hand.
"…Is this… Jelena's?" His voice is quiet. Hesitant.
He turns his head and there she is.
A few meters away, lying face down in the smoke. Her body was small, still. Her short black hair is unmistakable.
He does not move. "Jelena…" he whispers.
The word sits uncomfortably in his mouth.
He stares at her for a long moment. His brows furrow slightly behind the mask.
'Why does this bother me?' he thinks.
He had only met her earlier. Barely exchanged more than a few sentences. She had smiled at him. Asked if he was a prince because of his looks. She had called him handsome.
The memory should not matter. But it scrapes at something inside him. Something he buried under orders and operations. Under duty.
A faint tremor runs through his gloved hand, still holding the ball.
'Why does this feel… wrong?' he asks himself.
He does not have an answer, and he does not want to.
He closes his fingers around the ball, then crushes it with deliberate force.
The rubber folds in on itself, splitting with a hollow pop.
"No," he mutters. "No distractions. Not now."
He tosses the ruined ball aside and turns sharply, cape snapping behind him.
'This is for La Peste Noire,' he reminds himself. 'This is survival. Sacrifices are necessary.'
Without looking back, he resumes his march through the fog.
His pace quickens. His eyes harden.
The guilt does not vanish.
But he knows how to bury it.
He has been doing it for years.
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Guzman keeps walking.
Each step through the haze grows lighter until, finally, the poison fog thins, and he emerges into open air. The sunlight returns, harsh and bright against the smoke curling at his back.
What greets him is unexpected, a sleek black limousine, its glossy frame polished to a mirror sheen. On the door gleams a familiar lion insignia, etched in gold.
Guzman's eyes narrow behind the lenses of his plague mask.
"…A Lyon family vehicle." His voice is low. Guarded.
But before he can process why it is there, he feels it.
A sudden, crushing weight in the atmosphere.
Mana.
Vast. Oppressive. Raw.
It is not refined or elegant; it is like a tidal wave crashing over him. For a moment, he cannot breathe.
Guzman staggers slightly, his boots skidding against the gravel. His instincts scream, warning him to run, to kneel, to submit, anything to survive the overwhelming pressure pressing down on his lungs and bones.
His breath comes in a rasp through the filters of his mask.
He forces himself upright, gritting his teeth beneath the metal.
Maintain control. Maintain composure.
But it takes every ounce of willpower.
Then, the limo door clicks open.
A boy steps out.
He is young, no older than sixteen, with short black hair, fair skin, and sharp blue eyes that burn like ice. He wears a plain white shirt, black shorts, and scuffed rubber shoes. His arms and legs are wrapped in bandages, his gait slightly stiff from recent wounds.
The limo pulls away behind him, tires whispering against the road.
Now they are alone.
The boy says nothing.
But his eyes, those eyes look at Guzman like he has already decided how the man will die.
Guzman tenses. "…Bloodlust," he murmurs.
It is not imagined. The Mana, that terrifying surge, is pouring from the boy. Thick. Heavy. Alive.
"Dominic…" Guzman mutters. "That's him. But he's supposed to be Manaless."
He takes a cautious step back.
"Unless…"
A horrifying possibility claws its way into his mind.
"No… The Manaficial procedure costs nearly a billion Camillums. There's no way André could afford that. Belard told me the Eñefortes were drowning in debt."
His voice falters.
"Then how… how the hell is this possible?"
He stares at the boy before him.
Dominic stands tall, despite the bandages and injuries. He radiates so much Mana that even seasoned magicians would hesitate.
It does not make sense and should not be possible.
But it is.
And now, Guzman knows one thing for certain.
This boy is dangerous and he is in serious trouble.