— A Debt of Blood —
"His name's Glenn," Arden said quietly over the phone.
"A gambling addict. A familiar name at the precinct."
Within seconds, a location pin and a compressed case file appeared on Eren's screen.
— Glenn, 45. Married. One daughter.
Former mid-level manager at a private firm. Stable income. Ordinary life.
Three years ago, gambling addiction.
Then the spiral—underground casinos, loan sharks, rolling interest.
Debts layered upon debts, until escape was no longer an option.
Eren closed the file and followed the location.
The apartment sat in an old residential block on the city's fringe—cracked concrete walls, rusted railings, windows filmed with grime. The iron security gate hung wide open, bent outward as if forced.
Before he reached the door, a savage roar tore through the corridor.
"Bitch! Where the hell is your husband? Tell him to crawl out and pay up!
If he doesn't show today, I swear I'll kill you!"
Eren's steps slowed.
Inside, the air was thick—fear, stale tobacco, sweat.
A spiky-haired thug stood in the center of the room, steel pipe dangling loosely from his grip, its weight obvious in the way his wrist flexed. Three or four others blocked the exits, their postures relaxed, practiced. This wasn't their first visit.
On the bed lay a woman—Lara, Glenn's wife. Her face was paper-white, lips trembling, breath shallow. Illness had already hollowed her out long before these men arrived.
"You've been here enough times," she said weakly, voice shaking.
"You know how it is with us... I have cancer. We really don't have the money.
Please... I beg you. Let me and my daughter go."
"Save the sob story," the thug spat.
"Paying debts is only right. If you can't cough it up today—"
His gaze slid, slow and deliberate, toward the girl standing rigid by the wall.
"—your daughter can work it off. Night after night. At the club."
He licked his lips, eyes crawling over her like hands.
Anthea—young, clean-featured, her terror unhidden. She shrank back instinctively, fingers clenched white at her sides.
Something shifted in the air.
The door creaked open.
"Harassing civilians in broad daylight?" Eren said calmly as he stepped inside.
"You're courting death.
He pulled Anthea behind him in one smooth motion, placing himself squarely between her and the men. His gaze was level, cold—utterly devoid of hesitation.
The spiky-haired thug startled, then sneered as recognition failed to form.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Got a death wish, punk? You know who I am? I'm with the Trinity Syndicate! If you—"
— The Trinity Syndicate.
An underground network built on casinos and loan-sharking.
Cruel. Greedy. Deep-rooted across the Novalis District.
A name spoken often in whispers—and rarely challenged openly.
The sentence never finished.
Eren moved.
"Thwack!"
The thug slammed into the wall, teeth spraying across the floor as the pipe clattered uselessly aside. Before the others could react, Eren's foot snapped out—once, twice—each strike precise and brutal. Bodies hit the ground in quick succession, groans filling the room.
"Leave," Eren said flatly.
"If you want to live."
Blood pooling in his mouth, fear finally breaking through his rage, the thug scrambled up with his men. They fled, stumbling through the doorway, not daring to look back.
"Thud—"
Lara collapsed to her knees, tears streaming freely now.
"Young man... thank you. You're a good person—truly." Her voice broke.
"But those men... they're Trinity Syndicate. They won't let this go. You must leave. Please—if possible—take my daughter with you. She's obedient, sensible... you can treat her as a servant if you must. Just don't leave her here..."
Eren knelt, lifting her gently back onto the bed.
"Mrs. Glenn," he said softly, firmly,
"A mere Trinity Syndicate is nothing to me."
He met her eyes.
"I'll resolve this."
For the first time in days, Lara felt the weight on her chest ease—just a little. Gratitude and disbelief warred in her expression as tears continued to fall.
"Thank you... I don't know how to repay you...
She tried to rise again, to bow, but Eren stopped her.
Some debts, he knew,
were never meant to be repaid with gratitude.
Only with blood.
---
— The Bentley Thread —
"Mrs. Glenn, that isn't necessary."
Eren's voice softened slightly as he stopped her, then steadied, turning serious.
"I didn't come here for gratitude. I came to ask something important."
Lara froze, fingers clutching the blanket.
"Ask... us?" Her eyes flickered with confusion and caution. "I don't even know who you are."
"That doesn't matter," Eren replied evenly.
"If you know anything—anything at all—it could save lives."
He paused, choosing his words carefully before continuing, voice low.
"Glenn... was your husband, correct?"
At the sound of the name, the warmth drained from Lara's face. Her jaw tightened, knuckles whitening as she gripped the sheets.
"Yes," she said through clenched teeth.
"That bastard owed a mountain of debt. Then he vanished—half a month ago."
Eren was silent for a beat.
"Mrs. Glenn," he said at last, blunt and unadorned,
"You need to prepare yourself. Glenn is dead."
The words landed without echo.
The room went eerily still.
No scream.
No sobbing collapse.
Instead, Lara let out a short, broken laugh—dry, bitter, hollow.
"So that's how it ends," she murmured.
"Well... at least he won't drag us into hell anymore."
Anthea lowered her head, fingers curling into her sleeves. Her shoulders trembled once—then stilled.
Eren exhaled softly. There was no comfort he could offer that would matter now.
"Before he disappeared," he continued, tone sharpening,
"did anyone come looking for him? Strangers. People who didn't belong."
Lara frowned, then turned slowly toward her daughter.
Anthea hesitated, lips parting as if weighing whether she should speak. Then she nodded faintly.
"Half a month ago," she said quietly,
"I saw Dad get into a car."
Eren's gaze snapped to her.
"What kind of car?"
"A Bentley."
The word dropped like a stone.
Eren's eyes narrowed.
"A Bentley," he repeated. "That's not something a man buried in gambling debt should ever touch."
He leaned in slightly.
"Do you remember the license plate?"
Anthea swallowed. Her fingers tightened around Eren's sleeve unconsciously, heat creeping up her cheeks as she searched her memory.
"I... I think I do," she said softly.
"It was... NA68688."
Eren straightened.
"NA68688," he repeated, slowly.
The numbers lodged themselves in his mind, threading together with everything else—Lucien Veyne, the fake corpse, the Bloodline Array, the Black Fog.
A luxury car.
A drowning gambler.
A corpse that didn't belong.
It felt like a single thread—thin, almost fragile—yet tugging at something vast, something buried deep beneath layers of deception.
A conspiracy large enough to require silence.
Large enough to require replacement bodies.
Suddenly—
Eren's phone rang.
The sharp vibration cut cleanly through the room's stillness.
He glanced at the screen.
Darius.
A bad feeling tightened his chest as he answered.
"Overlord—come quick!" Darius's voice burst through the line, strained and urgent.
"Someone's targeting Lyra!"
"What?!" Eren's expression hardened instantly.
"Even you can't handle it?!"
"O-Overlord..." Darius swallowed audibly.
"The other side... they're not ordinary."
Eren didn't hesitate.
"Send me the address," he said coldly.
"I'm on my way."
The call ended.
Eren slipped his phone away, eyes already distant—locked onto a battlefield no one else in the room could see yet.
The Bentley thread had tightened.
And somewhere along it,
someone had just made their move.