The spy knew something was wrong long before he admitted it to himself.
The forest at night was never quiet, but this silence felt arranged. His steps had slowed without him realizing it, his breathing careful, his hand never straying far from the dagger at his waist. He had followed Nev Nolen past the border with confidence at first. A noble boy wandering into monster territory was either foolish or desperate. Both ended the same way.
Yet the trail did not behave as expected.
Tracks appeared where they should not. Broken branches that felt too deliberate. Footprints that vanished and reappeared as if the person ahead wanted to be followed, but not too closely.
The spy frowned and adjusted his direction.
Then he stopped.
He did not recognize the clearing ahead.
That alone made his pulse quicken.
He turned slowly, trying to orient himself, but the landmarks no longer matched his memory. The trees felt closer together now. The moonlight thinner. The threads of sound he had relied on were gone, replaced by a heavy stillness that pressed against his ears.
He had not been careless.
And yet, he was lost.
A faint metallic scent reached him.
Blood.
The spy stepped forward cautiously, blade drawn. The clearing opened wider than expected, and that was when he saw it.
A body.
Or rather, what remained of one.
The creature's shape was unmistakable even in death. Smooth pale skin cracked and crumbling. Limbs too long, joints bent at wrong angles. No face to look back at him.
A Faceless.
Tier Two.
The spy's breath caught.
Then he noticed another.
And another.
Bodies lay scattered across the clearing, some collapsed against trees, others sunken into the soil. None showed signs of prolonged struggle. No heavy scorch marks. No explosive damage.
Clean kills.
Professional.
The spy's thoughts raced.
This was not the work of a lone novice. This was not chance. This was a hunt.
Torches flared at the edge of the clearing.
"Hold."
The command rang out sharp and disciplined.
The Soulbound guild emerged from the trees in formation, weapons raised, eyes scanning the carnage with practiced caution. Their leader stepped forward, gaze moving quickly from corpse to corpse.
"Twelve," he muttered. "All Faceless."
One of the hunters knelt, inspecting claw marks and cuts. "Cores missing."
A low murmur rippled through the group.
The leader's eyes lifted slowly and settled on the spy.
"Who are you," he asked coldly.
The spy raised his hands instinctively. "I am not your enemy."
"You are standing in our hunting ground," the leader replied. "Surrounded by Tier Two corpses."
The spy opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Anything he said now would sound like a lie.
Elsewhere in the forest, Nev wiped blood from his blade and slid it back into its sheath. His breathing was steady now. The pain in his body was dull, manageable. He opened the pouch at his side and counted silently.
Twelve cores.
Faceless cores were small, dense, and pulsed faintly even after removal. He wrapped them carefully, separating them with cloth. Each one represented not just power, but confirmation.
Patterns learned.
The first Faceless had nearly killed him. The second had injured him. By the fifth, he had stopped bleeding. By the twelfth, the monster barely touched him at all.
Nev had learned how they moved.
They struck from darkness but followed consistent angles. They tested reactions before committing. They circled before lunging. Once he understood this, he controlled the distance. He controlled the terrain. He forced them into predictable approaches.
The shard helped him see intent.
But it was preparation that kept him alive.
He moved through the forest without hurry now, deliberately stepping where he knew tracks would remain visible. He adjusted his path just enough to cross areas where guild patrols would pass. He allowed signs to overlap.
A lone hunter would leave a trail.
A guild would see an invasion.
Nev smiled faintly to himself as he turned back toward the city.
Behind him, misunderstanding grew roots.
Back at the clearing, the Soulbound leader listened to the spy's fragmented explanation with visible impatience.
"You followed a noble boy," the leader said. "And somehow stumbled into the aftermath of a massacre."
"I was tracking him," the spy insisted. "He was here. I swear it."
A hunter scoffed. "A noble boy does not kill twelve Faceless."
The leader's gaze sharpened. "Who do you work for."
The spy hesitated.
That was all the answer they needed.
Chains clicked shut around his wrists.
"We will ask again later," the leader said. "And you will answer more carefully."
Far from the forest, Nev slipped back into the city just before dawn. He entered the mansion quietly, avoiding guards and servants alike. In his room, he washed blood from his hands and arms, watching red spiral down the basin and disappear.
He sat on the edge of his bed and exhaled.
Everything had gone exactly as planned.
The guild would suspect rivals. The cult would suspect guild interference. Ryan would grow impatient. And Nev would remain unseen, unconnected, untouched.
He opened the pouch once more and felt the weight of the cores.
"Twelve," he murmured.
He leaned back and laughed softly, not from arrogance, but from relief.
In the quiet of the early morning, as the city slept and powerful groups prepared to clash, Nev closed his eyes.
The board was set.
And he had moved first.