The dripping from the ceiling continued, slow and steady, as if the sewers themselves were breathing. Ploc… ploc… ploc…. Each drop struck the black puddles on the ground, creating ripples that spread in perfect circles before fading away. The light from the two remaining gas lamps flickered slightly, casting long, distorted shadows across the damp bricks. The air was heavy, thick with humidity, mold, and that faint metallic scent that always lingered after a Beyonder gathering.
The figure in the blood-red cloak remained seated on the improvised platform, unmoving. His two guards, clad in black cloaks and iron masks, had not shifted even a millimeter. Only the man with the commission—the one who had spoken from the back of the chamber—stepped forward. His voice came out hoarse, yet firm, echoing against the curved walls of the old maintenance room:
"Take off your mask. I can't close a contract with someone whose face I haven't seen. Down here, strangers who hide their faces are usually the first to betray."
Matt remained completely still.
Beneath the black cloth of his mask, his eyes did not blink. His mind, cold and precise as always, processed the request in an instant.
No.
The word formed clearly and decisively in his mind. This is an assassination job. If he knows my face, he can blame me later. He can point me out to anyone, sell my name, or use it as leverage if things go wrong. I'm not giving away that kind of power for free.
Matt didn't move. He didn't speak. He simply tilted his head slightly to one side, a slow and deliberate gesture that said "no" without needing words.
The man watched him in silence for several seconds. The silence grew dense, almost tangible. Then, unhurried, the man raised both hands. First, he removed his dark brown hood, letting the yellowish light illuminate his face. Then, with a calm and steady motion, he took off his mask.
What was revealed was a man in his early thirties.
He wasn't strikingly handsome, but he was imposing. He had short, slightly wavy black hair, with a few premature gray strands at his temples that spoke of years lived intensely.
His face was angular: a strong jaw, defined cheekbones, and a straight nose marked by a small white scar across the bridge, as if a blade had passed dangerously close in the past. His eyes were a deep, calm gray, yet carried that heavy, fixed gaze found only in those who have seen too much and survived. His skin was pale, but weathered by the wind and fog of Backlund.
There was something in his posture, broad shoulders, the way his neck remained upright, that made it clear he was no ordinary dockside criminal.
He was someone experienced, someone whose spirituality had advanced enough to project a subtle, almost imperceptible, yet constant pressure. A mid-sequence Beyonder, without a doubt.
He did not give his name. He offered no explanations. He simply looked at Matt, letting his face speak for him.
Matt asked nothing. He didn't care why this man wanted a Sequence 7 Briber dead. Other people's motives had never been his concern.
After several seconds of silence, Matt slowly turned his head toward the blood-red cloaked figure.
The organizer, hidden behind his black iron mask, remained still for a moment longer. Then, with a deep voice distorted by metal, he spoke for the first time in the private meeting:
"Do you intend to reveal this man's identity after the job?"
The man in his thirties answered without hesitation, his voice clear and firm:
"No."
A single word. Nothing more.
In that moment, Matt felt something. It wasn't a verbal promise. It wasn't an oath. It was as if, in the space between the four of them, an invisible deal had been sealed. An agreement without ink or paper, yet as real as the roots he sometimes felt beneath his scar. The kind of pact that could only be made in places like this, beneath the Old Bridge, with the new moon as witness.
The blood-red cloaked organizer inclined his head once, very slowly, toward Matt. A clear acknowledgment. Silent approval.
Matt exhaled calmly. He raised his hands in slow, deliberate movements. First, he removed the new hood he had bought hours earlier. Then, with steady fingers, he took off the black cloth mask.
His face was exposed under the flickering lamplight: pale, young, with dark eyes and that cold, composed expression that never quite reached his lips. The withered-leaf scar on his chest pulsed once, softly.
The man in his thirties looked directly at him. His gray eyes, calm yet heavy, showed no urgency. He spoke in a low voice:
"What I said earlier about 'The Notary'… was false. All of it. That he called himself that, that he stole clients in the northern docks… all lies.
I put that out there so no one else would start asking questions in bars or stalls. If anyone came looking for information, they'd find nothing but empty rumors and leave empty-handed. I didn't want another idiot getting involved before the right time."
He paused briefly. The water kept dripping. The blood-red cloaked organizer remained still, like a statue of cloth and iron observing everything without interfering.
"But what is true," the man continued with the same measured calm, "is that the target is a Sequence 7 Briber of the Black Emperor Path. A Briber.
He can twist rules, bribe the very law itself, distort intentions and words until a contract says whatever he wants it to say.
He's no cheap notary. He works in a legal office complex in the Northern District, near the residential area where people with stable wealth live. People above the middle class, but still far below true nobility."
Matt listened without moving a muscle. His pale face showed neither surprise nor curiosity. Northern District… he thought with mild disdain. We're right beneath the Old Bridge, in the northern docks. The Tussock River divides the zones, but it's not far. A twenty-minute carriage ride, maybe less at night. Interesting.
The man continued, measuring every detail as if drafting a contract:
"He specializes in making the corrupt win and the innocent appear guilty. Most cases are settled before reaching trial.
He uses bribes, loopholes in Loen's laws, pressure on witnesses… leaving the innocent in ruin—debts, destroyed reputation, threatened families. And if a case does reach trial… the innocent rarely walk away unharmed. Most end up ruined, or worse."
Another pause. The dripping seemed to mark the rhythm of his words.
"He works for wealthy clients trying to enter high society. Merchants, factory owners, minor bankers… all with enough gold to pay, but no noble blood. He creates 'evidence', 'clean contracts', 'documents accepted by the law'. He opens doors that should remain closed."
The man looked at Matt for another second, as if gauging his reaction.
"That's where you'll find him. Not in the docks. In the Northern District. A three-story gray stone building with golden plaques at the entrance. He's usually alone at night, reviewing documents. His guards are low-level… but he—he's the real problem."
The organizer didn't move. Only the faint creak of fabric as he breathed could be heard. The second guard remained like a statue.
Matt thought for several seconds before nodding once, very slowly.
He looked directly into the man's gray eyes. His voice came out low, calm, without urgency:
"Give me the target's name."
The man didn't respond immediately. He remained still, likely weighing his words. When he spoke, his tone was as steady as before:
"I'll only give it to you if you accept the deal here and now. No half-answers. No 'I'll think about it.' You accept… or this conversation ends."
Matt felt that invisible weight settle again between the four of them. Not danger—something else. As if the air itself had thickened, as if an unseen contract had just been sealed in the space between their gazes. The withered-leaf scar on his chest pulsed once, softly, almost in approval.
This feels strange.
"I accept," Matt said simply.
The man nodded once.
"Reginald Thorne," he said clearly, letting the name hang in the damp air. "That is his true name. Reginald Thorne, Sequence 7 Briber of the Black Emperor Path. He works at the Harrington & Voss law firm in the Northern District, on the main street of the legal offices. That's where you'll find him."
Matt committed the name to memory.
The man stepped closer. His voice dropped even lower:
"One last request. When you kill him… don't just leave the body. Take his eyeballs. And his left hand. Bring them to me intact at the next new moon. That's part of the payment."
The dripping continued.
Matt showed no disgust. Not a twitch. Not a blink. His pale face remained exactly the same—calm, almost indifferent. He simply nodded once, slowly, accepting the condition as one accepts tomorrow's rain.
"Understood," he said calmly, though a fleeting thought crossed his mind.
Probably some kind of pervert.
He dismissed it immediately.
The man looked at him for a moment longer. Then he extended his right hand. Matt shook it without hesitation. The grip was firm, dry, without warmth.
"Then the deal is done," the man murmured.
The blood-red cloaked organizer inclined his head once toward both of them. A minimal gesture. Enough.
The dripping continued.
And in that underground chamber beneath the Old Bridge, the contract was fully sealed.
Reginald Thorne would die.
And his eyes… and his left hand…
would be the final price.