"Yes! Yes, damn it…! That thick-skulled Emperor acknowledged it! Do you hear me, Gid?"

Deep within a cavern’s bowels, in a remote chamber, several men were celebrating. One of them, however, was about to leave. He threw a black cloak over his shoulders and, as a parting shot, said, "Farewell… Though our friendship was short, I hope we never meet again."

"Unlikely… I’ll soon be the headmaster there, actually. Speaking of which, the teach… that fossil Gregory is about to break. Then I’ll have absolute power," replied the man with long blue hair.

"Yeah, yeah, off you go! You’re a professor there now… of Combat Magic, right? Ahahaha—what a riot. Found a legal way to beat up children?!" Sir Arthur bellowed.

"Perhaps… or perhaps you should shut up, Arthur," hissed the departing Señor Gid.

The air grew tense enough to snap.
The blue-haired man cut through the awkwardness. "Look, I hate parting on a sour note. Just tell me—how’s your hand? Has it taken well?"

Señor Gid glanced at his left arm fully bandaged and hidden beneath his clothes. He said nothing, merely nodded, and walked out.

"Cassetti, where did you dig up that sweetheart?" Arthur asked with smug amusement, downing another mug of liquor.

"Forget him. He’s no longer your concern. The fact that Tallem recognized it before the whole of the capital’s aristocracy—will play right into our hands. However, why in hell are you already drunk? You still have to meet ‘them’… Remember?" the turquoise-haired mage finished.

"R-right… Cassetti, do me a favor and go to hell," Arthur said, getting up from his chair.

He snatched a canteen from the floor, drained it in a gulp, and—seemingly sobered in an instant—stumped toward the exit.

Stepping out of the makeshift room, he took in the sight: in the vast cavern beyond, a grand revel was in full swing. Everyone who had taken part in the "Lavrelio run" was a member of their "organization." And of course, after good work comes good rest.

The sight couldn’t help but bring a smile to the knight’s face… a knight who was no longer so loyal to his country.

"And why do they get to party here, while I have to clean up someone else’s...." Arthur began, but out of the corner of his eye he noticed Cassetti watching him.

"Alright… I’m going."

Midnight.

A small group in black cloaks approached the narrow entrance to the catacombs beneath the mountain.

Someone was already waiting for them at the threshold…

"Oh… Sir Arthur, what a surprise. You came to meet us?" the nearest one drawled in an unpleasant voice.

Arthur said nothing. Not that he wasn’t plotting anything no, it was simply that these men irritated him to the absolute limit. 

…And yes, of course he was plotting something.

As they drew together, Arthur looked into the face of the man at the front. From under the hood peered an old face, scar running from brow to jaw.

"Drop the disguise, idiot." Arthur growled at whom? At Tyr? No. It had been clear from the start: they’d killed Tyr and then sent a spy who used illusion magic.

"Heh… Oh, come on. You should’ve seen that kid’s face. Right before he died in the water, it seemed like he wanted me to die laughing…"

Arthur sighed heavily, then pointed toward the catacombs’ exit. "We’re going elsewhere."

Ten minutes later…

Arthur and the small group entered another set of catacombs that led deep underground.

At last they emerged into a vast cavern, half of it taken up by a subterranean lake. The water was… strange: a swampy green, with thin threads of steam curling up from it.

"Odd place. Was there something you wanted to show us?" one of them asked. The four of them edged past Arthur and walked to the brink; one more step, and they would have toppled off the narrow ledge.

Something about the place grated on them—or perhaps they were just in a foul mood. "Is that acid?" one asked.

There was no answer. Instead, Arthur shrugged off his cloak; steel flashed, and with a lazy sweep he took the head off the nearest man.

He kicked the body; it tumbled into the acid with a bubbling gulp. Seconds later there was no sign of body or head. The lake had devoured everything.

"What the hell, Arthur?!" roared the one pretending to be Tyr.

The two remaining killers—apart from the one using disguise magic—bared their blades.

With the scream of rending metal, their swords—and their bodies—split in two and whistled down into the acid.

"Bastard!!!" the last one shouted.

He whipped a wand from beneath his cloak and cried out a spell.
An explosion shook the cavern walls. Out of the black cloud of dust shot Arthur; he slammed a boot into the man at full speed. The last of the killers flew twenty meters and smashed into the wall, throwing up another plume.

Arthur walked toward him, unhurried. The dust thinned; a wounded silhouette emerged. The man was covered in blood, pinned beneath broken rock so firmly he couldn’t move. But he still gripped his wand… 

Which meant...

"Flame!"

A roaring torrent of fire hammered into Arthur. It looked like that was it finished. But then a sharp click echoed through the cavern, like the turning of a wheel.

All the fire vanished, leaving only a faint curl of smoke. In its epicenter stood Arthur, untouched.

"What?! How—how was the spell canceled?"

"Haha… Don’t make me laugh. I just got lucky."

And soon the last of the killers was tossed into the lake.

Spattered in others’ blood, drunk on his own sense of justice, humming some tune, Arthur sauntered away from the churning green water.