The moment Contact, an executive member of the Red Eye Gang, met Keter’s gaze, he immediately activated his trump card: a third eye opened on his forehead. The vividness and depth in its gaze made it clear this wasn’t fake or conjured by magic. Thɪs chapter is updated by 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝✶𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖✶𝕟𝕖𝕥 It wasn’t an ordinary eye either. Maran, the Eye Collector, had harvested countless eyes and implanted them into subordinates he found useful. The eye on Contact’s forehead was one of an illusionist. Just making eye contact with it was enough to trap an opponent in a powerful illusion. The henchmen on either side of Contact also opened their third eyes, though theirs weren’t special like his. They simply expanded the field of vision. Still, that alone boosted combat effectiveness. After all, more eyes meant seeing more. But unfortunately for them, Keter had fought Maran dozens of times. He saw through all of it. Not even worth firing an arrow. Keter stomped the ground and shouted, “Popo, it’s feeding time.” There was no need for Keter to lift a finger. “This intel wasn’t in the reports...!” All the Red Eye Gang were able to get in at their last moments was a single, futile cry of protest. It was impossible to dodge Popo. They were climbing a vertical tower, and they were overwhelmed by not a couple but hundreds of tentacles. Worse yet, the tentacles were not only fast but sticky. Just brushing against a sleeve was enough to latch on tight. The gang enveloped themselves in aura for protection, but Popo’s fluid was a corrosive acid that could even melt through aura. They flailed around, but it was like sinking into a swamp—the more they resisted, the faster they were dragged under. “Popo, don’t eat that one,” Keter said, pointing at Contact. The acid that was melting Contact instantly weakened. Though Popo couldn’t speak, he understood Keter perfectly and obeyed. The two other members who had followed Contact were digested without a trace. As for Contact, he was yanked out of the air and dropped before Keter, unable to move. Soaked in slime, half-naked, Contact trembled uncontrollably. He spat out Popo’s slime fluid. He couldn’t even lift his head. Contact was terrified that Keter was calmly waiting for him to finish coughing. He had seen too well what happened to those who became Keter’s enemies. Before coming here, he had seen those Keter ruined: they had mangled limbs, reduced to human insects, forced to crawl on the ground in misery until they finally met a gruesome end. I’m going to end up like them…? But with Keter, even suicide wasn’t going to work. If he tried to die, Keter was so insane that he would waste an expensive elixir just to bring them back. “I gave you ten seconds since you were a familiar face. Now, get up.” Contact immediately jumped to his feet. Keter asked, “Why are you here?” People would normally start with an explanation as to what the conversation was going to look like. Perhaps something like how Keter would turn him into an insect if he didn’t answer. However, Keter didn’t bother. He didn’t need to, as he assumed Contact already knew. Those who didn’t… Well, they were already insects or dead. “Treasure? What do you think this is, a dungeon...? Actually, that’s fair.” Does the place have treasure? Yes. Are there traps? Yes. Is there a guardian monster? Yes. Guess it is a dungeon. “Who put you up to it? Who told you robbing my office would be worth it?” The traces left by the intruders weren’t all the same. Different people had broken in. “Everyone in Liqueur knows the Solver’s office is loaded with treasures… People can’t help but want in.” “And how did you know I was gone?” At that, Contact gulped. So he really did leave Liqueur and came back. Now, Contact knew that the rumors about Keter vanishing from Liqueur were true. At first, no one really cared about Keter’s disappearance, as he had faked his death before, or disappeared as a joke. But this time was different. “Keter can leave Liqueur. He was gone for days, but he wasn’t hiding—he left.” That was the growing suspicion. Of course, no one believed it at first—Liqueur wasn’t a place where people could come and go as they pleased. However, the fact that he had made a bet with Cork, wagering the mercenary guild branch manager position, and that he disappeared again after the Red Comet raid, only deepened people’s suspicions. “I can’t seem to find Keter anywhere.” “No one in Liqueur’s underground has seen Keter either.”. “Can Keter really leave Liqueur?!” Then came the moment that turned suspicion into certainty. “The Godfather… has stepped away.” That was all Keter needed to know. He understood why Liqueur had gone to hell, and why everyone was so sure he was gone. The Godfather wasn’t just the center of Liqueur; he was also the shackles to it. Saying that he had “stepped away” was just a better way of saying that he had let go of Liqueur altogether. Otherwise, this chaos wouldn’t have happened. Or maybe this is all part of his plan, too. Trying to read the Godfather’s mind was a waste of time, so Keter didn’t dwell on it. “So when I didn’t show up in a Liqueur without the Godfather, you all naturally assumed I wasn’t in Liqueur at all.” “Hmm. That clears things up.” “What happens to me now?” Contact asked. “What do you want to happen?” “Is that all you’re offering?” Contact drew a dagger from his belt and, without hesitation, sliced off his own right wrist. “Ghh... Take this as a token of my apology.” He held out his severed hand like an offering. Keter slapped it aside in disgust. “What the hell am I supposed to do with your hand, you lunatic? If you want to live, offer something useful, like money or some juicy intel. Or is there someone out there looking to buy your wrist?” “Shut up. Hand over everything and get lost.” The cut was clean, so if treated quickly, Contact had a good chance at reattachment. In a panic, Contact surrendered all the money he had and gave Keter a concise summary of Liqueur’s current situation. Keter couldn’t hold back his excitement after hearing the rough overview of Liqueur’s current state from Contact. “So they’re fighting over territory, huh.” Liqueur was home to countless large and small factions, and right now, they were killing, stealing, and throwing everything into chaos just to expand their turf and become the next Godfather of Liqueur. Even when the Godfather was in control, fighting itself wasn’t forbidden. The only rule was that large-scale conflicts between factions had to be scheduled with a fixed time and place. Since that restriction was now gone, Liqueur had become a battlefield that never slept; fighting raged on twenty-four hours a day. Keter wanted to dive into that chaos and sweep through it himself. It was because they didn’t understand the value of the weak. “The strong only exist because the weak do. Why don’t these bastards get that?” Everything—from the clothes one wore to the food one ate—was made or gathered by someone. These people were weak, which was natural as they weren’t fighters who pursued power. They were people to protect; killing and stealing from them without restraint would only hurt the strong in the end. Even if one was killing or stealing from them, it had to be in moderation. Otherwise, who would farm, cook, or make clothes? “The balance between the strong and the weak is relative. If the weak vanish, a new group of the weak will appear among the strong, and eventually everyone will die.” The Godfather’s role was to suppress this malicious cycle, and this was why Keter had supported that mission in his own way. And even now, part of him hesitated. Should I step in and take the Godfather’s place to restore order in Liqueur? Liqueur was a stinking, filthy, petty, violent city—a rotten place without a single redeeming quality. However, it was still Keter’s hometown. He liked the outside world that had clear skies and his loving family, but Keter didn’t hate this rotten place. It was his home, the one he hated to love and loved to hate. It was a place he found himself wanting to return to someday. But I don’t want to abandon Sefira either… His hesitation didn’t last long, as a solution came to him almost immediately. “I don’t have to do everything myself.” Keter was irreplaceable in Sefira, but not Liqueur. There were plenty of capable people who could step in and take over. “After all, I am the branch manager of the mercenary guild here.” He would use the mercenaries to restore order to Liqueur; it was simple, effective, and clear. And with that, Keter left his office and headed toward where Dork was, and also where the spiritual pillar of the mercenaries stood: Joyray’s tavern. The surface of Liqueur was in far worse chaos than Keter had anticipated. Everywhere he looked, buildings were burning, corpses and blood littered the streets, and flies swarmed in clouds. The citizens of Liqueur roamed the streets with weapons in hand and a murderous look on their faces. It seemed like they would kill anyone who would dare to come near them. “That’s Keter, isn’t it?” Even the people of Liqueur, soaked in violence and oozing intense killing intent, couldn’t help but flinch at the sight of Keter. It was pure reflex, like dogs cowering before a dog catcher. And this wasn’t just any Keter, but one who had returned even stronger after the Sword of the South Tournament. The people of Liqueur, all of whom could handle aura to some degree, didn’t just feel it in their skin—they felt it in their very souls: Keter had become something monstrous. Taking in the chaos around him, Keter arrived at the entrance to Joyray’s tavern and stroked his chin. Corpses were piled up at the entrance, but these were different from the ones strewn across the streets. They had all been stabbed somewhere, whether it be the forehead, neck, or abdomen. Among the dead were even some wearing amantir armor, yet even they had been cleanly run through. “Anyone who steps inside gets killed on the spot, huh.” There wasn’t a warning written on the door, but to Keter, the message was clear. It was a warning shown not with words but with bodies. Of course, Keter wasn’t the type to be intimidated. He boldly pushed open the tavern door. And as if someone had been waiting for that exact moment, a flash of light burst from the back of the tavern, followed by flying daggers. But this wasn’t a straightforward throwing technique; it was the Flying Thunder Sword Technique, the base of Keter’s Limitless Archery and source of his idea for manipulating arrows. Joyray’s daggers flew through the air, aimed at Keter’s vital spots.