Chapter 64: Too Small, Too Local

The voice was entirely different from Lord Miguel’s fanatical, screeching tone. It was smooth, steady, and completely absent of panic.

The man turned around slowly to face me.

He did not look like a cultist at all. He was not wearing dark robes, copper amulets, or iron armor.

Instead, he wore a sharp, tailored black three-piece suit made of high-quality wool, complete with a dark tie and polished leather shoes that did not have a single speck of sewer dirt on them.

His entire face and head were wrapped tightly in layers of smooth, dark cloth, leaving only two calm, dark gray eyes visible through thin slits.

In his right hand, he held a sleek silver pocket watch. He pressed the top button, closing the silver lid with a quiet click, before sliding it smoothly into his vest pocket.

"You took four minutes and twenty seconds to clear the hallway," the man in the black suit said, his voice flat and professional. "That is fifty seconds faster than I estimated. A very impressive performance for a commoner child from the Commercial District."

"I like to be punctual," I replied, taking a small step forward before stopping. "And I hate keeping people waiting when they put so much effort into an audience."

"Punctuality is a rare virtue these days," the man agreed smoothly, resting his hands behind his back. "Though I must admit, your speed caught poor Miguel completely off guard. He was under the impression that his dark constructs and heavy speeches would buy him at least ten minutes."

"Miguel spent more time boasting about his dark god than actually maintaining his stance," I said, keeping my hands near my belt. "He was noisy, reckless, and sloppy with his energy."

"A very accurate assessment," the man murmured behind his dark cloth mask. "Miguel always did have a terrible habit of grandstanding. He believed that shouting loud incantations made his magic stronger. He never quite understood that real power does not need an audience."

"If you knew he was sloppy, why did you let him lead the guards?" I asked.

"Because noisy people make excellent lightning rods," he answered calmly. "While the royal knights and curious locksmiths focus on the man screaming in the front room, the quiet people in the back get their work done without interruption."

"Work?" I tilted my head slightly. "Is that what you call burning documents and dumping toxic mana into the gutters?"

"We call it clearing the balance sheet," the man said smoothly. "When a location loses its strategic utility, maintaining it becomes an unnecessary expense."

I kept my distance, stopping about five meters away from him. My Locksmith’s Eye was still active, scanning his body from top to bottom.

What I saw made my eyebrows furrow.

Unlike Miguel, whose mana pathways were screaming with chaotic, violent black threads, this man’s energy was dead silent. His internal mana pathways were so neatly compressed and controlled that he barely emitted any ambient heat.

He was not using the dark threads to enhance his body. He was using them as a refined tool.

He is a very strong and dangerous man.

"You knew I was coming," I said, keeping my tone relaxed.

"Of course," the man replied, adjusting the silk cuffs of his black suit jacket. "The moment the underground coffin seal went dark weeks ago, we knew the local authorities had found a keyhole. We did not expect the keyhole to belong to an eight-year-old boy, but adaptability is the core foundation of good profitable business."

"You talk a lot about business for someone standing in an underground cult hideout," I noted, watching his dark gray eyes closely. "Most people wearing suits do not hang out in damp stone chambers next to broken magic tanks."

"A good business manager goes wherever the assets are," he replied smoothly. "Suit or no suit, productivity requires direct oversight. Though I will admit, the humidity in these sewer tunnels is quite terrible for fine wool."

"You could have stayed home," I said. "It would have saved you a trip."

"And miss the opportunity to evaluate local talent?" The man chuckled quietly, the sound muffled beneath his face wrapping. "That would be a terrible waste of market research."

"Profitable business?" I tilted my head slightly. "So you admit this whole operation isn’t about some weird religious cult?"

The man let out a short, quiet chuckle behind his cloth mask. "Religion is for fools like Miguel. They need promises of divine awakening to sacrifice their lives for a cause. We simply provide the tools and collect the profit."

"So Miguel was just a client to you?" I asked.

"Miguel was a local contractor," the man corrected, waving his gloved hand dismissively. "He brought enthusiasm and local connections to the table. Unfortunately, he lacked the intellectual capacity for long-term planning. He thought he was building an empire for his god, when in reality he was just executing a trial run for our inventory."

"That is a pretty cold way to treat your own partner," I remarked.

"Partnership implies equal footing," the man said flatly. "Miguel was an asset. Assets depreciate over time, especially when they fail to secure their perimeter against an eight-year-old boy."

"And what about the people in the district?" I asked, my voice dropping lower. "The corrupted cores you threw into the streets were not just inventory. They were turning regular citizens into monsters."

"A necessary phase of field testing," the man replied, completely devoid of remorse. "If a product cannot perform under real environmental conditions, it has no commercial value. The citizens provided an excellent testing ground for energy density and corruption spread."

"You sound like a butcher counting meat," I said.

"I am an administrator counting results," he countered gently.

He gestured vaguely to the empty, stripped room around us.

"As you can see child, our work in this kingdom is officially concluded," he continued smoothly. "The capital site was compromised, this secondary laboratory has been liquidated, and the local assets have been abandoned. You arrived just in time to see the door close."

"You think I’m going to just let you walk out of here after what you did to the Normal District?" I asked, my golden mana pulsing gently around my hands.

"And how do you plan on stopping me, Silvester?" the man asked back, his tone carrying genuine curiosity rather than mockery. "Are you going to lock my core like you did to Miguel? Or perhaps pick my pockets?"

"I can lock more than just cores when I get annoyed," I warned him, shifting my stance into a low, stable balance. "Your mana pathways might be quiet, but they are still pathways. And every pathway has a lock."

"Fascinating," the man murmured, watching the golden sparks around my fingertips. "You speak with such confidence. It is rare to see a child with such an acute understanding of structural energy. But confidence without scale is merely pride."

"I don’t need scale," I said. "I just need precision."

"Precision is wonderful for small doors," he agreed smoothly. "You are a very talented child, Silvester. Your ability to lock and unlock mana pathways is fascinating. But you are looking at a single house when an entire continent is building a fortress. Opps! I spilled it!"

I raised an eyebrow, staring straight into his gray eyes. "Opps? You spilled it? Did a high-level manager like you just make a slip of the tongue?"

The man let out a soft, dry sigh behind his mask. "Even the most disciplined professional can occasionally share too much when enjoying a good conversation. It appears your surprisingly adult presence made me overly talkative."

"A continent building a fortress does not sound like a simple business transaction," I said, narrowing my vision. "Who is building it? Is it your employers across the border?"

"Now, now," the man chided lightly, shaking his gloved forefinger at me. "A good customer never asks for the trade secrets before signing the contract. And you, little locksmith, are certainly not a customer."

"Then maybe I will take the answers myself," I replied, igniting my golden mana energy up toward my chest.

"I would advise against that," the man said quietly.

He took a step backward toward the stone wall behind him.

"This kingdom is very small," he said softly. "And your locking skills are still far too local."

"A lock is a lock," I countered, keeping my eyes fixed on his feet. "It does not matter if it was forged in the capital or in another country. Iron is iron, brass is brass, and energy flows the same way everywhere."

"That is where your youth limits you," the man said, his gray eyes showing a faint trace of amusement. "You assume the rules of your small guild apply to the entire world. You assume every gate uses the same tumblers you learned to pick in your quiet little neighborhood."

"If a gate has a keyhole, I can pick it," I said flatly. "And if it does not have a keyhole, I can make one."

"A bold statement," the man replied, his voice fading slightly as he prepared to move. "Perhaps one day you will have the chance to test that claim against a gate that was never meant for human hands. But for today, our meeting is over."

"I didn’t give you permission to leave," I said, channeling my mana thread from the Master Key to my hands.