After a long journey back through the manor, venturing down the excessive steps and long hallways, Veronica finally reached the main entrance of the manor. Elise, who was guiding the way, stepped forward and gently opened the door. She gestured for Veronica to exit first.

  Veronica walked through the doorway, rolling her shoulders slightly. In her hands was a small bag filled with 500 Vix pieces in the largest denomination. It was an advance, a portion of the promised coin that Welterman agreed to pay.

  She thought about their discussion.

  The meeting had been longer than she had expected. Well, she wasn’t sure what to expect from that meeting. The Baron’s true motives were still a mystery to her, and although she learned many things with their exchange, more questions than answers lingered in her mind.

  Stepping back onto the stone walkway that led up to the front of the manor, Veronica turned around and waited. Elise closed the manor’s door and strode back in front, leading them to the courtyard’s outer gate.

  Everything was quiet out this far in town. There were buildings she could see through the barred fencing, but they were still a couple of minutes of a walk away. Baron Welterman seemed to like his home being secluded, and peaceful. The atmosphere inside the manor was suffocating with political necessity, but out here, in the open air, Veronica could finally breathe.

  At the gate, Elise came to a stop. She unlatched the gate, then moved aside, allowing Veronica to see the path back to town. “This is where I leave you,” she said evenly.

  Veronica gave her a slight nod. “Then I’ll be on my way.”

  Elise said nothing, only dipping her head before turning back toward the manor. Veronica watched as the maid disappeared behind the towering estate walls, her presence slipping away like a leaf in the wind.

  She was an odd one. Although she was a Tier-2 mage, she was working as a maid for a baron of all things. She still seemed quite young too—possibly mid-twenties. There was still a lot of room to grow as a mage, yet she stayed subservient to Welterman. Perhaps she wasn’t interested in pursuing further magic. Maybe she had financial troubles, or perhaps she even enjoyed working with the baron. She certainly didn’t seem bothered by his physicality when he gave her introduction.

  Veronica straightened her clothes and started down the main road. With each step, the town’s usual sounds became more prominent.

  She let her thoughts wander as she walked.

  The Baron. The Ronswicks. The cultists.

  She had agreed to Welterman’s deal, knowing full well she was being used as a convenient tool to keep the people distracted. But that arrangement had its own advantages—visibility meant access, and access meant information. She needed to be in town, needed to watch the shifting tides before the Ronswicks arrived. If the cultists truly planned to summon demons on the same day, then their timing wasn’t just a coincidence.

  The real question was: how deep did this go?

  The way he maneuvered his words, the calculated way he wielded his influence—it all pointed to something bigger at play. He wanted the town to be lively before the Viscount’s envoy arrived, but why? Was this simply a political move, or was there something more beneath the surface?

  She had three days to figure that out.

  In the meantime, the deal she had struck was… favorable. Eliminate some monsters? That was easy enough. It would also give her some more practice with her new body. Casting spells without worrying about Medusa’s curse was still unsettling. Not in a bad way—but it felt like she was breaking the law by doing something perfectly legal.

  Either way, she would make use of the time given to her.

  Her stomach felt partially empty. It was now late afternoon. Perhaps a meal and some rest would allow her to reorganize her thoughts. Her body may have recovered enough so that she could try advancing once more. It didn’t hurt to check.

  She could also—

  A sharp laugh reached her ears.

  Veronica’s gaze snapped up, her thoughts scattering.

  Ahead, near the entrance of the town square, a group of men loitered near a stall. A familiar group.

  The mercenaries from the forest.

  Her steps slowed instinctively, but it was already too late.

  They had seen her.

  Her own eyes narrowed at them, a hint of animosity and warning lingering within.

  Jorren, the man she had injured in the woods, turned his head, his expression shifting from idle irritation to something cruelly delighted.

  “Well, well,” he drawled, his voice carrying loudly over the street. “Look what we have here.” He took a step forward, while the other members stood their ground, including the leader and the woman who tended to their horses.

  Jorren’s smirk twisted into something uglier. His right arm was heavily bandaged, a stark reminder of their last encounter in the forest. He raised it slightly, gesturing toward it as he turned toward the nearest town guards.

  “This woman,” he declared, his tone theatrical, “Seduced me! Then attacked me and my party! Nearly blew my damn arm off with a blast of magic and metal shrapnel—after me and my men showed her hospitality!”

  A few guards turned at the commotion, their gazes flicking between him and Veronica with varying degrees of skepticism. Some hesitated; most having received orders from steward Hadrian to inform the girl that the town lord wished to meet her. Others simply knew that she was a new mage who had just arrived in town.

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  Jorren’s eyes flickered over her, taking in the new clothes she wore—far from the ragged, dirt-stained garb she had worn in the forest.

  His lip curled. “Hah. So that’s how it is.” His voice lowered, but the venom in it was unmistakable. “Found another man to leech off of, huh?”

  Veronica’s eyes narrowed.

  Jorren’s expression twisted further, dark satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he took a step forward.

  “Figures. Some gutter rat who had nothing but rags a few days ago, and now she’s walking around in new clothes, dressed all nice and showing off her lack of modesty. Some poor bastard must’ve taken pity on you.” His sneer deepened. “Or maybe you’re just spreading your legs around town for some cheap coin.”

  Veronica’s eye twitched at the insult. “What the hell did you just say?” she growled back. Her jaw tightened, resisting the urge to flare her mana and drown him beneath it.

  It wasn’t a spell, but more of a technique—a magic that used the caster’s mana and pressed it down on their targets. It was the precursor technique to a mage’s domain.

  Unfortunately, Veronica was nowhere near the level required to use the technique or to activate a domain.

  Her instincts, however, were still there, and if she had the mana—Jorren, the repulsive tack of a human being—would have already been crushed into the ground into paste after that despicable comment.

  Like anyone, Veronica didn’t exactly take kind to insults. The problem was that he was making a scene. She couldn’t just commit mass murder of all the mercenaries in front of the townspeople, especially with children about.

  Veronica would, however, defend herself.

  She steeled her eyes, but kept her mana bared. Things needed to play out. See where he was taking this farce. Killing him mid-speech—mid-accusation would land her in prison immediately.

  The mercenary leader who was beside him tried to put a hand out on Jorren’s shoulder, possibly to urge him to stop. However, the situation quickly went out of his control.

  Jorren attacked.

  “You’re going to pay for my arm, you wench!” His legs tensed, his stance shifting—not away, but toward her. He dashed, uninjured hand reaching out, fingers curled as if to grab her.

  For a regular mage, they wouldn’t have been able to formulate a defensive spell in time. Tier-1 mages were just beginners.

  Veronica spared no time in reacting; the mana in her body moved in tandem with her thoughts. A single white wing appeared behind her hand. Her arm shot forward in a diagonal arc, mimicking a slash of a sword with a clawed hand. The space in front of her spun, and an instant later, multiple sharp blades of wind sliced through the air.

  Jorren barely had time to react before the spell struck.

  Five thin arcs of wind, nearly invisible, sliced through the air and bit into his chest. Shallow cuts, precise rather than deadly, marked his skin. The kind that wouldn’t kill, but would certainly sting like hell for days.

  But that wasn’t what made him scream.

  The true pain came when one of the wind blades tore through his bandaged arm.

  A fresh scream burst from his throat as he stumbled back, clutching the limb, eyes wild. Blood soaked through the wrappings, dark red blooming against the fabric. His knees nearly gave, but he didn’t fall. He just stood there, swaying, shaking, half from the pain, half from the rage that boiled behind his eyes.

  “You little bitch,” he spat, his breath ragged. His good hand trembled, not from fear, but from the fury barely held in check. “You think you can get away with this? Some fancy wind tricks and new clothes makes you think you’re above the law?”

  From the side, the stocky mercenary stepped forward. Broad, firm-footed, and the leader of the group. Telrick, if she remembered the name right.

  He had tried earlier to stop Jorren with a hand on his shoulder, but now, he stood beside him, not between. The tension in his stance betrayed his reluctance, but his position made it clear.

  He was with his team.

  “Jorren,” Telrick said quietly, voice tight with warning. “Think about this. Carefully.”

  Jorren didn’t even look at him.

  His eyes were locked on Veronica—burning with desperation and fury in equal measure.

  Kaela shifted beside the others, visibly uneasy. Her hand hovered near her dagger, but she didn’t draw it. The two mercenaries flanking her mirrored the hesitation, all tense, uncertain; neither advancing nor retreating.

  They were waiting.

  Veronica’s gaze swept over them, measuring distance, posture, intent.

  Her mana still coursed sharply through her limbs, fast and reactive. Beneath it all, however, she felt a hollowness. She’d spent a lot of mana today. Hours at the barracks. Messing about at the ruins. The wind spell just now.

  It was more than she’d liked.

  A couple more Tier-1 spells. Maybe a Tier-2, if she was fine with incapacitating herself again. Casting higher tiered spells was an extremely risky move. They cost a tremendous amount of mana compared to using them at the appropriate tier.

  She spun her mana rings harder, forcing more mana to generate. Her mana core shuddered in response, strained but compliant.

  One spell, she calculated. One would be enough to stop them. A perfectly aimed wind cutter to slice their necks. She just wasn’t sure how well trained the mercenaries were. If they proved more experienced, then it might take a few more than she’d expect.

  The problem was accuracy.

  Aiming was not her forte. Ruin and tempests relied on destroying the target, along with anything near it. They didn’t need to aim.

  If they rushed her together… then it would have to be a different spell. One strong enough to kill all of them at once.

  She grimaced faintly at the thought.

  Steward Hadrian, the town, and even the Baron would not appreciate another crater—especially one full of corpses.

  “Look at her!” Jorren shouted suddenly, turning his voice outward toward the gathering crowd. “She’s doing it again! Attacking me with magic—ruined my arm!”

  He thrust his bandaged limb into the air. “She assaulted us in the forest, then ran off! Now she’s pretending we’re the criminals! We’re just mercenaries looking for work!”

  Movement stirred at the edge of the square.

  Guards. Several of them were now converging on the scene, uncertain expressions on their faces.

  A few clearly recognized her, maybe from her walking around the town, maybe even knew she’d been summoned to meet the Baron. But that wasn’t enough. They didn’t know why she’d been there, what her role was, or whether she had any official status.

  And none of the guards she had trained with at the barracks were among them; they were either on rotation or stationed elsewhere.

  The remaining guards, unaware of any connection she had to Welterman, approached slowly—uncertain, but reacting to the loudest voice.

  —which was Jorren’s voice.

  He wasn’t just lashing out anymore. He was performing. Rallying the crowd. Pushing his own group into a corner that they’d have to choose their way out of.

  If they sided with him, they’d fight together.

  If they stepped back, they’d expose the lie, and they’d all go down.

  Veronica’s eyes narrowed slightly. She wasn’t sure which was worse.

  Because while she had truth on her side, she didn’t have proof.

  She had no identity. No history. She’d walked into town alone, wearing torn rags. And right now, the only visible truth was the blood-soaked bandage on Jorren’s arm—and the angry mercenaries willing to back him up.

  The Elven forests were too far out of reach currently for her to get any identification. She needed to visit a major city to get the proper materials to make it there. Greystone didn’t fit that description.

  Right now, if this argument turned into a fight in the middle of the square, there was no telling how the town would respond. Just because she helped take down a monster and played around with the guards, didn't mean that the town would take her side. Only idiots would consider all of that sufficient enough to turn down his accusations. Otherwise, bandits would become heroes if they simply did a good deed or two after committing a murder.

  Her fists clenched as she took a more defensive stance. She could burn the rest of her mana. Kill them. Then explain later.

  And then what? Arrested? Detained? Branded a murderer?

  Guards continued to surround them, but more increasingly, surrounded Veronica's side.

  Demons were still active near the town. This wasn’t something she could ignore. If she was forced to remove a group of dangerous, irredeemable mercenaries—

  Then so be it.

  Kill first, plead later.