The plan is intertwined

The lights emanating from the shops reflected on the roads dampened by humidity, and the sound of footsteps echoed through the alleys. But they weren't natural… They were organized, unsettling, as if governed by a secret rhythm.

Amidst it all, Karso stood confidently at the corner of a street, his gaze fixed on a nearby combat equipment store. On the rooftop, he spotted shadows shifting, and on both sides, he felt stolen glances inspecting those entering and leaving. He didn't need confirmation—he had been chosen. And that made him smile.

"They want to corner me... Interesting."

With steady steps, he walked towards one of the shops, ignoring all the eyes watching him. He pushed the door open, and a faint bell chime echoed, drawing the attention of the old shopkeeper, who lifted his head slightly.

—"Welcome, how can I help you?"

Karso stood before a shelf filled with combat masks, his fingers brushing against one before asking in a calm voice,

"Do you have masks with special properties? Something that conceals facial features, for example?"

The old man's eyes shifted slightly with tension. It was too direct of a question—almost as if he had heard it before that day. But before he could answer, Karso noticed a reflection in the store's glass… A man outside, standing as if observing, though he was trying to act natural.

Karso didn't need further confirmation, but he wanted to enjoy the moment.

He turned to the shopkeeper, smiled, and said in a low but clear voice,

"By the way, I think someone wants to test me tonight. Do you think they're good enough?"

The shopkeeper hesitated for a moment, but he had no time to respond.

Snap!

In less than a second, the clash erupted outside the shop—stifled cries, the sounds of struggle.

Karso didn't turn, only smiled wider and murmured,

"Oh, it seems they've finally made their move."

---

That morning, Karso hadn't returned to the inn as expected. Instead, he headed to the slums—where crime wasn't just a choice but a way of life. Here, corpses littered the streets like garbage, and the sounds of screams and groans filled the rancid alleys. Barefoot children with pale faces begged with eyes that had long lost hope, while in the dark corners, human trafficking deals took place as casually as market trades.

These slums weren't just places of poverty; they were a festering swamp that fed on the weak.

Karso wasn't surprised. But he was on a mission.

Among the filth and blood, he sought out the bandits—those who spent their days in the mountains and only came to the markets to trade their loot for food and drink. That was all the information he needed to set his plan in motion.

He didn't have to search long.

In a narrow alley, he spotted one of them—a massive man, his clothes stained with blood and wine, threatening an old woman who clung desperately to a piece of bread. It wasn't an unusual sight here, but for Karso, it was an opportunity.

Like a shadow emerging from the wall, Karso appeared behind the thug.

His iron grip closed around the man's throat from behind, dragging him into a dark corner where empty liquor bottles were strewn about. The thug's panicked breaths mixed with the stench of rot and dried blood. But he couldn't scream—because a thin wire had already coiled around his throat, tight enough to leave a deep purple mark, though it hadn't cut through… yet.

"Do you know why I'm not killing you?"

Karso whispered, his tone chilling in its politeness as he adjusted his stance.

"Because I need you to deliver a message… A tangible one."

Before the man could even cry out, thin silk-like threads shot from Karso's fingertips—deadly, sharper than any blade. One of them slid into his left eye, burrowing slowly until the vitreous fluid mixed with crimson.

"This one… is for the living."

Then, in a swift motion, more threads wrapped around two fingers of the thug's right hand—tightening suddenly like a snap trap.

A sickening crack.

The sound of breaking bone shattered the silence for a brief moment before his severed fingers hit the ground.

"And this one… is for the future victims."

Karso left him there, drowning in his own blood.

He knew it wouldn't take long for word to spread.

And he knew it wouldn't take long before the bandits came hunting for him—like wounded wolves seeking revenge.

---

That evening...

When Karso entered the combat equipment shop later, he knew his plan was unfolding exactly as he intended. One of the bandits tracking him had followed his trail into the city, blending among the shoppers.

What the bandit didn't know was that the investigators had also been watching.

Sure enough, as the bandits began gathering, the investigators noticed their strange movements. Why was such a large group of armed men assembling? Were they Karso's allies?

There was no time for questions.

The investigators moved in to surround them immediately.

Meanwhile, the bandits…

They assumed the worst.

They thought these well-dressed men were part of a trap Karso had set for them, sent to wipe them out.

And without hesitation, the fight broke out.

---

Karso's strike was a double blow.

Investigators and outlaws clashed in a bloody confrontation, while the city descended into chaos—no one knowing the true cause except for one man.

A man who stood quietly in the midst of it all.

Watching.

Smiling.

In the dim, dilapidated shop, where the scent of aged wood and dampness lingered, Karsou stood facing the old man. His features were calm, but his eyes held an inescapable darkness. Slowly, he flipped a coin in his hand, the metallic clink against his skin echoing in the heavy silence.

In a voice devoid of emotion yet charged with unbearable tension, he said:

"Old man… Don't mock me. Tell me—where is the annual black market auction being held?"

The old man trembled but clung to his crumbling facade. He shook his head, feigning confusion, his shaky voice barely audible:

"I… I don't understand what you're talking about, sir. I'm just a simple man. I have no involvement in such matters…"

Then—

*(A bloody splatter stained the back window of the shop.)*

Karsou's gaze drifted slowly toward the scattered blood. His reflection in the glass warped, as if shadows were merging with him. He sighed faintly before turning back to the old man, his tone carrying a terrifying calm:

"Boy… Don't play games with someone out of your league."

The old man froze. His breaths quickened, eyes widening as they fixated on the blood.

Karsou continued, his voice deeper, colder:

"See that stain over there? It's not just blood… It's a message. Proof that lies only buy you one path—a path that ends here. In front of me."

The old man shuddered, swallowing hard:

"Y-yes… I see…"

A faint smirk flickered on Karsou's lips—not a smile, but a calculated observation.

"You know… Your lies are pathetic. As if you've never lied before. But I won't blame you. Those who lie to me once don't get a second chance. So, I'll grant you a rare opportunity… Speak, or let your blood join what's on the glass."

Silence choked the room, the old man's ragged breaths now deafening. Hesitation, terror, helplessness—all trembled in his eyes. But something else crept in: a harsh realization that escape was impossible.

The old man tried to plead, his voice quaking:

"I don't understand! Why? What have I done to you? These fights outside my shop, your threats… I'm just a simple man! I mean no harm! I know nothing of the black market!"

His defense was cut short by a strange *thud* as a cold thread pierced his chest. Karsou's voice resonated through the stillness:

"This thread may have missed its mark this time, but next time, it won't… It will pierce your heart."

Clutching at a sliver of hope, the old man stammered, his voice trembling like shadows:

"All I know… is the auction is this week… Nothing else!"

A flicker of surprise crossed Karsou's face. He asked with bitter mockery:

"Truly, nothing else?"

The old man's eyes widened in terror. He blurted hurriedly:

"N-no… I misspoke! The main items… are elixirs!"

Karsou pressed dryly:

"And the masks?"

Gathering his strength, the old man gasped:

"I swear I don't know… But I've heard they might auction Ashvank's Mask… That's all!"

In a swift, lethal motion—before the old man could utter another word—Karsou drove the thread through his heart, plunging him into eternal darkness. His voice faded with his final breath, leaving behind a silence heavy with dread and regret.

At that moment, Karsou seized a crude mask from the shop—nothing among the goods had suited him. Outside, the clangor of battle still raged as guards stormed in, slaughtering some of the bandits while the rest fled, only to surround the shop completely. Suddenly, troops barged inside, met with a grim sight: the pitiful old man sprawled across a table, blood oozing slowly from his chest like a macabre artwork of extinguished life.

Yet it wasn't just the carnage that ignited the crowd's fury. A thunderous cry pierced the chaos:

"Where's the thief?!"

But Karsou, cunning and ruthless, had vanished as if he'd never existed, melting into the shadows of the alleyways amid the battle's frenzy.

Meanwhile, word reached the shadowy investigator. His grip tightened, fury etching lines across his face. For a heartbeat, his authority seemed to falter—then he snapped into action. He ordered his men to scour the shop for clues, suspecting a calculated hand behind the black market's machinations. With cold precision, he demanded intel on any upcoming auctions, vowing to personally hunt down "Karsou."

As for Karso, he retreated to the inn he frequented—a place where the vague sketches of his likeness failed to rouse suspicion. He entered with calculated dignity, his stride unflinching as staff watched, baffled. How could a wanted man radiate such calm in a supposed sanctuary? Yet their doubts dissolved swiftly. Surely no fugitive would dare return here. They chalked it up to mistaken identity, their wary eyes retreating behind curtains as Karsou slipped into his room, cloaked in an eerie stillness that defied time itself.

Alone, he sat in silent reflection, replaying the day's brutality—the auction heist, his razor-edge escape from the investigator's jaws, the dark wealth now lining his pockets. A smirk curled his lips:

"Not… bad."

But beneath his icy composure, Karsou knew urgency gnawed at him. The black market had to be found—*now*. He sensed a hidden force at play, one pulling strings even the investigator couldn't grasp. Those low-ranking enforcers, with their annoyingly meticulous tactics, had clipped his wings—if only slightly.

"Pity for them," he muttered, arrogance dripping like venom. "They chose to cross ..me