Chapter 17: What kind of man are you?

The carnival had become a graveyard of joy.

The air, once sweet with spiced nuts and burning wood, now reeked of sweat and fear. The scent of strawberries and chocolate—the cloying, unnatural perfume of Incubi and Succubi—hung thickly, pressing into the lungs of those who cowered before them.

It was the kind of fear that had settled into bones long ago—not the wild panic of an unexpected attack, but the resigned terror of inevitability.

The people of New Liberty knew this moment was coming.

They had always known.

And yet—it never became easier.

One by one, they knelt.

Mothers, fathers, merchants, performers—all lowering themselves without defiance, without question. Some trembled, their hands curled into tight fists against the ice. Others clenched their jaws, holding in a silent rage they knew would never be released. A few openly wept, their breath leaving in short gasps, their shoulders shaking.

But no one fought.

No one ever fought.

Because the last time they had fought, Southern Liberty had burned.

Then, the silence shattered.

“WORM!”

The voice was deep, low, and crawling with something guttural and ancient. It was the kind of voice that slithered into the mind, made the muscles tense, the stomach churn.

“Worm, do not have me call out for you thrice times!”

From the crowd, a well-dressed man stumbled forward, his movements clumsy and desperate. Sweat clung to his face despite the winter chill. His hands shook as he carried a large chest and an enchanted bag, his body bowing low as he reached the center of the ice.

Kneeling. Begging.

"M-Master Balesh," the man stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of terror. ”We... we were not expecting you today, forgive me—"

CRACK.

The ground shuddered as a thick, barbed tail—the color of dried blood, its tip arrowed like a spear—slammed against the ice.

The man winced in fear.

Before him stood the leader of the Incubi, towering and inhuman, his deep red skin gleaming under the flickering torchlight. His body was lean but powerful, his head shaven, completely bald, his pointed ears twitching as he stepped forward, his eyes black pools of abyssal hunger.

Balesh.

He moved slowly and deliberately, his movements measured and patient—not out of laziness, but control.

Predators did not need to rush.

His lips curled, his expression unreadable.

“Your people agreed to tribute,” Balesh said, bending slightly, his movements slow, almost lazy.

“Your people agreed to pay it when we demanded it.”

A sharp inhale from the people, the reminder cutting like a blade.

“Your people agreed… to prevent conflict.”

His voice never rose.

But his presence crushed them.

He leaned in further, staring at the kneeling man with a gaze that felt like oil sliding across the soul.

“I do not care for your excuses. I do not care for your problems. I do not care if you have lost your children… or the ability to make more.”

A quiet sob rose from somewhere in the crowd.

Balesh licked his lips, his fanged teeth gleaming in the firelight.

“What I want—every time I come here—is this:”

He raised one finger.

“Two thousand pounds of gold.”

A second.

“Two thousand pounds of silver.”

A third.

“Fifty healthy, young women.”

A fourth.

“Five healthy young men.”

His voice slowed.

“All virgins.”

And then, finally—

“Ten of which… must be priests or priestesses.”

A choked noise came from the kneeling crowd.

A woman, maybe. A mother.

Someone who had already lost a child to this and would lose another now.

The Succubi and Incubi chuckled in quiet, cruel amusement, their clawed fingers twitching, their tails swaying lazily behind them.

One Succubus sighed dramatically, her voice smooth as silk.

“Always the same song. Always the same crying."

“One would think they would learn.”

Balesh began to walk, his hooved feet clicking gently against the ice, his gaze sweeping across the people like one surveying cattle.

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“You have agreed to this,” he reminded them, “and yet every time we arrive, it is always something with you.

His lips twisted into a mockery of sympathy.

“No, no, not today, it’s our festival!”

He waved his hands dramatically, mimicking the cries of the people.

“It is our holy day! Our sacred offering to blah blah blah—”

His smile vanished.

His voice dropped.

“Your gods do not care for you.”

“Your priests are all dead.”

The people flinched.

Some wept.

Because it was true.

There were no priests left in New Liberty.

Not since Southern Liberty burned.

Tenebrae did not move.

But the words struck like nails to his spine.

The Southern Continent of Red Grass…

The reason snow fell crimson in Southern Liberty…

The reason there were no priests left to protect these people…

It was because of him.

The fair—the original winter festival— had once been held there.

Before he destroyed it.

Before he turned the land into a graveyard.

Before he drenched the snow in the blood of the faithful.

Eliza’s fingers clenched around his arm.

She was trembling.

She was begging him.

Not with words.

But with her eyes.

She wanted him to do something.

To save them.

But he couldn’t.

Not like this.

Not with his mana nearly drained.

Tenebrae watched.

Listened.

Calculated.

He could not win this fight. Not in a way that mattered.

Not without Opal or Eliza getting hurt.

Not without a war breaking out in the streets.

Not without collateral.

And while his Lich instincts whispered that this was simply how the world worked—life was a currency, sacrifices were necessary— something deeper, something older, twisted at his core.

Was this his Lich side?

Had he grown numb to the natural order of things?

Or was this simply who he was now?

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that this was not a winnable fight.

Ten’s disguise had worked thus far—a traveling noble, a swordsman, a dagger-wielding merchant clad in wealth. It was a role he had played many times, one that allowed him to move unseen through mortal lands, to let the world assume he was a physical combatant.

But it wasn’t him.

He had always been a spellcaster.

Magic had been his greatest weapon—his trump card in every encounter, the advantage that let him dictate battles before they even began.

And in this world, he had been careful.

Careful to hide what he truly was.

Careful to let them think he was merely skilled, not monstrous.

Level 100.

There were few in this realm who had reached it.

Fewer still understood what it meant.

There was power beyond this—power only the Undead and Divines could reach.

But in the end, it didn’t matter.

Because it all came down to mana.

And right now, he had less than ten percent.

Not enough for anything significant.

Not enough for a wide-area spell.

Not enough for control.

Not enough for war.

Honestly?

It was barely enough to defend himself.

He had maybe one real spell left in him.

And that meant he had to play this smart.

Balesh continued his slow march through the kneeling crowd, watching them like cattle before slaughter.

“Your gods do not care for you,” he murmured again, letting the words sink in, letting them break.

The tribute was already being gathered.

Women were pulled from their families, their hands bound, their faces blank with the resignation of the doomed.

Men, younger but no less resigned, lowered their heads as chains clinked against their wrists.

Some fought.

Some sobbed.

Some tried to run—only to be cut down where they stood, their throats opening in sprays of red against the ice.

The preteen boy was still holding onto his mother, still begging.

But the people ignored him.

He was a fool. A child.

“Let her go, boy.”

“Your mother is just a whore.”

“One step above the demons themselves.”

His mother turned away from him.

Not because she did not love him—but because she could not save him.

She could not look at him and still left.

And that, somehow, was worse.

The boy’s sobs filled the deadened silence.

Tenebrae closed his eyes.

He had seen this before.

He had caused this before.

And yet, for all the blood already spilled, for all the pain still to come—

He did not move.

Because he could not.

Eliza was still watching him, pleading.

Do something.

He shook his head.

She trembled, not in fear—but in rage.

In helplessness.

Silence.

Then—

The air snapped.

A rush of magic surged forward, cracking against the frozen ground, sending a sudden gust of water like a raging torrent toward Balesh.

The Incubus Lord’s head tilted ever so slightly, not in fear—but in annoyance.

The blast hit him directly, soaking his fine robes and dousing the heat of his hellish skin in a way that steamed against the cold air.

It was not a weak spell.

No, for a child, for an Undine so young—this was magic well beyond her years.

A Level 3 Water Burst was not just a spell—it was a manifestation of raw will.

The sphere of water she summoned twisted and compressed under heavy pressure, forming into something so tightly packed with mana that when she released it, the attack shot forward like a lance of pure elemental force.

It was not a mere splash.

It cut through the air like a blade, slamming into the Incubus Lord’s chest, forcing him back half a step.

It did not wound him.

But it made him notice.

And that was far, far more dangerous.

“Opal!”

Eliza’s cry of horror barely reached the child’s ears.

She was already moving, already preparing a second spell, her hands trembling but still forming the necessary sigils with startling accuracy.

She didn’t hesitate.

Because when she looked at the boy sobbing for his mother—

She saw herself.

And she couldn’t stand it.

Eliza reached her first, dropping to her knees, her hands grasping Opal’s shoulders. “Opal, stop! You can’t—!”

But the girl wasn’t listening.

She was crying but standing firm.

She was small but unshaken.

And even as the human mage moved to strike her down—

She did not flinch.

The mage had no hesitation.

A man in ornate robes, his sigil-marked staff glowing with a violent, crackling light, hanged toward the child, his expression one of utter contempt.

“Foolish little fish.”

He raised his staff, ready to kill.

And then—

He was airborne.

The sound of shattering bone and the sickening crunch of metal rang through the air as Tenebrae’s backhand sent the mage flying.

Easily. Effortlessly.

A man no weaker than Level 20—broken in a single movement.

He skidded across the ice, crashing into a vendor’s stall, sending debris scattering everywhere.

Dead? No.

But he would never wield magic again.

The people gasped.

They had thought him just another traveler.

They had thought him just another man.

But no mere man could do what he had just done.

Not with such ease.

Not with such brutality.

Tenebrae flexed his fingers, exhaling through his nose. “Damn it.”

The vendors whispered.

Some had once looked down on Opal.

Some had refused to serve her.

Some had seen her as lesser.

But now—they only looked at her in shock.

“The little fish fought back.”

“Did you see that?”

“Damn shame. She’s gonna get her whole family killed.”

One vendor, gripping the edge of his stall, swallowed thickly.

“I should’ve let her try the brisket.”

But Opal didn’t care.

She wasn’t listening.

She only looked up at him.

Her big, tear-filled eyes shone with hope.

Hope that he would save them.

Hope that he will make this all stop.

And damn it all, Tenebrae hated it.

Because she was looking at him like he was her hero.

Like he was something good.

Like he was better than this.

And he wasn’t.

He wasn’t.

If he hadn’t kept her from her mother if he hadn’t let this city fall into its cycle of weakness if he had just done things differently—

Maybe Opal wouldn’t have been so impulsive.

Maybe she wouldn’t have been so reckless.

Maybe she wouldn’t have had to fight at all.

And yet—he scolded himself.

Because blaming a child for standing against monsters was a coward’s deflection.

This was his fault.

And now, he had to make a choice.

Balesh exhaled slowly, cracking his neck as if Opal’s attack had been nothing more than an inconvenience.

Then, he tilted his head toward Tenebrae.

Not as an enemy.

Not as an equal.

But as something unknown.

A sword-user wouldn’t have hit that mage so easily.

A mere nobleman wouldn’t have dared.

Ten felt the scrutiny.

He could hear the calculations in the Incubus Lord’s silence.

Balesh was thinking.

And that meant Ten was running out of time.

He could not win this fight.

Not here.

Not now.

Not with less than ten percent of his mana left.

So he had one hope.

A single prayer.

He had knocked on this door before.

And the door had never answered.

So the only question that remained was—

When he knocks this time…

Will it open?

Or will it remain shut?