Because I was grabbing the damn thing's body, the Black Mamba's twitchy, fanged lunge came straight for my arm.
It reared back, ready to strike again.
So I just—grabbed its head.
Yeah.
Grabbed it.
Like a lunatic.
My lungs were doing this awful bellows thing—"hoo! hoo!"—and my thoughts were bouncing all over the place. I didn't even know if the black mist around me could stop those venom-dripping teeth. Not really.
But I held on.
Left hand clamped tight on the snake's head. Its slick, muscular body coiled around my forearm like it wanted to crush the bones underneath. Still, no pain. Nothing. Just pressure, like holding a wet rope.
I looked at my right arm.
Windbreaker sleeve torn.
Two neat, tiny holes where its fangs had punched through.
There was a transparent smear of something wet clinging to the fabric. Venom. Obviously. I didn't need a lab coat to know that's what killed Umar.
My fingers were twitching. I didn't dare touch it. That stuff could burn a guy alive from the inside out.
So, with one hand, all awkward and shaky, I started stripping—first the windbreaker, then the shirt underneath. I checked the skin underneath like I was trying to solve a mystery. Red? Swollen? Burning?
Nope.
Nothing.
My arm was fine.
Fine!
I dissolved the black mist from it just to double-check, twisting left and right, inspecting every inch.
Not even a scratch.
"Scared me," I muttered.
Understatement of the century.
I could finally breathe again.
Sort of.
Still had a living snake in my hand. And it wasn't exactly calm. Its body was tightening, muscles flexing. But my black-mist-coated left hand didn't register any of it. No pressure. No pain. No nothing.
That was… new.
Apparently, "hardening" wasn't just a cool party trick. It was real defense. Real power.
So.
Just me now.
Me and this room. And this snake.
And Umar's cooling corpse behind me, but... yeah.
Time to take stock. Inventory time. I had survived, I wasn't poisoned, and I was now the proud owner of a Black Mamba.
Win?
Win.
Umar really did trick himself to death. And now that he was worm food, I didn't even have to feel guilty about pocketing all his weird little secrets. That's what he'd want, right?
...Right?
Anyway.
This snake. This was the real deal.
Huge score.
I mean, come on—people become "Enigma Hunters" for a reason. One "Enigma," even the crappy ones, fetches a hundred Sterlings easy at the Church of the Saltmother.
And this guy? This Black Mamba? The way it moved. The aura around it. That venom.
"At least fifteen hundred Sterlings," I whispered to myself.
I could practically see my future wealth shimmering in the air.
This wasn't just some random snake.
No, no. I had a strong gut feeling—it was a "Enigma family" offspring. A divine fragment of the old gods. Probably.
My chest was buzzing. I was smiling. Giddy.
I couldn't help it—I used my right hand, the one not black-misted, and gently poked its coiled body.
The texture—
Cold. Hard. Slick. A little slimy.
I shuddered.
Pulled my hand back like I'd touched a sewer rat.
Ugh. Why do snakes feel like that?
"This ability..." I muttered. "Is this some sick setup to make me a... snake therapist?"
Yeah, thanks, universe.
Thanks a lot.
I stared down at it again and chuckled to myself, bitter. "I'm not letting you go. No matter how much you squirm, little guy."
Still, I couldn't just hold it forever. Walking around with a venomous snake in hand wasn't exactly "blending in."
I needed a solution.
Fast.
Church officials wouldn't even let me explain before they threw me into a holy cell. And I really didn't want to have tea with the Inquisition.
Then my eyes landed on the black porcelain bottle up on the altar.
Right.
That's where the snake came from, wasn't it?
Didn't take long to decide.
I tightened the mist around my hand again, just in case, and dashed up the altar steps. Swiped the bottle. Turned. Ran back down.
Fast.
I didn't like that altar. Didn't like Umar's twisted corpse lying there, or those weird, pulsing carvings.
Not one bit.
Problem was—the bottle was missing its lid. Umar had been holding it. Of course.
So, yeah.
I had to peel apart his dead fingers.
He was stiff already, hands clenched like claws. I grit my teeth, fought back the nausea, and pried them open.
There. Lid retrieved.
Okay.
Deep breath.
I brought the snake close to the porcelain opening. Closer. Closer—
Ten centimeters away and wham—
Black mist—not mine—shot out from the bottle and yanked the snake right out of my grip.
Gone.
Just like that.
I jumped a little and scrambled to slap the lid on.
The bottle thrashed. Like something alive was trapped inside.
Because it was.
I held it. Eyes wide. Heart pounding. Grinning like a madman.
This—this was big.
An item that could store living Enigmas?
I had no clue what the Church would appraise it at, but it was definitely worth over a thousand Sterlings.
At least.
My fingers tightened around the bottle. "This kind of business," I muttered, "could pay off nicely."
Then—bam.
Reality check.
I sighed.
Quiet.
"It's a shame I can't sell any of this."
Because how was I going to explain it?
Umar might have been a minor noble, but he was still noble.
And dead.
That meant the Church would get involved, and once they sniffed something out of the ordinary—evil gods, rituals, blasphemy—it'd be a whole mess. I couldn't be part of that mess.
Better to pretend.
Play dumb.
Just be the guy who stumbled on a murder scene. Nothing more.
Which meant... no snake. At least not officially.
I'd have to move through shadowy channels.
Maybe a secret gathering of Beyonders. Yeah. That could work.
Rumors floated around all the time—about auctions, trades, black-market knowledge exchanges. Places where people like me could keep secrets and still profit.
I'd have to find one. Blend in. Stay careful.
And for now—loot.
Always loot.
Umar's body was still there, limp and disgusting, and honestly... I wasn't thrilled about touching it.
But the man probably had more goodies on him. He had to.
I tugged him off the altar, muttering apologies to no one, and crouched beside him.
I've worked with cadavers before.
Back when I still thought I'd become a proper surgeon.
Still. This guy?
Ugly death. Real ugly. Would probably haunt my dreams.
I rummaged through his clothes anyway.
Leather-bound notebook. Wallet.
Jackpot?
Nine kinnars and a single silver Narcs.
No bronze.
Yeah, that tracked. Nobles never carried small change.
Too peasant-y.
I pocketed the money and flipped open the notebook.
Rough leather. Worn corners. The paper yellowing, warped from use.
A diary.
Not daily.
But frequent enough.
I flipped to the latest entries.
Early July.
Interesting.
He only moved to Hudew in mid-August.
And Derrick Rose's mess started a month before that—mid-July.
My eyes narrowed. I started reading from the beginning of July:
---
July 5th:
Finally! I finally found it—the Mother Goddess's gift, passed down from my ancestors! Twenty years. Twenty damn years of searching, and now… now I am nearly in her embrace.
A bottle. A snake sealed within. A Black Mamba—one of the great Mother Goddess's mysteries.
With it, my path is clear.
My blood—noble, Stanton—should be enough to control it.
---
July 11th:
Some sausage-selling pig bought the place. Derrick Rose. A real estate developer built a hideous villa over the site!
Disgusting. A sausage merchant should never live atop divine ground!
---
July 16th:
I arrived in Hudew. Kept it secret.
Started small.
Scaring the pig. Chipping away at his nerves.
He's fat, waddles around with his stupid dog, doesn't suspect a thing.
He'll break.
Soon.
---
...Yeah.
I kept reading.
My mouth dry.
My grip tighter around the pages.
This guy really was a lunatic.
And I had just stolen his legacy.