I didn't expect Umar to be that kind of person.
Reading his diary? A whole other man showed up on the page.
The complaints were... I don't know—soft? Emotional? Way too real? Not what you'd expect from someone like him. Totally different from his expressionless, marble-statue-looking face. I mean, the guy looked like he hadn't felt anything since the Stone Age.
But I did get something useful out of it. Apparently, the Black Mamba's not just a name—it's the 'Enigma of the family.' The Mother of All Snakes. Elegant title.
The snake bottle, though—was originally called a snake bottle. Go figure. Literal naming, huh? And from the way it's written... it's either a bottle that plays with snakes or a bottle that is a snake. Enigma or pet toy?
Weird phrasing.
Still, it made me wonder—July 5th entry, Umar seemed to believe that the blood of Stanton gave him some authority over the Black Mamba. So he walked in, no fear, all confident...
And got himself killed by his own trap.
I'd almost feel bad.
Almost.
Instead, I found myself grinning like a little goblin.
Then I snapped out of it, told myself not to enjoy it too much. Bad taste. Keep reading.
---
"August 19: I finally got what I wanted, but where is the gift of the mother goddess placed? This villa is newly built, it must not be in the house, it should be underground? Um.. ....When I get rid of the chores around me, I will invite the people around me out in the same way as before."
That was chilling.
"September 15th: I did a stupid thing! Last night the lady found out what I was doing and asked me what I was doing. I was annoyed and hypnotized her with the Stanton rod and let her walk into the yard by herself. Oh my god, it's autumn, and she's got a high fever.
Great Mother Goddess, is this a necessary sacrifice? If yes, then I will accept it!"
His handwriting got shakier after that.
---
"September 19th: Today, a young man named Feron Mornez visited me on behalf of the Church of the Saltmother. I think he is an extraordinary person, but he is not affiliated with the Church of the Saltmother
because of his clothes are obviously cheap. Never mind, let him investigate at will, what will he find without the noble blood of Stanton?"
That... was me.
Obviously.
"September 20: Damn, what did this guy named Mornez find, no, no, if he finds the gift of the mother goddess, let the church know that I'm finished! He must die!
But he is very likely to be a Beyonder. This is a bit troublesome... By the way, I remember that he was thin, and he was a little breathless when he entered the door. It should be caused by climbing the stairs, ha! Such a physical quality cannot be a Beyonder of rank 1 or higher, and taking magical medicine requires a lot of body! Even his becoming an Extraordinary may have been a recent thing. If it is only rank 0, and he is a rookie, I am in ambush in advance and with the help of Stanton's snake rod, it should not be a problem, so it was decided."
He really thought that through.
It was like watching someone explain your own death sentence to you after the fact.
I reread that part again.
Then again.
And again.
And again...
Until the weight of it cracked open the confusion I'd been carrying since he ambushed me. All this time, I'd wondered—why attack me directly? I was working on behalf of the Church. Even if I was a rookie, it wasn't a smart move.
Turns out it wasn't ignorance.
It was calculation.
He sized me up. Judged. Dismissed.
Thought I was a soft target with poor stamina and cheap clothes.
Honestly?
He wasn't completely wrong.
But also—I'm alive. And he's dead.
So.
That counts for something.
Good thing my ability is super speed regeneration.
Otherwise, I'd be snake food.
I shivered.
Then I smiled.
Victory. That sweet, awkward little taste.
---
Then I thought of the snake rod.
That damned snake rod.
It nearly wrecked me. But now... now it was mine.
Trophy.
I started cleaning the room. Clothes. Blood. Umar's body.
Careful staging. Casual. Professional. Almost pretty.
I used to be a surgeon, in a past life. That kind of thing never really leaves you.
I knew it wouldn't fool the Church. They'd see the cover-up clear as day. But still—presentation matters.
If I looked like I cared about the rules, played the humble follower role right, they wouldn't make it too difficult for me.
After all, on record, I was still a devout follower of the Saltmother.
Paperwork matters.
---
Once that was done, I scooped up the still-shaking snake bottle and made my way out.
Problem: I fell in earlier. No stairs.
Solution? Roots.
The roots growing in the soil were just firm enough. With a bit of creativity and very slow progress, I climbed out. Hands aching. Dirt in my nose.
Eyes scanned—there.
The snake rod.
I wrapped it in black mist and picked it up.
There was blood. A lot of it.
But now? Not a trace.
Clean as new.
It had absorbed the blood. I was sure of it.
Other spoils: a dagger.
No gems. No decoration. Just tight craftsmanship. Practical. Likely military issue.
Useful.
Then I noticed something.
The snake bottle had stopped shaking.
Weird.
"Because of this snake rod?" I muttered.
I tested it. Dropped the rod far away—the bottle trembled violently again.
Picked it up—it went quiet.
Well then.
"Maybe it's not the Stanton blood that can order the Black Mamba," I said out loud, even though no one was there. "Maybe it's this snake rod."
Still, I didn't want to test it here.
Not now. Too risky.
The longer I stayed, the more things could go wrong.
---
I pulled out the hidden blade inside the snake rod. Ruined my sleeve, cut off the right arm of my coat too. Got it on. Fastened it.
Then I left. No hesitation.
I ran.
Straight to my apartment.
Wardrobe—emptied. Snake bottle—opened.
Black Mamba—emerged.
It was as nasty as expected. Hissing. Reared up.
But as soon as I brought the snake rod close, it shrank back like a scolded puppy. Tongue flickering, but calm.
Not friendly. But not hostile.
I exhaled.
Carefully placed the rod beside it. Watched. Waited. No reaction.
Then I sealed the bottle. Shut the wardrobe. Dragged the bed in front of it for good measure.
There was no way that thing was breaking through.
Then—bath. Long one.
Hot water. Soap. Steam.
Scrubbed my skin until it stung.
Dried. Dressed. Snake bottle under my coat.
Double moon overhead.
Out the door.
Midnight.
---
5 Salt Avenue.
Salt Tarvan.
As soon as I opened the door, I regretted it.
Too loud.
"Drink! Drink! Drink!"
"Mills! Three more Halimea!"
"Hey beauty—alone?"
"Back off! I saw her first!"
Noise.
Smell of sweat, alcohol, something like old perfume.
Middling people. Middle-class. Just trying to forget they were ordinary.
Bar looked expensive. Layout stylish. Lights warm. Music... eh.
Still felt like a zoo.
Always does.
I slipped through the crowd like a ghost.
Avoided touching anyone. Avoided looking like I was avoiding anyone.
Came up to the bar.
Miles was working.
He made it look like a show—tossed bottles, spun glass, winked, laughed, got clapped on the back.
When he noticed me, his hands didn't stop, but his eyes crinkled.
"Feron," he said, grinning, "you've got the timing of a priest at a brothel. For a guy who doesn't drink, you show up at all the wrong times."
I took off my hat.
"Maybe I'll order a sunny afternoon when this is over."
He pulled a rope under the bar, smooth as ever, and replied, "You should order a glamour night. They last longer."
"I'll think about it."
I meant it. Sort of.
Then I saw her.
Rida.
In the corner. Like a shadow that decided to be pretty tonight.
She waved.
I nodded to Miles. Walked over.
Rida smiled.
That practiced, polite, please-don't-touch-me smile.
She asked, "Is it urgent?"
"Very."
"Follow me."
---
We walked to the last room.
Sat down.
She poured tea. Smooth hands. Crisp movements.
Then she asked, "What happened with the case?"
Like it was small talk.
Like she already knew something had happened.
Like she expected it.
My brain itched.
Madu Georgen warning echoed in my head.
I smiled on the outside.
On the inside?
Paranoia.