The Outsider

Matthew looked down at Stefan, who was slumped against the wall with both arms severed. Although his life energy had cauterized the wounds to stop the bleeding, a heavy stench of blood and scorched flesh still hung in the air.

Stefan's face was as pale as paper, cold sweat pouring down his temples, and his breathing was heavy and ragged. He was clearly at his limit, yet his eyes had not completely lost their focus.

Looking at Stefan, who was breathing weakly despite the stopped bleeding, Matthew knew one thing clearly:

With the tenacious life force and recovery ability of a Silver Rank Class holder, which far surpassed that of ordinary people, if Stefan were sent to a place with skilled doctors or healing resources right now, it was not impossible for him to survive.

This was the terrifying survivability of a Silver Rank Class holder! As long as they didn't die on the spot, there would always be a glimmer of hope.

With this in mind,

Matthew slowly raised his sword, pointing the tip toward Stefan's forehead. His voice was calm but carried an unquestionable coldness:

“Your life is in my hands now. I can let you live, or I can cut you down right this instant. Which path you choose depends on whether you cooperate.”

He naturally had never once considered actually sparing Stefan—Aidan's disappearance, the Blood Hand Gang's atrocities, and tonight's fierce battle all meant Stefan was destined to die.

But right now, he needed information. He needed to know Aidan's whereabouts, the origin of the potion, and the identity of the “yellow-haired youth” pulling the strings from behind the scenes.

Therefore, these words were merely a way to apply pressure before the interrogation, solely meant to pry open the man's mouth.

Hearing this, Stefan first looked down at his empty shoulders, where only hideous, cauterized wounds remained.

His lips twitched as a miserable, almost carefree smile appeared on his face. An indifference that said, “Since it has come to this, life and death no longer matter,” showed in his eyes.

His expression did not look like he was begging for mercy; instead, it seemed like the relief of completely giving up the struggle—or rather, accepting his fate.

However, just when Matthew thought Stefan had lost all hope, that carefree look in Stefan's eyes suddenly shattered, replaced by a wave of hatred and resentment so intense it felt almost tangible.

That hatred was not entirely directed at Matthew. Rather, it seemed aimed at some inescapable destiny, or perhaps some high-and-mighty existence.

What made Matthew's heart tighten most of all was that when Stefan looked up at him, his gaze actually held a faint but distinct trace of... pity.

The pity flashed and vanished, yet it pricked Matthew's eyes like an icy needle.

His heart suddenly sank.

Something was wrong—why would Stefan pity him at a time like this? Why would a dying man look at the victor with such an expression?

Matthew quickly suppressed his momentary unease, his mind racing. Stefan's resentment might stem from his anger at being used by the nobles and reduced to an abandoned pawn.

As for that pity... could it be because Matthew was about to touch upon a far greater danger without even realizing it?

Or did Stefan know that even if he revealed everything, he wouldn't escape death, and thus believed Matthew would fall into an even more terrifying situation in the future?

But regardless, he had to get the information.

Aidan's life was still hanging in the balance, and the potion might lead to clues about wizards. This could be a rare opportunity for him on the path of magic.

Even if there was an abyss ahead, he had to see the path clearly first.

“Speak,” Matthew said, putting away all emotion as his voice grew several degrees colder. “Where are the people you kidnapped being kept?”

Stefan didn't seem to expect him to ask this first. He froze for a moment before answering hoarsely, “The... the basement. There's a secret room under this villa... I can lead the way.”

Matthew's eyes remained completely calm.

This answer perfectly aligned with his deductions.

Given how troublesome Class holders could be, it was absolutely impossible to leave them under the watch of ordinary peripheral gang members.

Only this villa, the true core stronghold of the Blood Hand Gang, had enough manpower and defensive strength to suppress and control them.

Concentrating all the “goods” here made management easy, and it also satisfied the yellow-haired youth's likely requirement of “recording data” nearby.

Stefan's honest confession saved Matthew the trouble of forcing it out of him.

He had been prepared to use some extreme measures to make him talk if he tried to hide anything or play tricks.

Now, it seemed the excruciating pain of losing both arms and the fear of impending death were enough to shatter the gang leader's final will to resist. He had chosen the most pragmatic option, which also worked out best for Matthew.

Matthew stared at him and continued his interrogation. “What's the deal with that potion? Who gave it to you? What does it do?”

At the mention of the word “potion,” Stefan's pupils contracted imperceptibly. The hatred toward his fate and the nobles surged once more, only to be forcefully suppressed by the intense pain and weakness. He remained silent for a few seconds, as if struggling, before finally speaking slowly, his tone carrying a weary acceptance of his fate:

“The Blood Hand Gang... is backed by the Peters family on the surface. But two months ago, they introduced someone—a yellow-haired youth.”

He took a breath, the pain from his severed arms making his voice tremble:

“That youth gave us a potion... dark red, in a crystal bottle. He had the ordinary members of our gang test the potion, saying it was to record data... At first, it was only used on ordinary people to observe their reactions. Later... about half a month ago, he began demanding that we capture Class holders, especially those of the Brass Rank, preferably alive.”

“...It's not that I'm refusing to tell you his name, but I really don't know it. He only comes once a week and meets with me alone. Aside from giving orders, he never reveals his background. I only know that he has yellow hair, green eyes, and a cold tone. Even the people of the Peters family treat him with great respect... As for the effects of the potion...”

A lingering fear, mixed with dread and shock, flashed deep within Stefan's eyes:

“You... saw it just now. Drinking it allows a Silver Rank to possess strength close to... the Gold Rank for a short period of time.”

Hearing this, Matthew was somewhat surprised. He asked, “Aren't you the leader of the Blood Hand Gang? You don't even have the right to know his name?”

Stefan looked at Matthew's expression in disbelief. Seeing that Matthew's gaze was calm and devoid of deceit, he realized the other party truly did not know the inner workings.

He let out a miserable laugh, his voice filled with heavy self-deprecation and bitterness as he explained:

“In the eyes of those high-and-mighty nobles, people like us—whether we are gangs struggling in the outer city or seemingly respectable Class holders—as long as we don't have noble blood or that innate status, we are all just on the same level to them. We are nothing but... tools to be used at will and discarded at any time.”

After those words fell, the scene fell completely quiet, with only Stefan's heavy and painful gasps echoing in the air.

Seeing Matthew remain silent, as if terrified that the other party wouldn't believe him, or perhaps because his long-suppressed resentment had finally found an outlet, Stefan eagerly continued speaking, completely ignoring the excruciating pain from his severed arms.

He gasped rapidly, cold sweat pouring down his pale face from the blood loss. Every word he spoke trembled uncontrollably with pain:

“That youth gave us a potion... dark red, in a crystal bottle. He had the ordinary gang members test it, saying it was to 'record data'... At first, it was only used on ordinary people to observe their reactions. Later... about a month ago, he began demanding that we capture Class holders, especially those of the Brass Rank, preferably alive.”

Matthew's gaze suddenly sharpened.

A yellow-haired youth... being able to produce a potion containing mana was definitely not something an ordinary alchemist could do.

Nine times out of ten, it was related to wizards—and this was the first time since he had entered the county seat that he had come so close to a clue related to magic!

Forcing down the shock in his heart, Matthew immediately pressed further:

“What is the background of that yellow-haired youth? What does he look like, what are his habits, and how strong is he? How do you contact him?”

Stefan was already at his last gasp, but upon hearing this question, a strange light suddenly flashed in his eyes—it wasn't hope, but rather an eagerness that was almost malicious glee. He struggled to prop himself up slightly, and his speaking speed increased:

“He... he comes once a week, usually after midnight. He always meets with me alone, asks about the drug trials, and then tells me who to capture for the next stage... I've never seen him fight, but the noble from the Peters family who is responsible for coordinating with him is completely respectful in front of him, even... a bit afraid.”

He coughed up a mouthful of bloody foam, his voice growing softer and softer, yet carrying a strange expectation:

“Yellow hair, one-eyed, and his eye is pale green, completely devoid of warmth when he looks at people... He doesn't speak loudly, but every word sounds like a command. He doesn't wear the kingdom's clothing, and his cuffs have dark patterns that look like some kind of runes... That's all I know.”

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