An organization founded because of the Spark Revolution three years ago, gathering the elites of all the Alliance's auditing organizations.
The Demon Hunter Association, the Red Crusaders, the Holy Order, the Inquisition... the most elite Inspectors were all drawn into its ranks.
And the man before him was one of them.
Adams did not know exactly how much power the Spark-Quenching Society possessed.
He only knew that within the system of the City-State Alliance... the status of an Inspector was transcendent.
Especially in remote city-states like theirs, where the Alliance could not exert direct jurisdiction.
An Inspector was effectively a god.
A single word from them could determine the rise or fall of a city-state.
A single letter from them could mobilize the most elite armies of the Alliance.
As long as they suspected you were guilty, you were guilty.
No evidence was needed; no trial was required.
A glance, a sentence—that was enough to make the City Lord of a city-state tumble from their high position.
They might even vanish from the world entirely.
Adams had seen how the people of the Spark-Quenching Society worked.
There was a City Lord of a true central city-state, one far larger than Whitecliff City.
Because that City Lord was suspected of "secretly funding the rebels," their entire family—young and old—vanished overnight.
The city-state was given a new City Lord, new nobles, and a new knight order.
As for that old City Lord, no one ever spoke their name again.
It was as if they had never existed.
Adams did not dare to think any further.
He lowered his head, staring at the tips of his boots.
A bit of dried mud was stuck to the tip of one boot, stepped on in the garden this morning.
He suddenly felt that bit of mud was an eyesore and wanted to bend down to wipe it off, but he didn't dare to move.
Meanwhile, in the main seat, the man was listening to his subordinate's report.
His fingers were still tapping the armrest.
Once. Twice.
"Send two, get one free..."
He murmured the phrase softly, as if savoring the words.
The tip of his tongue lightly pressed against his palate and then released, making a muffled trailing sound.
Then, he laughed.
The laughter was very faint and low.
But in this silent reception hall, it was exceptionally clear.
"Interesting."
His eyes lit up.
That light was not the shine of an ordinary person's joy.
It was the glimmer of a hunter finding a trace of prey.
It was the glint in a cat's eyes when it sees a mouse poke its head out of a hole.
He had been in Whitecliff City for six months.
For those six months, he had been playing a game.
Raising fish.
He sought out those who were dissatisfied with the nobility, those who held grudges, and those who wanted to resist—finding them one by one.
He gave them hope, gave them faith, and gave them "knowledge."
Then, he watched as they walked step by step into the abyss.
Finally, with a single fire, he burned them all to death.
He had played this game for many years.
He played it in every city-state he visited.
He thought he would keep playing like this until he died.
Until he heard that story.
The story about the "7-Copper Post Office."
A Legendary mage who had fought his way up from the bottom.
A transport team that delivered letters for commoners.
A person determined to break the severing of communication caused by the wilderness.
This story made him tremble with excitement.
He immediately ended the boring game of raising fish he had been playing in Whitecliff City for the past six months.
Because he had a nearly instinctive premonition... that this mage was his true prey.
A big fish.
The biggest fish he could catch in this remote little city-state.
Even if the other party was not technically a target for the Spark-Quenching Society to purge.
But that background, that story... coming from the bottom and working for the benefit of the bottom.
Wasn't this the perfect revolutionary reserve?
The most worthwhile candidate for him to cultivate into a genuine revolutionary.
The man's breathing became a bit more rapid.
His eyes grew even brighter, his pupils dilating slightly, looking like two black holes that could swallow light.
The smile at the corners of his mouth twisted into a nearly frenzied arc.
His hand stopped tapping and gripped the armrest.
His knuckles turned white, and a faint "creak" came from the wooden armrest.
"Mid-tier Legendary..."
He murmured in a low voice, his tone carrying an irrepressible excitement.
"If I can catch him..."
He did not finish his sentence.
But his expression already said everything.
It was an expression of extreme excitement, extreme longing—a nearly pathological look.
Like a collector seeing a long-dreamed-of piece for their collection.
Like a hunter seeing the prey they had tracked for years.
Like a gambler seeing the chip that could let them win it all back.
His body leaned forward slightly, the candlelight reflected in his eyes as if they were burning.
It took quite a while before he slowly calmed down.
He released the armrest and leaned back into the chair.
A few shallow finger indentations were left on the armrest, like a silent mark.
The frenzy on his face receded, returning to that same faint smile.
"Transport team..."
He whispered the phrase, savoring the word.
"Legendary mage..."
He repeated it again.
Then he laughed.
The laughter was faint, as if squeezed from deep in his throat.
"Gah... gah gah..."
It sounded like the cry of an old raven.
The sound echoed in the empty reception hall, carrying an indescribable chill.
The information flooding his mind was like various threads being slowly tied together by him.
A Legendary mage determined to break the communication severed by the wilderness.
An invitation letter from the Embers of Spark delivered to his hands.
A route map so strange it could only serve to highlight the other party's power.
And that story.
The story of "fighting his way up from the bottom."
Every piece of information was like a jigsaw piece.
They continuously became part of the plan about to emerge from within him.
The puzzle pieces rotated and combined in his mind, gradually sketching out a complete outline.
The man's smile deepened.
He tilted his head, looking at the knight kneeling in the center of the hall.
Then he looked at Adams, who sat nearby with his head bowed, not daring to speak.
Then he spoke, his voice very soft:
"It has been a long time... since I contacted them."
He reached out and picked up the cup of tea on the table, which had long since turned stone cold.
He took a sip.
The tea was bitter, carrying a musty taste from being left out too long.
His brow furrowed slightly, and he put it back down.
The tea dregs remaining at the bottom of the cup looked like a patch of black sludge under the candlelight.
"Seven copper coins for a letter..."
He talked to himself, his tone carrying an indescribable meaning.
"In that case, I should take advantage of the deal too."
He looked up at the ceiling.
An oil painting was rendered on the ceiling, depicting a scene of angels descending to the mortal world.
The angel's face flickered in and out of the candlelight, making it look as though it were sneering.
Within those eyes, the light of the candles was reflected.
Like two fires burning.
"After all..."
His voice became even softer, so soft it was nearly audible only to himself.
"I consider myself a member of the bottom too."
As he said this, the curve of his mouth twisted like a snake.
It was as if a serpent's tongue had already felt the temperature of its prey, flickering silently in the darkness.
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