"He failed," Master Feng said, voice low and solemn. "He was supposed to return hours ago... but he didn't. I checked Underground. His life spark is gone."

Mayor Haoran didn't respond. He remained perfectly still, his face unreadable, as if the news didn't concern him. Only his fingers moved—resting lightly on the table, they began tapping in a slow, rhythmic beat.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound echoed across the hall, bouncing softly off the high walls. It lasted for a minute. Then Haoran finally spoke.

"Is that all?" he asked flatly. "What about Belthias' representative for the Exchange?"

"Their mayor isn't coming," Master Feng said. "Understandable, given the recent monster stampede. But he's sent his daughter—Bel. She's being escorted by his personal bodyguard, June. Axton was invited, but declined. The other Headmasters as well."

Haoran's eyes narrowed. "Sending only his daughter. He doesn't take the Exchange seriously."

Master Feng let out a dry chuckle. "That man thinks he's untouchable. If not for the hidden expert, Klown would've razed Belthias to the ground by now."

The mayor's gaze turned back to the window, thoughtful. "And now… he's interfered again. That expert. He must've found our man."

"We think so," Master Feng nodded. "But without access to the Sphere of Memory, we can't confirm how our man died."

Haoran gave a slow nod. Only he could activate the artifact—the Sphere of Memory, a powerful relic that engraved a fragment of a subordinate's soul at the time of their death, capturing their final moments like an echo of the past.

"He had the Ring of Black Water with him," Master Feng added grimly. "A valuable item. We haven't visited the location yet—Belthias is on alert. We believe experts are monitoring that part of the desert."

"If they retrieve that ring…" Haoran muttered, his voice distant.

"They might realize who they're dealing with."

Haoran stood and walked back to the window.

Below, the city pulsed with life.

Vendors called out to passersby. Dancers spun in colorful silks while bards played music that drifted like perfume in the air. Cultivators glided through the skies on flying swords, observing the city's altitude laws. On the ground, ordinary citizens looked up in awe, admiration in their eyes.

But behind that curtain of celebration and culture... Haoran saw shadows. Pressure. The quiet stillness before something terrible.

The sun reflected against his white hair as he narrowed his eyes. "The Ring of Black Water will lose function after one day without Red Energy. They'll have time to examine it, but unless they can replicate Red Energy, it'll be no more than a useless trinket."

The ring was designed with layered safeguards. Only followers of his Master could access its functions. Even if other Devil Cultivators got their hands on it, they'd be locked out, blind to its purpose.

Losing the artifact was a setback—but not a crippling one.

A sting, not a wound.

"Do you think they suspect us?" Master Feng asked, his voice low and cautious.

Haoran turned slowly to face him. "It's possible."

Then, a faint smirk appeared on his lips.

"But who are we? We have the resources. The manpower. This city has stood for centuries—what is Belthias compared to that? A newborn trying to walk among giants. They might have one hidden expert… but we? We have an empire's worth."

Master Feng allowed himself a brief smile—one that didn't last—as a new concern came to mind.

"Two investigators from the Great Serpent Cultivation School remain on this continent," he said grimly. "The rest have returned to the Main. If they come here, they could become a problem."

"Our Lord has already accounted for that," Haoran replied, his voice like cold steel. His gaze sharpened. "Come. Let's review his final memory."

Master Feng gave a deep bow in response. "As you command."

With a flash, the two vanished from the mayor's hall, their figures distorting in the air as they disappeared. They reappeared almost instantly—an afterimage of power—in front of a stone tunnel that sloped into the darkness below.

Their bodies shimmered faintly, traces of movement techniques whispering through the air. Haoran's speed had clearly outclassed Feng's; a Half-Step Soul Manifestation Cultivator could easily outpace a mere Core Creation.

The tunnel stretched far into the earth, cool and silent. At its end stood a massive black door—unnatural in color, its obsidian surface veined with red glyphs that pulsed slowly like a heartbeat. Wisps of black smoke curled from its edges, as though something ancient and volatile slumbered behind it, leaking out with every breath.

Haoran came to a stop and bowed deeply, reverence carved into every line of his face.

Master Feng followed suit, his bow even deeper. If his spine could bend further, he would have knelt flat against the ground—such was the fear and devotion this place inspired.

But this was not the time for ritual.

They straightened and moved forward, passing several sealed doors embedded into the tunnel walls—each humming with silent danger. Eventually, they stopped at an unremarkable door to their right. No runes. No glow. But its material spoke of weight, endurance… and secrecy.

Haoran pushed it open.

The hinges groaned slightly, revealing a chamber cloaked in dimness. The only light came from the centerpiece of the room: a pedestal topped with a pale-blue crystal sphere. It pulsed gently, like a sleeping eye waiting to awaken.

The Sphere of Memory.

Haoran stepped inside. The heavy door shut behind them with a dull thud.

"His name?" Haoran asked without looking back.

"Bai Long," Master Feng answered, a flicker of disdain tugging at his lip. "A name far too noble for that face… or his pathetic cultivation. His parents must've hoped for more."

Haoran gave a short, silent nod. "No matter. He fulfilled his role in the end. Let's see what he saw."

The mayor placed his palm gently atop the sphere. Red energy bled from his hand, quickly engulfing the crystal in a fiery mist. The orb trembled slightly, as if resisting the process, then began to churn and spin.

Smoke and light twisted violently, red against blue, until the crimson mist broke apart in fragments, dissolving into the air like burned paper.

Then, the first sounds filtered in—muffled voices.

The light sharpened. The images stabilized.

From within the Sphere of Memory, a scene began to play, the conversation of two individuals echoing through the chamber. Their voices—once muffled—now rang out with painful clarity.

Haoran and Master Feng leaned in, their expressions darkening as the memory unfolded before them.

And the longer they watched… The heavier the atmosphere became.