CHAPTER 20: SER MODELL

Eren Vale ascended the final steps of the underground alley with calm strides, feeling the humidity finally give way to a drier night air, though still tinged with the stench of smoke, old grease, and sweat that defined Barovik.

Behind him, Kaela was breathing heavily, her broad shoulders rising and falling in controlled movements, while her feline eyes still gleamed with the reflection of the dim light below.

Nyssa was almost glued to his leg, her slightly shimmering goo-like body plopping anxiously with each step, exuding that wet hiss like a frightened child trying to be brave.

He said nothing.

His hands were busy holding bags and bundles: inside them, sealed vials of cheap poisons, two small grimoires of rudimentary spells — likely pirated copies with inaccurate runes — and some pieces of reinforced leather, still dripping from the tannery. Nothing legendary. Nothing epic. But efficient.

Profit margin: 22% over cost. Payment in current currency, accepted at the brothel, in the taverns, even in bribes. Net value above average for the area. Acceptable outcome.

The cold night wind swept across Eren’s sweaty face as he adjusted the load, distributing the weight to not upset his center of gravity.

He watched Kaela carrying a small barrel of oil — bought at a joke price for "emergency fuel."

Nyssa, in turn, kept small vials within her translucent interior, hiding liquid contraband as if she were a living safe.

They stepped onto the main street — if you could call that dirt track, marked by wheel ruts, animal droppings, and dried blood stains a street. The oil lamps flickered on nearly rotten wooden masts, casting elongated, almost living shadows.

The city of Barovik never slept. It was a living, cancerous organism, pulsating with black market, smuggling, prostitution, and violence camouflaged by a veneer of "order" bought at the price of bribery. Eren knew such systems well. They were like rotten servers running improvised patches to avoid crashing completely.

He took a deep breath, cold and calculating, as his eyes scanned the perimeter.

No guards on the west corner. Three beggars leaning, possible lookouts. Women pretending to sell vegetables at two in the morning — mule for transport. Player movement? Low. Many NPCs. Some mercenaries. Medium risk of confrontation. Easy exit to the north.

They walked a few more meters, the sound of boots and plops resonating rhythmically in the tense silence of the early morning. Kaela sniffed the air, agitated, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Nyssa emitted a wet and uncertain sound.

"M-master... someone..."

He had already seen it.

The figure appeared from the shadow as if the scene had rendered on purpose. A tall, thin man, wearing a worn gray coat, with sleeves lined with fox fur. His dark blonde hair was too neat for Barovik — tied in a ponytail with a crafted leather band. On his chest, an iron brooch shaped like a broken wing.

Eren did not stop.

The man smiled without showing teeth, the expression relaxed, almost gentle.

"Mr. Vale, I presume?"

Kaela immediately growled, shifting her weight to her hind legs, like a feline ready to pounce. Nyssa shivered, her body undulating like living jelly about to ooze away.

Eren analyzed the brooch.

Iron Wing. Local dominant faction. Control sales routes, ’official’ security. Recognized guild, but not legitimized. Parasitic system. Criminal organization with the facade of an adventurers’ guild. Local paramilitary force. Expected outcome.

He took a deep breath, eyes narrowed.

"Who’s asking?"

The man laughed with cold politeness.

"Just someone interested in keeping things... friendly."

Kaela growled louder, spitting a single word in her deep voice:

"Ambush?"

Eren did not respond to her. Instead, he slightly turned his head, as if studying the street over his shoulder.

Two men emerged from an alley to the right, holding thick batons. Another, further away, stopped at the entrance of an alley, with a short crossbow resting on his shoulder. More shadows were moving, nothing rushed, just methodical.

Resource allocation. They don’t want an open fight. Prefer intimidation. They won’t kill me here. Want to negotiate. Probably on their territory. More control. Better outcome for them.

The man with the brooch slowly spread his arms, theatrical, as if inviting a hug.

"No need for violence. You are... invited. For a conversation."

Eren inhaled slowly.

"Invited."

"Yes" the man replied, fixed smile. "Our master is curious. You’ve drawn attention. Quite a bit of it."

Kaela clenched her teeth.

"I don’t trust this."

Nyssa whimpered softly:

"A-aren’t we going to... fight?"

Eren finally turned to the two of them. His voice came out dry, cutting, with no patience for pretense.

We’re surrounded. No viable escape route without losses. Even if we kill the two in front, the archer takes down the slime. And if we run, they’ll track us later.

Kaela lowered her ears, muscles tense and trembling with anger.

"I can kill them..."

"No." He raised a finger. "Resource loss. Negative outcome."

He turned back to the Iron Wing man. Adjusted the weight of the bundles in his arms.

Calculated mentally the stocks, the fragile vials, the money kept with the slime. Estimated the cooldown time of the weak abilities Kaela had. Nothing that would change the outcome.

Success curve for combat = 7%. Negotiation curve = 42%, even without advantage. Optimal outcome possible: survival without asset loss.

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

"Take me."

Kaela let out a guttural growl but fell silent. Nyssa leaned against him, trembling.

The Iron Wing man made an almost cordial gesture, turning on his heels to guide them.

Eren took the first step behind him.

If it’s a trap, I’ll analyze on the way. Variables change. Contingencies exist. Better control on enemy ground than dead in the alley.

The shadows closed around them like a cold embrace.

They walked under escort, accompanied by men with batons, short knives, and rustic crossbows — a cordon of improvised but efficient bodyguards, with silent steps that only betrayed constant training. The ground of Barovik squeaked under muddy boots and the night air enveloped them with the acrid mix of wood smoke, burnt grease, and open sewer.

Eren Vale didn’t look to the flanks: he knew counting them wouldn’t change anything. The number was redundant. He wasn’t going to get out of there by brute force.

Kaela kept close behind, her eyes narrowed, fangs slightly bared in a restrained growl. Her muscles were tense, like cords pulled to their limit, trembling with the barely contained urge to leap at someone’s throat. Nyssa, on the other hand, slithered lower, as if wanting to disappear into the ground, her muffled plops growing sharper with pure anxiety.

Eren said nothing to the two. He didn’t tell them to calm down. He didn’t reassure them. He just walked, his gaze cold, measuring every alley, every lamppost, every poorly stitched cloak that might conceal a knife.

Probability of real ambush: 17%. More likely: intimidation theater. They want me alive. Negotiation. Or extortion.

The Iron Wing men led them to the old center of the village, through crooked alleys, past the sunken facade of an old warehouse turned into a criminals’ tavern. They finally reached an ancient stone building, with cracked columns and a crookedly hung metal crest — a partially melted iron wing, symbolizing the guild.

One of the guards pushed the door open, causing the hinges to creak. The thick wood swung violently, spewing a sour smell of burnt candles and old mold. They entered.

The hall was dimly lit, but not empty. Half a dozen armed men were scattered about, conversing in low voices, rolling dice on barrel tops. At the opposite end was a wide chair — almost an improvised throne, covered with a worn-out red fabric. There, reclining as if he were a noble in decline, was he.

Ser Modell.

Long hair pulled back into a ponytail tied with a black silk ribbon — already frayed at the edges. His face was thin and bony, with slightly hollowed cheeks, an aristocratic nose, and thin lips curved in a controlled smile. His eyes were cold, a metallic gray that seemed to examine everything without ever blinking. He wore an old coat, stitched with faded golden threads, open over a dingy white shirt. The boots were recently polished but showed subtle cracks.

When he saw them enter, he raised an eyebrow.

"Mr. Vale. Finally."

Kaela growled loudly, stepping half a step forward. One of the men immediately raised a short crossbow. Eren extended his arm to the side, stopping her.

Disparity of force: evident. Probability of survival in direct attack: 4%.

Modell didn’t rise. Instead, he adjusted his posture with affectation, reclining even more, crossing one leg over the other with rehearsed elegance.

Ser Modell reclined with nonchalance on the improvised throne, legs crossed with rehearsed affectation, long fingers drumming on the worm-eaten arm of the chair in a rhythm that seemed almost like a dance. His long hair was pulled back with a black silk ribbon, now more rumpled than elegant, yet he still made a point of tucking a rebellious strand behind his ear with a calculated gesture.

The gray, cold eyes fixed on Eren Vale with a mix of bored curiosity and controlled disdain.

"Such a good reputation for someone so... filthy" he said with that soft, almost melodious voice, seemingly made for opera stages and not for the mud of Barovik. "They say you’re the different Tamer."

Eren Vale did not blink. The air in the room seemed to thicken as he let the silence stretch, studying Modell as one might analyze an exotic insect trapped in glass.

Eren spoke almost with boredom:

"They say you also prefer soft and tender things."

The whisper swept through the hall like a cold wind. Some men of the Iron Wing swallowed hard, their eyes widening slightly. No one ever talked to Ser Modell like that.

The guild leader kept his smile, but the tension in his fingers betrayed contained anger.

"I like comfort, Tamer. Something savages like you don’t understand."

Eren tilted his head to the side, as if studying a sick animal.

"That explains your scent. It’s very strong. Probably to hide the fear you feel towards your enemies."

One of the guards coughed, his face pale. Another averted his gaze.

Modell clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the smile shrinking to a thin line.

"Watch your words. I’m offering you a graceful way out."

Eren let out a dry sound, almost a humorless laugh. His eyes deliberately traced down the silk ribbon, the worn-out coat of a decadent aristocrat.

"Graceful? Yes, that suits you. Everything about you is quite too graceful. Must have taken a lot of effort to remain so delicate in a place like this."

The word "delicate" hung in the air like a deadly insult. Kaela growled low, not at the enemies, but almost in perverse amusement with the insult.

Modell’s shoulders tensed. He uncrossed his legs in a sharp movement, his fingers tapping harder on the arm of the "throne."

"And you think you’re brave for speaking like that?"

Eren shrugged, almost indifferent.

"Brave are the men who lay with you and live to tell the tale."

One of the younger soldiers paled entirely, eyes wide as if expecting immediate murder. Another cleared his throat nervously, his hand trembling slightly on the hilt of his sword.

Ser Modell did not tolerate anyone insinuating that he lay with men, even if he did.

Modell leaned forward, his cold eyes burning with restrained anger.

"I could have you killed right now."

Eren didn’t move.

"You could. But you won’t."

The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating. Modell seemed to be waging an internal battle between the impulse to order a death right then and the cold reason of someone who knew it wasn’t convenient.

Finally, he exhaled forcefully, his chest rising in a tense movement.

"You have a talent. I acknowledge it. But you have a tongue that will get you killed."

The entire hall held its breath.

Eren maintained a neutral tone.

"Am I bothering you?"

Modell’s smile widened.

"Not just me, but Hagan, for instance. You remember him, don’t you? Big man, big ambitions. And an even bigger anger. He wrote me quite an emotional little letter."

Kaela growled, her breathing heavy. Nyssa cowered behind Eren, the edges of her body trembling.

Modell continued, adjusting a sleeve with theatrical patience.

"He wants your head. Literally. Nicely impaled to send as a memento."

Silence.

Eren raised an eyebrow, humorless.

"Then why am I still in one piece?"

The leader of the Iron Wing wagged his index finger, as if educating a child.

"Because I’m more practical than Hagan. Killing you is easy, but stupid. You are... useful."

Kaela bared her teeth but did not advance.

Modell leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped as if in prayer.

"I’ve seen what you do. You find monsters. It’s not just ordinary capture. You find them. Even the rare ones. That’s not bad luck or fortune. It’s talent."

His eyes gleamed with calculated cynicism.

"I like to be systematic."

Eren didn’t respond immediately. He simply studied every movement — the way the men were distributed in the room, potential blind spots, the sound of wood creaking underfoot.

Modell continued:

"So, here’s my proposal. You work for me. Use that... gift of yours to supply my private army. The brothels, the arenas, whatever. In exchange? You live. You thrive. You might even buy respect."

Eren Vale took a deep breath.

Working for him = slavery. Result: death over a longer period. Guarantee of betrayal. No viable long-term output.

He lifted his chin.

"No."

The silence was almost palpable.

Modell arched his eyebrows, as if genuinely surprised.

"No?"

Eren just looked at him, as if he’d already given the answer.

Modell sighed, uncrossing his legs. He clapped his hands once.

"Very well. Then let’s move to plan B."

He gestured with his thin hand toward Kaela and Nyssa.

"I buy the two of them."

Kaela snorted like a bull, muscles taut. Nyssa whimpered a plaintive plop, melting half her body as if wanting to bury herself.

Eren’s expression didn’t change.

"How much?"

Modell smiled cruelly.

"Generous. Much more than this trash is worth."

"If it were trash, you wouldn’t be trying to buy it."

As he said this, Eren didn’t notice, but the two of them were looking at him with wide eyes. Their expression was a mix of shock, fear, and something worse: doubt.

They wondered if he would really do it.

Eren Vale felt the analysis accelerate in his mind.

Selling = certain death. Iron Wing gains an asset. Hagan gets an indirect victory. I lose control. Zero escape alternative. Result: 0% chance of survival.

He lowered his eyelids for a second.

Refusing = immediate death here. 3% chance of survival if there’s a fight. Result: same as selling.

He took a deep breath.

Better strategy: simulate acceptance. Create opportunity for dispersion. Survival divided into three variables. Expected result: 24% chance of escape for at least one.

"Very well. Enough theater. I’m offering something real. Money. Security. You don’t have to die here."

Eren Vale raised an eyebrow, not even blinking. His voice came out hoarse and unhurried.

"Define "something real.""

Modell opened a satisfied smile, as if regaining control.

"Fifty gold coins for each. A hundred in total. Immediate payment. You leave the two of them with us, and walk away with more wealth than you ever dreamed of seeing in this place."

The muffled murmur of the men around showed the shock. A hundred coins was the kind of sum that could fund a small guild for months.

Kaela growled low, grinding her teeth with an animalistic sound. Nyssa squirmed as if wanting to ooze onto the floor, letting out a stifled plop.

Eren didn’t look at them. He just kept his gaze fixed on Modell, reading every microexpression.

Offering a lot. Hurry to resolve. Afraid of losing the deal. But doesn’t trust me. Needs a show.

He inhaled deeply.

"A hundred gold coins. Payment now."

Modell raised an eyebrow, his smile turning into something colder.

"Now? You want the gold in hand before handing them over?"

Eren shrugged one shoulder.

"Trust is for those with friends. I have clients."

Heavy silence.

The guards exchanged glances, clearly tense. No one talked to Modell that way. Kaela stopped growling, her eyes fixed on the master. Nyssa seemed frozen in time, just vibrating slightly in pure nervousness.

Modell clicked his tongue, not taking his eyes off Eren.

"And if I say I don’t like being pressured?"

Eren responded without hesitation.

"Then find another seller."

One of the Iron Wing men swallowed hard. The atmosphere was cold as a blade against the skin.

Modell took a deep breath. He gripped the arm of the throne until his knuckles turned white.

"You really don’t know who you’re dealing with, do you?"

Eren lifted his chin at a minimal angle, enough to seem disdainful. He then began to think about the lore of that place, about some character named Ser Modell and the Iron Wing guild.

Then he recalled a bit of what the game’s developers wrote about: very little, but enough for Eren to craft a response.

"You’re the bastard son of some fifth-rate family, probably expelled or disowned. Came here and decided you were content to be the king of a barnyard. But you don’t have the stomach for anything beyond theater."

Modell pursed his lips, but Eren didn’t give him time to respond.

"You slaughtered entire families when you took Barovik, because you needed to seem terrifying. You pretend to govern with justice, but in practice, you charge "security fees" not to burn people’s houses. You use brothels to launder money from monster sales. And you sell children to capital traffickers when the guild’s balance is tight."

One of the guards choked in the corner.

Kaela became completely still, feline eyes wide, while Nyssa trembled like jelly exposed to the cold.

"You maintain this decadent opera show — Eren continued, impassive — because you need to convince all these thugs that you’re aristocratic, educated, above them. But you’re nothing more than a pimp with good manners."

Modell was now motionless, his jaw clenched.

Eren tilted his face just enough to raise an eyebrow, thinking about the written plans the developers had for that forgotten character. And the truth was that it was such an insignificant guild that it barely had any information.

"And you are too predictable. Because you don’t stop. You already have plans for the villages to the north. You’ll send your killers. Take over the town hall with bribery or assassination. Replace guards with henchmen. Steal the young daughters for your brothels, sell the boys to slave traders. Because that’s your ceiling."

The air felt heavy, dense, almost suffocating.

"You’ll never go beyond that — Eren hissed, coldly. — A flamboyant thug with a good taste for silk. Capable of massacring defenseless people, but spineless to face a real army. You’re a local parasite. At most, a cancer."

Absolute silence.

One of the guards turned so pale he leaned against the wall for support. Another trembled slightly, gripping his sword too tightly.

Modell was static. His gray eyes burned. His hands trembled slightly on the supports of the improvised throne.

Eren took a deep breath, concluding in an almost didactic tone:

"You are dangerous. But only here. Because outside of this pit, you would be just another fancy clown any general would execute before dinner."

There was a stifled chuckle in a corner — quickly silenced by a furious look from Modell.

He leaned back again, his gray eyes narrowed like blades.

"Very well, Mr. Vale. A hundred coins. You’ll have them now."

Eren didn’t respond. He just let the awkward silence drag on, as if he were contemplating.

Internally, he calculated.

Payment now. Minimal trust. I’ll likely be killed as soon as he takes the monsters. Escape route? Low, but not zero. Better maintain the illusion. Buy time. Break the rhythm.

Finally, he nodded once.

"Great. A hundred coins. Now."

Kaela shivered. Nyssa made a muffled sound like a sob. They both understood what that meant on the surface. That he was selling them.

But Eren didn’t turn to them. Not once.

If I show weakness now, we all die. Better sell the lie. Better trick them first.

Modell snapped his fingers for an aide.

"Bring the chest. Now."

The tension in the air only grew as the man stumbled out, going to fetch the payment.

Eren didn’t relax a muscle.

Kaela widened her eyes. Nyssa emitted a wet, almost hysterical squeal.

Modell clapped his hands with cynical intensity.

"Excellent. I knew you were rational."

Eren raised his hand, coldly.

"But before handing them over to you, I want to talk to them."

The leader of the Iron Wing narrowed his eyes, thoughtful.

"Any problem?"

"These monsters are tied to me. To sell them to you, and for you to have full control over them, I need to give orders, explain the conditions. Make them cooperate."

Silence. Modell analyzed for a moment and then gestured.

"You heard him. Give them space."

The men stepped back a few paces, still armed.

Eren turned to Kaela and Nyssa, his eyes as cold as ever. Then he spoke as low as he could:

"Flee. North. Village of Archenval. Two days from here. I’ll meet you there."

Kaela was trembling.

"You... are you selling us?"

Eren replied almost inaudibly:

"No."

Nyssa was sobbing, her body bubbling with panic.

"B-but what about you?"

Eren took a deep breath.

"Obey. At my signal."

Kaela hesitated, teeth clenched. Nyssa writhed. But in the end, they both nodded.

He turned back to Modell.

Sir Modell breathed carefully, trying to recompose his face into a mask of false tranquility. The corners of his lips still trembled with barely contained rage — Eren could see the jaw muscles twitching every second that passed. Even so, Modell spoke with feigned sweetness:

"Very well, Mr. Vale. Always good to close deals between... rational men."

His voice sounded sweet, almost bored, but with the edge of a hidden blade.

Eren didn’t bother to respond. His eyes only moved to the small iron chest one of the henchmen was bringing. The sound of clinking metal echoed as the man placed it on the floor with excessive care.

"Where is my payment?"

Modell leaned theatrically to unlock the chest. He pulled out a thick, heavy leather sack bulging with minted gold coins — some older, others with scraped crests.

He held it with the tips of his fingers, as if handling a dead snake.

"Here it is. As agreed. A hundred gold coins. Your freedom."

The hall grew tense. The guards scattered against the walls gripped the hilts of crossbows and swords. No one spoke.

The muffled clinking of gold made the torches hiss in their holders, as if the sound of profit ignited the air.

Eren stepped forward. He took the sack without haste. He tilted his wrist slightly to feel the weight, swinging it with a minimal movement. He confirmed the volume, the sound, the density.

Without looking at Modell, he murmured only:

"Done."

With a mental gesture, he made the [Inventory] open with a faint flash in his vision. He tossed the sack of coins inside, where the UI blinked:

[Item Added: Sack of Gold Coins (100)]

The light-blue glow faded. He exhaled.

Liquidity guaranteed. Bribery variable confirmed. Escape route bought. Priority now: end contact.

He raised his gaze back to Sir Modell, who forced a calculated smile, raising his thin hand.

"So, that’s it. A civilized... transaction. Handshake?"

The voice was sweet, but the rage boiled underneath, visible in the gray eyes that seemed like blade slits.

Kaela gritted her teeth, raising her chin in a stifled growl. Nyssa trembled like a liquid pudding.

Eren didn’t move immediately. His dark eyes analyzed him like a scalpel dissects rotten flesh.

He insists. Wants the formality for social control. Mark of victory. Ritual of ownership.

Without saying anything, Eren raised his own hand. The palm was cold, dry, firm.

When the fingers touched, there was a slight snap. Modell squeezed back, forcing the smile.

Eren felt it. A scratch. A tiny prick, like a needle. Something in Modell’s ring. A cold liquid sliding into the minuscule cut.

Immediately, the [System] reacted, the light-blue window appearing with a sharp ping.

[Danger Detected: Poison Injected]

[Poison Resistance: 75%]

[Wolf Blood + Slime Affinity: Partial Immunity Confirmed]

[Current Status: No Adverse Effects]

Eren blinked once. The screen vanished.

He stared at Modell, eyes as empty as cold coal.

"Really?"

Modell raised an eyebrow, the smile still firm. But his fingers trembled.

"Any problem?"

Eren gripped the hand tighter, slowly.

"You don’t know?"

Modell’s face twisted in an involuntary spasm.

Eren didn’t blink.

"Poison doesn’t work on me."

Immediately, Eren crushed Modell’s hand with superhuman strength — lupine strength. The sound was wet, crackling, horrible. The metacarpal broke like dry wood. A high-pitched, animalistic scream echoed through the hall.

Modell squirmed, trying to pull his hand away.

Eren did not let go.

Everyone in the room turned to Eren Vale and Sir Modell.

Kaela growled like a feline, catching the cue. Nyssa vibrated with a wet hiss, eyes wide.

Eren turned his head to the two, his gaze hard as steel.

"Now!"

Kaela shot to the side, muscles releasing like springs. She knocked a man against the torches, which fell, spitting fire onto the stone floor. Nyssa dissolved in panic and instinct, turning into a liquid puddle that slithered into a dark corner, seeping through cracks and drains.

The hall turned to chaos.

Screams.

Crossbows raised, arrows fired blindly.

A man was taken down by Kaela in the corner, exposed bite. Another fell trying to aim at Nyssa, who slipped beneath him with a sickening sound.

Modell screamed in a hysterical shriek, clutching his broken hand to his chest. The tears in his eyes betrayed the pain — and the humiliation.

Eren let go of the destroyed hand like discarding trash.

"Variables in motion."

He turned slowly in the middle of the hall, surrounded by men in shock, screams echoing, the dirty floor catching fire in some spilled oil puddles.

The Iron Wing hall seemed to tremble with Sir Modell’s sharp cry, holding his destroyed hand to his chest, eyes overflowing with hatred.

"KILL HIM! NOW!"

The guild men moved like a poorly coordinated swarm, crossbows raised, knives glinting in the dirty torchlight.

The smell of spilled oil and burning flesh from the fallen torches spread, creating a suffocating veil of common smoke — but insufficient to conceal anything yet.

Eren Vale did not retreat. He did not scream. He did not run.

He spun on his heels like a predator studying the enemy pack. His eyes swept every corner of the hall.

"Ten men. Three with crossbows. Two makeshift archers. Four with short swords. Modell incapacitated but still giving orders. Exit blocked. Certain death in direct combat."

Modell spat orders, his voice broken by sobs of pain and humiliation.

"Seal the exits! Whoever kills him gets rich! SKIN THAT BASTARD!"

Eren analyzed the tone, hysterical, disorganized.

"Fear. Humiliation. Lost control. Soldiers respond with brute force, but without strategy. Exploitable variable."

He reached into the improvised belt, mentally pulling up the [Inventory]. The light-blue flash blinked before his eyes.

[Item: Smoke Bomb (x1)] Retrieved from Inventory.

In his hand, the homemade cylinder trembled with dark liquid visible in the cheap metal seam. He turned the activation ring with a dry click.

The guards paused for a second, stunned.

He threw the bomb forcefully to the ground.

THOOM!

A thick column of black smoke exploded, covering the hall in a second, swallowing the torches, the men, and the walls. The muffled sound of coughing and cursing filled the space, followed by louder screams when the crossbows fired at random, bolts ricocheting off stone and wood.

Modell yelled something, but his voice disappeared amidst the dense whirlwind.

Eren did not stand still.

As the smoke rose, he pulled two small vials from the belt. One was the cheap poison bought on the black market. The other, a leftover of flammable oil he had refused to use before.

He mixed them in a swift gesture, twisting his wrists with precision. The liquid changed color, turning murky, greenish. A pungent, spicy odor spread immediately.

He raised the vial and hurled it to the smoke-soaked floor.

PISHHHH!

The contact with the hot ground of the ignited torches made the compound evaporate into a corrosive, allergic vapor.

The screams changed tone.

"MY EYES!"

"IT’S BURNING!"

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!"

Eren took a deep breath once — the air burned his throat like embers.

[Status: Inhaled Poison. Resistance Applied. Effects Reduced.]

He coughed, feeling his eyes water, but kept his focus.

"Poison resistance: 75%. Minor irritation. Control maintained. Opponents temporarily incapacitated."

Moving with predatory fluidity, he advanced amidst the chaos.

He could see silhouettes stumbling, men dropping weapons to rub their eyes. Modell still screamed, his voice now high-pitched like a slaughtered pig.

"GET HIM! DON’T LET ME... AAAAARGH!"

Eren crossed the hall like a shadow. He pushed a coughing man until he fell to the ground, kicked another in the leg to clear his path. He gained momentum on a low beam and leaped over one of the guards, landing on the other side already running.

The thick smoke swallowed everything behind him.

"Variables neutralized. Exit created."

One last guard raised his sword in the way but was blinded by tears. The strike went awry.

Eren gripped the man’s wrist with lupine strength, twisted until he heard the snap and pushed him into the mist.

Without hesitation, he sprinted down the narrow corridor leading outside.

The cold night wind hit his face like a chilling blessing. He took a deep breath — fresh air, even with the street’s stench.

Behind him, the hall exploded in confused screams, metal falling to the ground, men coughing up blood from their irritated airways.

Eren stopped at the edge of the street illuminated by a flickering lamp. He adjusted the hood over his head.

He glanced one last time over his shoulder.

Thick black smoke billowed out of the guild’s door, carrying with it the hysterical screams of Ser Modell and the frantic curses of soldiers without command.

Without another word, Eren Vale turned and vanished into the night, his boots sinking into the cold mud, disappearing like a ghost among alleys and shadows.

The city of Barovik slept restlessly, not yet realizing that the real monster had just escaped.