Chapter 50: Faceless [1]

“I knew you were after the source of my powe,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes.

She smirked few moments afterwards, as if amused by my desperation.

“Foolish human. That safe is protected by triple-layered sealing magic. Touch it, and it will stop your heart instantly. Only someone from the Valstein bloodline can open it—with blood.”

She was enjoying herself now, floating forward with smug certainty.

Her look practically screamed, What could a nobody like you possibly do?

But her smile froze the moment she saw the safe open with a soft click.

“Wait… What—?!”

I shrugged casually. “Wow. Fancy biometric lock. I love a good challenge.”

Her face twisted in disbelief. “How did you…?!”

“That’s a trade secret.”

I slipped the golden rod—nothing more than a plain-looking stick to the untrained eye—back into my pocket.

[Security magic detected. Disengaging now.]

The whisper of ancient runes faded as the sealing circle vanished into harmless mist.

The Echo Rod, a universal key of legends. A tool so rare and so absurdly useful, even most royal vaults couldn’t withstand it.

And now, in my hand, the pure white gem pulsed with energy—cool, silent, and devastatingly beautiful.

As it rested in my palm, I could feel the mana flow around me shift—no longer pulled toward the spirit.

The power that had kept her alive and strong… was now mine.

The Snow Spirit, realizing what’s going to happen next, threw its spear in a futile attempt to stop me, but it was already too late.

The spear left her hand like a streak of glacial lightning.

Too slow.

I clenched my fist around the gem and slammed it against the marble floor.

A hairline crack raced across the crystal with a spider-webbing hiss—then light exploded outward in a silent wave.

Whuuum—

The entire vault lurched as the mana that once fed the Snow Spirit back-lashed.

Frost along the walls flashed to steam. Runes guttered and died.

The spear dissolved into vapor inches from my chest.

The spirit staggered mid-air, transparent edges of her form fraying like paper in fire.

“N-no…”

Her voice, once as clear as winter air, sounded thin—wind howling over distant peaks.

“You severed the pact—!”

“Nothing personal.”

She tried to advance but her silhouette tore apart—snow carried on a draft that no longer existed. One last, almost sorrowful look, and the guardian scattered into motes of ice that winked out before they touched the ground.

Silence.

Cold, but no longer biting.

I let out a shuddering breath, legs quivering now that the adrenaline was ebbing.

Now Time to get that Enhancement Orb from the vault room 99.

I didn’t give myself the luxury of rest.

Even as the last snowflake of her form vanished into nothing, I forced my legs to move.

Each step was a grunt, my limbs sluggish with fading adrenaline and frostbite still nipping at my joints. I had maybe five minutes before the true weight of fatigue dropped me like a sack of bricks. But that was five minutes too long for anyone chasing an artifact.

And I wasn’t the only one in this vault.

Vault Room 99.

The place where they kept the Enhancement Orb—a relic so potent, it could amplify not just weapons or armor, but the wielder’s very soul.

I followed the signs engraved into the inner stone—small, almost invisible glyphs written in Old Varynthian script.

< IX >

< X >

< XIV >

I kept going.

The numbers grew.

My legs didn’t stop.

< LXXIV >

< XC >

< XCIX >

Room 99.

I already have unlocked this door, So there no need to go again with that trouble.

I cracked the door open slowly.

Inside, the orb rested on a pedestal surrounded by floating runes. Light blue energy shimmered in the air like drifting snowflakes. Beautiful. Dangerous..

The Enhancement Orb.

It hovered slightly above its platform, spinning slowly on its axis.

It was smaller than I expected. About the size of a clenched fist, glowing with layered colors—deep violet, sun-gold, and pulsing emerald.

The mana around it felt alive.

Breathing….And now it was mine.

—

Outside the vault

The alarm bell still tolled. Heavy boots thundered through the corridors.

Gareth Valstein—face red with fury—led a knot of armored retainers toward the vault door.

“Open it!” he barked.

Vox fumbled with the dial. The wards, still half-scrambled from the intrusion, sparked and reluctantly disengaged.

CRR-R-RRRK

The door crawled open.

Evreyenon started to head inside.

Vox, beside Gareth, his arms folded, eyes fixed on the sealed entrance to the vault.

“I’m sure everything’s fine, young Master,” he said, trying to sound confident. “With the Snow Spirit guarding the place, what could a petty thief—someone who only knows a few disguises—really do? We’re probably just heading in to scrape a corpse off the floor.”

Gareth didn’t respond right away. He simply nodded once, the barest motion. Silent, unreadable.

Vox had said it like a joke, but he was hoping—praying—it was true.

But something gnawed at him. A deep, unsettled feeling.

Intuition.

He’d learned to trust it. From his days as a nameless foot soldier to his current role guarding one of the most secure locations in the Valstein estate. Monsters, assassins, demonic anomalies—he’d survived all of them not through strength, but instinct.

And right now? That instinct was screaming.

Something’s wrong.

No matter how ridiculous it sounded, no matter how impossible it seemed, this thief wasn’t ordinary.

“Master Gareth,” Vox said quietly, eyes scanning the corridor ahead. “If you run into the Snow Spirit… try to reason with her. Convince her to stand down.”

Gareth’s brow twitched. “Fine. But you’d better be prepared to answer for everything—the break-in, the incompetence, and your tone with nobility.”

Vox gave a slight bow. He had expected that.

This… might be his final mission.

Still, he led the knights forward, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade.

Then—

“Halt.”

Vox raised a hand sharply.

The air had shifted.

A faint breeze rolled out from the vault, oddly warm—tinged with a strange, sweet scent, like the echo of mana from a cracked gem.

And then, footsteps. Calm. Steady.

A lone figure emerged from the shadows of the hallway, brushing frost from his shoulders like it was nothing more than lint.

“Gareth Valstein,” one of the knights murmured in confusion.

But Gareth was standing right there.

The real one.

The one next to Vox.

Both men froze.

Because the man approaching them from the vault looked exactly like the young heir—same coat, same bearing, same expression.

Gareth’s eyes went wide. “What the hell—?”

The fake offered a lazy two-fingered salute. For a split second, the illusion shimmered, a faint glitch rippling across the air around him—like mist caught in a sudden breeze.

And for just a heartbeat, another face flickered through.

My face.

Then the glamour settled again.

Vox’s throat went dry.

His gut was right in the end.

This would be his last mission after all.

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