I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 523 523: Where is my Master?

Fire erupted around her in waves of desperation fueled by anger and her refusal to accept that this was the outcome.

ʼWeʼre going to die here. Both of us. Warren and I walked into this thinking we were hunting a talented Soul Warden with an overprotective father. Instead, we found something far worse... A Duke operating without restrictions, someone whoʼs been holding back his entire life and finally has permission to show what he can actually do.ʼ

The realization was cold and merciless, cutting through pain and fear with terrible clarity.

But what she didnʼt realize was that there were no political restrictions for a Kaiser. Especially Alaric. He

ʼThe Council needs to know. Alaric Kaiser isnʼt just strong. Heʼs equal to an Emperor-class minimum, possibly higher. And if we canʼt survive long enough to report back, the entire organization remains ignorant of just how badly our intelligence failed. Theyʼll think Jack Kaiser killed us.ʼ

”Is that all?” Alaric asked, his tone carrying genuine curiosity. ”Three hundred years of hunting Soul Wardens, and this is the best the Council can manage?”

Warrenʼs hands came together, water mana flooding outward in quantities that made the air itself feel wet.

A sphere formed around Alaric, water rising from below and descending from above, creating a prison that trapped him in all three dimensions.

The Water Prison technique.

An advanced binding that required enormous mana and perfect control to maintain.

Once trapped inside, most opponents would drown within seconds as their lungs filled with pressurized liquid.

Mira didnʼt waste the opening.

Fire erupted from her hands, waves of heat washing over the water prisonʼs exterior. The liquid began boiling immediately, temperature spiking from room temperature to near-boiling in seconds.

Steam rose from the sphereʼs surface as Mira poured more power into the attack, turning Warrenʼs prison into a cooking pot designed to boil Alaric alive inside the trap.

The technique was sustained for three seconds. The water maintained its cohesive properties despite exposure to extreme temperatures.

Warren maintained control over the prisonʼs integrity, even as Miraʼs actions posed a significant threat to its complete dissolution.

A singular, precise incision, executed with the black blade, compromised the techniqueʼs structural integrity by severing it under pressurized water.

The prison collapsed instantly, thousands of gallons of superheated liquid falling to the courtyard stone in a wave that spread outward across wet marble. Steam erupted upward in clouds that obscured vision, heat making the air ripple and distort.

When the steam cleared, Alaric stood in the same position, completely dry despite having been submerged in boiling water moments before.

His sword remained clean, the black blade showing no signs of moisture or heat damage.

And his expression carried disappointment that transcended simple boredom into genuine frustration.

”Youʼre supposed to be the Council,” Alaric said quietly, his voice cutting through the silence like a judge reading a final verdict. ”The organization that killed forty-two Soul Wardens. I was told you are the strongest single affinity users to date. This is sad...”

His purple eyes blazed brighter. ”And you canʼt even make me use magic. Iʼm killing you with swordplay alone, and you still canʼt touch me.”

The declaration hung in the air, a sense of impending finality.

Subsequently, a voice, composed and articulate despite the surrounding turmoil, pierced through the prevailing tension.

”Where is my master?”

Everyoneʼs heads snapped toward the source.

A man stood at the courtyardʼs edge, twenty feet to Alaricʼs left and fifteen feet from where Warren and Mira had positioned themselves.

He wore a butlerʼs outfit. A black suit perfectly pressed despite being covered in blood that clearly wasnʼt his own.

The blood painted his clothing from head to toe, the kind that came from several bodies. There was too much blood for it to have come from one person.

Fresh enough that it still dripped from his sleeves and collar, leaving small puddles on wet stone wherever he stood.

His astute gaze, indicative of profound ancient wisdom, surveyed the unfolding scene with detached, analytical interest, rather than any apprehension about the recent violent events.

He held a tangerine in one hand, peeling it with casual precision as if heʼd simply wandered into a tea party rather than an active battlefield.

His fingers moved slowly, removing the skin in a perfect spiral.

S.

The Contract Demon.

The entity that had facilitated Jackʼs agreements with Rhys and thousands of bound creatures across multiple floors.

But seeing him here, now, covered in fresh blood while asking about Jackʼs location with the same tone someone might use to inquire about the weather was frightening.

The disconnect between his casual demeanor and obvious recent violence was profound.

Warrenʼs enhanced perception cataloged details with ruthless efficiency. The blood spray patterns on Sʼs suit showed heʼd been standing close when someoneʼs throat was cut, close enough that arterial spray had painted him from chest to shoulder.

The distribution was too specific to be accidental.

This was the blood of someone S had killed personally.

And he was eating a tangerine.

Peeling fruit while covered in evidence of fresh murder, his red eyes tracking the courtyard with mild interest as if violence was merely background noise to his actual concerns.

Miraʼs fire-enhanced vision picked up additional details that Warrenʼs water-based perception missed.

The way Sʼs red eyes reflected light with internal luminescence that transcended normal human physiology.

The effortless precision of his movements conveyed absolute confidence in his security, despite being outnumbered and encircled by combatants who had recently engaged in high-intensity conflict.

And most disturbing.

The complete absence of fear or concern in his expression.

There was no tension in his shoulders, defensive posturing, or indication that he viewed anyone present as a potential threat worth acknowledging beyond mild curiosity.

S popped a slice of tangerine into his mouth, chewing with evident satisfaction before speaking again.

”I sensed considerable violence through our contract link.” his voice carried the precise diction of someone whoʼd spent centuries perfecting human speech.

”But Jackʼs presence has disappeared from my immediate perception. Hence my question... Where is my master?”

The casual use of ”master” while covered in fresh blood created cognitive dissonance, making Warrenʼs tactical mind struggle to process the disconnect.

Contract demons served their contractors, yes, but the term ”master” suggested submission that didnʼt align with the power radiating from Sʼs presence.

Magnus smiled from the shadows, his yellow eyes gleaming with anticipation. ”Heʼs finally here. This is getting interesting.”

His voice carried across the courtyard despite making no effort to project, and his words reached everyone present with clarity.

Rhys shivered beside him, his winter-ice eyes tracking Sʼs position with instinctive unease.

The Contract Demon had always given him chills.

But more than simple fear, Rhys felt his enhanced perception recoiling from Sʼs presence the same way it struggled with Magnusʼs perfect concealment.

As if the Contract Demon existed slightly out of phase with normal reality, present but fundamentally separate from the physical world in ways that made magical detection unreliable.

Warren and Miraʼs attention is now divided among three threats.

Alaric was directly ahead, his black sword still held casually.

S to their right, blood-covered and eating fruit, like violence was merely background noise. And...