Crouching high on a slate rooftop, a cloaked figure huddled behind a soot-stained chimney. He carefully peeked over the stone ledge, his gaze cast downward toward the bustling thoroughfare, locked intently on the armory’s entrance.

Ulrich had just entered the shop with his entourage, but moments later, he had stepped back out alone. Then, for some inexplicable reason, he had simply vanished into a narrow street.

The spy had completely lost his track.

"Damn it... where did he go?" He muttered to himself, scanning the sea of heads below.

He hesitated, torn between holding his vantage point to see if Ulrich would reappear or descending to chase after him. Already, cold sweat was beading at his temples. Earlier, when Ulrich had abruptly stopped in the street and cast that piercing gaze up toward the roof, it was as if the man had seen right through the shadows. The memory of those dark eyes sent a sharp, icy chill racing down the spy’s spine.

Was it just a coincidence?

He had heard the rumors that Ulrich Van Rubenhart was a dangerous and frightening man, much like his infamous father. But seeing him in person, even from a safe distance, the spy had felt some inexplicable aura of danger radiating from the noble.

"I should just leave..." He whispered, suddenly feeling as though he were playing with a very dangerous fire.

Convinced it was time to retreat, he turned around to slip away and froze instantly.

A pair of cold, blood-red eyes stared back at him from the shadows of the roof.

Before the spy could even flinch, a hand shot out like a striking viper. Iron-hard fingers clamped mercilessly around his throat, slamming him violently backward against the rough brick of the chimney.

"Guhh!" The man choked, the breath instantly crushed from his lungs as Ulrich’s grip tightened. His face rapidly bloomed a mottled, purplish red, veins protruding against his skin as his eyes bulged in panic.

He clawed at Ulrich’s arm, but his strikes did nothing against Ulrich’s arm.

Ulrich simply stared at him, his expression entirely devoid of emotion.

"Who are you?" Ulrich asked, loosening his grip just a fraction of an inch to allow the man to speak.

The spy gasped, greedily sucking in a ragged breath before sputtering out his answer. "B—Ben!"

"Do I look as though I care about your name?" Ulrich asked, quietly. "Who are you working for, and why were you watching me?"

Ben hesitated for a brief, terrible second. It proved to be a nearly fatal mistake as Ulrich immediately tightened his iron grip against Ben’s already bruised throat.

"Would you leave him alone, Count Rubenhart?"

Suddenly, a voice echoed from the shadows behind them.

Ulrich paused. He loosened his grip slightly and turned his head. Without a sound, he found himself surrounded. Ten figures had materialized across the slanted rooftop, all draped in dark cloaks, their faces concealed by hoods and black cloth masks.

Looking at them, Ulrich finally understood exactly who was hunting him.

In the original novel, there existed a peculiar organization of assassins known as Libra. They worshipped a pagan Goddess named Andrusia, working much like a religious cult, though their methods and structure were perhaps too sophisticated to be dismissed as simple fanaticism.

Their objective was clear: to eliminate anyone who threatened the peace of the world.

Unfortunately, while their mission sounded noble on the surface, the reality was far more twisted. Libra adhered strictly to their own unique dogma, dictating their own warped perspectives on what constituted good and evil. To call them an organization of anti-heroes bordering on pure villainy was not at all far-fetched.

"Libra," Ulrich muttered, releasing Ben at last.

The man collapsed to his knees at once, coughing as he clutched his reddened throat, dragging in ragged and pained breaths.

The woman standing at the front, her features almost concealed beneath her hood and veil, smiled faintly.

"Count Rubenhart," she said, "always resolving everything through violence. I suppose that is something you inherited from your father."

"The scum of Libra seem rather ignorant of the meaning of hypocrisy," Ulrich replied with open disdain, already drawing the newly acquired sword from his belt.

"You are a dangerous man, Count Rubenhart," the woman said, her voice lowering into something colder. "You reek of evil."

"So you came here to eliminate me," Ulrich said, even as his mind rapidly searched through the fragments of the novel he remembered.

If Libra had truly attacked Ulrich at some point, then he must have escaped their grasp. After all, he had survived long enough to meet his end later at Airam’s hands.

"That would certainly be one answer," the woman replied with a quiet chuckle. "However, you are ridding the world of those vile creatures born of Witches. For that alone, our Goddess Andrusia may spare you for the moment, for the sake of peace."

"I could not care less for the thoughts of your savage goddess," Ulrich answered coldly, his sword now fully unsheathed.

"For the respect I bear your father, I will overlook that insult," she said instead.

Respect.

It was likely because Ulrich’s father had hunted Witches more relentlessly than any other man, slaughtering them without hesitation. Since Witches were equally abhorred by Libra, that alone might explain it. Yet Ulrich could not shake the feeling that there was something more behind those words.

At present, however, that was not what mattered.

He had to verify something before.

"That spy," Ulrich said at last, lowering the tip of his sword toward Ben’s chest, "am I to assume he was not sent merely to watch me?"

His voice had turned deathly cold.

The woman’s lips curled upward.

"The daughters of Anna-Maria—"

SPURT!

Before she could even finish the sentence, Ulrich’s blade drove straight through Ben’s chest.

The man died instantly.

For a split second, silence hung over the rooftop.

Then every cloaked figure tensed at once, their bodies straightening, their hands shifting toward their hidden weapons, ready to strike at any moment.

The woman fell silent, staring into Ulrich’s blood-red eyes.

They had turned even colder than before, stripped now of even the faintest trace of restraint.

"Such terrifying eyes," she smiled wider.