Date: Unspecified
Ti: Unspecified
Location: Myriad Realms, Card World, Southern Region, Blossom District, Three Mischief Encampnt
"Huh?"
Before a decisive battle, the mind doesn’t go quiet—it sharpens. So say that in that split second, thoughts of ho, family, or purpose flash by. Not drawn-out reflections, just brief, cutting sparks. Enough to remind you why you’re still standing there instead of turning and running, abandoning pride and reason alike.
For Peyote, it was purpose that surfaced. It steadied him, cutting through the fear, bringing a cold clarity shaped by everything that had led him here—and everything he still hoped to gain from it.
But that clarity faltered the mont Maestro Matteo fixed his gaze on him instead of the native demon rchant and demanded answers about his disciple.
Peyote froze. For a brief mont, he had no idea what was happening. The last he had seen of Konjur, the man had been retreating, with Peyote himself fleeing the aftermath of that black orb of Breath of Erosion that had torn through his Sandalphon manifestation.
What happened after that, he didn’t know.
If he had to guess, he would have said the native demon rchant had finished Konjur off with that sa black orb of Breath of Erosion.
What unsettled him was this—why was Maestro Matteo questioning him? Shouldn’t he be directing that at the native demon rchant? And why ask at all? With faith at his command and his divination skills, shouldn’t he already know what had transpired?
Sothing wasn’t adding up.
Confused, Peyote glanced around—only to find the native demon rchant and his subordinates gone. Completely gone. Monts ago, they had been here, even interfering with his link to the Devil rchant Code, blocking his escape. And now... nothing, no trace. Just the half-dead, unconscious mber of the Faith Order left beside him.
That was all it took.
In the span of a heartbeat, the pieces fell into place. He had been set up. He could help but feel used. Left holding the scene like a willing scapegoat. Peyote’s eyes widened in horror—though, despite himself, a part of him couldn’t help but admire the move.
It was clean and ruthless. He couldn’t even bring himself to bla the native demon rchant.
Peyote ntally reached for his devil codex, attempting to trigger the inter-realm transportation function and escape. But it didn’t respond as before he had that idea, the world twisted—space folded in on itself and before long he was dragged into a divine dominion. The pressure that followed was suffocating, absolute. At its center stood Maestro Matteo, his gaze locked onto Peyote, fury barely restrained beneath a rigid calm.
"I will ask you one last ti," Matteo said, each word weighed with a sharp killing intent. "Where is my disciple Konjur? What did you do to him? Is he still alive?"
Maestro Matteo’s restraint so far ca from his concern for his beloved disciple. Even though the disciple’s soul candle in the Faith Order’s headquarters had gone out, he could not bring himself to believe the boy was dead. The soul candle was not foolproof, and when even his divination, reinforced by faith, failed to show what had truly happened, his conviction only deepened—the boy might still be alive, sowhere beyond his reach.
So he sought out the last person seen with his disciple, holding his anger in check to learn where the boy was or what fate had befallen him. Securing his disciple ca first. Punishnt could wait. With his divination skills and faith, none who deserved it could escape him—not even if they fled to the farthest edge of the myriad realms.
"..." Peyote stared at the old snow goblin, his expression twisting with barely contained disgust. He could not believe that, after climbing so far, he still felt like that sa helpless little Cacteye before this wretched old man—the one who had his tribe slaughtered over a re rejection.
How dare soone from an inferior race like the Snow Goblins look down on them? The Cacteye were the fearless warriors of the desert, hardened beneath the burning sun at the foot of the Shrouded Hills.
Snow Goblins were counted among the inferior and lesser races of the Dark Races. Regular goblins had once enslaved them, drawn by their resemblance to snow elves and their high fertility. The race would have been wiped out long ago if they had not turned to the Dark Cults and clawed their way to freedom.
At that mont, Peyote decided to gamble. He had no idea whether he would make this out alive, but if he did, he refused to ever feel this helpless and pathetic again. So, even if this was the last thing he did, he would use everything in his power to win the trust of the native demon rchant and secure a reference to join one of the top three ruler-class factions of the Myriad Realms.
Having seen how the native demon rchant operated so far, Peyote knew earning his reference would not be easy. Still, he was willing to bend, even settle for serving as his subordinate for now. Either way, he would join the Librarian’s faction, climb its ranks, and never—never—feel this helpless and pathetic again.
"Good question," Peyote said, grabbing the unconscious cult mber at his side. Then he added, almost casually, "As a reward, I’ll tell you this—he’s alive, but no better off than him."
Maestro Matteo frowned. His faith offered no guidance; it could not tell whether Peyote spoke the truth or fed him a lie. What he failed to realize was that the one standing before him was not rely a devil rchant, but the bearer of the Commandnt of False Witness. If Matteo could catch him in a lie, Peyote would never have earned that title—Commandnt of False Witness, the deceitful devil, Peyote Pals.
Still, deep in his heart, a sliver of hope stirred within Maestro Matteo. He did not let it cloud his judgnt, nor did he allow it to show on his face.
"What am I supposed to make of this? You have a death wish, is that it?"
"Think whatever you like," Peyote replied. "But if you ever want to see your beloved disciple alive, I want ten World Will Fragnts—and I want you to personally visit my tribe’s mass grave and apologize for having them slaughtered."
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