After Alaric disappeared from the cathedral, he reappeared atop the bell tower, where he often meditated alone—above the world, beneath the sky.
He lowered his hood.
A wide smile stretched across his face.
He inhaled deeply, spreading his arms.
He felt great.
Which, under normal human morality, he shouldn't.
He had just driven a man to wish he'd never been born.
And yet, he couldn't help it.
He had just seized three hundred trillion gold coins.
More importantly—he had proven his theory.
His claim about perceiving the Soul Mark wasn't empty bluster.
He really could sense it. Not like a [Rank 7], not in absolute clarity—but subtly. Faintly. Like distant thunder. So he couldn't discerne if it was faint or his senses didn't manage get the full picture.
But he pushed harder. His inner Dora the explorer rising like a tide.
