"Sir, do you need a white glove?"

"No, thank you."

The waiter inclined his head respectfully, stepping away with his polished tray.

There is a restaurant frequented by the nobility; the air was thick with luxury. These gilded halls were a playground for the elite and a hunting ground for waiters eager to earn a quick fortune. For instance, a white glove fashioned from mousse could fetch thirty times its market price here if one of these aristocrats so desired.

A man in a sleek black coat and a fine English hat watched the waiter leave, his fingers itching for a cigarette—a craving unfulfilled in smoke-free. Those yellowed fingers formed a quiet, two-word gesture as he spoke with a smirk and a hint of tobacco-laden rasp.

"Mrs. West, if you want me to do this job, it'll cost no less than two hundred gold coins."

Across from him sat a striking woman, Mrs. West. Her satin gown clung to her form, accentuating a graceful, aristocratic poise that belied her marital status. A gold badge on her chest gleamed, adorned with a golden eagle—beak razor-sharp, wings spread majestically. The intricate eyes of the eagle symbolized the legacy of the West family, a proud lineage of blue-blooded nobility.

"Mr. Richardson, I swear on the honor of the golden eagle that once you deliver what we seek, I’ll compensate you generously."

Relieved by her promise, Richardson, an infamous bounty hunter, felt the tension ease from his shoulders. Noble promises were delicate as glass; the real danger lay not in broken words but in the swift, silent retribution that often followed. Yet, for the West family—one of the six blue-blooded noble houses in Lucifer VI’s empire—a promise sealed with the family emblem was not made lightly.

These nobles ruled over ninety percent of the empire’s wealth, rivaled only by the royal family itself. Among them, the West family held a place of particular distinction, led by the Duke of Golden Eagle, a rumored high-ranking supernatural.

Supernatural beings were as prevalent as rumors in this land, with gods, churches, and ancient orders all vying for influence. Richardson, a third-tier searcher devoted to the ancient gods, knew well the allure of power. Mrs. West’s desperation, her willingness to deal with someone like him, was tied to a scandal that had rocked the West family just a fortnight ago.

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The Duke, a man of legendary ferocity, had six wives, five sons, and three daughters. Yet the affair between the son of his third wife and his sixth wife had set the imperial capital ablaze with whispers. Enraged, the Duke had banished the third son to a distant outpost and stripped the sixth wife of her noble title, reducing her to servitude.

But the repercussions went further. The third wife and her younger son, the Duke’s youngest, had been cast aside—an action Mrs. West sought to reverse. She needed Richardson to retrieve a Saint Crystal, a rare artifact that could secure her son’s place within the family by enhancing his chances at the imminent initiation ceremony.

Only noble children could attempt this ceremony, an awakening of their bloodline’s supernatural gifts. Failure meant permanent exile from the family’s favor. Those who failed became pawns in marriage or invisible figures, stripped of their legacy.

"Fear not, madam. I’ll bring the Saint Crystal for Master Charles."

After a respectful kiss to her hand, Richardson turned, tugging his coat tightly about him. Time was short. If he failed, the elegant Mrs. West he knew might very well be the last thing he ever saw.

As he left, Mrs. West’s gaze grew colder.

At a nearby table, a young man with piercing blue eyes and raven-black hair rose, moving to her side. He was Charles West, slender and aristocratic, with lashes that cast delicate shadows over his sapphire eyes—eyes that shimmered with an almost supernatural intensity.

"You did well. Take your reward and go."

With Charles’ words, the woman trembled, then transformed before him. Her grace and beauty vanished, revealing a frail old woman. She accepted a silver coin from him, unpinned the golden eagle badge, and slipped from grand halls in haste.

This woman wasn’t Mrs. West; she was a hired actor, a low-tier superhuman with a knack for disguise—a ruse Charles had orchestrated perfectly.

Richardson, the bounty hunter, was a known skeptic when it came to him, a child with little to no resources. But a Duchess? That carried weight. Still, Charles had once hoped for his mother’s attention, a hope long abandoned. She had favored his older brother since he could remember, pouring her ambitions into him while Charles, her second son, received only indifference.

Now his brother lived in exile, and her influence had dwindled in scandal. With other nobles and factions closing in, Charles could only rely on himself.

"Sir, do you need a white glove?"

The waiter had returned, seeing that the table had changed hands. Charles chuckled, taking a white glove from the tray. Wearing it was a basic courtesy of his noble upbringing. Placing a coin onto the waiter’s tray, he flashed a steely smile.

The game had just begun.