Temple of the Demon Lord of Wishes

Chapter 40 Underground Hassle

"Uncle, is that Reality Master—I mean, the Spirit with Good Luck—really strong?"

Reves asked, his eyes wide with curiosity. If this were a storybook, there'd be sparkles dancing in them.

Ivaim smirked, leaning against the counter as if settling in for a good story.

"Do you think being strong is what makes someone great?" he countered, arching a brow.

Reves tilted his head, considering the question.

"Well... yeah, kind of? You can't be great if you're weak, right?"

Ivaim chuckled, a low, knowing sound.

"The Reality Master we serve is more than strong," he said, his tone carrying a weight that made Reves lean in closer.

"He can never be killed."

Reves gasped, his face lighting up with awe. "Whoa! So he's immortal?"

A sly grin tugged at the corner of Ivaim's lips.

'No, it's because he's a cockroach with way too much luck. The kind that always slips away at the last second'

He thought, biting back the urge to say it aloud. Instead, he simply smiled at Reves, letting the boy's imagination run wild.

"So," Ivaim said, steering the conversation, "what brings you here anyway? What kind of 'private' goods is your father trading downstairs?"

His tone was light, but there was a flicker of genuine curiosity behind his words.

'Hopefully, it's nothing that would get me tangled up in something illegal,' he added silently.

Reves shrugged, looking unsure.

"I don't really know. Father said the times are getting more dangerous, and now I'm not allowed to go anywhere more than twenty meters from him. Apparently, I have to stick to him like glue until he finds 'trustworthy bodyguards.'"

Ivaim raised an eyebrow.

"Trustworthy bodyguards? Sounds serious. What's he so worried about?"

Reves hesitated, biting his lip.

"Stay here. Don't move."

Without hesitation, Ivaim moved swiftly toward the door, descending the creaking staircase. The air grew heavier with every step, thick with tension and the sharp, acrid scent of smoke mixed with something metallic. His pulse quickened, but he kept his mind steady.

At the bottom of the stairs, a dimly lit basement came into view. Dust swirled in the weak light that filtered through cracks in the ceiling.

Broken shelves lay toppled, their contents scattered across the floor like forgotten relics. In the center of the chaos stood Harvin, coughing and swatting at the dust cloud around him.

"What the hell happened here?" Ivaim demanded, his voice cutting through the uneasy quiet as his sharp eyes swept the room.

Harvin turned, his face flushed with anger and frustration.

"You shouldn't be here, kid. Go back upstairs. Better yet, take that man's son and get as far away from this building as you can. Two blocks, minimum."

Ivaim's brow furrowed, his stance unmoving.

"I'm not going anywhere. What's going on?"

Before Harvin could respond, the tall, stern man—Nathan—spoke up, his voice calm but laced with irritation.

"Harvin is overreacting. This situation is under control."

"Under control?" Harvin snapped, his glare fierce. "You've practically declared war on the other Nine Thrones, and you think this is under control?"

Ivaim's eyes narrowed, his curiosity sharpening.

"Other Nine Thrones?"

Harvin shot Ivaim a warning glance but continued, his frustration spilling over.

"Nathan here seems to think he can shield himself—and his son—from the other Throne Holders wrath just because he's got our Master's protection."

Nathan's jaw tightened. "I'm not just thinking it—I know it. Our Master has ensured my safety."

"Your safety, sure," Harvin said, his tone biting.

"But what about your son? The other Thrones won't play nice just because you're under our Master's wing. Reves is still vulnerable, and you know it."

Nathan's expression remained stoic, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—doubt, perhaps, or guilt.

"Reves will be fine."