Part II, Chapter 11 — The Tribe of the Mark (흉의 일족)
Hueillan — a city infamous for harboring every kind of criminal syndicate imaginable. But even the boldest and most ruthless of them dared not step into the city’s southeastern quarter.
That district belonged to one man.
Yarae-hyang — “The Night Bloom.” They said that the moment you caught the faint scent of his perfume drifting through the night, the shadow of death was already upon you.
He was the one called “Hueillan’s Night,” a name that inspired terror in everyone who lived there. And yet, his residence — the heart of his operations — sat quietly in the middle of a bustling street, indistinguishable from any other house in the district.
Scratch, scratch—
Inside, the only sound was the steady rasp of a quill gliding across paper. Then—
BANG!
The door burst open.
“How about knocking first?”
The man inside, Taihol, spoke in a calm, measured tone — so calm it was hard to believe he was the one who ruled Hueillan’s underworld nights.
The intruder, however, didn’t seem to care about decorum.
“You heard the news? Your little brother came back a while ago.”
Taihol paused mid-sentence, the pen in his hand freezing. He lifted his eyes to see Formant, his old friend and comrade, standing in the doorway.
“And that’s supposed to be… exciting?” Taihol asked dryly. “What, did he bring home a goddess or something?”
The two men had once left Hueillan together, driven by dreams of changing the world. They’d survived storms and blood together — and three years ago, they returned to rebuild their lives.
Formant smirked. He knew exactly what his friend was thinking.
“Not a goddess, no. Though maybe something worse. Let’s just say he brought back… a headache. The biggest one imaginable.”
Taihol frowned. “A bigger headache than a Demon King?”
“Blond hair. Green eyes.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Blond hair, green eyes.”
Taihol’s eyes narrowed. Then—
“…!”
Formant chuckled darkly. “Yeah. He brought a Mervingor. Your brother’s done something monumental — though not in a good way.”
Taihol pressed his lips together, silent.
To outsiders, Hueillan and the name Mervingor had no connection whatsoever. But here, the name still carried immense weight — especially one name: Usden Mervingor.
The world called him the Magus of the Stars. But in Hueillan, they called him something else entirely — Saint of the Stars.
He had once stood at the pinnacle of power, yet had devoted himself to lifting up the poor. He had fought tirelessly to clear the name of the Tribe of the Mark — the people long accused and persecuted as cursed beings.
Under his protection, the Tribe had, for the first time, known peace. For the first time, they had smiled.
But peace didn’t last.
When the Great Demon War broke out and Usden Mervingor fell in battle, everything was overturned.
The world reeled from the war’s devastation, and nations needed scapegoats for their people’s rage. A rumor spread — that during the war, the Tribe of the Mark had secretly taken orders from the demon race.
The rumor snowballed. Soon it became: “The Tribe of the Mark sold human secrets to demons. They caused our defeat. They betrayed us.”
And at last — the cruelest twist — people began to say that it was their betrayal that had led to the Saint of the Stars’ death.
All the fury of the war’s aftermath fell squarely upon the Tribe. They became known as the demons’ pawns — the accursed race who betrayed their savior.
What followed was a purge. A massacre. More than half their people were slaughtered.
“If it was always going to end this way... I should’ve turned away. Pretended not to see.”
Decades passed. Those born under Usden’s protection were long gone, replaced by generations who knew only oppression and hate. Naturally, resentment toward the Mervingor family grew — and what had once been gratitude turned to venom.
Now, of all things, Mord — Taihol’s brother — had brought a Mervingor here, to Hueillan itself.
The weight of that act was beyond measure.
Formant exhaled softly. “And to make things worse — your son tried to rob him. Got caught, apparently. He’s been dragged to the village chief’s house.”
Elric’s would-be pickpocket, then, was none other than Taihol’s own son.
“My boy…” Taihol muttered.
His son, Zen — born of two bloodlines. Half from the Tribe of the Mark, half from ordinary humans. A child of both the oppressed and the oppressors — and thus, truly belonging to neither.
In Hueillan, that made him an outcast. He couldn’t even walk the streets freely.
Taihol sighed deeply.
“You know what I envy about you, old friend?”
Formant raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“That you never had children.” Taihol gave a humorless smile. “Raising one is the hardest thing in the world.”
Formant chuckled. “Regretting it already?”
“Don’t start. You know I’d never regret her. She was my everything.”
Taihol’s smile softened with melancholy. “If I were going to regret anything, I’d have done it long ago. And if I do — I’ll do it after the Empire burns.”
He rose, fastening his coat with grim resolve.
“Our comrades?” Formant asked.
“Leave them. Even if it’s the Saint’s descendant, they won’t harm a child.”
Formant’s grin was sharp. “He’s a Mervingor.”
“….”
A long, heavy silence.
Then — a faint smile.
“Still,” Formant said, “you’re not just going to walk in, are you?”
“No. Call the others — just in case.”
“Good. Then I’ll take the lead.”
As they stepped out, the letter on Taihol’s desk fluttered in the wind.
“Regarding the Sixth Proposal for Revolutionary Uprising: While I am in full agreement with the core plan you presented, I must insist that—”
It ended with a final plea:
“…and so I ask that your reinforcements be prepared to cross the border, ensuring the revolution spreads swiftly throughout the Empire.”
Sender: Taihol
Recipient: Commander of the Second Corps, Revolutionary Army
The reception hall was quiet, sunlight filtering through the paper blinds.
Elric sat there, staring incredulously at the old man before him, a cup of untouched tea cooling on the table.
The elder smiled. “Not to your taste? It’s a rare blend, imported from the East.”
[You know him?] Mephisto’s voice stirred within.
[Of course I do,] Elric replied, frowning. [And I don’t mean ‘vaguely.’]
[Either you know him or you don’t. Which is it?]
[You really have no tact, do you, Mephisto? Anyway—this old man was our family’s last sponsor.]
[Sponsor? Since when does a Mervingor need sponsors?]
Before Mephisto could press further, the old man gently set down his cup.
“It warms this old man’s heart to see you grown so splendidly. Your father and mother would be proud.”
Elric’s voice was cool. “They’d be even more shocked to learn that the head of the Rhine River Union was one of the Tribe of the Mark.”
The elder chuckled bitterly and bowed his head.
“My apologies, Lord Elric. Deceiving you was never my intent.”
The sincerity in his tone caught Elric off guard. He couldn’t even be angry anymore.
“…No. I understand. You had to hide it — for survival’s sake.”
The man before him was Trang, Grand Master of the Rhine River Union — one of the Empire’s Five Great Merchant Guilds, and among the wealthiest men on the continent.
Even after House Mervingor’s fall, he had continued to support them for years in secret.
So that’s why he never used a surname… I thought it was humility, but he was hiding his blood.
Few could have guessed that Trang — pillar of imperial commerce, financier of the crown — was in truth one of the Tribe of the Mark.
In a way, it made sense. Rumor had long held that the Tribe had gone underground, building vast trade networks across the continent. Now Elric understood who led them.
“You’ve lived a dangerous life,” he said quietly. “A spy in the heart of the enemy.”
Trang sighed. “I only did what I had to — to keep my people alive.”
He hesitated, then bowed again. “Forgive me, for how I left you and Lady Hayes behind back then.”
Elric shook his head. “No need. I know whose orders you were following — the Emperor’s.”
Trang’s eyes glimmered with pride. “Still as perceptive as ever. You’ve grown truly remarkable, Lord Elric.”
“Flattery won’t work,” Elric said, waving a hand. “I’m not here to discuss politics. And I don’t intend to turn against the Crown — not yet. I’m even on good terms with one of the likely successors.”
Trang’s smile deepened. “Then I needn’t worry about your safety, at least.”
Elric cleared his throat. “Anyway… I want to know why a man like you — the master of one of the Five Great Guilds — needs my help.”
“Ah,” Trang nodded. “Then I should explain—”
He never finished.
Swish—
Elric’s expression changed in an instant. His eyes sharpened.
Trang blinked. “Is something wrong?”
“Let’s catch the rat first,” Elric muttered.
He leapt toward the door and shouted the incantation:
“【Break—and bind!】”
BOOOOM!
The wall exploded, shards of frost flying as an icy gale tore through the room. Elric felt the pulse of foreign mana beyond the smoke.
“The Inspection Bureau…” he hissed. “So those bastards couldn’t wait, huh? Already sniffing around.”
His eyes glowed cold as ice.
The Magician Who Devoured Talent.