After handing the mail, the trio set up camp in the dumbest way possible.

Their "lookout base" was basically a pile of crates stacked unevenly behind a bush.

Ahrie lounged on one with his arms crossed, Min was munching stale bread, and Charlotte had her hands together like she was praying this wouldn't backfire.

They watched the grassy drop-off point in silence, waiting for movement.

Meanwhile, across Glimmerfen—

"Excuse me, Mistress," a maid said, bowing slightly. "There's… a letter for you."

The Lady of House Mossveil raised an eyebrow. "A letter? At this hour?"

She took it, studying the rough paper and uneven handwriting. No seal, no symbol.

She tore it open—

And froze.

A voice spilled out from the parchment. Her voice.

The same words she spoke to the hooded man earlier—echoing through her room, cold and undeniable.

Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the rest of the letter.

I am the Collector of Screams. I collected some fun things from your estate… how fun. Pay me if you don't want this to spread.

The paper slipped from her hands.

Her face went pale.

"H-how… w-when…" she stuttered, breath shaking.

She turned sharply to her butler. "Get me money. Now. As much as you can carry!"

The butler blinked. "M-Milady?"

"NOW!" she screamed, grabbing his collar with trembling hands.

He scurried off.

The Lady of Mossveil stood there, clutching her chest, eyes darting toward the window—toward the city that suddenly didn't feel safe anymore.

The elder from House Thornmere sat slouched on his velvet chair, a cup of wine trembling slightly in his wrinkled hand.

A servant entered quietly. "Sir, a letter arrived for you."

He raised an eyebrow, grunted, and took it without care. The handwriting was crude, but curiosity tugged at him.

He broke the seal—

And froze when a familiar sound filled the air.

The desperate voice of the young servant he'd been harassing echoed through the hall like a ghost crawling out of the walls.

His hand twitched. His jaw tightened.

The knight standing nearby glanced around, unsettled. "Sir… what is that—?"

RIIIP.

The old man tore the letter clean in half, then again, then again, shredding it into tiny pieces until the floor was littered with scraps.

He stood up, breathing heavily, red in the face.

"Sir?" the knight asked cautiously.

"Don't mind it," the elder said coldly, brushing the pieces off his table as if the sound hadn't just branded itself into the air.

He took another long sip of wine.

"Just… a prank."

The knight didn't believe him. But he didn't say a word.

The patriarch of House Virelth scowled as he unfolded the letter. He didn't do drama — his answer was a low, tired snap of annoyance.

"Ughh… headache," he grunted, rubbing his temple. He glanced up at the knight bowed before him. "Give them the money. Make it quick."

The knight hesitated. "Sire—"

"Ready the men," the patriarch cut in, voice gone cold. "Prepare an ambush. Whoever shows up at those coordinates gets taken for everything they're worth."

"Yes, sir." The knight's face tightened as he turned to obey.

The patriarch folded the torn edge of the letter, lips pressed. "And find out who that Collector is. I want names. Bring me their heads if you have to."

Ahrie, Min, and Charlotte were getting bored by the minute.

It was already night. The wind felt sharp, biting at their fingers as they sat still in the dark.

"Fuck… where are they…" Ahrie muttered, rubbing his arms.

They couldn't light a fire—one spark and they'd be spotted. So they just sat there, wrapped in the dark, letting the sound of crickets and distant wind fill the silence.

Then—

A sound. Soft, cautious footsteps.

From the shadows, a hooded figure approached the drop site. He glanced around once, twice, then tossed a small sack onto the ground. The dull clink of coins echoed through the night before he scurried off.

"Ohh… one of them paid up," Ahrie whispered, eyes glinting.

"We should see who it is—" Min started, but Ahrie grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down.

"Shhhh…"

Moments later, more sounds. Branches shifting. Metal brushing against metal.

Shapes started showing up around the clearing. Men. Armor faintly catches light from the moon.

Another knight came out and dropped a second sack beside the first one. He turned and started to leave—then quietly joined the ones hiding.

"Bro thought he was sleek…" Ahrie grinned.

"I know right…" Min almost burst out laughing.

"Ohh, I've got a plan." Ahrie crouched lower, smirking.

"Charlotte, can you record my voice and amp it up when you release it?"

"Yeah, sure," she replied.

She raised her hand.

[Shhh—it's Recording!]

A faint gust of air pulled Ahrie's voice in. She sealed it in a small vial and handed it over, smiling.

"Give me some random ones too," Ahrie said.

Charlotte passed him a few bottles filled with muffled screams.

Ahrie pocketed some and tossed the rest to Min.

"When I give the signal, okay?"

"Got it," Min nodded.

Ahrie covered himself with dirt and branches, blending with the grass.

Then, he slowly stood up—

limping, dragging his leg, twitching like something wasn't right.

The knights spotted him.

Hands went to hilts. Armor shifted.

Ahrie kept walking… crooked, slow, almost zombie-like.

The whole squad of knights froze as Ahrie limped closer.

Their armor rattled. One reached for his sword. Another whispered a prayer.

Ahrie stopped right by the coins.

He tilted his head—slowly—toward where the knights hid.

The motion cracked like a bone popping out of place.

Then—snap!

He crushed the vial in his hand.

A screech tore through the area

It wasn't human.

It wasn't an animal.

But a monster.

The sound clawed through the air, twisting in every direction.

Ahrie stumbled, shaking as if the noise came from deep inside him—

technically, it did—but Charlotte's amplification turned it monstrous.

Before the knights could react, Min hurled his handful of bottles.

They shattered midair—

Shriek. Roar. Wail.

Each one is more horrible than the last.

Those weak-hearted knights dropped their swords and bolted.

Ahrie let out his best evil laugh—

"BWAHAHAHAHA!"

Min and Charlotte joined in, their laughter echoing through the dark as the knights tripped over themselves fleeing.

When the noise finally died down, Ahrie strolled to the drop point.

"One… two…"

He paused.

"Eh?"

His face darkened.

"There really are only two."

He kicked the dirt, furious.

"Which bastard didn't pay!?"

He tore open the first pouch—

A satisfying jingle of bronze and silver coins.

Then the second—

…clink.

A pile of worthless scrap metal.

Ahrie's eyes twitched.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

He slammed the pouch to the ground.

"Fuck 'em all!"

Min cracked his knuckles. Charlotte nodded, just as pissed.

They decided to call it a night—

sleeping in the back of their carriage.

By morning, the three stood at the town's center.

In front of them: three small bottles, each holding the noble's dirty secrets.

One by one—

They popped the first bottle—Thornmere's.

At first it was a whisper: a crackle, then the elder's voice—slick, ugly—harassing the girl, the same words played back clean and sharp for everyone to hear.

People stopped. Heads turned. A trickle of listeners swelled into a crowd.

"Isn't that the elder from Thornmere?" someone hissed.

"No way…"

"How can he do that?"

"Arrest that bastard right now!"

Shouts rose. Fingers pointed. A few bold ones pushed toward Thornmere's direction, angry and loud.

Inside Thornmere Manor the mood flipped to panic. The elder's face went white as the sound reached him—eyes darting, hands trembling. He paced, slammed a goblet down, barked orders he could barely make himself believe. The knight who'd stood stiff an hour ago now moved faster than anyone expected, trying to shove servants into action, barking denials, flinging excuses at the walls.

Outside, the crowd kept building. The elder's attempt to calm things sounded hollow against the echoing recording—his voice on replay had already done the talking for him.

Then came the second bottle—House Virelth.

It cracked open with a faint hiss, and the air filled with the sound of two men speaking. The patriarch's voice

—steady, commanding—spoke the words everyone wished they hadn't heard:

"Let him be. Kill any other witnesses too."

Silence.

Then the murmurs erupted like fire.

"He let his son kill people?"

"And covered it up?"

"Those damn bastards…"

"Enough of these nobles!"

The crowd's anger shifted from disgust to rage. Glimmerfen's citizens—already used to being stepped on—finally had something solid, undeniable.

Inside the Virelth estate, chaos brewed.

The patriarch slammed his desk. "Why did all of you run away!?" he shouted at his knights, who knelt, trembling.

"If you didn't run, this shit wouldn't have happened!"

He kicked the table, silver goblets scattering across the floor. Servants flinched, knights froze, unsure if they should run or draw their swords.

But outside, the sound of his guilt kept playing—his own voice echoing over the people's fury.

The final bottle—

the one that would push everything over the edge—

belonged to the Lady of House Mossveil.

It cracked open, and her voice poured out—calm, proud, and wicked.

"With that, we control the food supply. Raise the price to twenty percent. Let them starve if they can't pay—Houuu~Houuu~Houuu!"

Her laughter echoed across Glimmerfen's square.

A moment of stillness.

Then the city exploded.

"FUCK!"

"So that's why bread costs triple now!"

"She's been bleeding us dry!"

fists, and fury filled the air.

At her mansion, the Lady of Mossveil curled in the corner of her lavish room, trembling.

"Why—why!? I paid! I gave the money!"

Her voice cracked into a sob, the same voice that mocked them hours ago.

Outside, the people had enough.

They stormed through the streets, a tide of rage and justice.

House Mossveil. House Thornmere. House Virelth.

Each estate fell one after another—windows shattered, banners burned.

Nobles tried to flee. Some disguised themselves as servants.

It didn't matter. The people caught them, dragged them out, shouting for justice.

By noon, all three houses were stripped bare—

and their once untouchable lords and ladies were thrown behind bars.

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