Help, I'm in Another World and All the Men Are Are So Dangerous! [BL]
Chapter 188: The Black Box

Chapter 188: The Black Box

At a glance, it looked like nothing more than an ordinary black container.

However, what lay inside was far from ordinary.

He removed the lid and passed it to the subordinate beside him.

As the contents were revealed, his brows knitted slightly.

"...When was this left here?"

"The guard at the back gate reports that it wasn’t there during his early morning rounds. But around midday, while switching shifts with another sentry for a short break, this box appeared on the ground in the blink of an eye."

The first person to check inside had been that very sentry.

It was also him who quickly identified the owner of the "contents" and discovered that they had since gone missing.

Sylas turned to get a look at the gatekeeper in question.

Recognizing the man as one of the elite assassins under Georgio’s command, he understood why the situation had been grasped so quickly.

It all made sense now.

But still—what kind of circumstances could have led to this?

"...This ’right arm’—you’re certain it belongs to that beastman?"

Sylas exhaled quietly as he watched one of the newer recruits visibly avert his gaze, as if trying to suppress nausea.

Pathetic.

To flinch at something as simple as a severed limb.

Tiring of the sight, he shifted his focus to Mahmoud instead.

With an air of boredom, Mahmoud stepped closer and peered down at the box’s contents.

Then, with a firm nod, he confirmed: "No doubt about it. This is real flesh and blood, not some dummy. And these claws—they’re unmistakably those of a beastman."

He narrowed his eyes.

"More than anything, I’ve seen this arm plenty of times at the Don Ferocelli estate. I’d recognize it anywhere."

Sylas closed his eyes briefly.

A headache was starting to form.

This was a very troublesome situation.

Pressing his fingers against his temples, Sylas once again looked down at the contents of the box.

The severed arm had been carefully placed on a cushion, as if it were some precious artifact.

The enemy’s mocking nature was evident in the excessive care taken, making it all the more revolting.

"Um, Young Master... this was inside the box as well."

One of the newer subordinates with his pale face hesitantly handed over a slip of paper.

Sylas took it and scanned the message.

A sharp click of his tongue followed.

Whoever their enemy was, they were even more despicable than he had imagined.

Irritated, he flicked the note aside, letting it flutter to the ground.

Mahmoud picked it up, briefly glancing over the contents.

[ If you want your subordinate returned safely to his master, come alone to the designated location. ]

"Hah—what is this? The most cliché ransom demand ever?" Mahmoud scoffed and let the paper drop from his fingers.

Sylas’s gaze unconsciously followed the paper’s descent.

If Rocco read this, he would undoubtedly—

His jaw tightened, and with a quiet, bitter exhale, he muttered: "...No. The more typical the threat, the more effective it is on Rocco. It seems our enemy understands him well."

Pure-hearted, kind, and utterly incapable of giving up.

Rocco had never once backed down in the face of injustice.

If anything, the more straightforwardly villainous their opponent was, the more determined Rocco would become to fight.

And if that villain dared to harm someone Rocco cared about—

Just the thought was enough to send a shiver down Sylas’s spine.

If Rocco had been the first one to see this box...

It was an unbearable scenario.

Rocco’s impulsiveness made him unpredictable—dangerous in ways even Sylas struggled to anticipate.

"So, what’s the plan, Boss? If we sit on our hands, that beastman’s as good as dead, yeah?"

"...That’s assuming he’s still alive to begin with."

Sylas’s words carried a weight that made the air grow heavier.

An enemy willing to go to such underhanded lengths to target Rocco—there was no reason to believe they’d keep a hostage alive out of some misplaced sense of honor.

In all likelihood, the beastman was already dead.

His right arm had been severed.

Even if he had somehow survived, treating such severe blood loss wasn’t a simple task.

And, more importantly—what kind of enemy would bother to heal a dying hostage?

No.

The chances of survival were bleak.

Showing Rocco this note would do nothing but create another catastrophe.

"...Issue a gag order. No one speaks of this incident. And from this moment forward, we conduct no further investigations."

The silence that followed was thick, filled only with the sound of shallow, unsteady breaths.

Did they really think he would order an investigation into this matter?

Sylas had no use for an incompetent subordinate who recklessly endangered Rocco.

If anything, this saved him the trouble of disposing of them himself.

Rocco would likely make a fuss about it for a while... but as long as Sylas kept feeding him vague excuses, that wouldn’t be a problem.

Rocco was an idiot—he’d believe even the clumsiest of lies.

Besides, beastmen were slaves by default.

It wasn’t uncommon for a slave to flee from their master.

That particular beastman had been a rare exception—nothing more.

Covering this up would be simple.

As long as Rocco never found out, that was all that mattered.

"Throw this into the incinerator. Rocco should be back soon. Everyone, return to your posts."

With that, he turned on his heel.

Mahmoud furrowed his brow, looking as if he wanted to say something, but Sylas ignored him, stepping into the carriage.

Then—

A presence.

From above.

His body reacted before his mind fully caught up, whipping around toward the source of the familiar sensation.

There, perched lazily atop the tall gate, was a man.

Sylas exhaled sharply.

Trouble never seemed to give him a moment’s rest.

"—I saw everything."

The man’s faint smile revealed nothing.

His blood-red hair fluttered in the wind as he effortlessly leaped down, his movement so light it seemed gravity barely applied to him.

"Hey, big brother," he purred, his tone dripping with amusement. "Isn’t that a little coldhearted of you?"

His movements were like air—impossible to track, impossible to predict.

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