The Sorcerer's Handbook

Chapter 154: The Blood Moon's Cheat Code

Knock! Knock!

Three seconds after the respectful knock, a cool, detached voice called from within, "Come in."

The beastman Gassas pushed open the door and stepped inside with his attendants. The room they entered was more a private library than a study.

The ceiling soared 7.7 meters high, and the room spanned 79 square meters. Every wall was lined with engraved bookshelves, each crafted by goblin artisans. Even the ceiling was layered with glass panels, behind which rested ancient inheritance scrolls, forged through long-forgotten arts. On the floor lay a soft carpet of pale pink and violet veela fur.

This was not Gassas' first visit, yet he could not help bowing lower each time he stepped inside. The room's sheer extravagance demanded respect. Putting aside the priceless knowledge that would never get the chance to circulate in the Curtain, the carpet alone was enough to quell any rebellious thought. Veela fur came in many colors, but pink-violet was among the rarest and most exquisite. It left one to wonder how many lives had been spent to create it.

Of course, Gassas did not believe his master would rely on illicit means for something as trivial as a carpet. With his master's temperament, anything tainted would never be displayed so openly. The carpet had to be a legally obtained work of art, likely purchased from a research institute or gifted by a Blood Saint scholar. Any commodity involving corpses almost always came from such institutions. Only an organization controlling the entirety of corpse resources could "legally" produce a piece so vividly alive.

Following the carpet through the forest of books, Gassas' gaze settled on a desk shaped like a massive tree trunk. No lights were on in the room. Pale red moonlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, divided at the chair, and pooled gently around the desk.

The figure seated there remained shrouded in shadow. When his emerald-green eyes opened, Gassas immediately dropped his gaze to the floor, afraid to meet the elf's stare.

"You don't look like you've brought me good news, Gassas," the elf said.

Gassas reported quickly. "We've located Ronald. Two Gold Beaks and seven Silver Beaks were deployed, but the Eater of the Dead was too ferocious. They escaped. All black-market healers are now under Woodpecker surveillance. Any attempt they make to seek treatment will be intercepted immediately."

"We lack eyewitness intelligence, but based on shopping records and waste disposal patterns, Iger Perskin is likely hiding in the apartment of the Bloodrage Hunter, Amy Lexas. However, Amy Lexas is of the Moonshadow race. We cannot proceed with a deeper search."

The elf's voice carried mild surprise. "A Moonshadow willing to shelter him? She was probably deceived. Most Moonshadows are simple-minded. What else?"

"Several affiliated hospitals reported that when their corpse recovery teams reached the coordinates the Heresy Court provided, no bodies were found. An Upper District branch arrived within ten minutes of receiving a death signal, and still, they got nothing, not even a trace to follow.

"There have also been several shocking murders in the Lower District. Gang leaders under the Everlasting Wine Club suddenly went mad and slaughtered their subordinates. The killers' bodies bore clear signs of necromantic influence.

"Additionally, a former Everlasting Wine councilor died in his sleep, with no signs of resistance. Such clean, efficient corpse handling, combined with the signature methods of a controller, points to one person—Corpse Lover, Archibald Harvey, seeking revenge."

Gassas added, "Based on his activity range, his base is likely in the Pig District. Give me three more days, and I will find him."

The elf responded calmly, "I do not doubt your ability, but you will not find him."

He tapped the desk lightly. "The necromancer has violated a Blood Saint taboo. The Heresy Court is surely doing everything in its power to track him. Perhaps even as we speak, he has already been captured and drained like a pig by the Bloodrage Hunters. His memories have likely been extracted, and his body reduced to raw materials. When profit is involved, the Blood Saints never skimp on respect.

"No one's been caught, but I suppose we can call this a bit of good news. Well then... anything else?"

Gassas trembled all over. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, forehead pressed against the carpet. Fear gripped his heart, yet his words remained steady. "I'm sorry. Woodpecker has found no trace of Ashe Heath. We have no intelligence on him at all."

A soft laugh came from behind the desk. "Under the glory of the Blood Moon, all are equal. You are a Two-Winged sorcerer, Gassas, baptized by the Golden Rain. There is no need to kneel so easily."

Despite the apparent reassurance, Gassas did not move. The prodigy among beastmen maintained his humble posture, leaving his back fully exposed to his master.

Yes, like his master, he was also a Two-Winged Gold sorcerer. If it had been anywhere else, he would not have knelt so abjectly. But this was the Blood Moon Kingdom. Here, law was divine will, and rules were divine desire.

Unless one abandoned society entirely, rejected civilization, and became a beast, even legendary sorcerers had to obey the rules. And in a society governed by rules, resources held supreme authority.

Power was one resource among many. Important, but not the only measure. The more stable a society was, the less value raw power held. In this thousand-year-old civilization, power served as a threshold, an entry credential rather than a guarantee of dominance.

Non-sorcerers were the fuel. Sorcerers earned the right to play, but that was all. This was a PVP game that began a millennium ago, with no beginner zones or low-level areas. Every new player faced guild elites, veteran grinders, max-level legends, and even outright cheaters from the two Blood Moon races.

Ironically, this was a PVP game in which society itself functioned as a safe zone, with open conflict theoretically forbidden.

New players had only two choices. They either lived like dogs at the feet of the old players, scraping for whatever resources fell their way, or became fuel, which the same group cut off and made expendable.

Gassas had created his account only thirty-six years ago. As a beastman who earned his second wing before thirty, his talent was undeniable. The real problem was that his master had joined this game 108 years earlier.

Compared to sorcery itself, it was his master's connections, authority, and resources that inspired true fear. Putting aside titles like Chairman of the Elf Rights Association, city councilor, or academy professor, his identity as Woodpecker's hidden master alone was more than enough to obliterate everything Gassas had built.

Gassas might command Woodpecker for now, but most of its core members answered ultimately to his master.

Strangely, for an underground organization that handled the dirtiest work, Woodpecker's core members received no salaries at all. Wages or compensation simply did not exist. Even if their labor rights were violated, the law offered no protection. If anything, turning to the Heresy Court might be their only chance at revenge.

The main source of income for most members of underground organizations, including those in Woodpecker, came in the form of loans. Every so-called payment was really a temporary loan from a financial company. As long as a member worked obediently, no one demanded repayment, and no interest was charged. But the moment the company chose to collect, anyone unable to pay was instantly branded a dishonest debtor.

In the Blood Moon Kingdom, being labeled a dishonest debtor meant a swift, total erasure from society. One could be forced to sleep under overpasses in cardboard boxes, barred from public transportation, denied access to checkpoints, unable to make high-value purchases, rent housing, or even communicate. One ruling was enough to strip a person entirely of civilization.

Some might wonder why anyone would willingly join Woodpecker under such harsh conditions. Why not work honestly, sign a legal labor contract, and enjoy protected rights? The answer was simple. Most Woodpecker members could never endure a nine-to-five job. For sorcerers, unless they joined specific institutions like research institutes, most jobs were nothing but a waste of time.

Sorcery training required full-time dedication and enormous expense. Even if they only wanted to borrow money to focus on their studies, no bank would approve such a loan. In this light, Woodpecker's offer of unlimited, interest-free loans became irresistible.

If a member advanced to Two-Winged Gold, their debt was automatically erased. Woodpecker would promote and reuse them. Even failure to attain a second wing mattered little. As long as they remained loyal and did not betray the organization, the organization never destroyed their credit.

Training while working wasn't impossible, but it came with huge difficulty. Those who succeeded were hailed as inspirational examples. But the very fact that they were labeled "inspirational" underscored the cruelty of the path. Success required equal measures of talent, effort, and luck, carving a path from ordinary life that few could follow. Had someone with such qualities chosen Woodpecker earlier, they might have risen even faster.

Woodpecker's growth was no accident. Even without it, black-market sorcerers would attach themselves to other powers to access resources—time, knowledge, or opportunity. They might endure even harsher contracts and willingly become dogs if that was the price. Most, however, didn't even qualify to serve as dogs. They could only become dogs to other dogs.

If the income from a legal job was rated at one, a Gassas-level dog received fifteen. Silver Beaks earned five, Gold Beaks ten. This explained why, despite his capability, Gassas would never dare rise against the elf. Killing his master accomplished nothing. He could inherit none of the elf's assets. The debt-ridden Woodpecker would not recognize a criminal leader. All the elf's holdings would be divided among players of the same tier, and Gassas, having broken the rules, would be sent to Shattered Lake Prison, displayed as a criminal ringleader on the Blood Moon broadcast, stripped of every shred of dignity.

The best possible outcome would be another old player taking an interest, sparing his life, and bringing him under their banner. In other words, Gassas would gain a new master.

Such was the Blood Moon version of racial equality. In the eyes of long-lived races, everyone else was equally inferior. Freedom and human rights existed only as the freedom to choose which old player to serve. Gassas had long understood that Blood Moon was paradise for long-lived races. In a game with no inheritance and no generational accumulation, lifespan was the ultimate cheat. The longer one lived, the more resources one could amass. The longer one lived, the more authority and influence one could accumulate, eventually forming an interest group centered on oneself.

That was why the two Blood Moon races dominated the hierarchy, and why elves were praised as the stewards of society—the only race considered their equals. Short-lived races, dying within a century, barely registered in the eyes of the long-lived. This was neither discrimination nor a matter of profit; to them, short-lived races were simply resources. Lifespan was the ultimate class divide.

Even if it meant bowing and scraping, living like a worm, Gassas still needed to earn enough to undergo lifespan-extension surgery at a research institute. He sometimes wondered if his life would have been different had he not grown up in a Lower District orphanage. Had he taken the entrance exams, progressed through middle school and university, and eventually joined a research institute as a Blood Saint scholar, would everything have turned out differently?

But there were no "ifs." He had drawn the wrong lot at birth and missed his chance at education. The only path left for him was the hardest one.

Time passed in silence. The private library felt frozen. It wasn't until Gassas's clothes were soaked with cold sweat that the elf finally spoke, "Keep an eye on Gerard."

After a brief pause, Gassas replied, "Captain of the Bloodrage Hunters, the White-Haired Butcher, Geraed Westminster?"

"Ashe Heath humiliated him badly. Gerard will hunt him personally. If he kills Ashe on the spot, the matter ends. If he captures him and spares his life...

"Then Woodpecker will devour that pest."

Stealing a kill in front of a Three-Winged Sacred Realm sorcerer was a challenge beyond measure. Yet Gassas answered without hesitation, "I'll see it done. However, Gerard has been moving in secret for the past two days. Even the Heresy Court does not know his whereabouts. I fear—"

The elf interrupted, "He is most likely at Observation Point Fifty-Three. Go. May the Blood Moon light your path."

Gassas backed out, step by step, and gently closed the door.

The elf opened a nearby file. Inside was Ashe Heath's profile, detailing his birth records, orphanage background, middle school awards, and university activities. He tapped the desk lightly with his long fingers, creating a series of soft, rhythmic sounds.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Why haven't you left yet?" the elf asked, raising his head to look at the hooded figure standing before the desk.

The hooded man stepped from the shadows into the blood-red moonlight, wearing a mask. Surprise crossed his eyes, then he chuckled. "Just as I thought, even among Two-Winged sorcerers, not everyone's equal. If even you sensed me, then I suppose I shouldn't try any tricks in front of Gerard."

The elf frowned. "You are not Gassas's attendant. Who are you?"

He had noticed the man before, but assumed he was merely an escort. It wasn’t until now that he realized something was wrong. Gassas would never bring anyone with him. Within Woodpecker, only Gassas, as its leader, had the right to an audience.

The man responded, "My dear professor... how heartbreaking. After all the trouble I went through escaping Shattered Lake, how could you still not recognize your top pupil?"

He pulled down his mask, revealing a bright, carefree smile. "Nice to meet you, Syrin Dorr. My name is Ashe Heath."