Chapter 109 (Part 1): Sparks in the Dark
A Storm at Supper
The inn's dining hall buzzed with the clatter of goblets and forced laughter. Bennett sat with Clarke and a handful of Mage Guild envoys, their table laden with roasted pheasant and spiced wine. Hussein and Medusa, wise to their precarious identities, had retreated to their rooms—ghosts in a world where recognition spelled death.
Across the room, the local garrison's third-tier knight, a swaggering man with a walrus mustache, slammed his tankard on the table. His eyes gleamed with ambition. Impress the Roland heir, he'd thought, and promotion might follow. But fate, as ever, had other plans.
The doors burst open. Two figures strode in, their armor gleaming with the sunburst sigil of the Temple's Sacred Knights. The garrison officer lurched to his feet, cheeks flushed with ale and indignation. "Who dares defy military orders? This inn is under imperial protection!"
The taller knight arched an eyebrow. "Your protection reeks of piss and arrogance. Fetch your commander. Now."
His companion, a red-faced brute with a scarred lip, shoved the officer backward. The man crashed into a table, splintering wood and dignity. "Insolent worm! Guards—seize them!"
Blades and Blunders
Chaos erupted as three hundred northern soldiers flooded the hall. These were no soft southern conscripts but hardened men who'd brawled with mercenaries and frost wolves alike. Swords clashed, curses flew, and the Sacred Knights—though superior in rank—found themselves cornered.
Bennett watched, fingers drumming his cup. The knights' reluctance to kill spoke volumes: Temple politics. But Clarke's smirk betrayed darker currents. Beneath the table, the mage's fingers twitched. A faint glow seeped into the fray.
The knights staggered suddenly, their movements sluggish. "Mage Guild filth!" the scarred knight roared. "Cowards!"
Clarke rose, silk robes whispering malice. "Arachnis Ligare." A web of arcane threads ensnared the knights, followed by a volley of眩晕术 from his companions. The soldiers, sensing weakness, lunged for the kill.
Bennett acted before thought. Twin fireballs erupted from his fingertips, scorching the air. The attackers recoiled, blades singed but unharmed. "Enough!" he barked. "Bind them. No bloodshed."
The garrison officer, wiping ale from his doublet, obeyed. Yet his triumph curdled as the calmer knight wrenched free, smashing a golden sigil on the floor. Light exploded—a distress beacon piercing the night.
Whispers and Warnings
Clarke rounded on Bennett, eyes narrowed. "That fireball… 瞬发? Impossible. Gandolphus's doing?"
Bennett ignored him, turning to the officer. "You've stirred a hornet's nest. Those knights aren't strays—they're scouts. Their battalion waits beyond these walls."
The man paled. "But—the Mage Guild—"
"—will vanish like smoke when the Temple demands answers." Bennett leaned closer, voice icy. "You'll hang for this. Unless I intervene."
Clarke intercepted, feigning camaraderie. "Why save them, boy? Let Temple and garrison tear each other apart. Cleaner that way."
"Clean for you," Bennett snapped. "But I won't have corpses piled at my door—not while Roland's name still shields me."
Outside, horns blared. Hooves thundered. The knights' signal had summoned more than aid—it had summoned war.
The Temple's Wrath
Dawn's first light revealed a hundred Sacred Knights encircling the inn, their white steeds snorting plumes into the frost-laced air. At their helm rode a woman clad in sanctified steel, her face a mask of divine fury.
"Heretic!" She pointed a mace studded with holy relics at Bennett. "The Temple knows your sins. Surrender the gorgon and the apostate knight, or burn with them!"
Clarke stepped forward, oozing diplomacy. "Revered Paladin, surely this—"
Her mace flashed. A searing light struck the ground between them, scorching runes of condemnation. "Silence, spell-weaver! Your guildmaster grovels at our altars. You are nothing here."
Bennett met her glare. "You want Hussein? Medusa? They're gone. Chased into the wilds by your bumbling lackeys."
The lie hung like poisoned honey. The paladin hesitated—until a soldier dragged the bound knights forward. Their gagged mouths couldn't speak, but their eyes screamed recognition.
"Liar!" She raised her mace. "Kill the Roland whelp. Tear this den of filth stone from—"
A tremor cut her short. The earth groaned. From the forest's edge, a shadow loomed—a creature of scale and storm, its roar shaking snow from pines.
Dragon.
Chapter 109 (Part 2): The Gambit of Blades and Bluffs
The Unseen Storm
The garrison officer, still puffing with misplaced pride, bellowed, "Young Master Bennett, fret not! We've dealt with thugs like these before—brutes who think their swords make them kings. This is nothing!"
Bennett sighed, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I couldn't see clearly earlier, but now… these aren't mere mercenaries. They're Sacred Knights of the Temple."
The officer froze. His face drained of color, and the soldiers around him swayed as if struck by a gale. Assaulting Sacred Knights? It was a death sentence.
Bennett's hand landed lightly on the man's shoulder, his voice calm as a frozen lake. "You've sworn to protect me. I won't abandon you to the Temple's wrath. Listen closely, and I'll show you a way out."
He paused, eyes glinting with cold calculation. "These two are just scouts. Their commanders will follow—knights far beyond your skill. But here's the game: I need someone bold and quick-witted. It'll sting, but no lasting harm. Who's willing?"
The officer straightened, chest thrust forward. "I'll do it!"
Bennett studied him, a flicker of approval in his gaze. Leaning close, he whispered instructions. The man's face paled, but he gritted his teeth. "Done."
"Good." Bennett's smile sharpened. "After this, your garrison will be a viper's nest. Tell your commander I've claimed you. Serve House Roland, and you'll ride with our guard—far from this backwater."
The officer's eyes lit with ambition. In the north, where the Storm Legion hoarded glory and steel, joining the Rolands was a golden ticket.
Behind them, Clarke watched in silence, his fingers tightening around his goblet. This boy… he plays the board like a grandmaster.
The Bait and the Blade
Outside Kolo's gates, a hundred Sacred Knights advanced like a silver tide. At their helm rode an eighth-tier knight, his armor etched with prayers, flanked by two Temple elders—white-haired, staff-wielding specters of divine authority.
"Look!" One elder pointed. A golden flare erupted above the city—the knights' distress signal.
The eighth-tier knight snarled, "Who dares attack the Temple's chosen? Could it be… Hussein?"
The elders shook their heads. "If the Apostate Knight were here, these two would already be corpses."
Before they could debate further, three horses galloped into view. The garrison officer rode ahead, trailed by two bound Sacred Knights—gagged, bruised, and humiliated.
The officer dismounted, blocking the road with theatrical bravado. "Halt! By order of the Kolo Garrison!"
The eighth-tier knight glared, veins throbbing at his temple. "Explain yourself, worm."
The officer saluted crisply, voice booming for the gathering crowd. "These imposters violated a military zone, injured thirty-six soldiers, and desecrated the Temple's name! We've delivered them to true Sacred Knights for justice!"
He yanked the captives off their horses, dumping them at the knights' feet. Murmurs rippled through the onlookers.
The eighth-tier knight's hand twitched toward his sword, but the elders' icy stares halted him. With a growl, he seized his bound subordinates and hissed at the officer, "Give your master a message: This debt will be paid."
A pulse of battle aura shot from his boot, sending the officer's horse rearing. The man tumbled into the dirt, ribs screaming, but he scrambled up, face blank. Worth it. All worth it.
The Cost of Pride
As the officer fled, the knights seethed. "Let's burn this cesspool to ash!" one roared.
"Silence!" The eighth-tier knight's voice cracked like a whip. "Would you have the Temple branded as lawless brigands? We retreat. Now."
The elders exchanged nods. This one… he bends but doesn't break. Worthy of promotion.
The knight mounted, jaw clenched. "We ride through the night. No rest until we're rid of this cursed place."
Behind him, the bound scouts whimpered, their shame staining the snow.
Epilogue: The Unbroken Chain
Back at the inn, Bennett leaned against a windowsill, watching the knights vanish into the twilight. Clarke materialized beside him, voice dripping with mockery. "A neat trick. But why save that fool? He's a pawn at best."
Bennett didn't turn. "Pawns shape games, Clarke. Today, he learned loyalty has rewards. Tomorrow, others will too."
Clarke's laughter was brittle. "You think the Temple will forget? Their pride is a serpent—it strikes slow but sure."
"Let them come." Bennett's eyes hardened. "Every strike they waste on me is one less aimed at House Roland."
As Clarke retreated, Bennett traced the Roland crest on his ring—a lion rampant against storm clouds. Father… your war is mine now. And I'll fight it with more than swords.
Chapter 110: The Web of Lies and Legacy
A Sealed Chamber of Secrets
In the heart of Kolo, within a guarded inn's locked room, silence reigned—not by chance, but by design. Sound-dampening wards shimmered faintly at the doorframe, cast by nervous Mage Guild envoys from the capital. Inside, Bennett lounged in a velvet armchair, sipping bitter northern tea with the poise of a seasoned noble. Across from him, Clarke sat rigid, his fingers drumming the oak table like a trapped spider.
"You're telling me," the mage said slowly, "that Gandolphus—the Archmage of Ages—died to a spider?"
Bennett set his cup down with a clink. "Not just any spider. A Venomspire Matriarch. Its fangs dripped enough poison to drown a dragon. My teacher fought valiantly." He pressed a hand to his heart, the picture of grief. "His final act was to shield me from the beast's last strike. A true hero's end."
Clarke's left eyelid twitched. The story reeked of horse dung. Gandolphus, who'd dueled elder wyrms and walked unscathed from the Shattered Peaks, slain by a glorified arachnid? Preposterous. Yet…
The boy's magic was undeniable.
The Art of Deception
"Let's revisit your… apprenticeship." Clarke leaned forward, his silver-tipped staff glowing faintly. "You claim Gandolphus 'saw potential' in you. But when I tested you years ago, your sensory aptitude ranked lower than a blind mole rat's. How?"
Bennett shrugged, biting into an apple with theatrical nonchalance. "Master said my spirit burned brighter than any flame. 'Forget petty spell diagrams,' he told me. 'True power flows from here.'" He tapped his temple. "Then he tossed me a book called Celestial Pyromancy and vanished for three days. When he returned, I'd lit his beard on fire. That's when he knew."
Clarke's jaw tightened. The tale was absurd—yet eerily Gandolphian. The Archmage had been known to recruit oddities: stuttering prodigies, tone-deaf bards who could warp reality through song… even a sentient hedgehog once, if guild rumors held truth.
"And your sudden mastery of instantaneous casting?" Clarke pressed. "Fireballs don't sprout from parlor tricks."
"Ah!" Bennett's eyes lit up. "That was Master's final lesson! 'When death's breath chills your neck,' he said, 'think less, burn more.'" He mimed an explosion with his fingers. "Worked wonders against those knights, didn't it?"
Clarke massaged his temples. The boy's blend of childish whimsy and lethal skill was maddening. Worse still—it fit. Gandolphus had always prized unpredictability over tradition.
Bloodlines and Broken Protocols
Memories surfaced unbidden: whispers in the guild's Obsidian Hall. A girl with a stutter, barely sixteen, vaporizing a stone golem with a flick. Gandolphus cackling as elders gaped. If she could earn the title "Gandolphus's Prodigy," why not this infuriating noble brat?
Clarke's staff dimmed. "Assuming this farce holds water… Do you grasp what you've inherited? Gandolphus's disciples sit atop the guild's hierarchy. Yago Dogan himself calls them 'Uncle'!"
Bennett grinned. "Does that mean I outrank you, Master Clarke?"
The mage's eye twitched again. "If—and this is a chasm-sized if—the guild recognizes your claim, you'd share bloodline privileges with the Archmage's direct lineage. Access to forbidden archives. Authority to command mid-tier mages. Even veto rights in—"
"Boring." Bennett tossed his apple core into the fire. "Can I get a fancier robe? Maybe one that shoots lightning?"
Clarke's knuckles whitened around his staff. This insolent whelp might actually be Gandolphus's spawn.
The Unraveling Thread
Outside, the wards hummed as a guild enforcer whispered urgent updates. Clarke rose, robes swirling. "We'll continue this… farce in the capital. The council will strip your lies bare within minutes."
Bennett stretched lazily. "Tell them to bring snacks. Interrogations make me peckish."
As Clarke stormed out, Bennett's smirk faded. He pulled a charred journal from his coat—Gandolphus's true last gift, its pages filled with cryptic warnings and a single underlined phrase:
"Trust no guild snake. They'll swallow their own tails to taste power."
The fire crackled. Somewhere beyond the wards, a dragon's distant roar shook the night.
Epilogue: Whispers in the Dark
Clarke paused at the inn's stables, where a hooded figure awaited. "Well?" hissed Medusa, her serpentine hair coiled tight.
"The boy's either a genius or a lunatic," Clarke muttered. "But his magic… it reeks of the old man's meddling."
Medusa's golden eyes narrowed. "And the journal?"
"Not found. But if he has inherited Gandolphus's secrets—"
"—we peel them from his flesh." She smiled, fangs glinting. "Gently. The guild prefers its pawns intact."
Above them, a raven watched silently—then dissolved into smoke.