Chapter 115 (Part I): Moonlit Shadows and the Adventurer's Hearth
A Journey Under the Silver Veil
The moon hung low, its silken light draping the land in a ghostly pallor. Bennett's caravan crawled along the imperial highway like a serpent of shadow and gilt. By design, the journey to the capital unfolded at a leisurely pace—a deliberate choice to savor the calm before the storm.
Beside him, Mage Clark rode with practiced ease, his laughter as polished as the silver threads adorning his robes. "A fine night for stargazing, Lord Bennett," he remarked, gesturing to the heavens. "The skies favor your return to the capital."
Bennett offered a noncommittal hum. His carriage, a marvel of Roland craftsmanship, glided effortlessly over ruts and stones, its undercarriage humming with faint traces of wind magic—Clark's "gift" to ease their travels. Inside, velvet cushions and crystal decanters spoke of opulence, yet Bennett's mind churned with darker calculations.
What price does the Arcane Syndicate truly demand?
Whispers in the Timberfall
The town of Timberfall emerged like a half-forgotten memory. Once a pitstop of peeling paint and creaking signboards, its lone inn now bore a freshly carved emblem: The Adventurer's Hearth. Madd squinted at the reborn establishment, its whitewashed walls gleaming like bone under moonlight.
"Strange," the steward muttered. "Last we passed through, this place reeked of mildew and desperation."
The new proprietor waddled forth, his smile too wide, his eyes too sharp. "Welcome, noble guests! A night's respite, perhaps? Our finest rooms await!"
Bennett studied the man—a retired soldier turned innkeeper, his limp poorly concealed beneath bombastic hospitality. More telling were the "servants": burly men with missing fingers, hollow-eyed archers, and a one-handed brute polishing tankards behind the bar. Veterans all, discarded by armies and left to rot.
"Business must thrive," Bennett remarked dryly, tossing a gold mark onto the counter. The coin spun, its clatter echoing through the near-empty hall.
The innkeeper's chuckle faltered. "Times are lean, milord. But we manage."
The Mage's Riddle
Later, in a chamber smelling of pine resin and fresh plaster, Clark waxed poetic about wind matrices. "To lift a carriage entirely? Possible, but impractical! The crystal expenditure alone would beggar a baron!"
Bennett feigned fascination while probing deeper. "And yet… imagine airborne trade routes. Supply lines untouched by bandits or tides."
"Poetic folly." Clark waved a dismissive hand, rings glinting. "Magic serves purpose, not whimsy. Even your Syndicate allies would balk at such extravagance."
Allies. The word hung like a blade. Bennett masked his unease with a sip of wine. What game are you playing, old man?
As the mage droned on, Bennett's thoughts drifted to Medusa—her serpentine gaze, her silence since his departure. Does she watch even now?
Echoes of the Past
Midnight found Bennett staring at cracked ceiling beams, sleep eluding him. The inn's stillness pressed inward, broken only by the creak of aged timbers.
Crack.
A sound—subtle as a spider's step—sliced through the dark. Bennett froze, his magically attuned senses flaring.
Nothing. Just the settling of old wood.
He exhaled, rolling onto his side…
Then chaos erupted.
Ephemeral Calm, Gathering Storm
The first crossbow bolt shattered the window.
"Ambush!" Madd's roar tore through the night as shadows swarmed from the rafters—the "innocuous" veterans now wielding blades with lethal precision.
Clark's wand flared to life, icy glyphs spiraling around him. "To the cellars!"
But Bennett stood motionless, eyes locked on the innkeeper below. The man's limp had vanished, replaced by the fluid grace of a predator. In his hand gleamed not a ledger, but a dagger etched with serpentine runes.
Medusa's mark.
The trap, it seemed, had teeth.
Chapter 115 (Part II): Bloodstained Revelations and the Unmasked Blade
The Edge of Midnight
The ceiling exploded in a rain of splinters. A blade, sharp as winter's bite, plunged downward with lethal precision. Bennett's instincts screamed before his mind could follow—he rolled sideways, the mattress tearing beneath him like parchment. Cold steel grazed his back, carving a crimson line across his flesh. Pain seared through him, sharp and clarifying.
The assassin—a wraith cloaked in shadows—landed soundlessly, their blade gleaming with a hunger that matched their eyes. Bennett scrambled backward, his hand clawing blindly across the floor. Fingers brushed the hilt of a dagger gifted by the Lesters, its edge humming with dormant magic.
Now or never.
He hurled the blade. A metallic snick pierced the chaos. The assassin staggered, a choked gasp escaping their mask as they collapsed atop Bennett, the dagger buried to its hilt in their heart. Blood pooled hot and thick between them, its iron stench snapping Bennett back to clarity.
Outside, the inn echoed with screams. Steel clashed, arrows hissed, and Clark's voice rose in a guttural incantation.
The Mage's Gambit
Clark burst into the room, his robes askew, eyes wild. "We must go!" he barked, yanking Bennett upright.
"No!" Bennett wrenched free, his voice a blade of ice. "They'll slaughter us in the open!"
As if summoned by his words, crossbow bolts erupted through the walls. Thwick-thwick-thwick! Wood splintered; a guard crumpled, an arrow sprouting from his eye.
Clark's lips twisted into a snarl. His hands danced, carving sigils into the air. A rift yawned open, vomiting forth a swirling black mist that coalesced into a spectral warrior—a deathless thing wreathed in necrotic flame.
"Go!" Clark roared. The wraith surged into the hall, its obsidian blade devouring flesh and bone. Arrows passed through its form like smoke. Three assassins fell, their bodies dissolving into ash, before the creature itself flickered and died.
"Another!" Clark rasped, sweat drenching his brow. Two more phantoms materialized, driving the remaining killers toward the windows.
But the leader escaped—leaping into the night, swallowed by shadows.
Aftermath: Scars and Steel
Dawn found Bennett slumped in a chair, his back a tapestry of agony. Clark's healing magic had sealed the wound, but not the memory. Around them, the inn lay in ruins.
"The owner… the servants…" Madd muttered, pale-faced. "Gone. The real ones—rotting in the cellar."
Bennett's jaw tightened. To infiltrate so thoroughly… to mutilate themselves, play veterans… This was no ordinary vendetta.
A grizzled guard approached, clutching a crossbow. "Milord… these bear military stamps. Army-issue. No forgery."
Silence thickened.
Bennett's mind raced. Military-grade arms. Orchestrated ambush. Knowledge of my route…
"Who?" Clark whispered, his usual smugness shattered.
The guard hesitated. "Only three powers command such resources: the Crown, the Northern Legions… or—"
"Or someone with the coin to buy a general's loyalty," Bennett finished coldly.
The Serpent's Shadow
Hours later, as the caravan regrouped, Bennett stared at the dagger in his hand—its blade still flecked with dried blood. The Lesters' gift had saved his life, yet its presence here felt… orchestrated.
First Medusa's silence. Now this.
He turned to Clark, who slumped against a wall, drained. "Your magic… the death knights. The Syndicate permits such arts?"
Clark's laugh was brittle. "They permit what serves their interests. As do you, Lord Bennett."
Bennett said nothing. The unspoken truth hung between them: alliances were knives waiting to turn.
As wheels creaked toward the capital, Bennett's thoughts spiraled. An enemy with military ties. A game where pawns wear crowns.
But one question eclipsed all others:
Who else knew I'd return to Timberfall?
Chapter 116 (Part I): Veils of Power and the Unspoken Pact
The Aftermath of Blood
The room reeked of smoke and iron. Bennett sat motionless, his fingers tracing the frost-etched grooves on the armrest. The cavalry captain stood rigid, sweat beading beneath his collar as the young lord's gaze swept over the scattered crossbows—their steel stamped with imperial insignias.
Military-grade weapons. A death squad with royal ties.
Bennett's smile was a blade sheathed in honey. "Burn them," he said softly. "Let the ashes carry this… misunderstanding to the wind."
The captain swallowed hard. "Of course, my lord. Bandits, nothing more."
As the man retreated, Bennett turned to Clark. The mage's pallor betrayed his drained reserves, yet his eyes glittered with newfound appraisal.
"Your discretion honors us both," Clark murmured, masking intrigue behind courtly grace.
Bennett's laugh was winter itself. "Honor is a luxury for the living."
The Dance of Shadows
Dawn crept through shattered windows, illuminating the inn's grim ledger: six dead, four maimed. Madd barked orders as Temple healers tended wounds, their white robes clashing with Clark's obsidian attire. The garrison commander—a florid-faced man reeking of panic—bowed so low his chin brushed mud.
"A thousand apologies, Lord Bennett! The Emperor himself shall hear of this outrage!"
The Emperor. Bennett's wound throbbed in silent mockery. Clark's half-hearted healing had sealed flesh but not suspicion. Why send a dark mage as my guardian?
He accepted the commander's groveling with princely detachment. "Your diligence is noted. See that it extends to… discreet inquiries."
The unspoken threat hung like a noose.
The Road to Yanjing
Carriages rolled northward under heavy guard, the clatter of hooves drowning uneasy silences. Bennett studied Clark across plush seats, the mage's feigned nonchalance as transparent as crystal.
"You've been unusually quiet, Master Clark."
"Merely admiring the scenery." Clark gestured to passing fields, where crows feasted on a hanged deserter. "Power wears many masks, does it not?"
Bennett's fingers brushed the hidden vial of Everfrost Spring. A cure I dare not drink. Not until I unravel Medusa's silence…
The mage's chuckle broke his reverie. "You've the stare of a chessmaster, boy. Plotting bishops or sacrificing pawns?"
"Pawns," Bennett said coldly, "are for those who lack imagination."
The Imperial Mirage
Yanjing rose like a gilded leviathan, its walls swallowing horizons. Nine centuries of Roland emperors had sculpted this colossus—bastions kissed by the Azure River, highways pulsing with wealth and rot.
Madd gaped at the splendor. "Gods above! It's like a mountain carved by giants!"
Clark snorted. "Giants with a taste for blood taxes. That marble?" He pointed to the gleaming gates. "Quarried by slaves during the Third Purge. Each block cost a life."
Bennett said nothing. His eyes traced the battlements where imperial banners snapped like whips. Somewhere within that labyrinth, a throne awaited his father's return… and a web of enemies thirsted for new prey.
A horn blared. The gates yawned.
"Welcome home, Lord Bennett," Clark whispered. "Where shadows wear crowns."
Chapter 116 (Part II): The Illusion of Invincibility
The Veins of Empire
Centuries of imperial wealth had birthed Yanjing's sprawling web—a labyrinth of roads and rivers pumping lifeblood into the continent's heart. To the east, trade caravans snaked toward coastal provinces; to the south, barges drifted through mist-shrouded marshes; northward, frostbitten paths led to the glacial forests; westward, dust-choked highways fed frontier garrisons. All roads bent to Yanjing's will, as if the city itself were a ravenous god demanding tribute.
Yet this network, forged in gold and ambition, served darker purposes. Should rebellion flicker in the capital, legions from every corner could crush it within days—a truth etched in the blood of forgotten uprisings.
Four satellite cities once guarded Yanjing's flanks, their walls bristling with ballistae and the ghosts of wars long past. Now bloated by peace, they teemed with merchants and artisans, their garrisons reduced to ceremonial husks. Only the Royal Guard retained its edge—a pared-down force of 100,000, heir to the legendary Thorn Legion that had carved Roland's empire under Aragorn's banner. Renamed and rebranded across dynasties, their loyalty now clung to crowns rather than bloodlines.
The Titan's Bones
Bennett's carriage halted beneath Yanjing's southern ramparts. Sunlight clawed at mortar seams between stones taller than men, their surfaces scarred by generations of masons reinforcing what no enemy had breached. Watchtowers studded the battlements like fangs, each housing rusting siege engines and the fabled—if obsolete—Arcane Cannons.
But the true marvel lay at the city's heart: the Ivory Spire. A skeletal finger of alabaster thrusting skyward, its apex crowned by a three-meter crystal pulsing with centuries of enchantments. Beneath it coiled the Argent Lattice, Aragorn's magnum opus—a subterranean web of magic channels linking every turret and gate.
Clark leaned from his saddle, voice dripping with scholarly disdain. "A dragon's hoard wasted on paranoia. Even Aragorn's bones must've ached from rolling in his tomb."
Bennett ignored him. His gaze traced the spire's silhouette, remembering dusty tomes in the Roland manor's neglected library. The Lattice had failed twice. Once during the Succession Wars, when cousins butchered each other in palace halls; again when the Augustin Dynasty rose from rebellion's ashes. Both times, treachery had outrun magic.
"The strongest walls," he murmured, "crumble fastest from within."
Echoes of Betrayal
The gates creaked open, disgorging a river of humanity—merchants hawking Sarnath silks, pilgrims bearing offerings to dead saints, and street urchins darting between wheels. Madd gaped at the chaos until a Royal Guard captain barked orders, parting the crowd with spear-butts.
No banners flew for Bennett's return. No retainers awaited with honeyed words. Only the captain's stiff bow acknowledged the son of Count Raymond, Second Marshal of the Imperial War Council.
"Your father's household…" Madd began, flinching as Bennett cut him off with a laugh sharper than daggers.
"Expects nothing, gives less. We'll carve our own welcome."
The carriage lurched forward. Bennett's fingers brushed the vial at his throat—Madam Medusa's parting gift. Poison or panacea? Even now, its secrets gnawed at him.
Past the gate, the air thickened with the stench of politics. Hawkers peddled counterfeit crests; informants lurked behind spice stalls; off-duty guardsmen staggered from brothels. Yanjing's rot festered beneath gilt surfaces, and Bennett—a chess piece thrust onto the board—smelled every decay.
Clark's voice slithered through the din. "They say the Lattice's true power lies dormant. Waiting for…"
"A fool's hope." Bennett stared at the receding spire. "Aragorn built tombs, not thrones. Let the dead guard dust. We'll play with sharper tools."
The Unseen Blade
As twilight gilded the Roland estate's gates, Bennett paused. Family banners hung limp—no servants sweeping steps, no stewards bearing wine. Only a single aged butler shuffled forward, eyes downcast.
"Your chambers remain as you left them, young master."
As I left them. Bennett nearly laughed. A child's room, frozen in time. Father's final insult—or test?
He climbed the stairs alone. Beneath floorboards, hidden compartments still held boyhood treasures: a dagger from his mother, maps of imaginary battlefields, journals filled with spells copied by candlelight.
From his window, the Ivory Spire glowed like a necromancer's lantern. Somewhere in the palace, ministers plotted while his father's allies weighed his worth. Somewhere in the shadows, the killers who'd failed at the inn sharpened new blades.
Bennett unstopped the vial. A drop hissed on his tongue—bitterness laced with power.
"Come then," he whispered to the gathering dark. "Let's see whose poison runs deeper."