Emperor Alaric Vireldria sat on the edge of the Sun Throne. His posture was completely ruined. Dark, bruised bags hung heavily under his bloodshot eyes. He had not slept more than two consecutive hours in thirty days.
Commander Reinhardt stood at the base of the dais. His heavy silver armor clanked softly as he shifted his weight.
"Thirty days, Commander," the Emperor rasped, his voice raw. "Where is the letter?"
"We have received nothing, Your Majesty," Reinhardt replied, his jaw clenched tight. "Our border patrols intercepted every courier pigeon. We raided three known underground syndicates in the lower districts. There is absolutely no ransom demand."
"That breaks the fundamental logic of a kidnapping," the Emperor snapped, his fingers digging into the golden armrests. "If a political enemy took Mirelle, they would demand territory. If a criminal took her, they would demand gold. You do not kidnap the Imperial Princess and then simply vanish. What do they want?"
Reinhardt kept his eyes on the marble floor. "We do not know. The one thousand imperial escorts we found sleeping on the western road remember nothing but a sudden white fog. It was a localized, high-density slumber array."
The Emperor buried his face in his hands. A sharp, terrifying guilt twisted in his chest. He had sent his twelve-year-old daughter to the West to establish a diplomatic trade route. It was supposed to be a perfectly safe, entirely routine carriage ride.
"Mobilize the 4th and 5th Battalions," the Emperor ordered, his voice hollow. "Tear the western forests apart. Do not come back until you find her."
Hundreds of miles away, the missing princess was currently complaining about boiling tea water during their mid-morning carriage stop.
But the facility she was traveling toward was far from a safe haven.
To the public, the Oakhill Home for the Destitute was a charity. Wealthy merchants donated silver to see the starving orphans fed and bathed. Visitors always noted how the thin, sickly children from the streets looked noticeably healthier and brighter after just a few weeks inside.
Beneath the polished wooden floor of the main hall, a heavy iron door led to a sprawling, damp stone basement. The air down here smelled heavily of rusted iron, sterile alchemical solutions, and burnt ozone.
A nine-year-old boy sat strapped to a heavy wooden chair. His thin arms were shaking violently.
"Put it on," a man in a dark leather coat ordered.
The boy sobbed, his chest heaving, and slipped a tarnished brass ring onto his index finger.
Instantly, the ambient temperature in the room plummeted. Frost crystallized on the boy's knuckles. He screamed as the cursed artifact rapidly siphoned the latent Mana directly from his bloodstream. The skin around the ring blistered, turning an ugly, necrotic black.
A scribe standing nearby coldly recorded the data. Item 402. Class C Curse. Rapid Mana coagulation. Unsuitable for combat. High fatality rate in minors.
"Take it off him and throw him back in the holding cell," Silas ordered as he turned away from the crying child.
Silas was the Regional Boss of the Obsidian Vipers. He managed the entire Imperial Capital territory, reporting directly to the supreme Council of Twelve. He did not care about the boy's blackened finger. The child was defective merchandise.
A big, heavily scarred man leaned against the stone wall, watching the thugs drag the sobbing boy away. This was Gareth. A month ago, he was a registered Level 7 Adventurer.
Now, he was a wanted fugitive hiding due to a string of brutal extortion rackets. The Vipers had bought his contract.
"I don't get the math, Silas," Gareth grunted while crossing his big, tree-trunk arms. "You buy kids from the plains bandits. You feed them expensive, high-grade alchemical stimulants. If they fail the intelligence tests, you treat them like human trash to test unappraised, highly lethal dungeon artifacts. But if they pass?"
"If they pass," Silas said as he lighted a cheap cigar, "we ship them across the eastern ocean. Corrupt nobles in the faraway kingdoms have very specific, highly lucrative tastes."
Gareth raised an eyebrow. "Tastes?"
"Legacy," Silas corrected as he exhaled a cloud of gray smoke. "Those ancient noble houses are dying out. Their biological children are weak and spoiled. They desperately want highly intelligent, hyper-adaptable heirs to maintain their political dynasties after they die. They will pay fifty thousand gold coins for a single 'success' product from our labs. We wipe the child's memories, forge a noble bloodline certificate, and the foreign lords adopt them. It is one of the most profitable operations in the entire syndicate."
Gareth scoffed. "Fifty thousand gold. No wonder you can afford to hire a Level 7 Swordsman like me for security."
Gareth flexed his right hand. His knuckles cracked loudly.
In terms of pure, raw physical muscle mass and brute force, he was completely superior to anyone in the facility. He was entirely confident he could snap a wyvern's neck with his bare hands.
"I'm getting bored down here, Silas," Gareth complained, a dangerous, arrogant grin spreading across his face. "I heard a rumor. The guy who embarrassed your boss a few weeks ago. The Thousand Strings. I want to fight him."
Silas paused, pulling the cigar from his mouth. His eyes narrowed. "Do not joke about that man. He paralyzed twelve of our elite assassins without waking up."
"Assassins are weak," Gareth laughed while slamming a big fist into his open palm. "They rely on cheap tricks and poison. In a direct, head-on physical clash, raw Aura density wins. I am a Level 7. If that arrogant, elusive bastard ever shows his face here, I'll bash his skull in. I bet he bleeds just like the rest of us."
---
Three miles away, near the edge of the forest road, two syndicate scouts were sitting in the brush.
The morning air was freezing. The younger scout held a tin cup of boiling hot, bitter coffee in both hands, letting the steam warm his face.
"I hate this shift," the older scout complained while leaning against a tree trunk. "No one ever travels down this road. The imperial knights barricaded the intersection."
"Just drink your water and stay quiet," the young scout muttered as he took a sip of the scalding coffee.
He lowered the cup and looked through the gap in the trees.
A perfectly clean, pristine black carriage was rolling slowly down the path.
The young scout blinked. He squinted, his eyes focusing on the side door of the wooden box. The morning sun hit the polished carriage perfectly.
A silver crest. A broken sword wrapped in a thorny vine.
The Feeble Soul!
The young scout's brain completely short-circuited. His hands shook uncontrollably in sheer panic.
He forcefully crushed the tin cup. The boiling hot coffee exploded outward, splashing directly into the older scout's face.
"GAAAH!" the older scout screamed, clawing at his burning eyes and tumbling backward into the ground. "MY EYES! YOU IDIOT!"
The young scout ignored his writhing comrade. He did not offer a word of apology or even a downward glance as he turned on his heel. Instead, he bolted into the thick woods and abandoned his post for good.
He ran so fast his boots tore the moss off the roots. His lungs burned with every ragged gulp of air. Ten minutes later, he crashed through the heavy iron gates of the orphanage and collapsed, completely out of breath.
He burst into the main hall and sprinted past the disguised charity workers, and threw open the basement door. After he tumbled down the stone steps, he crashed into the metal railing.
Silas and Gareth turned around.
"Boss!" the scout screamed and gasped for air. His face pale as a sheet. "He's here! He's coming up the main road!"
Silas dropped his cigar. "Who?"
"The black carriage!" the scout hyperventilated, pointing a shaking finger toward the ceiling. "The silver crest! It's Thousand Strings!"
The entire basement went completely, horrifyingly silent for about ten seconds. Everyone stopped moving and forgot to breathe.
Even the crying children in the holding cells stopped making noise.
Silas felt all the blood drain from his face. A cold, suffocating terror gripped his throat.
His mind instantly connected the dots. It was a flawless, terrifying line of logic.
He found us, Silas panicked internally, his hands beginning to shake. Seven weeks ago, the Council ordered a hit on his mansion.So we sent twelve elite assassins. He must have traced the residual Mana from their equipment straight back to this exact regional facility! This isn't a random encounter. It's a highly calculated, meticulously planned counter-attack. The monster came here to slaughter us all in retaliation!
"Sound the alarm!" Silas roared, drawing a curved, poisoned blade from his coat. "Burn all the documents! Evacuate the 'success' products! Get everyone to the front gate! We are under siege!"
The underground facility erupted into absolute chaos. Alarms blared. Syndicate thugs scrambled frantically and loaded heavy crossbows and drawing swords. They were preparing for a massive, bloody war against a god-tier tactical mastermind who had come to exact his brutal revenge.
Meanwhile, a mile down the road.
Kian Astor sat on the driver's bench of the black carriage. He was rubbing his aching lower back. Lexi had just come back a while ago.
He looked at the large, welcoming wooden sign approaching on the right side of the road: Oakhill Home for the Destitute. Orphans Welcome.
Finally, Kian let out a massive, highly relieved sigh in his mind. An orphanage. I can finally dump this annoying, overly competent kid and go back to my vacation. I really hope they don't ask for a donation fee because I am completely out of silver coins right now.
He knocked on the wooden roof. "Lexi. We are stopping here."