Chương 188: B3 - Interlude I (Part 1)

The humid air of Asethka was filled with incense drifting from nearby shops as Calvin adjusted the strap of his pack, eyes tracking the four figures ahead of him. Orwen was near the front, his silver hair and beard catching the light like polished steel. Beside him, Drack's bald head gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat, while Krystal walked with a strange stiffness. Her usual white priestess robes had been replaced by a travel-worn, nondescript grey cloak.

The trio, along with Calvin, followed the man in the lead: Marcus. The old Alchemist moved with his hood drawn low and a slouch that made him look like a beggar, yet the way the crowd parted for him told a different story.

Calvin still hadn't decided what baffled him most about the man: his aura, which felt like a sleeping volcano; the fact that he had made all the Crown's Guard in Kastal fall asleep with a single vial of some unknown potion; or that the Platinum-ranked gate guards had almost wet themselves the moment they'd seen the citizen card Marcus flicked at them. Probably the last. They had bowed to the man.

It was as if the entire place were his footstool, and every citizen who caught a glimpse of the old man's face seemed to agree. The street around them buzzed with a frantic energy as Merchants under silk awnings traded Silver and Gold equipment as if they were mundane Copper and Iron scraps. Men and women with House emblems stitched into their tunics argued over the price of beaststones and instant spell-scrolls so powerful King Theron would have forbidden them.

This was Calvin's third time in Asethka, and the place still made him want to grit his teeth.

"We could learn so much from these people," he caught himself muttering. Kastal was a backwater country, choked by the grip of a greedy tyrant, while here, the knowledge to reach the higher Tiers was almost sold in the open sun.

"Soon, Calvin, soon," Orwen said, not looking back.

"Just a little longer and Kastal might get that breath it needs to catch up." Ahead, Marcus turned left and led them onto a thoroughfare so wide it could have fit ten wagons side by side. At the far end, a massive spire of cerulean stone soared toward the sky, its battlements seemingly high enough to scratch the bellies of the clouds. Shenlong's Tower, Calvin thought as he looked at the thousands of people swarming the giant open space at its base.

A line of what looked like high-Tier Wielders stretched back from the main archway, each waiting their turn to face the trials within. Unofficial parties, famous mercenary branches, and scions of the Houses that ran the place chatted and laughed; yet through the conversations, their eyes glanced over to the shimmering portal at the tower's foot, as if waiting for someone to come out. Off to the left, a massive crowd gathered around a series of chalkboards roared.

Men shouted coin amounts and held up items Calvin assumed were expensive, faces flushed with either anger, joy, or despair. It was the city's favorite way to make, or lose, a fortune: betting on the tower's results. Calvin remembered when he himself had taken part in the trial a year ago. Orwen had funded the venture, and while Calvin was considered a once-in-a-generation genius in Kastal, he had barely cracked the top thirty percent of the Silver category despite being at the Peak of the Tier.

I can't wait to bring Seth here, Calvin thought, watching a gambler tear up a betting slip in frustration. I'll put every coin I own on that boy. He'll turn this city upside down. Marcus suddenly veered away from the spectacle, slipping into a narrow alleyway where the noise of the crowd turned into a distant hum. He walked in silence until he reached a plain, iron-bound door set into a wall of weathered brick. Orwen, Drack, and Krystal tensed simultaneously.

Calvin stepped forward, a question forming on his lips, but the words died in his throat. A terrifying aura seeped through the cracks of the door in front of the Alchemist. It felt as if a monster were crouched just on the other side, waiting for them to lift the latch so it could rip their heads off. Marcus pressed his palm against the heavy iron lock. Threads of pale aether traveled out from his skin and wove into the mechanism like living vines; with a metallic click, the bolt slid free.

The Alchemist shouldered the door open, the hinges letting out a rusted protest. Just as he was about to enter, he stopped and glanced back at the tense group. A dismissive grunt rumbled out from beneath his white beard when he looked at the way Orwen's hand was tightly gripping his sword hilt.

"Don't worry so much," Marcus muttered, his voice flat.

"She won't do a thing." Then the man stepped over the threshold as if the crushing aura within was nothing more than a breeze of cold air. Calvin exchanged a wary look with Kyrstel next to him before finally following Orwen and Drack inside. The air within carried the faint scent of old parchment and honed steel, and their footsteps echoed through the place like in a coliseum. A woman waited for them in the center of the dimly lit room.

She looked to be in her mid-forties, and her presence cut through the stillness like a sharp blade. Her dark hair was shaved close on the right side, exposing a puckered burn scar that ran from her temple down to her jawline, while the left side remained long and swept over her head to fall in midnight waves. She wore a plain, dark blue shirt buttoned to the collar and black trousers that she had tucked into heavy boots. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Calvin's eyes landed on her wrists. A strange, rune-etched bracelet sat half-hidden by her sleeves, which was identical to the one Marcus had fastened around his own arm before they had stepped into the Asethka Rift. Aside from that, she carried no visible weapon—no glowing artifacts, and no armor—yet the air rippled with a constant shimmer at the left side of her belt: an invisible pouch. One that was ready to eject a weapon into her hand the moment she decided to end them.

Even if she didn't actually move, the aura coming out of her sharpened until it felt like a physical weight against Calvin's shoulders.

"I didn't think you'd be on time, Marcus," the woman said, raising the eyebrow right next to her burn scar. The old Alchemist didn't offer an answer—or even a nod—and merely grunted as he passed his hand over the pocket of his weathered coat. A ripple of translucent aether surged outward in a rapid wave that washed over the walls and ceiling until the muffled roar of the Asethka crowds vanished entirely.

"I see you haven't lost that beautiful smile of yours," she added, eyes tracking the movement of his hand.

"What did you expect?" Marcus grumbled.

"That I'd embrace you, kiss your cheeks, and ask how your day has been?" The woman's lips curved faintly, though the amusement didn't reach her predatory gaze.

"No. But it has been years. A little warmth wouldn't have been out of place." She leaned back against the heavy oak table at the center of the room.

"Until two months ago, I thought you were dead."

"Many did," Marcus answered. Calvin shifted his weight, gaze moving between the old Alchemist and the scarred woman. The air between them seemed ready to split open at any moment, tension coiling like thunderclouds before a storm.

"I was surprised when I got your message," the woman continued as her fingers took hold of the wooden table.

"I didn't take you for the type to back the independence of some weak colony at the edge of the world." She then looked toward Calvin and the others and raised a hand in a brief, sheepish gesture.

"No offense." Orwen straightened his shoulders.

"No worries, ma'am. None taken." The woman turned back to Marcus.

"If you care so much about that place, why don't you go support their cause yourself at the NEVAK's assembly? You have the standing." Marcus's face contorted, and a hint of anger crept into the wrinkles.

"I can't. Because of him." He spat the words as if they were poison.

"Things could turn... ugly." The woman's brows drew together, her expression settling into tired disbelief.

"Because of what he did to Ulric? Marcus, you need to let that go. Ulric is dead. And the man was a selfish prick anyway." All the air instantly seemed to vanish from the room as a wave of bloodlust burst from the Alchemist. Calvin's breath died in his throat. His lungs locked, his legs buckled, and he crashed to his knees hard enough for the stone to bruise him. A primal terror swallowed him whole with the cold, undeniable certainty that he was already dead.

Beside him, Krystal and Drack lurched forward, hands braced on their knees as their bodies shook with the effort not to collapse. Orwen somehow remained standing, though his chest heaved violently and color had left his face. The woman pushed herself upright, yet before she could do anything else, an even stronger aura surged in from outside the building, spilling from the direction of the Shenlong Tower.

It descended upon the room like a mountain and pinned everyone in place beneath a godly pressure that demanded absolute submission. Calvin felt his consciousness begin to slip. The room bled into a haze of grey as his heart fought to beat beneath the crushing force. Then, just as the darkness was about to take him, the pressure vanished. Ahead, the woman leaned once onto the table, hands raised.

"Let's all calm down," she said, pointing in Marcus' direction.

"Getting killed by Shenlong isn't on my to-do list for the day. That old grump won't be more forbearing just because it's us." Marcus ignored the comment, as if it hadn't been directed at him, and turned his head toward the door. His gaze narrowed in the direction of the giant tower, and by the expression on his face, one could believe he was looking straight through the walls and at the Keeper of the Rift's Domain Flower.

"Anyway," the woman continued, eyes moving to Calvin and the others, "who exactly is going to be leading this new country of yours?" She tilted her head toward Orwen, and her scarred temple wrinkled.

"You?"

"Yes, ma'am." Orwen offered a respectful nod.

"Either myself or Marshal Vancaws." The woman frowned.

"You still don't know? Does it depend on which of you manages to backstab the other first?" The Champions of Chaos' leader grimaced.

"It's a… bit more complicated than that."

"Mhm hmm," she hummed, gaze sweeping over Orwen with an intensity that made even Calvin's skin prickle. If he had to guess, she was casting some sort of advanced form of Identify. One that probably broke through any concealing enchantment from the intensity of the aether imprint.

"From what I've heard, the current King is High-Platinum. How exactly do you plan to overthrow that man when you've only just stepped into that Tier?" Orwen glanced briefly at Marcus before meeting the woman's eyes once again.

"We've got a plan, ma'am."

"Oh, really?" She planted both hands on the table and leaned forward until her torso was nearly parallel with the floor.

"You do realize that if he helps you in any direct way, the NEVAK will turn on you without hesitation. They won't recognize an independence born of outside interference."

"We'll do everything on our own," Orwen said.

"He only offers us guidance. Nothing more." Calvin kept his face impassive, though he knew that was only half of the truth. The Alchemist had already helped them acquire the very thing that would allow Orwen to kill the King single-handedly.

'Guidance' was a convenient word for the support they had received so far, but as long as the act itself was Orwen's, they assumed it would turn out okay. The woman brushed a strand of hair from her face.

"Then your chances are probably close to zero. You should've come to me after you'd already succeeded. As it stands, we're likely both wasting our time."

"Will you help, yes or no?" Marcus asked, his voice dropping into a low, rasping growl. Hand raising to touch her chin, she put on a show of deep consideration, then, after letting the silence linger for a moment, she let out a weary sigh.

"Yes. Not for free, though. The NEVAK lets me get away with plenty, but this would add to the pile. Might even be the thing that finally makes them bite back. Who knows?" The old Alchemist met her gaze with a stare.

"Name your price."

"You're not the man you used to be, Marcus," she said, her voice softening in a way that seemed almost unnatural on her.

"These days, there's nothing you have that I can't get myself. Maybe you have a few interesting potions, but unfortunately for you, I don't need any of them right now."

"It's you who is wasting our time right now," Marcus snapped. The woman laughed, then lifted her hands in a casual shrug.

"Don't be like that. I only want some information." Marcus's expression darkened further." What information?" Calvin felt the room tighten around them again, air growing heavy once more.

"Your motive," the woman answered, eyes locked on the Alchemist.

"I'll do it if you tell me the real reason you crawled out of your hole for these people. And be honest." Marcus's mouth twitched with irritation, then something in him settled.

"His son." The woman frowned, now seemingly more confused than Calvin had seen her yet. She didn't know. She had no idea about Seth.

"What? What do you mean, his son?"

"I'm doing this for Ulric's son." The words struck the room like iron dropped on stone, and time seemed to stop. The woman went utterly still, lips parting as a breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened with a slow and dreadful realization. And for the first time since they had entered, she looked terrified.