Free Web NovelLike an ink stroke across the sky, a shadow glided through the deep night, deftly weaving past the towering chimneys of Belrand and looking down at the silent streets below. After circling several times, the shadow finally slipped through a hidden passage and entered a vast space.
The sound of flapping wings broke the stillness. The robin landed upon the round table.
The tabletop still carried residual warmth; scattered documents lay in disarray, proof that an intense meeting had just concluded—the robin had arrived just after it ended.
But that was not a problem, because he knew perfectly well that so-called meetings merely existed to make those foolish, greedy creatures obediently contribute their limited strength; most topics were mere formalities.
After all, the more important a matter was, the fewer people needed to know about it. Fat pigs filled with nothing but grease could contribute nothing to their glory besides their own meat.
Thus, regarding the core scheme they were currently plotting, only a handful knew the full picture.
"Is the task finished, Mr. Robin?"
The one who spoke was a white tiger standing upright at the center. Deep stripes traced ferocious patterns over his fur, yet the way he held his wine glass was elegant, like a gentleman in a tuxedo striding through a banquet hall.
"Naturally, Speaker."
The robin folded his wings politely. "Everything was done exactly as you instructed."
"Heh, judging by your look, things went even more smoothly than I imagined."
"Your insight is sharp as ever, Speaker. Indeed, that was the case. That wandering poet was nothing more than a stray dog. As long as I tossed him a few bones, he obediently bit whomever we wished. Only..."
At this, the robin hesitated slightly.
"If there’s a problem, speak. As they say in Eastwick, we’re both on the same ship now—harboring doubts between us does not help it sail forward."
The white tiger swirled his wine lazily and cast him a casual glance.
"My apologies, Speaker."
The robin bowed again.
"It’s nothing major, truly. I merely felt that your move this time seemed... too gentle."
"Oh? Gentle? Why?"
"The wandering poet isn’t strong enough."
The robin said, "At least from the intelligence I’ve gathered, his abilities, though strange, are nowhere near the configuration used in the last attempt to kill Muen Campbell. Moreover, the current Muen Campbell is accompanied by that Silent Bureau Acting Swordbearer—a mysterious figure we still don’t fully understand. With one side strengthened and the other weakened, I doubt this attack will accomplish anything. It will only make Muen Campbell more cautious."
"...Yes, far inferior indeed."
The white tiger answered truthfully.
"Muen Campbell managed to escape alive last time under nearly impossible circumstances. This time, it would be even harder to take his life. We vastly underestimated him. We once dismissed him as worthless trash, but now, that young lion has begun to show its fangs. We can kill countless pieces of trash—but killing a real lion is far harder."
"Then..."
"But!"
The white tiger suddenly turned to look at the robin. That distinctly tiger face revealed an eerily human, meaningful expression.
"Do you really think my goal was to kill him again?"
"Huh?"
The robin froze, then quickly realized what he meant. "So your true target is..."
"Exactly. A lion is hard to kill—so we must play differently."
The white tiger sneered, crushing the glass in his hand to shards, and gazed out toward the night sky.
"So, whether Muen Campbell dies or not is irrelevant. What matters is that the wandering poet will kill—kill many, many people—drawing enough attention. That is enough. On this chessboard, the one with more pieces holds victory’s edge, and what I must do is destroy the opponent’s pieces.
...As for Muen Campbell, I have another gift, soon to be delivered to him."
...
"Marvin Strelimor."
Muen stared at the newly received report in his hand.
The file sent from the Imperial Central Intelligence System recorded in full one hundred and thirty-one people sharing the same name, as well as thirteen sharing both name and surname.
After screening, the one overlapping with the heretic Marvin just killed was the son of a small merchant guild.
That guild, named Strelimor, had gone bankrupt three years ago due to mismanagement. The once-wealthy merchant’s son couldn’t accept the downfall, suffered a mental breakdown, and spent his days lost in poetry, wandering the land.
It all seemed to match perfectly.
But he was not the Marvin that Muen had just killed.
According to the Silent Bureau’s internal data, the real identity of the Marvin who slaughtered over five hundred villagers was Frey Doel, known as the Insect Master—an old blacklisted criminal who had been on the Bureau’s wanted list for ten years.
In other words...
"Someone sold those innocent townsfolk to the heretics."
As for who did it...
Muen looked at the broken bracelet in his hand, his eyes gleaming with an icy light.
He had seen this bracelet before. A few months ago, at the restaurant where he and Liya had first formed their bond, he had suffered an assassination attempt.
The reason that assassin had been able to approach him was precisely because of a magic-tech bracelet of the same design, which concealed one’s aura.
The same trick had played out again three days ago in that small town. The stationed observers were killed without resistance, and the Silent Bureau received no warning at all.
"Can we trace where this came from?"
Muen tossed the bracelet into the darkness beyond the carriage window.
"It will take time."
A voice from outside answered coldly.
"As soon as possible."
"Yes, Young Master."
Muen withdrew his gaze and rubbed his temples wearily.
The aftereffects of forcibly using black flame far beyond his current level still lingered. His body felt completely hollow.
After all, unlike his senior sister’s fragments of Authority inherited from the Moon, the Black Sun within him only looked powerful. In truth, it possessed the rank of an extremely mighty being—but without matching power to sustain it.
Those traces of Evil God power he’d absorbed before seemed to have gone into elevating its rank rather than filling its energy.
So every time he activated the black flame, that Black Sun would madly drain his mana and fighting energy. He couldn’t use it freely like his senior sister did.
Simply put—he’d been drained dry yet again.
"In the end, it’s still a matter of lacking realm," Muen sighed helplessly.
He always felt he carried far too many things beyond what his age should bear—whether it was the alchemy core inside him or the Black Sun within, each one was like a thirty-year-old beast demanding from his adolescent self without restraint.
Like a kid driving an adult’s machine—it felt thrilling, but push it too long, and you’d crash.
Even so, exhausted as he was, Muen boarded the carriage sent by the Duke’s estate that very night, parting from his senior sister in haste and setting off toward Belrand.
He was in such a rush because the Duke’s envoys had brought two messages.
The first: the current Emperor of the Empire, Aldrich III, had fallen gravely ill from an unknown disease. The palace physicians had tried everything, to no avail.
The second...
The Third Imperial Princess, Celicia, had, for some unknown reason, quarreled fiercely with the Emperor while visiting his sickbed—and was subsequently placed under house arrest.
Details were scarce, but either piece of news alone was enough to shake the Empire to its core.
These two messages—ominous as thunder before a storm—shattered all of Muen’s plans, forcing him to part from Anna abruptly, without even time for a final tender moment.
But he had no choice but to hurry.
If Belrand was a great ship about to sink, then the Emperor’s sudden illness was surely the first bolt to snap loose.
Everyone was watching, waiting to see which ship would go down.
So Muen had to return quickly—to make sure it wasn’t the ship he stood on.
"So, did you receive some forewarning? Is that why you’ve all gone mad?"
Muen tapped his fingers against his knee, following the line of thought.
"In other words, the true target of the Marvin incident might not have been me... but my senior sister—no, the Silent Bureau itself?"
Muen’s eyes widened in realization.
The Silent Bureau was the Empire’s anti–Evil God agency. Under the famed Swordbearer’s command, it had become the most powerful force in Belrand.
It was a sword hanging above Belrand.
Though the Bureau’s founding oath forbade political interference, when storms came, who could predict where that blade, meant only for Evil Gods, might finally fall?
No—after the news spread that his senior sister had become Acting Swordbearer, even the dogs in Belrand must have known which side the Bureau would lean toward.
So...
"Now it’s probably not just Marvin, nor merely that town."
Muen looked toward the deep night sky, fury breaking through the ice.
"In the coming days, all across the Empire... there will likely be one heretic terror incident after another."
A pack of scum—willing to do anything for their goals.
Unable to bear imagining the cruelty of it, Muen closed his eyes ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) tightly.
But before he could rest, a voice called out to him again.
"Young Master, someone requests to see you."
"A visitor?"
Muen frowned.
He was still in the carriage—and it was the middle of the night.
"He claims to be a messenger from the royal palace."
"A royal messenger?"
Muen was even more puzzled, but since the palace was involved, he couldn’t ignore it.
With his current escort, there was little to fear from any suicidal attempt.
Sensing several powerful auras guarding him nearby, Muen stepped down from the carriage calmly and looked toward the weary messenger not far away. frёewebnoѵēl.com
"Good evening, Lord Campbell."
The messenger bowed respectfully.
"I come bearing an imperial decree."
"A decree?"
Muen’s frown deepened.
But the messenger offered no explanation, simply presenting a finely embossed golden envelope with both hands.
Under the watchful eyes of his guards, Muen carefully opened it.
...Nothing happened. It really was just a letter.
But the golden paper bore the Imperial crest in clear relief—proof that it was indeed a direct handwritten order from His Majesty the Emperor.
"This is..."
Muen skimmed it quickly, his pupils contracting.
"...An appointment order?"
