Chapter 4 

Thanks to the ring of House Pelagius, Curtis  bypassed every bureaucratic formality and was granted direct audience with the governor of Quinis.

“It is good to see you again, Lady Roxana.”

“Indeed… it’s been, what—ten days?”

The woman’s voice was steady, her presence commanding. Roxana, the Governor of Quinis, nodded slowly as she regarded the young man.

In truth, it had been eleven days since Zerion had passed through this city. During that time, he had shared a brief teatime with Roxana, and Curtis , ever dutiful, had stood by his side. She remembered him.

“If the third son entrusted you with his signet,” she said gravely, “then this matter must be dire indeed.”

“…The young master is dead,” Curtis  said, voice flat, yet trembling at the edges.

“…What?”

It took a moment for the meaning to settle within her. But when it did, Roxana’s eyes widened with horror.

Curtis  continued, recounting the events in a quiet, unshaken tone—like a soldier giving the final report of a doomed campaign.

When he finished, Roxana let out a long, anguished sigh.

“What a cruel thing… such savagery.”

Though the slaughter had occurred beyond the walls of her city, it was still within the wider realm of her governance. And now the stain of that massacre had bled into her jurisdiction.

“I will lead a hundred riders myself,” she declared. “Forgive me, Curtis , but I must ask you to come with us once more.”

“I have no objection… but I fear I may not keep pace with trained cavalry.”

“Then we will match your pace,” Roxana said firmly. “Do what you can. That will be enough.”

Curtis  had no intention of protesting. His master was gone—he could not fall to the ground weeping while duty still called.

Even so, he was granted a short reprieve. While the cavalry prepared, Curtis  collapsed in the city hall’s resting chamber and used what little time he had to turn the pages of the secret tome.

[Waterflow Manipulation]
[Progress to First Acquisition: 9%]

The journey to Quinis had revealed a curious truth: the progress bar continued to rise even if the book remained unopened—as long as it was held close. Simply keeping it on his person nudged the number upward.

But the pace was glacial. Two hours of riding had yielded only 6%.

When he actively read the tome, the progress climbed faster. During this brief rest, barely half an hour, he had already reached 22%.

By the time Roxana summoned him again, Curtis  was on his feet—aching, tired, but steadied by resolve.

Thirty lightly-armored cavalrymen surged ahead, galloping at full speed to reach the site of the ambush as swiftly as possible.

The remaining sixty, better equipped for battle, accompanied Curtis  and Roxana at a slower pace.

Roxana, once a famed warrior in her youth, still bore the strength of her prime beneath her silver-streaked hair. Though the smallest among them in stature, none in their company matched her might.

Their pace was limited not by her, but by Curtis .

He knew it. And so, jaw clenched, he pushed his steed with everything he had. The road back seemed shorter this time—less from distance, more from determination.

But the sun had already begun its descent when they arrived. The western sky burned orange and red as if echoing the blood that had been spilled.

The advance scouts had erected a makeshift perimeter around the scene. Roxana’s voice rang out.

“Report.”

“We encountered no suspicious travelers on the way,” the scout replied.

“Good. At least there was no further bloodshed.”

“There is one concern,” the man added. “This is not a remote path. It appears the scene has already been somewhat disturbed.”

“Not unexpected. Many travelers pass this road. Let us examine it for ourselves.”

“Yes, Governor.”

She stepped beneath the tarp, Curtis  following close behind.

His first instinct was to check the carriage.

The horse was gone, as expected, but within the damaged frame, Zerion’s body still lay—cold, silent, and untouched.

“…I had hoped it wasn’t true,” Roxana murmured.

She had not doubted Curtis —she wouldn’t have come otherwise. But seeing the young noble’s corpse with her own eyes… the weight of it struck her.

“…There’s something wrong.”

It was Curtis  who spoke now, his voice unusually quiet.

“What is it?” Roxana asked, eyes narrowing.

Curtis  did not answer immediately. He scanned the battlefield.

It was wrong.

After every battle, there is always some form of aftermath. Looting, burial, flames—something. But this time, there was none of it. No one had remained to clean the dead. No victor to claim the spoils.

Yet something had changed.

Where once there had been dozens of bodies, now… far fewer remained.

“Where are the corpses?” Curtis  said softly.

“…Fewer than you remember?” Roxana asked.

“Yes. Without a doubt. Many are missing.”

Zerion was still there. 

But the masked assassin—the one whose skull Curtis  had seen shattered just feet from him—was gone.

Elsewhere, the corpses that remained were only those of the guards and mercenaries.

“…If someone had gathered all the bodies to bury or burn them, that might make sense,” Curtis  said. “But only the attackers are missing.”

“You suspect…” Roxana began.

But the grim silence between them answered the rest.

Curtis  nodded slowly.

“There are survivors among the assassins.”

The Whisper Beneath the Pages

Roxana split her forces with a command sharp as steel. Half the men formed a tight perimeter, weapons at the ready. The others turned to their grim task—gathering the dead, sifting through what few belongings remained for tokens of identity, and clearing the shattered remnants of battle.

There was no time for dignity. The fallen mercenaries would not be carried home. The best they could offer was a shroud of clean cloth and a message sent to the Guild in Quinis.

“Thorough bastards,” Roxana muttered darkly as she watched the work unfold.

Assassination was an art of shadows. True assassins planned for failure, not just success. The golden rule: leave behind nothing. No name. No trace. No trail.

That’s why the elite carried nothing but essentials—and sometimes, a dose of poison to silence themselves should things go awry.