The sun sank low, bleeding gold into the sea. The heat of the day softened into a heavy stillness as Ludger moved through the dunes, keeping to the long shadows that stretched toward the water.

From here, the bridge site looked almost tranquil—until he got close enough to see the truth.

The so-called “bridge” was barely more than a skeleton. Three unfinished pillars rose from the water, gray and uneven, surrounded by scaffolding that looked one good storm away from collapse. Ropes hung loose, pulleys creaked in the breeze, and half a dozen workers trudged across the platforms like ghosts too tired to haunt properly.

A hundred paces farther down the beach stood Ironhand’s main outpost—a cluster of prefabricated barracks and tents built on a small rise above the tide line. Lanterns burned along its perimeter, throwing orange light over the sand. He counted a dozen guards patrolling, each armed with rune-marked crossbows—the same kind used last night.

Supply crates were stacked near the waterline, stamped with the syndicate’s hammer emblem. Some of them were sealed with iron clasps glowing faintly from enchantment—far too elaborate for simple building materials.

Ludger’s frown deepened. That’s not construction gear.

He shifted slightly, letting the wind mask his movement as he crept closer. The sand beneath his boots moved like liquid, his mana softening every step into silence.

Through a narrow gap between tents, he caught sight of a large canvas awning near the scaffolding—a makeshift workshop. Two engineers hunched over a table filled with runes and metal molds, one of them holding what looked suspiciously like a mana core wrapped in seaweed.

They were embedding them into the support braces. Sea-affinity cores. “Idiots are building a mana conduit bridge,” Ludger muttered under his breath. “Across saltwater.”

No wonder the sea was spitting monsters at them.

He leaned back behind the dune, processing what he’d seen. The Ironhand Syndicate wasn’t failing to build the bridge—they were experimenting with the loot of their dungeon. Turning the structure into something else entirely.

A low horn echoed from the outpost, breaking his thoughts. Shift change.

Torches swapped hands, guards traded places, and a small convoy of wagons rolled out from the southern road—supplies, maybe, or something worse. The guards checked every crate as if guarding treasure.

Ludger exhaled slowly. Too much risk to move now. Better to watch. Learn their rhythm.

The sky deepened into indigo, and the lanterns along the scaffold flickered one by one. He stayed still, eyes half-lidded, letting his breathing match the pulse of the waves.

From the looks of it, Ironhand wasn’t building a bridge. They were testing something—and whatever it was, it was feeding the sea demons.

Ludger’s fingers brushed the sand beside him, the grains vibrating faintly with restrained mana. “Guess I found my next problem.”

The tide crashed below, and the bridge’s hollow frame creaked like an omen.

By dawn, the tide had receded, leaving a trail of broken shells and pale foam along the shore. The sea was calm again—too calm, like it was holding its breath after the night’s bloodletting.

Ludger spent the morning doing what a hunter was supposed to do.

He stayed just outside the guards’ patrol routes, watching the waters, waiting for movement. The sahuagins always came in pairs or trios, crawling up from the surf as if drawn by the stench of iron and fire from the half-built bridge.

He waited until he saw the fins break the surface, then moved.

Sand rose at his command, forming spikes and bullets. The creatures didn’t even reach the dunes before he tore through them—one clean shot through each skull, a single blow to the chest, a finishing strike to the throat. Quick, efficient, and silent.

When it was done, five bodies lay scattered across the wet sand.

He dragged them closer together, out of sight from any possible onlookers. The corpses were heavier than expected; their scales hummed faintly with residual mana, like they were still alive in some buried sense.

For a moment, he hesitated. Dissecting monsters wasn’t new to him, but this—this felt different. These weren’t beasts from a labyrinth. They were things made here, near the bridge, in the same water the villagers fished.

Still, he needed to know.

He took his knife and split open the chest of the first one. The blade met resistance—then scraped against something hard. He reached in and pulled it free.

A mana core.

Not natural, not raw,refined. Smooth edges, faintly blue-green light pulsing like a heartbeat. The same hue as the ones he’d seen under Ironhand’s tents last night.

He wiped his hands on the sand and checked the others. Every single one had a core fused to its chest cavity, the veins around it blackened and crystallized. Whoever—or whatever—made these things had implanted them.

The mana they gave off was strong, too. Dense and clean, the kind of energy that could fuel a mid-tier rune engine for days without draining the user’s mana.

Ludger rolled one between his fingers, feeling its pulse. “Three times what they’re paying for,” he murmured.

Ironhand offered two silver per corpse. These things were worth at least six in raw cores alone—maybe more considering the materials of the bodies.

It wasn’t a bad haul for one morning, but it confirmed what he already suspected. The syndicate wasn’t here to build a bridge. They were harvesting power—farming the sea’s corruption for its cores.

He covered the remains with wet sand, leaving only the faintest trace for the tide to reclaim. No reason to draw attention.

Then he slipped the smallest cores into his pouch and glanced toward the horizon. The Ironhand camp shimmered in the distance, sunlight glinting off its scaffolds and steel braces.

“Let’s see what you’re really doing with these,” he muttered.

By midmorning, the sun had burned through the mist. Ludger approached the Ironhand outpost with an easy gait, a cloak pulled tight around him. The guards at the gate eyed him but didn’t raise their weapons; a few even nodded in vague approval. Hunters were common enough here now.

He had planned to walk straight in, and use the moment to gauge how the syndicate handled their “purchases.” Maybe plant a question or two. Maybe see where they stored the cores.

But then he noticed it—something off in the rhythm of the camp.

Ironhand guards were moving faster than usual, breaking their lazy patrols and forming clusters near the main road. A few engineers abandoned their scaffolding to gather at the edge of the dunes. The tension was thick, rolling through the air like the quiet before a storm.

Ludger stopped, set down the sahuagin, and pretended to adjust his bandages while he watched.

“What’s going on?” one of the hunters nearby muttered.

“Supply wagons, maybe,” another said. “Or inspection.”

Ludger followed their gaze. In the distance, beyond the haze of heat and sand, several wagons were rumbling down the coastal road—heavy ones, covered in dust, drawn by armored horses. The sun caught the banners snapping above them.

A red bull.

House Torvares.

Ludger’s pulse jumped. Already? They’d arrived ten days earlier than expected.

The Ironhand guards straightened in unison, forming a loose reception line. Whatever tension had been simmering now sharpened into formality.

Ludger narrowed his eyes. This changed everything.

He had come here planning to slip through the cracks—to learn, observe, vanish before anyone noticed him. But now, with Torvares arriving, secrecy became both harder and more useful.

He didn’t have enough information yet to report anything concrete. He couldn’t accuse Ironhand of smuggling or experimentation—not without proof. But their allies showing up early meant one thing: he had more options.

Ludger shifted his cloak and stepped back into the shadow of a supply shed, letting the gathering crowd block him from view.

From here, he could see the lead wagon stop near the main scaffolding. A man wearing Torvares red dismounted—one of the house officers, by the way he carried himself. Behind him, other figures followed, among them a woman in silver armor trimmed with crimson.

Viola.

She looked the same as ever—focused, impatient, scanning the camp like she owned it.

Ludger exhaled through his nose, barely suppressing a smirk. “You’re early,” he muttered. “Figures.”

He stayed in the shadows as Ironhand’s commander came forward to greet them. The conversation was distant but polite—handshakes, nods, the usual diplomatic gestures.

Ludger’s mind was already racing. Viola being here meant Torvares was taking direct oversight. If Ironhand was hiding anything, she’d see it—or he could make sure she did.

He glanced at the sahuagin corpse at his feet, then at the outpost full of uneasy guards. He had just gone from being one hidden observer to having a dozen moving pieces on the board.

“Guess the game’s starting early,” he muttered.

He pulled his hood lower and began circling the camp’s edge, careful to stay unseen. He’d need to watch how Ironhand handled Torvares’ arrival—and how much they tried to hide before she noticed.

From his spot behind the crowd, Ludger watched the Torvares procession make its way through the outpost.

Viola walked in front, her crimson cloak trailing behind her like a banner of war. She didn’t slow, didn’t greet the guards, didn’t even glance at the gawking workers crowding around to see. Her silver armor gleamed under the sun, polished to mirror brightness, her every step cutting a path through the chaos.

Five armored figures followed silently in her wake. Heavy gear. Broad pauldrons. The kind of equipment made for front-line combat, not ceremonial escort. Each wore a full helmet that hid their faces completely, polished steel glinting as they moved in perfect formation.

Ludger didn’t need to see their faces. He knew the rhythm of their steps.

His stomach sank.

Arslan. Harold. Selene. Aleia. Cor.

Of course it’s them.

He rubbed his temple and let out a quiet sigh through his nose. “Why the hell are you idiots wearing helmets? Trying to start a trend?”

He could practically hear Selene laughing at the idea, Harold muttering about “interesting,” and Arslan pretending it was all strategy when it was probably just his way of avoiding unnecessary recognition.

Still, it worked—they blended in as elite guards, faceless and disciplined. The Ironhand men wouldn’t know who they were dealing with.

Viola stopped near the first scaffold of the bridge, the red bull crest on her cloak catching the wind. Ironhand’s captain, a burly man in blackened plate with the guild’s hammer sigil stamped across his chest, stepped forward to meet her.

Even from a distance, Ludger could tell the man was sweating under all that armor.

“Lady Viola Torvares,” the commander said, bowing stiffly. “An honor to host House Torvares so soon. We weren’t expecting your—”

“Inspection?” Viola cut in, her voice carrying easily over the wind. “You should have.”

The crowd around them shifted uncomfortably.

“We received reports,” she continued, “that the bridge’s progress was behind schedule. Yet when I look at this site, I see something worse than delay. I see negligence. My family is sponsoring the Lionsguard and you called them to continue the work here, but they will basically start everything.”

The commander cleared his throat. “My Lady, construction in this climate has proven more challenging than—”

“Spare me the excuses,” Viola said, her tone sharp as glass. “You’ve had ample funding, supplies, and men. Where are the results?”

Ludger almost smiled. Same as always.

His father and the others stood motionless behind her, silent pillars of steel. Their posture alone radiated control—enough to remind everyone watching that Torvares didn’t arrive with words alone.

The commander tried to recover his composure. “Our men have faced complications. The local wildlife has been unusually hostile. We’re addressing it.”

“‘Wildlife,’” Viola repeated, raising a brow. “You mean the sahuagins?”

A pause.

“Yes, my Lady. We’ve been exterminating them efficiently. The Ironhand Syndicate pays bounties to keep the coast clear.”

Ludger’s eyes narrowed. Efficient extermination, my ass.

From his hiding spot, he could see the crates behind the workshop where the engineers had been embedding cores into the bridge’s frame. They’d covered them with canvas, but the faint glow still leaked through.

Viola hadn’t noticed them yet, but she would. She was thorough—more than anyone gave her credit for. Or maybe not since she wanted to give an impression with her act.

Ludger adjusted his hood, blending deeper into the crowd of laborers and hunters gathering to watch the exchange. He couldn’t afford to be recognized, not yet.So he stayed still, silent, eyes tracking every word and every nervous twitch from the Ironhand men.

Whatever game Ironhand was playing, they were about to find out what it felt like to be standing on the wrong end of a Torvares interrogation. And Ludger would make sure to learn everything they tried to hide.

By the time the sun touched the edge of the sea, the heat had faded into a slow, amber glow. The Ironhand camp began to quiet down—workers finishing their shifts, guards changing patrols, the clang of tools replaced by the creak of ropes and waves.

Viola and her entourage finally turned back toward the road. The inspection had dragged on for hours, but in the end, they hadn’t found the one thing Ludger needed them to see.

The crates.

They’d been sitting right there under the workshop awning, faintly glowing under layers of canvas—but the sunlight had hidden the shimmer perfectly. The golden glare off the sea made sure of that.

Ludger watched from the dunes as the Torvares carriage rolled out of the camp, wheels grinding softly over sand. Viola walked ahead for a while, helmeted guards flanking her like shadows, before climbing aboard.

He sighed quietly. “So much for subtle help.”

Still, he didn’t blame her. Ironhand’s people had been careful—too careful. It only confirmed that they were hiding something worth killing over.

He waited until full dark before moving.

By then, the camp behind him had dimmed to a handful of torches, and the road stretched out like a ribbon of pale dust under the moonlight. The Torvares convoy wasn’t moving fast; they had a long road back to their lodgings.

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