CHAPTER 42: THE LAIR

Edward and Seraphine moved toward the back of the convoy, falling in line with the Prince.

The tunnel that swallowed them was narrow, just wide enough for two to walk shoulder to shoulder. The stone pressed in on both sides, jagged walls glistening faintly with damp, the air thick with a faint metallic tang that clung to the tongue.

The convoy advanced in silence. Only the occasional scrape of steel against rock or the muted rustle of armour broke the stillness. Even the Prince, who had carried himself with light remarks and easy airs earlier, now walked wordless, his gaze fixed ahead with a sharp edge.

But as the minutes passed, the tunnel began to change.

The walls, once rough and uneven, grew steadily smoother. The ceiling arched higher.

Soon, the crags of stone were gone, replaced by polished surfaces that reflected the flicker of torches. The place felt less like a natural cavern and more like a corridor—deliberate, constructed, and undeniably ominous.

Edward’s expression darkened at the shift. His heart gave a steady thrum against his chest, not from fear alone, but anticipation. Every step carried them deeper, closer, into whatever vile place Crimson Oath was meeting at. He tightened his grip on the dagger he had taken from the townhouse, its familiar weight providing a grounding sense of comfort.

Then—an arm lifted.

The convoy came to a sudden halt, every eye locked onto the raised fist.

One of the leading royal guards came to a stop just before a sudden corner. With quiet understanding, the torches began to extinguish, and the blades began to unsheathe slowly.

Edward’s eyes flicked forward.

Aeris, who stood at the forefront, had glanced back at him. Her look was sharp and laced with a quiet warning.

Edward’s instinct surged immediately.

He called upon his summons.

From the darkness beside him, two figures materialised. Shadow Striker and Shadow Soldier.

The Prince shot him a questioning look—half suspicion, half curiosity—but before Edward could offer an explanation, Arthur’s attention snapped forward, gaze fixed on the more urgent matter ahead.

"Stay close to Seraphine," Edward ordered the Shadow Soldier through the mental command. The figure obeyed instantly, moving beside her like a loyal wraith.

Then, his gaze shifted toward the Shadow Striker, to whom he gave a simpler command.

"Kill as many as you can"

The darkness of the Shadow Striker seemed to stir for a moment, as if the command gave the summon an exhilaration.

But Edward didn’t pay it any mind. He needed five kills to rank up.

Due to all the recent killings and investigations, he didn’t have much time to explore the system and make any progress, but now, in the lair of the Crimson Oath... what better chance would he have to kill than now?

Then, the soldier’s arm dropped.

Without a warning, the front line surged, steel flashed as they charged forward.

Armours clattered and boots thundered at the sudden movement. Shouts tore through the silence as the convoy charged, and Edward, Seraphine, and the Prince followed in their wake.

The tunnel bent sharply, followed by a large opening.

They burst into a chamber vast enough to swallow a manor hall whole. At least ten meters high, its ceiling supported by colossal stone columns that reached up into the gloom. Light spilled unevenly across the room, torches fixed into wall sconces that cast the place in uneven shadows.

Edward’s eyes narrowed.

At the far side of the chamber, a half-circle of robed figures stood gathered around a stone altar. Their formation was tight, their attention fixed not on the intruders but on the object before them—a body stretched lifeless upon the slab. Pale, rigid and unmistakably dead.

One cultist had broken from the half-circle. He trembled visibly, dagger shaking in his grip as he stood nearest the altar. His lips moved in silent mutterings, too soft to carry across the chamber.

However, that stillness wouldn’t last long as the royal guards poured into the chamber.

Battle cries erupted, echoing off the walls and pillars. Sounds of steel clashing against steel echoed across the chamber, followed by screams of pain and the bone-deep thud of blades striking flesh.

At the exact moment, the Shadow Striker leapt into action. It was a blur, weaving through the chaos like a serpent of smoke. It appeared where least expected, its dagger flashing once, twice, each strike precise and merciless. Cultists fell, throats cut before they could even raise a defence.

[Kills: 1/5]

[Kills: 2/5]

[Kills: 3/5]

[Kills: 4/5]

The notifications appeared before Edward’s eyes, stacking one atop another in quick succession. His chest tightened, not with fear, but a grim satisfaction. The summon was efficient—far more than he had expected. Its blade whispered death across the battlefield.

But satisfaction gave way to unease.

Edward’s gaze swept the chamber, counting the enemy. Ten. Twelve at most. Far too few.

His frown deepened. A deep sense of unease erupted in his mind. A cult of this scale should have flooded the chamber, should have numbered far more than a mere dozen. Unless—

"Did they know we were coming?" he muttered under his breath. The words were more thought than sound, but even voicing them brought a cold weight to his chest.

Then the last notification flickered into being.

[Kills: 5/5]

[Kill Requirement Met]

Edward’s breath caught. His eyes snapped to the battlefield, where the Shadow Striker continued to move silently between the shadows. The corpses it left in its wake lay crumpled in silence.

A new command formed on his lips, sharp and clear.

"Extract."

Shadows around the lifeless bodies began to stir, and one by one, new summons began to rise.

Four Shadow Soldiers materialised, their hollow eyes glimmering faintly in the dim light. Alongside them, a single Shadow Warrior emerged, its frame slightly larger, its shadowy blade more defined than the rest.

Without wasting a moment, the summons moved into action. The already overwhelming tide of the battle shifted even harder into their favour, and the last of the robed cultists stumbled back beneath shadow and steel.

Victory seemed within reach.

But just as the final hooded figure fell, the chamber shook with new cries.

From the darkness beyond the columns, steel boots hammered the stone. Torches flared, casting cruel light on fresh shapes spilling into the chamber.

Edward’s eyes snapped wide as twenty more figures emerged—they were not robed in crimson cloth, but clad head to toe in steel, their weapons already drawn.

The true strength of the Crimson Oath had arrived.