CHAPTER 310: CHAPTER 310: PEACE IS A COSTUME

"What should we do?"

Once Selaphiel’s name appeared in the conversation, the leader became visibly apprehensive.

She pondered for only a few moments before speaking.

"Leave him be. What he’s here for isn’t any of our business."

"About that,"

The man interrupted.

"He wants to join the procession."

The leader frowned.

"He may not. The best I can do is let him follow us from a distance."

"Alright. I’ll let him know."

After that brief exchange, they continued moving, successfully passing through the main gates.

Due to how expansive the manor grounds were, it naturally took quite some time before they reached the main building.

Each turn of the wheel seemed slower than the last, the silence outside thickening.

Waiting for them at the forefront, with a deep scowl on her face, wearing a nightgown and holding a leather belt, was Lugh’s stepmother, Isolde.

Lugh blinked when he saw her. His eyes focusing on the belt.

He glanced at her attire properly—

A nightgown. No belt holes.

Which meant...

He wasn’t given a chance to finish the thought as the carriage came to a sudden, skidding halt.

Lugh swiveled his head to look behind, noticing that Victor’s wagon was no longer in view.

It must have been led somewhere else— Wait, that wasn’t the problem right now.

Lugh, Sela, and Mirelle were led outside where Isolde waited, deceptively calm.

She simply stared at them, not uttering a single word. Her eyes—cold, unreadable—remained locked on them.

Both his sisters were as meek as lambs—heads down, not even daring to meet her gaze. Even under the influence of alcohol, the effect was visible.

Isolde’s shadows stood aside, watching the scene unfold like an expected performance.

The silence stretched long.

Lugh was the one who broke it. He spoke directly.

"I don’t feel pain."

Isolde turned to him. She smiled.

"Don’t worry—when I’m done, you will."

Another bout of silence.

He added,

"What’s even the point? I can just heal."

Her smile widened.

"Even better. Now I don’t have to worry about scars."

Lugh opened his mouth—then closed it again. His jaw tensed ever so slightly.

Another stretch of unnerving silence.

He spoke, once more.

"Are you serious?"

She didn’t respond.

Lugh pursed his lips. He briefly considered running away—before realising something:

The shadows that once provided protection had now become an insurmountable obstacle.

Even if he turned invisible right here, right now, there was a very high chance they’d sniff him out immediately.

These were assassins from House Caldreth, after all—concealment abilities had been drilled into their bones since childhood.

Their eyes didn’t blink, and their hands were never far from a hidden blade.

And that was without taking into account the real problem here. Isolde.

Ever since learning that she herself was an Enforcer, Lugh had begun putting things into perspective.

For one, it explained why the other members of the branch family were unable to do much to her, no matter how much dissatisfied they were.

It also made him painfully aware that while her assassination hadn’t been staged—and she likely would’ve died without his involvement—his subsequent fight with the beastkin had been designed.

Lugh didn’t believe for a second that she was weak enough to actually struggle in such a battle.

Long story short, he had been played.

He inhaled. This wasn’t a life-or-death situation. Escaping now would be impossible—as most of his magic was geared toward irreversible damage. A single mistake here could lead to catastrophe.

Lugh was now becominh painfully aware of how inflexible his magic truly was.

Even the most adaptive one—his command over the phantoms—took a hefty toll on the user and was generally overkill in simple scenarios.

Then there was the issue of what would happen if he actually succeeded in escaping.

This was her house, after all—and she surely knew it better than he did.

Not only that... what would he even do about food if he escaped again?

He gritted his teeth, then finally spoke in resignation.

"This is my first offence. Be lenient."

Isolde spoke.

"No, it isn’t."

Lugh blinked.

Then he realised—

She was right.

...

In the slums on the outskirts of Pyrellis, the door was opened, and the stench of blood and death escaped the building like a living thing. Thick, suffocating, and heavy.

Their expressions immediately became serious.

The man was more cautious, but the lady charged in frantically.

After fumbling in the dark for a while, they finally found a candle. It was lit, and illumination was brought to the room.

However, as soon as it came, they wished they had never turned on the light.

Sifting through the bodies, the lady suppressed the bile rising in her throat.

Then the man called to her.

"Hey. Someone’s still breathing."

She stood immediately, walking over to him.

"It’s Rat,"

He said.

"He won’t last long."

She dipped, checking his pulse and observing his condition.

Last long?

By all accounts, he ought to be dead by now. Broken ribs. Smashed internal organs.

Damaged lungs. Missing teeth.

She stopped her diagnostics, immediately placing her hands on his chest.

Every second mattered.

The strange energy she had no name for surged through her body and flowed into his own.

The effects weren’t visible at first, and if not for her heavy perspiration, one wouldn’t think she was doing anything at all. Even the candlelight flickered, as if disturbed by the effort.

Seconds turned to minutes.

And minutes turned to even longer minutes.

After about half an hour, she was on the verge of passing out—

But some colour had returned to her patient’s body.

She stopped, eyes blurry as she spoke.

"He’s out of the red for now. But he’ll die soon if we don’t get him to a hospital!"

The man looked at her, his bushy brown eyebrows twitching.

He blurted out,

"Hospital? Do you think we have the funds for that?!"

Then he stopped when he saw her hand pointing forward.

Tracing it, he immediately found the table—

On it was a scattering of gold coins.

His eyes lit up, greed contorting his features.

He—