CHAPTER 135: NO REASON

Nolan stood outside his villa, hands clasped behind him, the silvery light of the moon spilling across his gardens like a river of quicksilver.

From where he stood, high up in Silver Blade City, a twisting column of magical smoke rose in the air, it’s mist coalescing into an eerie scene of the tower far away on the distant isle.

Within that shimmering projection, shapes moved and fought — Calien, Erik, their two attendants, and Chief Varros — trapped inside the tense halls of that mysterious structure.

He studied the scene carefully, lips pressed into a thoughtful line as he observed their figures halting in mid-stride. Even at this safe distance, Nolan could feel a sense of unease humming through the ether.

In the tower itself, that unease had become palpable.

Calien, Erik, and their two attendants had all frozen at once, eyes wide and bodies tense as a strange sound began to reverberate through the stone halls. It started as a deep, distant rumble, like thunder stirring far away at sea, but then it grew, a guttural, almost bestial roar that sent a tremor through the entire structure.

The two attendants instantly drew closer to Calien and Erik, voices trembling as they whispered, "Young masters... we should go back. Please. This doesn’t feel right."

The first attendant’s hands were white-knuckled on the hilt of his short blade as he added in a voice barely above a breath, "There’s something up there — I can feel it. Something huge."

The second attendant nodded vigorously, eyes darting up toward the ceiling as though expecting it to cave in at any moment. "If we turn back now," he urged, "maybe we can make it out before it reaches us."

Calien glanced toward Erik, whose brow was furrowed in grim concentration. Both of them seemed to hesitate, sensing that whatever was coming was beyond anything they had faced before.

That was when Chief Varros finally broke his silence.

The knight chief’s voice was low but resolute, his gaze fixed on the staircase spiraling upward into shadow. "It’s too late," he told them flatly. "If we retreat now, we’ll only face an even worse fate. There are dozens — hundreds — of those tentacled beasts waiting below. Going back would mean walking into a trap."

He took a measured breath and continued, his tone laced with a steely determination that left no room for argument. "Our only choice is to go up. Whatever is up there, we face it."

Calien and Erik exchanged a long look, their fear obvious but their resolve solidifying under the chief’s calm authority.

And then, as if responding to their decision, the rumbling overhead stopped.

The sudden quiet was almost more unnerving than the noise before. Even the tower itself seemed to hold its breath, the dark corridors eerily still.

A moment passed — long and taut as a drawn bowstring — before a new figure emerged at the top of the staircase.

He was a gaunt, beggar-looking man, clothed in tattered rags that hung off his wiry frame. Despite his appearance, his gaze was sharp, and the smile tugging at his lips was anything but harmless.

"So," the stranger drawled as his eyes slid over the assembled warriors below him, "you’re the ones who have been killing my spawns."

The voice was coarse yet strangely amused, like someone enjoying a private joke.

Calien and Erik tensed, hands tightening around their knives, and even the two attendants swallowed nervously as they took a cautious step back. Chief Varros, however, remained perfectly still, studying the newcomer with narrowed eyes.

"My spawns," the beggar repeated slowly, his grin widening into a toothy, unpleasant leer. "My lovely creatures. Cut down like they were nothing at all. How dare you. Do you have any idea what you’ve cost me?"

"You dare insult the Black Vale Territory knights who stand before you?" Varros replied calmly, his deep voice slicing through the tension like a blade. "And what is this, anyway? Why summon an army of these monsters on a deserted isle, far from any notable leyline, where even the mana is starved to a trickle? What is your purpose here?"

The beggar’s eyes glinted as he cocked his head, listening to each question as if they were a melody.

"Oh, questions, questions," he sighed dramatically, spreading his hands. "Isn’t it obvious? I want power. Pure and simple. Does there need to be some grand cause or a lofty ideal? No. Power is enough."

He took a slow step forward as if savoring every heartbeat of suspense. "Besides," he continued lazily, "what better place to grow strong than this? A tower so barren of mana that every shred of energy must be fought for, stolen, hoarded. A crucible for one like me."

He paused, then his gaze sharpened as if relishing the impact of his words. "And now you," he hissed. "Chief of Black Vale? Middle-aged and tired, dragging along a pair of brave but foolish students into my lair. Don’t you realize what a joke that is? The mighty knights scattered like frightened rats by my spawn — pathetic."

Varros’s expression darkened, fists flexing at his sides. "You dare—"

"Of course I dare," the beggar cut in with a harsh bark of laughter. "Your so-called army has been hunted one by one, crushed by my lovely pets. Tell me, did you even notice the sound of their dying?"

There was a moment of heavy, oppressive silence as the beggar stared at them, eyes bright with malice and smug triumph.

Then Varros took a slow, deliberate breath and spoke in a tone like iron. "There’s no negotiating with this bastard," he growled. "I’ll take care of him myself."

And at that very instant, as if summoned by his words, another roar shattered the tense silence.

The sound was deeper this time, more savage — a monstrous bellow that set dust sifting from the cracked ceiling and sent a fresh shudder through the stones under their feet.

Somewhere, above and ahead in the gloom, something huge began to move. Its ponderous weight sent heavy thuds echoing down the stairwell, each one louder and closer than the last.

Calien and Erik exchanged a quick, alarmed glance, then squared their shoulders, hands firm around their knives as they prepared for whatever horror was bearing down upon them.

And as that terrible sound rose to a crescendo, Chief Varros merely flexed his fingers around the hilt of his blade and fixed his cold gaze on the beggar who still stood smirking before them — knowing full well that this fight was about to take a turn into darker, deadlier territory.