Chapter : 667

The figure paused, standing at the edge of the square, and began a slow, methodical scan of the surroundings. The hooded head tilted, sweeping across the rooftops, lingering on the darkened windows, assessing every potential point of observation. It was the instinctive, professional caution of a wolf entering a clearing.

Ken did not move. He did not breathe. He pulled his own aura in so tightly that he became a vacuum, a point of absolute nullity in the world. He was less than a shadow; he was an absence.

The figure's unseen gaze passed over his position on the rooftop, finding nothing but crumbling stone and old grime. Satisfied that the area was clean, the operative began to walk into the square, the posture relaxed and utterly without fear. The trap was about to be sprung. Ken’s silent vigil was about to bear its deadly fruit.

The cloaked figure moved across the square with an unhurried, almost insolent, confidence. The deserted space was its kingdom, the sleeping city its dominion. Ken watched, his mind a cold, analytical engine, processing every detail of the operative’s movements. This was a professional of the highest caliber. There was no wasted motion, no sign of anxiety, only the calm, efficient purpose of a master of the shadow arts.

The figure arrived at the fountain and, without breaking stride, knelt behind its base. A gloved hand reached out, its movements precise and certain, going directly to the loose brick. There was no fumbling, no searching. The location was known, memorized from a prior briefing. The brick was pulled free with a soft scrape of stone on stone. The hand disappeared into the dark cavity and emerged a moment later, clutching the tiny scroll.

The prize was secured.

The figure did not linger to inspect the contents. To do so in the open would be an amateur’s mistake. The scroll vanished into a hidden pocket deep within the folds of the heavy cloak. The operative then methodically replaced the loose brick, even taking a second to pat the overgrown ivy back into place, restoring the scene to its previous state of neglect. The discipline was flawless.

With the task complete, the figure rose to its feet in a single, fluid motion. It turned, and for a fraction of a second, the deep cowl shifted as the operative performed one final, cursory scan of the area. In that brief moment, under the growing light of dawn, Ken saw it. Not a face, but the barest impression of one. A sliver of a pale chin, the hard line of a jaw. The features were unremarkable, generic, offering no clue to the person's identity. The operative was a ghost, a "grey man," deliberately cultivated to be unmemorable.

Then, the figure simply walked away. It moved back across the square with the same casual, unhurried pace, melting back into the mouth of the alley from which it had appeared. Within seconds, it was gone, swallowed by the city’s labyrinthine shadows as if it had been nothing more than a trick of the fading moonlight.

The square was silent once more. The dead drop was complete. The exchange was over.

Ken remained motionless in his hiding place for another full hour. It was a standard procedure, a professional’s caution. He watched as the city truly came to life around the desolate square. The sounds of vendors setting up their stalls, the chatter of early-morning workers, the rumble of wagons—the mundane, everyday life of the capital resumed, blissfully unaware of the act of high treason that had just transpired in its forgotten heart.

Only when the sun was fully above the rooftops, washing the square in the harsh, revealing light of day, did Ken finally permit himself to move. He uncoiled from his position, his limbs moving without a hint of stiffness despite the long hours of stillness. He was a machine built for this work, and the machine felt no fatigue.

He slipped away from the rooftop, his departure as silent and unnoticed as his arrival. His mission was a success. He now possessed the two critical pieces of intelligence his lord required.

First, the identity of the traitor. Pia. Her guilt was absolute and witnessed. She was the crack in their fortress wall.

Second, the nature of the enemy. They were not dealing with a simple rival agent or a greedy merchant. The handler was a ghost, a highly trained, disciplined professional. This meant Pia was not acting alone; she was a small, expendable gear in a much larger, more sophisticated intelligence machine. The organization behind her was well-funded, patient, and deeply embedded.

Chapter : 668

Ken made his way back towards the Ferrum estate. He carried no physical evidence, no stolen scroll. The truth was stored safely in his eidetic memory. He walked through the bustling morning streets, an anonymous figure in a simple, practical tunic, indistinguishable from the hundreds of other citizens going about their day. No one would ever guess that this quiet, unassuming man had just witnessed a secret that could alter the fate of nations.

He had the answers his lord sought. But he knew these answers would bring no comfort. They had caught the mouse, yes. But in doing so, they had confirmed the existence of a nest of dragons, hidden somewhere in the shadows, watching, and waiting. The intelligence he was about to deliver would not end the war; it would officially begin it.

—

The hallowed grounds of the Bathelham Royal Academy were a world unto themselves. Ancient ivy clung to the warm, sun-drenched stone of the lecture halls, and the scent of old books and freshly cut grass mingled in the air. For the sons and daughters of the kingdom’s elite, it was a crucible, a place where future leaders, generals, and mages were forged. For Jothi Ferrum, it had recently become a sanctuary.

She had returned from the Azure Shield Tournament three days prior, not with the fanfare of a champion, but with a quiet, steely satisfaction. The tournament had been a brutal, unforgiving affair, a meat grinder designed to separate the truly skilled from the merely talented. She had fought, she had bled, and she had won. Not the grand championship—that had been claimed by a seasoned, third-year knight-prodigy—but she had placed in the top four, a stunning achievement for a first-year student. More importantly, she had pushed herself past her limits, forcing her spirit, Seraphina, through the threshold of Ascension in the heat of a desperate battle.

She now felt the constant, thrumming presence of her magnificent white tigress spirit as a deeper, more potent wellspring of power within her. It was a cool, steady confidence that had soothed the raw, stinging wound of her defeat at the family Summit. She had proven to herself, if to no one else, that she was not defined by a single loss.

She was walking along the flagstone path that bordered the Swan Pond, a place of serene beauty, when a familiar, and often irritating, voice broke her reverie.

“Lady Jothi. A word, if you please.”

Jothi paused and turned, her expression carefully neutral. Princess Isabella of Bethelham was approaching, her stride as confident and purposeful as a charging warhorse. She was flanked, as always, by the formidable Captain Eva of the Royal Lion Guard, a woman whose stony expression made Ken Park look like a cheerful comedian. Isabella herself was dressed not in a flowing gown, but in the crisp, practical uniform of a senior officer-cadet, a clear statement of her authority within the Academy’s hierarchy.

“Your Highness,” Jothi said, offering a curt, correct bow. She schooled her features, preparing for what was likely to be another one of Isabella’s well-intentioned but often misguided attempts at friendship, a dynamic Jothi found exhausting. She braced herself for questions about the tournament, for effusive praise or clumsy condolences.

Instead, the Princess dispensed with all pleasantries. Her gaze was sharp, analytical, and deeply serious. “I am told you performed admirably at the Azure Shield Tournament. Your spirit has Ascended. Congratulations. It is a testament to the strength of House Ferrum.”

Jothi’s eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. The compliment was direct, professional, and devoid of Isabella’s usual emotional flourishes. “Thank you, Your Highness. It was a valuable experience.”

“Indeed,” Isabella said, her eyes narrowing. “Which brings me to the purpose of my visit. I have a question for you, Jothi. One of a rather… sensitive nature.”

Jothi waited, a sense of weary apprehension settling over her. When the Princess used the word ‘sensitive,’ it usually preceded a question of breathtakingly poor judgment.

Isabella leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though her intensity made it feel like a shout. “Tell me, and I require you to be completely honest. Does your family have another son? A secret brother, perhaps? One who has been hidden from the world?”

The question was so utterly bizarre, so wildly out of left field, that it shattered Jothi’s carefully constructed composure. For a solid ten seconds, her mind went completely blank. She could only stare at the Princess, a thousand confused thoughts crashing into each other. A secret brother? Where in the name of the seven hells had she gotten an idea like that?