CHAPTER 441: STRUGGLE

In modern magic theory, the human soul typically represents the spirit. All resonance with elemental particles, the pulling of arcane factors, and the construction of magical circles rely on mental power as the brushstroke.

As for the physical body, many mages consider it the vessel that carries the soul, the foundation allowing human mental power to persist in the world, a unity of matter and energy.

After all, even undead creatures require specific mediums to move, such as bones or other objects that once had a prolonged connection with the body. This is exactly how ghostly tales of haunted castles came into existence.

In reality, when the physical body undergoes intense tremors, the soul momentarily becomes disoriented as well, unable to immediately use mental power to attract elemental particles and sketch magical circles.

Lucas stared at the snow before him, his peripheral vision catching a sharp glint under the moonlight, a stinging sensation prickling his skin. Every hair on his body stands on end.

A blade sliced through flesh. The scorching sensation shot instantly to his heart.

Almost instinctively, Lucas pulled his hand back and leaned away. Blood drops scattered like red beads, staining the sheets.

As Helen had said, she possessed no talent in magic, let alone using mental power to enhance her physical body, this was exactly why Lucas had lowered his guard and chose to meet her in secret.

As a noble lady who had never performed manual labor, all Helen could do was rely on that single perfect moment to launch her attack.

Lucas’s left chest was now gushing blood. The sharp dagger imbued with wind-element magic had cut through the outer layer of his skin, but due to the limited angle of attack, it failed to plunge entirely into his chest cavity and deliver a fatal blow.

Suddenly assaulted, the blood flowing inside his body instantly cooled from its previous warmth. Losing Helen’s body heat and struck by the chill wind from outside, cold sweat broke out on Lucas’s back.

"What are you doing?!"

Before the man’s astonished words could finish, Helen hurled the dagger with all her strength, straight toward Lucas’s heart. He instinctively raised his arm to block.

The dagger’s surface attracted a certain number of wind-elemental particles. Even with just a throw, the force was sufficient to pierce through Lucas’s arm.

The next second, blood splattered everywhere. The dagger plunged into Lucas’s forearm, its sharp edge completely piercing flesh and becoming firmly lodged in the radius and ulna bones.

With no time even to clean up, Lucas kicked at the sheets and shouted for help.

"Someone, come!"

Unfortunately, the moment Lucas had stepped into the young lady’s bedroom, Helen had pressed a magic crystal storing a soundproofing barrier right in front of him. At that time, the lust-blinded eldest prince had given his silent consent.

This was an unwritten rule among nobles, no one would find it strange.

Realizing his current situation was extremely dangerous, Lucas immediately rotated the ring on his index finger. A magic crystal instantly appeared before him, split into several pieces as mental power flowed into it.

As the empire’s highest-ranking prince, second only to the emperor himself, Lucas naturally possessed his own spatial storage device. Although far smaller and less versatile than the Imperial Scepter or the Sword of Light, it was more than sufficient to store life-saving items.

The crystal shattered, and several transparent ice shields appeared around Lucas. Simultaneously, a tender green light encircled his chest, beginning to attempt healing the wound.

How dare a mere count’s daughter lay hands on an imperial prince?

Even the most stupid person will now realize the truth. The Helen before him was clearly not the mastermind, but acting under someone else’s orders. Only one person had both the capability and motive to do this.

The second prince, Alistair Valeria.

"Madness... daring to do such a thing." Lucas asserted under his breath, quickly increasing the distance between himself and Helen.

Assassinating the crown prince, such a crude method, once exposed, would guarantee Alistair no support from the emperor or other nobles, no matter the perspective.

As he spoke, another pure white crystalline stone appeared in Lucas’s hand. A thread of mental power seeped into it, and the elemental crystal instantly erupted into a web-like burst of lighting, shattering the soundproofing barrier Helen had set up earlier.

"There’s an assassin! Guards, come quickly!"

In truth, there was no need for loud crying. In the suburbs far from the city, such a powerful surge of magical energy was like fireworks suddenly blooming in the night sky. The moment the guards sensed the disturbance in elemental particles, they dropped their tasks and rushed at maximum speed toward the inconspicuous little mansion.

Upon learning of Helen’s failed assassination, the binding circles prepared outside the manor for several days activated. Alistair, who had been lurking in the shadows, immediately revealed himself, lunging into the room through the bedroom window. His right hand, wrapped in oil-like darkness, quickly struck the ice shield before Lucas.

Sensing the familiar magical fluctuations, and spotting a small section of golden hair peeking from beneath the hood, Lucas’s blue eyes broadened in shock. He stared blankly at the slender figure before him, his mental power output faltering for a split second.

Alistair... wasn’t he resting at his estate? How could he be here...

Although Lucas had deduced the second prince was behind the assassination, he never expected the man to personally intervene. According to the intelligence he’d gathered, Alistair was merely a peak tier Magnus who had only recently advanced at the beginning of the year, hardly a serious threat, not worth risking his own life.

If this failed, he wouldn’t even have the chance to push a scapegoat forward to take the fall.

Realizing his opponent truly intended to fight to the death and decide the victor here and now, Lucas focused his mind. Magical energy surged faster, flooding more frost into his ice armor and reinforcing the defense in front of his body.

But the hand shrouded in dark mist touched the ice armor, and as if possessing special corrosiveness, the ice crumbled inch by inch, offering not the slightest resistance.

An intense aura of death pressed down, making it hard for Lucas to breathe. His gaze fell upon the rapidly disintegrating ice armor. Without time to ponder the reason, he instinctively raised his hand to guard his chest and simultaneously released a basic-level wind magic spell: [Reverse Wind Pressure].

A sudden gust erupted from both arms. The resulting recoil force sent Lucas flying backward, his body crashing heavily against the door. Transparent shards of ice scattered across the floor.

The dagger embedded in his forearm spurted even more blood. The delayed, intense pain caused Lucas to cough uncontrollably.

"Truly pathetic... Lucas..."

Looking at the disheveled, half-naked golden-haired man before him, stripped of all noble dignity, Alistair’s voice was low, tinged with mockery.

"Right now, you’re like a scrawny stray dog collapsed by the roadside."

As soon as the words left his mouth, more dark mist poured from Alistair’s robes, liquefying midair into ink-like fluid, ultimately transforming into sharp spears.

"It’s time to wake up from your dream."

Aiming directly at Lucas’s heart and neck, the dark spears shot forward like a cold-blooded reaper raising his scythe.

.............

In the opulent imperial bedroom, soothing music drifted from the distant music room, blending with the warm orange candlelight to create a relaxing dining atmosphere.

Astrid sat upright with grace at the head of the table, knife in one hand and fork in the other, delicately cutting the steak on her plate. Her deep blue skirt fanned over the chair, and beneath the sheer fabric, her long, slender legs wrapped in dark stockings were elegantly crossed.

"How is the meal overall tonight?"

On Astrid’s left, a middle-aged man in a dark golden robe set down his wineglass and asked gently.

"Very good. Especially the new experiment, seared foie gras with blueberry sauce. Both the texture and seasoning were quite impressive."

As she answered, Astrid glanced at the reflection on her glass. Her bright red eyes reflect the shimmering wine.

Tonight, Hibbort wore casual clothing to receive guests. His eye sockets were slightly sunken, his golden hair loosely draped over his shoulders. He possessed the imposing aura of the imperial robe, yet unlike their previous meeting when he lay in bed with the weary pallor of illness, he appeared somewhat revitalized.

If one had to describe him, it would be like a withered tree in late autumn, outwardly still sturdy, but upon close inspection, one could feel the inner emptiness and dryness in every tiny detail.

Throughout the dinner, they didn’t talk much, mostly about which dishes were delicious, cooking techniques, and possible future improvements.

If this were an ordinary father-daughter family, such conversation would be common. But in an imperial household, this scene was anything but normal.

Especially at this critical juncture, Hibbort still recovering from a long illness, the eldest prince seems caught in a trap.

Astrid’s gaze lingered on Hibbort’s face. After the man nodded in approval, she turned her eyes to Amalia sitting directly across.

Additionally, the fact that Amalia had been invited to dinner was hard to ignore.

Why exactly at this moment was Amalia brought along?

Was it to prevent them from disrupting and throwing off Alistair’s plans at a crucial moment, making things uncontrollable? Or to protect them from Alistair’s harm? Or perhaps, to distance both her and Amalia from the entire assassination incident?

Possibly all of the above.

If everything aligned with her deductions, given Hibbort’s information network, far more extensive than Elise’s, the actions of the eldest and second princes had likely been observed by him from an omniscient perspective.

And... where is Mr. Trin?

As Hibbort’s most trusted personal guard and a powerful Arcanist mage, during the period when the emperor publicly claimed illness, he should have been constantly present.

Why hadn’t he appeared all night? Even the serving attendants were lower-ranked deputies.

Although her mind churned with thoughts, Astrid showed none of it, merely lowering her eyes and finishing the last piece of vegetables on her plate.

She also had no idea what was currently happening at Count Roast’s estate, who had gained the upper hand.

The knife lightly scraped the plate, leaving a faint brown mark. Amalia moved and adapted, her slender legs covered in soft white stockings pressed against the chair, her pair of pure dark leather shoes resting on the crossbar.

This was her first time experiencing such a setting, listening to Hibbort and Astrid chat, sharing casual, familial conversations only spoken when father and daughter were alone.

On one side was her beloved sister, on the other, her most hated father. Hearing the affection in Hibbort’s voice, Amalia felt an indescribable emotion stirring inside.

Not jealousy, just pure disgust.

But fortunately, Amalia had already learned to control her emotions. This wasn’t just evident in her excellent facial expression control, but also in her mind, which remained unaffected by emotion.

Rather than being led by feelings of hatred, pondering why Hibbort did this was clearly more meaningful.

Her crimson eyes reflected the silver platter. Amalia took a gentle breath. Her outstanding features appear delicate and beautiful under the light, like a porcelain doll.

According to her sister’s theory, this so-called father didn’t care about his children’s lives, only whether the throne would be inherited by a capable direct bloodline member who could lead the empire out of the war quagmire.

In other words, as long as he avoided the scenario of both Lucas and Alistair dying, his goal was achieved.

If someone could be easily assassinated and killed by political enemies, how could they possibly be fit to rule? Their death wouldn’t be worth lamenting.

In some ways, Amalia and Hibbort truly share common ground, only differing in their starting perspectives and specific thoughts.

Thinking this way... those Imperial Guards remaining in the capital weren’t just putting on a show...

If the eldest prince were assassinated, political turmoil would inevitably erupt. With the Imperial Guards protecting the capital, the ripples across the political lake wouldn’t trigger excessive chain reactions.

Having deduced it correctly by ninety percent, Amalia picked up her glass and took a small sip of juice, continuing to listen to Astrid and Hibbort’s idle conversation.

"I heard Baroness Lyra has been performing quite well recently."

"She’s a promised one. She’ll undoubtedly shine in the future."

"Knowing you’re close to her, I’ve invited Duke Charles to take extra care of her."

"..."

"So... is Father’s health truly not a concern?"

Hearing Astrid’s question, Hibbort fell silent for a moment. His solemn blue eyes swept over the silver-haired girl’s face, bearing a resemblance to her mother.

"Not great, but not as bad as imagined."

The meaning was ambiguous, yet it still counts as an answer.

Astrid nodded upon hearing this, then casually asked,

"Speaking of which, isn’t Mr. Trin supposed to be by Father’s side?"

"Even if you’ve just recovered from serious illness, it’s better to have more people around for assistance."

Hibbort pursed his dry lips after hearing this, his voice low.

"I’ve sent him on another task."

"...Perhaps he’ll return in the late night."

Late at night? What important matter requires the emperor’s personal guard to temporarily leave the bedroom and go do something in the dark?

Her thoughts circled once. Realizing a certain possibility, Astrid slightly narrowed her red eyes. The thin heel of her high shoe tapped the floor with a crisp click.

Could it be... that the early tier Arcanist mage is currently at Count Roast’s estate as well...

Watching over everything, not by ordinary eyes, but by the empire’s most trusted steward.

Then... What about Duke Charles?

Where exactly is he now, still in the capital, or already in the North?