CHAPTER 230: CHAPTER 231: THE ODDS

- Noel POV -

The quiet hum of the boutique faded into the background as Noel sat beside Balthor and Noriel, the scent of malt still lingering in the air. His dark green outfit hugged perfectly to his frame, tailored down to the millimeter. One final sip of the strong dwarven brew warmed his throat.

The three of them sat in a uncomfortable silence—until Noriel broke it with a guilty glance.

"I shouldn’t have brought up your brother... sorry," he muttered, setting his mug down.

Balthor exhaled slowly, the foam still clinging to his beard. "No, don’t worry. If anything... I’m glad you did. I came here for that reason. When Noel told me Torwan might still be alive, I had to see it for myself."

Noel leaned forward, elbows on the table. "But you didn’t recognize him when you saw the director of the institute?"

Balthor shook his head. "Same face. But not the same man. Back then, he was wild like me—no suits, no titles, just booze and business talk. Now? The posture, the clean language... I had my doubts, but deep down, I knew."

Noriel chuckled, lifting his mug. "You two together were chaos. I still remember the night you set fire to your own bar trying to light a pipe with magic ale."

Balthor laughed. "That was his fault, not mine."

Noel smiled faintly, watching the exchange.

’Even with everything happening, these moments feel... normal. Almost peaceful.’

Noriel raised his mug toward Noel. "Well, good luck in the tournament, kid. Win a few rounds and make this old dwarf rich."

Noel clinked his mug against Noriel’s. "At this point, I deserve a full wardrobe."

Balthor grunted. "You get one more suit. Don’t be greedy."

Noriel stood up, giving Balthor a friendly slap on the arm. "Don’t disappear for another fifty years, you hear?"

Balthor grinned. "Only if the beer keeps flowing."

Noel adjusted his gloves and nodded. "Thanks for the drink."

"Thanks for not breaking anything," Noriel said with a wink, waving them off.

The door closed behind them, and the quiet clink of the mugs remained.

The moment they exited the boutique, Noel instinctively ducked under the narrow stone arch of the dwarf tunnel—but not far enough.

Thud!

He smacked his forehead on the edge of the ceiling.

"Ow—damn it," he muttered, rubbing the sore spot as Balthor burst into laughter beside him.

"That’s what you get for mocking dwarven architecture!" Balthor snorted, slapping his thigh. "Karma’s quick in these streets!"

"Yeah yeah..." Noel sighed, adjusting the shoulder of his green jacket. "Just take me to this place already."

They walked side by side through the low, dim corridor, cobblestones echoing softly underfoot. The deeper they went, the more silent it became—just the occasional flicker of a wall torch breaking the monotony.

"So where exactly are we going? I mean where is this fancy place situated?" Noel asked, a bit more cautious this time.

Balthor smirked, lowering his voice. "Somewhere the real gold flows. High-stakes bets, anonymous clients, and—" he leaned in slightly, "—rigged matches."

Noel stopped for a moment. "Rigged? You forgot to mention that part."

"Ah, just a detail," Balthor waved a hand with a grin. "Nothing that’ll ruin your fun."

Noel narrowed his eyes.

’Rigged matches... if the Institute is allowing that, they’re either desperate or in control. And if it’s about money, there’s always someone pulling strings.’

Balthor gestured forward. "Come on. We’ll need a mask for you—no one walks in there without one."

A few minutes later, they arrived at a small, dimly lit shop nestled between two massive stone pillars. A hanging sign creaked overhead, etched with the word "Velmara’s Veil."

Inside, walls were lined with elegant, mysterious masks—some plain, some extravagant, all enchanted with minor illusions to conceal features. Noel scanned them quietly.

"Pick something discreet," Balthor said, arms crossed. "You’re flashy enough with that green suit."

Noel nodded, reaching for a deep forest green mask with subtle silver trims. It matched perfectly with his current outfit.

"This’ll do."

Balthor gave a thumbs up. "Nice taste. Now give me a second—gonna get changed too."

He walked into a nearby alley, tugging off his outer layer with practiced ease. Noel waited by the entrance of the shop, arms folded.

"Noir, you there?" he asked quietly.

From his shadow, the black-furred wolf emerged—silent, ears perked.

"Once we’re inside, scout on your own. Don’t draw attention. If you spot anything weird, let me know."

Noir gave a small nod and vanished back into the dark ripple under Noel’s feet.

Moments later, Balthor returned wearing a sharp yellowish suit tailored to his stocky frame, with a matching golden mask that complemented his red beard and hair.

"Looking good," Noel smirked slightly.

"I always do," Balthor grinned, adjusting his collar. "Let’s go make some memories."

They crossed the cobbled plaza to a polished establishment guarded by a stern dwarf in a black vest and golden buttons.

"Reservation?" the dwarf asked, peering at a clipboard.

"Balthor," he replied.

The dwarf checked the list and nodded. "Last time, you came alone. Who’s this?"

"My assistant."

"Name?"

"Noel. Just Noel," he added dryly, adjusting his green mask.

The butler scribbled it down. "Very well. You may enter."

As they passed through the ornate doors, Noel leaned closer.

"So... a restaurant?"

"By appearance." Balthor tapped the side of his nose. "Just wait ’til we go downstairs."

Balthor led the way down a narrow staircase, the polished stone steps curving beneath the elegant restaurant above. The sound of muffled laughter and clinking glasses grew louder with every step.

As they reached the bottom, the air shifted—warmer, denser, laced with perfume and tension.

The underground hall was a stark contrast to the world above: velvet carpets, gilded chandeliers, and long marble tables surrounded by masked guests. Dwarves, elves, humans, and even demons mingled, all draped in tailored suits and expensive gowns. The hum of quiet conversation floated above faint music.

Noel’s eyes scanned the room beneath his mask.

’So this is the real game...’

Balthor leaned in with a smug grin. "Welcome to the undercurrent, kid."

Noel gave a small nod and whispered, "Noir—search."

A faint shimmer in the air, and the shadow wolf slipped silently across the floor, dissolving into darkness.

The hunt had begun.