CHAPTER 272: CHAPTER 272: THE HUNT FOR TORWAN

Nicolas left the others behind on the balcony without looking back. The echo of his boots on the factory’s upper walkway was sharp, deliberate.

’He should be here...’ he thought, scanning each hallway as he moved. ’All his valuables are here. This is his main operation. And he strikes me as the kind of man who values material wealth more than his own life.’

Room by room, he searched. Storage closets filled with crates. Side offices stacked with ledgers and betting slips. Locked chambers that yielded nothing but spare equipment. One by one, he crossed them off the list until only one remained.

Torwan’s office.

The door was thick, reinforced with steel bands, and shut tight. Nicolas didn’t bother with the handle. He raised his hand, muttering the incantation under his breath.

"Stone Lance."

A jagged projectile of compressed stone burst from his palm, hitting the center of the door with enough force to send it flying inward off its hinges. The crash reverberated through the corridor.

Inside, Torwan was seated behind a wide mahogany desk, hands folded, eyes calm—as if he’d been waiting for him.

Nicolas stepped in, his presence filling the room. "Headmaster Torwan of the Tharvaldur Arcane Might Institute—you are under arrest for kidnapping, murder, and illegal operations."

Torwan tilted his head slightly. "Are you even an official to make that arrest?"

"No," Nicolas said, his tone even. "But they’ll be here soon. By now, the puppet king should have been dealt with thanks to Redna, and he’ll be arrested as well. It’s better if you don’t resist."

Torwan leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "I can’t do that, dear Nicolas. I’ve made too much money, and I’ll keep making more. If you stop me, someone else will take my place. Another attack on your academy you won’t see coming. Another ’accident.’ Another attempt on the saint’s life."

Nicolas’ eyes narrowed. "Do you think I’ll let you walk away now that I have you in front of me?"

The room’s tension tightened like a drawn bowstring.

Torwan’s smirk widened. "You can try."

Nicolas raised his hand. The air thickened instantly, the scent of ozone flooding the room. A sphere of white-blue light formed around his palm, the mana in it sharp enough to make the desk between them creak.

"Stormpiercer."

The word was barely out of his mouth before a spear of lightning erupted forward, twice as thick and bright as Noel’s, tearing across the office in a deafening crack. It split mid-flight, branching into jagged arcs that shredded through Torwan’s desk and splintered the walls behind him.

But Torwan’s form flickered—and vanished.

The world warped. Nicolas now stood in an endless stone hallway, the sound of footsteps echoing from every direction. Torwan’s voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. "Illusion magic, dear Director. Can your lightning strike what isn’t real?"

Nicolas’ answer was another Stormpiercer, fired straight into the floor. The blast tore the illusion apart, revealing Torwan mid-step to his left, hand glowing with a violet haze.

A pulse of mental magic struck Nicolas like a hammer—images, voices, flashes of pain meant to shatter his focus. But he moved through it as if wading through fog, his will unshaken. His right hand crackled again, discharging a sphere of chained lightning that raced across the walls, forcing Torwan to leap back.

Torwan countered with a barrage of spectral blades, each one humming with psychic energy. Nicolas raised his left hand, a circular glyph spinning to life—Mana Barrier—the blades shattering against it in sparks.

"You’re out of your depth," Nicolas said coldly.

He flicked his fingers and a wave of compressed air and lightning slammed into Torwan, sending him sprawling into the back wall. The dwarf coughed, illusions faltering, the violet glow around him sputtering out.

Nicolas stepped forward, ready to finish it. "It’s over."

Torwan groaned on the floor, his breaths ragged. Nicolas stopped just short of him, his shadow stretching across the battered office. Sparks of residual lightning still danced along Nicolas’ right arm.

"Stand up," Nicolas ordered. "You’re done."

Torwan’s body shifted slightly... and then something was off. The lines of his face blurred, his skin paling, his beard shortening. In seconds, the features reformed into someone else entirely.

Nicolas’ eyes narrowed. It wasn’t Torwan.

Lying before him was the headmaster’s personal assistant—the same man Nicolas had glimpsed earlier in the arena. A black slave mark pulsed on the side of his neck, faint wisps of magic still clinging to it.

The assistant wheezed, eyes glassy and distant. He’d been magically compelled to fight in Torwan’s place.

Nicolas clenched his jaw. "That son of a bitch... he saved his own skin."

His gaze swept the room, already calculating. The real Torwan was out there somewhere in Tharvaldur, and every second Nicolas stood here was another second lost.

- Torwan POV -

The real Torwan strolled down a narrow back alley, his hood low over his face. The sounds of the city felt distant here, muffled by the high stone walls. His pace was unhurried, almost casual.

’They’ll think I stayed to protect my wealth,’ he thought with satisfaction. ’They’ll think I died clinging to my empire. Let them. By the time they figure it out, I’ll be far from Tharvaldur.’

He allowed himself a thin smile. Even with the puppet king exposed, even with the factory compromised, he had ruled this city’s shadows for years. If power couldn’t be held, it could be rebuilt elsewhere.

Slash!

A white-hot pain ripped through the back of his legs. Torwan screamed, collapsing onto the filthy cobblestones. His illusory disguise dissolved in a shimmer of light, revealing his true face.

A cloaked figure stood over him, a gleam of steel vanishing into the folds of their garment.

"You knooow..." the voice dragged the word out, lilting like a broken lullaby, then snapped into a sharp whisper, "I told you... didn’t I? I told you this... this is where it ends, Torwan... oh yes, right here, right now."

Before he could respond, the figure stepped back and melted into the shadows.

"SON OF A BITCH!!!" Torwan roared, the echo bouncing off the alley walls.

Heavy footsteps pounded toward him. Noir, in her towering near-three-meter form, barreled into the alley at full speed. She didn’t slow—racing past him in pursuit of the cloaked figure.

A few heartbeats later, Noel appeared, breath even, eyes locked on Torwan. Noir stopped, her quarry gone.

"Well," Noel said, drawing the Recall Sigil from his coat, "looks like I’ve got you, little bastard."