CHAPTER 297: 297

Vale leaned back in his chair, his sharp gaze drifting to the dimly lit window. The room was quiet except for the faint crackle of the fire behind him. He had just finished going through a stack of reports, his mind already shifting to the next task. "Bring me the report on Kael’s journey," he said without looking up, his voice low and precise.

The old butler stepped forward, holding his hands together nervously. "Sir, we haven’t received any new updates on Kael."

Vale’s eyes flicked toward him, the air in the room growing colder. "We haven’t?" he asked, his tone tightening. "Why?"

The butler hesitated. "The group we sent... they haven’t reported back in several days."

A long silence followed. Vale’s jaw tightened, his fingers slowly curling into a fist. "Were they discovered?" he asked, voice quiet but heavy with tension.

The butler bowed his head lower, unsure of what to say. "We... don’t know."

Vale stood up slowly, the chair creaking beneath him. His face was expressionless, but his eyes burned with anger. "Useless," he said, voice sharp like a knife. "They were only sent to observe. No confrontation, no risks. Just watch and report."

He began pacing the room, every step deliberate. "And they couldn’t even manage that."

He turned sharply. "What good are they, then? A group of cowards and fools."

He walked up to the butler, stopping inches from him. "Choose a new team," he ordered coldly. "This time, pick people who know what they’re doing. People who understand the word ’competence.’"

The butler nodded quickly, sweat on his brow.

Vale added, his tone icy, "And send another group to find out what happened to the first. I don’t like being left in the dark.

....

Back in Cantilever.

From the depths of the sewer tunnel, faint echoes of footsteps began to draw near. Kael instantly tensed, exchanging a sharp glance with Ariana. These cults were notorious for their mind games and strange abilities—having a companion who might fall under their influence was a dangerous variable. He kept his hand near his blade, fully alert, his instincts screaming.

The flickering torchlight caught the figures as they emerged—five of them. Their appearance was grotesque and almost otherworldly. They wore ceremonial robes, once likely white, now stained with old blood and dirt. Their faces were entirely concealed beneath stitched-up burlap sacks, like scarecrow masks, except each sack bore two smeared crimson circles where the eyes should be.

Blood dripped slowly from the fabric. The mouths were crudely slit open, revealing nothing inside but blackness. Despite that, an eerie voice echoed from them, as if the sack itself spoke.

Kael sucked in a breath, a chill crawling down his spine.

"Human... Why are you so tense?" one of them said, voice distorted and hollow.

"Please... hear our song and rejoice in the festival of silence..." another added, tilting his head unnaturally.

"FUCKKK YOU!" Kael snapped, not giving them the chance to finish. He moved like lightning, his blade flashing through the dark. But just as the sword was about to slice into the neck of the speaker, it halted mid-swing.

"Halt."

Kael’s eyes widened. His muscles locked up. He felt as if invisible chains bound him. A cold sensation spread through his arms.

"Kekeke..." The scarecrow-masked man grinned, his bloody slit mouth stretching unnaturally. "You seem to be in pain... Your mind, so clouded, so full of chaos."

"Shut up!" Kael growled and tried to kick forward, but his leg too slowed down midway. It was as if the very air conspired against him.

He gritted his teeth, twisting away and switching targets. He leapt toward another cultist, blade spinning, but again—his arm froze. The blade trembled, stuck mid-motion.

Two of the masked figures lunged at him, their movements fluid yet twitchy like broken marionettes. Kael tried to parry, but the sword barely moved. He jerked his body violently to the side, narrowly dodging a curved knife that sliced through the air beside his cheek.

Kael’s boots skidded against the damp stone as he twisted his body in an arc, narrowly avoiding the jagged edge of a ritual dagger slashing toward his ribs. Another blade swooped in from the side—he ducked, but the hem of his cloak was torn clean. Sparks burst from the stone wall as Kael rebounded off it, trying to gain some space. His breath came in steady hisses, more from mental exertion than fatigue.

The cultists moved unnaturally. They didn’t charge or lunge like trained fighters—instead, they swayed in a rhythm, their sack-covered faces tilting to a sound only they could hear. It was like watching puppets dancing on invisible strings, drawn toward Kael by some macabre harmony. Their blood-specked robes fluttered despite the still air.

"Tch..." Kael spat. "These bastards don’t even blink."

He swung again, faster this time, aiming at the one to his right. But just as before, his sword froze in place—an invisible force pulling back on his intent. His own body betrayed him. The edge of the blade stopped mere inches from the cultist’s chest, trembling violently in his hands.

"I said, CALM DOWN," one of them crooned, its voice slithering into Kael’s ears like poison.

Another cultist lunged in. Kael twisted hard, just barely evading the blow. His arm brushed the edge of a rusted pipe, scraping the skin. Blood ran down his forearm, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving.

Behind him, Ariana was breathing heavily, her hands trembling as she clutched a small dagger.She didn’t want to attack afraid of being hypnotized.In such situations it’s better to observe first.

She had to think fast.

"Lord Kael! They’re using a Class

"It seemed to be the Class Evil Orator’s ability!" she shouted. "They’re pacifying you!"

Kael’s eyes narrowed. Of course. That whispering—those hymns—they weren’t just background noise. They were manipulating his subconscious, turning his will against himself.

He snarled. "So that’s why I can’t cut them..."

"Let your mind sleep..." one cultist whispered.

"Let your violence fade..."

"Screw your lullaby," Kael hissed.