CHAPTER 75: THREADS OF SUSPICION

Elena glanced at Ezra as they walked down the corridor. Her eyes lingered on him with faint concern.

"Are you alright, Ezra? You’re not injured anywhere, are you?"

Ezra shook his head, his expression calm.

"I’m fine. Thank you for your help," he replied sincerely, his tone warm and courteous.

He then turned toward Sergei, his voice carrying a touch of formality.

"I didn’t expect to find Professor Sergei here. In any case, thank you for your assistance, Professor."

Sergei’s lips curled into a broad grin.

"Oh, think nothing of it. After all, you are my student. Helping you is my duty... isn’t it?"

Ezra kept his expression neutral, but his thoughts were far less polite.

Sense of responsibility? Yeah right. You’re exactly the kind of guy who’d kick his best friend off a cliff if it meant gaining a coin from it. Helping out of duty, my ass.

Their footsteps echoed as they moved toward the exit of the academy building. The heavy wooden doors opened, revealing the courtyard outside. Standing there was Colonel Mustafa, his arms folded and his expression unpleasant the moment his gaze fell upon Ezra.

But before the Colonel could speak, Ezra inclined his head slightly and spoke first.

"Thank you, Colonel, for granting me permission to make the call."

Mustafa’s stern face shifted instantly, the hardness in his eyes softening as he gave a curt nod.

"It was nothing of importance," he said, his voice smooth, as though his earlier displeasure had never existed.

Sergei clapped his hands lightly, breaking the moment.

"Come now, Ezra. I want to hear how all of this happened. Elena, you should come along as well."

Ezra’s gaze flickered between the professor and the Colonel before he finally nodded, silently preparing himself for the next round of questions.

______________

The guest room smelled faintly of old leather and lemon polish. Ezra sat back on the sofa, one hand folded over the other. Sergei slouched opposite him, relaxed and watchful. Elena and Colonel Mustafa stood side by side near the doorway, alert and tense.

Sergei fixed Ezra with a tired look. "So, Ezra—tell me exactly what happened."

Ezra took a breath and began, measured and direct. "I was at a club. Around eight o’clock I left to go home — maybe thirty minutes later an elderly woman stepped in front of my car. I got out, and almost immediately I felt a powerful magic strike me — Rank 4, lightning-type. I retaliated, and at last she used Rank 5 fire magic. After that she vanished with a teleportation scroll."

Sergei hummed. "Hmm. What do you make of that, Mustafa?"

Mustafa crossed his arms. "We can’t confirm any of it. The CCTV cameras around that area were destroyed during the fight. There’s no footage to verify your timeline."

Sergei turned a slow, sharp glance to Ezra. "They planned this carefully, it seems. What do you think?"

Inside, Ezra’s temper burned; he imagined spitting the words. Screw them. Outwardly he kept his smile polite. "They were testing my strength before they decided whether to kill me," he said. "Colonel Mustafa, may I have my phone?"

Mustafa hesitated. Sergei barked, "Give it to him, Mustafa." The Colonel fished a phone from his pocket and handed it over.

Ezra unlocked the screen and scrolled to a photo. "I secretly snapped this earlier," he said, showing them a picture of a man. "He came up to me asking for something — said he had to give me something. I think he’s connected." He pointed at the image. "Do you know him?"

Mustafa took the phone, forwarded the photo to the gate guards, and put a quick call through. A few minutes later he returned, phone still in hand. "He’s right. The man entered yesterday morning claiming to be a tourist. Name’s Justin — he says he’s a vlogger on MTube, lives in the capital."

Sergei’s face hardened. "Looks like we need to detain him."

He looked directly at Ezra. "You can go for now. If we capture him, you’ll need to come back and identify him. Elena — accompany him. Keep an eye on him; don’t let him run."

Ezra nodded and rose. He and Elena moved toward the door. They hadn’t gone far when Mustafa spoke under his breath, urgent and clipped.

"We shouldn’t release him. Mirella — I almost had my hands on her. I don’t know what that woman was doing in the back alley. If the fight hadn’t caused all that noise, we’d have caught her. I’m sure that kid — he’s connected to Mirella."

Sergei glanced at Mustafa with a mix of amusement and warning. "Mustafa, take a breath and think like someone with more than a donkey’s brain. Why would a student of Etherlight Academy — a disciple of the Sword Emperor no less — bother to help Mirella?"

Mustafa snapped back, anxious. "Sir, you don’t know human nature. He’s only eighteen and already Rank 4. Who’s to say he hasn’t made a deal with demons?"

Sergei rose at once. He released a faint sheen of aura; the room chilled and Mustafa’s bravado faltered. Sergei stared at him, voice low and controlled rather than furious. "First, verify what you think you know. Look, confirm, and then speak. If you start shouting orders on guesses and half-truths, one day you’ll be the one trapped — not him."

Then, lowering his voice to something that trembled between warning and prophecy, Sergei said, "Let me tell you this first: that boy’s mana is purer than any of ours. He’s watched over by the Sword Emperor, and many high-level figures pay attention to him. He participated in the Crimson Guild purge — he helped kill Ryun Jae-Syuk, a Rank 6. So don’t be the one to provoke him. If you anger him, he won’t need his master to kill you — he’s enough on his own."

Mustafa’s face fell; he stared at the floor. In his head, disbelief wrestled with the possibility. Kill a Rank 6? he thought. No way...

Sergei’s tone softened almost imperceptibly. "If you don’t believe it now, you will see soon enough. For now, go capture Mirella. Find out who’s on her side."

Mustafa bowed stiffly and left the room, the weight of the order heavy on his shoulders.

________________________

Mirella paced her tiny quarters, palms pressed to her temples. How did they start suspecting me? Who tipped them off? She spat the thoughts out loud, voice sharp with panic. I should run. God, that senior—he promised help at the critical moment, and now he’s useless. If I run, they’ll catch me. If I stay, they’ll test me and kill me without asking a single question. Fuck.

Her thoughts tumbled faster than she could steady them. She clenched her jaw, trying to think, when a knock sounded at the gate.

"Come in," she called, forcing her voice to steady.

Jonas slipped inside the room, breathing hard. "Miss Mirella, we have to go. That bastard Mustafa is looking for evidence. He’s interrogating our low-level people—trying to break someone."

Mirella froze. Her mind ran through faces, names, loyalties. Some of their members were truly on her side; others would fold like wet paper under pressure. If anyone talked, it would be a disaster.

Jonas looked to her, desperate. "What about the mission? When do we start? We should leave now."

Mirella swallowed. The plan had been hazy—no clear start time. She shook her head, trying to hide the panic. "I don’t know. You should go. Get out of here and lie low. Don’t come back to your quarter. I’ll go ask and find out when the mission actually begins."

Without waiting for another word, she turned and slipped out of the room, moving as quietly as a shadow. Jonas hesitated for a beat, then left just as silently, closing the door behind him.

Mirella’s boots whispered down the corridor. Every creak sounded like a shout; every footstep behind a possible arrest. She kept her breathing low and her mind sharper—there was no time for mistakes.

_______________________

Mirella arrived at the tower after a short drive. The building rose like a silver spine against the sky — cold, official, impossible to ignore. She walked through the entrance without hesitation; low-rank soldiers snapped to attention when they saw her uniform and offered quick salutes. She returned none of them, keeping her expression flat, and moved straight for the elevators.

The lift rode silently upward, skipping floors with the efficient hum of someone used to skipping small talk. When the doors opened, she stepped out onto the highest level. The corridor beyond was narrow, lit by strips of pale light that made the polished floor look like ice. She walked to an enormous gate at the end and tapped a small panel with her knuckles.

"Sir, can we talk?" she said into the intercom, the words clipped.

For a beat there was only the soft mechanical sigh of the security systems. Then a voice came over the speakers — hoarse, dry as old paper. "Come in," it said.

The gate grated open. Mirella pushed through and entered a sparsely furnished chamber. At the far end, seated behind a low table, was a man who looked older than his uniform should allow. His beard was white and thin; his skin had the sculpted pallor of someone who never saw the sun. Most striking were his eyes — a natural, dangerous red that tracked her without surprise.

General Yun Hao rose as she approached. He moved with the economy of someone who had spent a life conserving force. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked, voice flat but edged. "I told you not to contact me like this. Why are you here?"

Mirella squared her shoulders. Fear ran under her ribs like cold wire, but she kept it buried. "Sir," she said, keeping her tone steady, "we have to plan ahead. Mustafa is after me. If he captures me—"

Yun Hao cut her off with a short laugh that did not reach his eyes. "You worry too much," he said. "Think before you act. Nothing will happen. Besides, the offensive begins in full tomorrow."

Mirella’s hands tightened at her sides. "If they capture me now, that changes everything. I don’t have time to wait for tomorrow."

"You’ve cultivated a relationship with Elena Voncrest," Yun Hao observed, as if reciting a ledger. "That will be of use. She cares fiercely for those close to her — use that. Tell her Mustafa has you in his sights. She will act."

Mirella’s voice rose a fraction, stubborn and urgent. "Sir — will she help me? This is about national security. If Mustafa gets me, he won’t stop at me."

Yun Hao regarded her for a long moment, the red in his eyes cold and unreadable. "She cares," he repeated finally. "But she also protects the ones she holds close. Use that leverage. Tell her everything. Do not make rash moves on your own."

Mirella looked past him, at the silent monitors and the dark windows beyond. "You won’t help?" she asked, more quietly.

The general’s jaw worked once. "I will not send my men into a trap for one woman," he said bluntly. "You know how this world works. You survive by making others afraid to let you fall. Go. Find Elena. Warn her. And Mirella — be smarter than you are afraid."

She bowed, a formal nod that curbed a dozen replies lodged on her tongue. "Yes, sir."

As she turned to leave, the weight of the corridor seemed different — thinner, precarious. Outside, somewhere down the chain of command, a clock was already ticking toward tomorrow’s assault. She could feel Mustafa’s shadow at her throat even now.

Mirella moved back toward the elevator, mind racing, knowing she had one fragile ally and a single, dangerous window to act.