Imminent Disaster

Yordel, Gilbert, and Jinnie—whose expression was worried and who kept glancing back—followed their own paces and moods as they silently left the banquet hall.

Under the countless Eternal Lamps, only Tales remained seated in the host's chair, with Morat standing far behind the banquet table.

Silence.

But tension.

Tales forced a relaxed shrug and put on a smile he often used back in his beggar days.

Yet he still felt the black-clad old man's devouring gaze fixed firmly on him.

Sensing the eerie atmosphere before him, Tales's mind churned with doubts, his thoughts clinging tightly to the few scraps of information he had.

The head of the Kingdom Secret Bureau.

The intelligence chief.

The Black Prophet.

The viper.

He knows I was a beggar before.

And about the Red Quarter and... the Elementalist.

"I won't waste words, child," Morat said, seeming to lose patience. He shed all pretense of warmth, his hoarse voice grating harshly: "I just want to know—on the night you escaped from the Red Quarter."

"When you met the Air Elementalist, every word he said to you."

How does he know Echeida spoke to me?

Yordel... did he sell me out?

Tales's brain spun into overdrive, but this time, the variables and information to process were overwhelming.

What exactly did Yordel tell him? How much? What does Morat really know?

About Echeida, about the Blood Bottle Gang, about my... Loss of Control?

But no matter what—Tales affirmed in his anxious heart—I have to ensure my own safety first.

Ever since that night when Quade came to the Sixth House looking for hidden Coppers, he—Tales the beggar, or Tales the heir-apparent—had grown used to drifting alone in a fate beyond his control, struggling to survive.

"What?" Tales's face showed just the right amount of confusion, then seamlessly shifted to realization: "Oh, the Elementalist! You mean the legendary bosses of the Blood Bottle Gang?"

Morat narrowed his eyes slightly, as if in doubt or hesitation.

Tales pretended to recall, lightly scratching his head: "That night, I remember everything was so chaotic, everywhere... the Blood Bottle Gang boss's words..."

But things didn't go as he planned.

"Child!"

He was cut off.

Morat tapped his cane expressionlessly, his voice reaching Tales's ears.

"You have a talent for lying and acting. But what I want to ask," Morat's eyes snapped wide, his black pupils boring into Tales's, sending a chill down his spine, "is about your Old Friend—Echeida Sackern!"

Tales's heart jolted.

"I'll say it again."

"Before Yordel appeared and sealed him, what exactly did Echeida say to you?"

Morat stared intently, waiting for his answer.

Cut off mid-thought, Tales fell silent and lowered his head.

What does he know?

Does he know I met Echeida? Or did he see right through me?

Either way—the boy's heart pounded—this is terrible.

This old man—Tales tried to calm himself—might be the toughest opponent I've ever faced.

But since he's asking, he probably doesn't know yet—Tales gritted his teeth—doesn't know what Echeida said to me.

Especially that Echeida and I are the same kind.

But Morat's next words shattered that thought again.

"Let me remind you, child," Morat laughed unpleasantly: "Echeida found a newborn Elementalist, didn't he."

At that moment, Tales's heart plunged into an icy abyss!

Yordel... the boy thought frantically: What exactly did Yordel tell him?

Why is he so certain?

"Heh heh," Morat let out a sinister laugh.

"People fear me for a reason." The black-clad old man stepped forward one pace at a time, leaning on his cane, closing in on Tales.

At that moment, Tales even felt the urge to flee outward.

"I'm a Psion—though I don't like this ability, it's helped me a lot."

An ominous thought flashed through Tales's mind.

"There's no need for you to keep lying about the Air Elementalist."

"I can see it clearly in your brain—Ashida, ah, that handsome blue-clad pretty boy, heavens, he's still so young!"

Morat's words struck Tales's chest like a heavy hammer!

But the intrigued Morat wasn't done; each sentence chilled Tales more than the last.

"What's that in Ashida's hand, a blue ball?"

"Look at those three lumps of flesh, still fond of squeezing people, is he?"

"Hmm, why's it pitch black all around? Where exactly are you?"

Morat's face was full of relish, as if casually flipping through an interesting travelogue.

His mind blank, Tales began to tremble involuntarily.

Blue-clad?

Pretty boy?

Blue ball?

Squeezing flesh?

Pitch black?

How did he know? How could he possibly know?

Tales felt like his breath was about to stop.

Morat seemed tired; he lowered his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose: "Ah, this ability is exhausting to use, can't do it often."

Then he looked up, bared his teeth in an ugly, wrinkled smile, and turned to the stunned Tales:

"That's why they call me—the 'Black Prophet.'"

Tales was too shocked to speak.

Morat gently parted his lips and spat out the most venomous words for the boy:

"Yes, child."

"I can read minds."

Only then did Tales truly feel it—he was in deep trouble.

"What now," standing on the second-floor corridor, First-Class Court Official Jinnie looked grimly at the two men before her: "You know Morat's skills and abilities. He'll use secrets, information, scandals—anything you can think of—to control anyone he wants."

"And you just let that child..." Jinnie paced a few steps, fuming: "He's clever, mature, has potential—but that's the Black Prophet!"

"The all-knowing 'Black Prophet'!"

"I know his capabilities," Gilbert said heavily: "You think the Fortress Concord back then could've been signed without the Secret Section's help?"

"Then why did you let him—what the hell was Kessel thinking!" Jinnie slammed her palm onto the second-floor railing, the sheer force denting the fir wood.

At that, Gilbert frowned and suddenly turned around.

Sensing something off, Jinnie also turned in confusion.

The vast corridor, aside from the motionless guards, held only the two of them.

At some point, Yordel had vanished.

Again.

Meanwhile.

At Everstar City's North City Gate, the guards and City Guard had finished their day's watch and were about to lower the great winch to close the majestic ink-stone gate.

Another peaceful day... the last shift's captain thought, waving a hand to prepare for the rotation.

But a soldier on the gate tower, sharp-eyed, spotted several mounted figures in the distance racing toward the Royal Capital.

Behind them flew a white banner.

"Wait! Don't close the gate yet!" the sentry shouted in a clear voice to his colleagues at the winch: "Horsemen coming fast! Must be messengers!"

The captain climbed the tower in confusion, gazing at the cavalry in the distance.

Only when they drew close did he see, with surprise, the banner they held—a white-backed eagle flag.

White-backed eagle?

The outpost five li away hadn't stopped them, so they should be important messengers, but...

The captain stepped forward with a grave face and bellowed:

"Royal Capital ahead! Slow down immediately!"

"City Guard, intercept formation!"

At the city gates, several dozen City Guard soldiers barked orders at once, swords drawn, shields locked into a wall, Starlight flickering as they sealed the gate and formed ranks in the path of the approaching riders!

"Knight, slow down now! State your identity and business!" the captain shouted toward the city gates.

The Knight below raised his head but showed no sign of slowing. He lifted a scroll and yelled urgently:

"An urgent dispatch from the Cold Fortress City Lord, Warden Duke of the North, Val Arendt!"

"Emergency level: Seventh!"

"To be delivered directly to His Majesty!"

"No one is to obstruct!"

"The Duke himself will arrive shortly!"

"This is his personal writ!"

As he spoke, the Knight raised his hand, and the stone-weighted scroll flew impossibly up to the gate, caught firmly by the Transcendent Rank captain.

A skilled man—worthy of a Northern Land Knight, the captain thought silently, gauging the force behind the throw.

But when the captain broke the wax seal, scanned the contents, and verified the signature and stamp, he nodded.

He strode two steps to the outer edge of the gate and bellowed down at the formation:

"Everyone, break formation! Clear the way immediately!"

"Much obliged!" The Knights below surged through the parting soldiers, whipping their mounts mercilessly as they raced toward the heart of the Royal Capital, drawing stunned stares from onlookers.

"Faster! Faster! Push harder!" the lead Knight shouted, his face wild, driving the team without sparing the horses!

The captain watched the departing Knights, his expression grim. "Don't close the gates yet. If what he said is true, we've still got a Warden Duke of the North to receive."

Emergency level, Seventh?

The most urgent reports and letters he'd encountered since taking office were the battle dispatches when His Majesty led the allied forces to victory over the Aridbone people and the Orcs, weren't they? That was Sixth Level, if he recalled?

What in the world was happening?

Doubt churned in his mind.

After a moment's hesitation, the captain turned and asked his colleagues behind him:

"When was the last time we had a Seventh Level emergency report?"

The City Guard exchanged blank, puzzled looks.

"Do we even have a Seventh Level?" a young soldier scratched his head and asked.

Silence.

"Yes. Seventh Level."

A heavy voice answered. The soldiers turned to look at the oldest veteran among them.

His face was ashen, as if recalling some terrible memory:

"The last time..."

His lips went pale as he murmured:

"Twelve years ago."