Yordel, Gilbert, and Jinnie, who kept glancing back with a worried look, silently walked out of the banquet hall, each with a different pace and mood.
Under the Eternal Lamps filling the hall, only Tales remained seated in the seat of honor, while Morat stood far behind the banquet table.
Silence.
But tense.
Tales pretended to relax his shoulders and put on a smile he had often used back in his beggar days.
Yet he still felt the cannibalistic gaze of the old man in black fixed firmly on him.
Sensing the eerie atmosphere before him, Tales' mind kept churning with questions, while he clung tightly to the scant information he had.
The head of the Kingdom Secret Bureau.
The intelligence chief.
The Black Prophet.
A venomous snake.
He knew about my former identity as a beggar.
And Red Quarter, and... Magic Users.
"I'll get straight to the point, child." Morat seemed to have lost patience. He abandoned his former tenderness, and his hoarse voice was gratingly sharp:
"I only want to know about the night you escaped Red Quarter."
"When you encountered the Air Elementalist, everything he said to you."
How did he know Ashida had spoken to me?
Yordel... did he betray me?
Tales' mind spun furiously, but this time, there were simply too many variables and too much information to process.
What exactly had Yordel told him? How much? What did Morat actually know?
About Ashida, about the Blood Bottle Gang, about... my Magic Power "Loss of Control"?
But no matter what—Tales firmly decided in his uneasy heart—I had to ensure my safety first.
Ever since Quade came to the Sixth House that night looking for his stash of copper coins, he, Tales the beggar, or Tales the prospective heir, seemed to have grown accustomed to struggling alone for survival amid a storm-tossed, uncontrollable fate.
"What?" Tales put on a suitably puzzled expression, then suddenly acted as if he understood perfectly. "Oh, Magic Users! You mean the bosses of the legendary Blood Bottle Gang?"
Morat narrowed his eyes slightly, seemingly caught between doubt and hesitation.
Tales pretended to recall, lightly scratching his head. "That night... I remember everything was so chaotic. Everywhere there were... the Blood Bottle Gang boss's words..."
But things did not go as he had expected.
"Child!"
He was cut off.
Morat impassively tapped his cane against the floor, his voice reaching Tales' ears.
"You have quite a talent for lying and acting. But what I want to ask is..." Morat suddenly widened his eyes, his pitch-black gaze shooting into Tales' eyes and sending a chill through him. "Your old friend—Echeida Sackern!"
Tales' heart jolted.
"I'll say it again."
"Before Yordel appeared and sealed him away, what exactly did Echeida say to you?"
Morat waited for his answer with a burning gaze.
Interrupted, Tales stopped awkwardly and lowered his head.
What did he know?
Did he know I had encountered Echeida? Or had he seen straight through me?
Either way—the boy's heart pounded—it was terribly bad.
This old man—Tales did his best to calm himself—was probably the most difficult opponent he had ever faced.
But since he had asked, he probably still didn't know—Tales gritted his teeth and thought—didn't know what Echeida had said to me.
Especially that Echeida and I were the same kind.
But Morat's next words shattered that thought again.
"Let me remind you once more, child." Morat laughed unpleasantly. "Echeida found a newly awakened Magic User, didn't he?"
At that moment, Tales' heart plummeted straight into an icy abyss!
Yordel... the boy thought in panic: What exactly had Yordel told him?
Why was he so certain?
"Heh heh." Morat laughed eerily.
"People fear me for a reason." The old man in black advanced step by step, leaning on his cane as he closed in on Tales.
For an instant, Tales even felt the urge to run outside.
"I am a Psion. Though I don't like this ability either, it has indeed helped me quite a lot."
An ominous thought flashed through Tales' mind.
"You don't need to lie anymore about the Air Elementalist."
"I can see everything in your mind as clearly as day—Echeida... ah, that handsome little pretty boy in blue. Good heavens, he's still so young!"
Morat's words struck Tales in the chest like a heavy hammer!
But Morat, clearly enjoying himself, was not finished. Each sentence chilled Tales more than the last.
"What was that in Echeida's hand? A blue sphere?"
"Look at those three lumps of flesh. Does he still enjoy playing at squeezing human flesh?"
"Hmm, why is everything pitch-black around you? Where exactly are you?"
Morat's face was filled with interest, as though he were casually leafing through an entertaining travelogue.
With his mind blank, Tales began trembling uncontrollably.
Blue?
Pretty boy?
Blue sphere?
Squeezing human flesh?
Pitch-black?
How did he know? How could he possibly know?
Tales even felt his breathing beginning to seize.
Morat seemed exhausted. He lowered his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Ah, this ability is truly tiring to use. I can't use it too often."
Then he raised his head, baring a hideous, wrinkled smile as he looked at the already dazed Tales:
"That is why everyone calls me—the 'Black Prophet.'"
Tales was too shocked to speak.
Morat merely parted his lips and uttered the most poisonous words the boy had ever heard:
"Yes, child."
"I can read minds."
Only then did Tales truly feel it—he was in deep trouble.
"What do we do now?" On the second-floor corridor, Jinnie, a First-Rank Court Female Official, looked grimly at the two men before her. "You know what Morat is capable of. He uses secrets, information, scandals—anything you can imagine—to control anyone he wants to control."
"You're really going to let that child..." Jinnie paced a few steps and said furiously, "He's smart, mature, and full of potential—but that's the Black Prophet!"
"The all-knowing 'Black Prophet'!"
"I know what he's capable of," Gilbert said heavily. "Do you think the Fortress Concord could have been signed back then without the Secret Section's help?"
"Then why did you let him—what the hell was Kessel thinking?" Furious, Jinnie slammed a palm into the second-floor railing. The tremendous force dented the cedar railing.
At that moment, Gilbert frowned and suddenly turned around.
Sensing something strange, Jinnie also turned around in confusion.
The enormous corridor contained only the motionless guards besides the two of them.
At some point, Yordel had disappeared.
Again.
Meanwhile.
At the North City Gate of Everstar City, the guards and City Guard had finished a day's watch and were preparing to lower the massive portcullis and close the grand blackstone gate.
Another peaceful day... the captain of the final shift thought as he waved his hand and prepared to rotate the watch.
But a soldier standing watch atop the gate spotted several mounted figures in the distance, racing toward the Royal Capital.
A white flag flew behind them.
"Wait! Don't close the gate yet!" The sentry shouted at the squad by the portcullis in a loud voice. "Riders approaching! They should be messengers!"
The captain climbed onto the gate in confusion and looked at the approaching cavalry.
Only when they drew near did the captain realize in astonishment that they carried a White-Backed Eagle flag.
A White-Backed Eagle?
The sentry post five li away had not stopped them, so they must be important messengers, but...
The captain stepped forward with a grave expression and roared:
"The Royal Capital lies ahead! Slow down immediately!"
"City Guard, interception formation!"
Dozens of City Guard soldiers beneath the gate immediately shouted as one. Swords flashed from their scabbards, shields formed a wall, Starlight glimmered, and they blocked the gate, forming a battle line in the cavalry's path!
"Knight, slow down immediately! State your identity and business!" the captain shouted toward the riders outside the city.
The knight beneath the gate raised his head, but did not slow down. He raised a scroll and shouted anxiously:
"An urgent dispatch from Lord Val Arendt, Lord of Cold Fortress City and Warden Duke of the North!"
"Urgency level: Seventh Level!"
"Deliver directly to His Majesty!"
"No one is to obstruct us!"
"The Duke will follow shortly!"
"This is his written order!"
As he spoke, the knight raised his hand. The scroll tied to a stone flew impossibly up to the top of the gate, where the captain, who possessed Transcendent Rank strength, caught it securely.
A master. No wonder he's a knight of the Northern Land—the captain silently thought as he felt the force in his hand.
But after breaking the seal, scanning the contents, and comparing the signature and insignia, the captain nodded.
The captain crossed the outer edge of the gate in two or three strides and shouted down at the formation:
"Everyone, disperse the formation! Let them through immediately!"
"Much appreciated!" The knights beneath the gate raced past the soldiers who had cleared the road. Under the astonished gazes of passersby, they lashed their mounts desperately and sped toward the center of the Royal Capital.
"Faster! Faster! Faster still!" The lead knight's expression was frantic as he urged the entire group on without the slightest concern for the horses' strength!
Watching the riders disappear into the distance, the captain's expression darkened. "Don't close the gate yet. If what he said is true, we still have a Warden Duke of the North to receive."
Seventh Level urgency?
Since taking office, the most urgent report or letter he had ever encountered was the military report announcing that His Majesty had led the allied forces to a great victory over the Aridbone people and the Orcs. Wasn't that Sixth Level?
What on earth was happening?
He was filled with confusion.
The captain hesitated, but still turned and asked his fellow soldiers:
"When was the last Seventh-Level urgent report?"
The members of the City Guard looked at one another, their faces full of doubt.
"Do we even have a Seventh-Level urgency?" one young soldier asked, scratching his head.
Silence fell.
"We do. Seventh Level."
A heavy voice rang out. The soldiers turned one after another toward the old veteran at the very back.
The veteran's face was ashen, as though recalling some terrifying past.
"The last time..."
His lips pale, he murmured:
"Twelve years ago."