Chapter 233
Chapter 233
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 233
Chapter Title: The Black Man (1)
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"My God."
Examiner Banartie let out a sigh. Hell had unfolded inside the hangar. The acrid stench of blood made his head spin. Eleven mutilated corpses, beyond recognition, lay sprawled in a pool of blood.
"Who could have done this..."
He had entered the hangar about three hours after Ronan and his group passed the inspection. Worried that the guards he had sent on an errand hadn't returned, he came to check—and this was the scene that greeted him.
He followed the trail of bloodstains. For the guards, who had even activated their engravings, to be killed in a single blow was no ordinary feat. Most of the bodies were scattered near the sloop that Ronan and his group had ridden in on.
'Was something hiding inside the proxy's belly?'
The Red Whirlwind, which had been neatly cleaned for a time, had once again become a ghost ship coated in blood and entrails. As if entranced, the examiner stepped into the ship's cabins.
He checked the bedroom, dining room, and captain's quarters in turn, but found no clear clues. It was while he was inspecting the lowest deck's warehouse.
"This is..."
His eyes widened in shock. In one corner of the warehouse lingered a black stain like a remnant of mana. It was such a faint trace that without close attention, it could pass for mere mold.
But the examiner, experienced in such matters, recognized it. This was the mark left by some being that had concealed itself.
The faint, sinister, and insidious aura emanating from it was unforgettable. No matter how much time had passed. In a trembling voice, he muttered,
"...Has it, returned?"
Crash! The examiner hurriedly rushed out of the cabins. He nearly crashed into walls or tripped on stairs, but such things didn't matter now. Bursting out of the hangar, he shouted at the waiting guards.
"Emergency! Report to His Majesty immediately and assemble the troops!"
****
The sun had set. The dying twilight cast a dim glow between the buildings. Yet even under the dark night sky, Adren's radiance showed no sign of fading.
Adren's grand plaza, entirely paved with crystal, shimmered with beautiful colors even beneath the night sky. The lights flickering on one by one along the streets hinted at the coming nightless city.
People who had finished their daily work roamed the plaza freely. Most were human, but elves and beastkin could occasionally be seen.
It felt like a village made by gathering only the wealthiest people from across the continent. Looking around, Ronan spoke up.
"Honestly, I think I could live here. This is ridiculously delicious."
In his hand was a massive turkey leg. Crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside—it was exquisite. The seasoning was top-notch, a balm for his drought-stricken stomach.
"I-I mean... how can it taste like this..."
Asel nodded beside him. He was nibbling on a waffle the size of his head. The cream messily smeared around his mouth vouched for its excellence.
"A city of luxury. I've never seen anything like it."
Schlieffen muttered in amazement as well. Unlike the other two, his hands were empty—he had already devoured three bowls of meat stew before they moved seats. Ronan said,
"Right. So you didn't sense anything suspicious either? No info."
"Yeah... nothing..."
"Same here."
"Got it."
Ronan scratched his head at Schlieffen's words. He too had gleaned no particular information. Despite keeping his senses sharp while wandering the city, he hadn't detected Nebula Klazie's presence.
'We haven't covered much ground yet, though. The city's bigger than I thought.'
Several hours had passed since entering Adren. Realizing belatedly that they hadn't eaten all day, the group was having dinner.
Adren was a city built on greed. The thralls who made up most of the citizens were sustained by the scraps of wealth hoarded by their dragon masters.
The dragons satisfied their own desires and invested only the leftovers into Adren's welfare. Yet that alone granted Adren a prosperity no earthly nation could rival.
As proof, in Adren, no money was charged for food, clothing, or any goods. There were merchants, but they were little more than decoys to lure customers.
If you wanted food or needed something, you just showed your identity and took it. The variety wasn't as vast as in the capital, but nothing was lacking. Ronan continued,
"Good thing. Seems like it'll take some time anyway."
"Yeah. Right."
"People are generally friendly... and it's different from what I imagined, so that's a relief, I guess."
Unexpectedly, the citizens were humane too. He had thought they'd be gripped by some strange chosen-people complex, but most were just ordinary, kind folks. Of course, just as Phileon had its delinquents, the dragon city surely had its share of troublemakers—but he hadn't encountered any yet.
Not that revealing their connection to Navardoje wouldn't change that. Tearing off the last bit of meat, Ronan stood up.
"Alright, let's split up and search this time. Meet back here at midnight."
With the matter so urgent, they needed to hurry. Even now, the cult's schemes continued, and the Savior was dying.
"Asel, you check the library area. Lots of people gather there."
"O-okay. Got it."
"Schlieffen, you take around the Dragon King's tower."
"So be it."
Asel and Schlieffen nodded. All were capable of handling themselves, so no issues there.
Having set the rendezvous, they scattered in different directions. Leaving the grand plaza, Ronan entered a dim back alley still unlit by lamps. His assigned area was the inns and taverns scattered throughout the city.
'Places where dragons are least likely to show up.'
It was a strategic choice. Judging from the guards' and examiner's reactions, it seemed only dragons—not thralls—could sense the Primordial Ember.
Better not get caught unnecessarily and complicate things. Until he gathered enough intel, he needed to lay low. Noble dragons wouldn't deign to visit dingy taverns anyway.
Of course, he'd have to down a drink or two to naturally ask questions. After about two hours prowling the streets, Ronan cursed.
"Damn, what's with all these taverns?"
With enough to eat and live well, they apparently drowned in booze at night. Makes sense—free booze and snacks made for the ultimate pastime. Somehow reaching the western outskirts, Ronan halted.
"...A ruin?"
He muttered, looking up at the building before him. The dilapidated shack didn't suit Adren's flashy nightscape.
The sign, museum-worthy, bore only the single character '酒' (酒). Flickering light and voices from the window suggested it was still in business.
'Gotta check everywhere thoroughly.'
Valuable info might lurk in such places. The moment Ronan opened the door, a heavy, atmospheric interior matching the exterior unfolded before him. The tavern's boisterous clamor poured out.
"Haha, so anyway. Yesterday, I..."
"Heard from a friend working at the tower—word is the Dragon King will make a major announcement soon."
"Kuh... nothing beats this place."
Ronan raised an eyebrow. Surprisingly spacious, with a decent crowd. Including the bar counter seats, there were about twenty spots. The sweet scent of liquor tickled his nose.
"Hello."
"Welcome. Haven't seen your face around here. Take a seat."
The elderly owner greeted him warmly. He was wiping glasses behind the bar counter. Sitting at the counter, Ronan ordered.
"I'm from out of town. Give me your bestseller."
"A foreigner, eh? Then you must try our house brandy. A specialty unique to the dragon city."
"Sounds promising."
Ronan chuckled. He liked the relaxed vibe—no one paying him any mind except the owner. He could sip slowly and naturally inquire about the cult and Alibrije.
"...Hm?"
As Ronan slowly scanned the place, his gaze landed on the owner's left arm. The movement under the shirt sleeve was just slightly unnatural compared to the right.
"Sir, your left arm by any chance?"
"Hm? Ah, sharp eyes. Just as you think—it's a prosthetic."
"Prosthetic."
The owner calmly replied, placing a glass before Ronan. Amber brandy sloshed inside. Ronan repeated the word.
The executive Alibrije he sought was also a master prosthetic maker. Perhaps connected to this man. Ronan asked,
"Do you know who made that prosthetic? Bit of a weird question, huh."
"No harm in asking. But it's so long ago, my memory's fuzzy. The pain of it getting cut off, though—that I remember vividly."
"Whoops, sorry. Didn't mean to pry."
"It was horrific, truly. If you're interested, I could tell you... so..."
The owner was about to speak when the door creaked open behind. Glancing at the entrance, he flashed a friendly smile.
"Welcome. Unusual attire—you from out of town too?"
No reply came. What a rude bastard, Ronan thought, taking a sip of his brandy. His eyes widened.
"This is killer...!"
Top five across his past and present lives. Such rich flavor. The sweet aroma filled his mouth—pride-worthy indeed.
Then the approaching footsteps stopped beside him. The silent customer spoke.
"Strongest you've got... ugh, no ice."
"Got it."
The owner nodded. Ronan's hand, about to take another sip, froze midair. A familiar voice. Very familiar. Before he could turn, the customer sat next to him.
"Ha, speak of the devil... saved me the trouble of hunting you down."
"You."
Ronan turned. A man in a black coat stared back. His pale face flushed—he'd clearly already had a drink somewhere. It was the man from Aurora Scal. No killing intent, but the pressure remained. Ronan slowly reached for his sword hilt. Sweeping back his long hair, the man rested his chin on the counter and said,
"So... ugh, where is Navardoje?"