Chapter 133
Chapter 133
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 133
Chapter Title: The Binding Chain
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Just getting shaky fingertips from getting excited and angry for a few hours.
Shahad stared at his trembling fingertips before clenching his fist.
“Bring the medicine.”
Someone approached with a needle, stabbing into his head stitch by stitch, as if threading a searing headache.
Then, every so often, it plunged deep, stirring viciously before pulling out.
Pain that made even his eyeballs ache.
And the occasional piercing tinnitus ringing out—beeeeep.
He couldn’t move vigorously for even half an hour. His body was so frail that after doing so, he’d be bedridden for days.
So, with at least time to recover, the limit for overexerting himself was ten minutes.
Every day, ten minutes of swinging a sword and lifting heavy weights, followed by an hour of rest just to calm the tremors.
Then another ten minutes. When gripping and swinging the sword, he became so immersed he forgot his body’s pain.
Even knowing it was shaving years off his life.
But if it was all by someone’s design.
If he’d been robbed of a life where he could run and move on his own feet, treated like fragile crafted porcelain being handled and carted around.
‘Nothing’s confirmed yet.’
Blindfolded, Shahad gazed at the sorcerer carefully drawing his blood and the priest kneeling beside him, equally blindfolded, gripping one of Shahad’s hands in prayer.
It felt like an hour had passed, but judging by the size of the mana stone consumed by the lamp artifact, it had been twenty minutes at most.
His lips were parched. Excessive tension and stress churned his stomach. His ears rang as if he’d been thrown upside down into water.
Shahad shook his head as if to clear his mind. He’d taken medicine before entering, so he wouldn’t faint. Though he might collapse from stress once they left.
‘I can endure for now.’
Go on, tell me. Despite being born with the blood of the empire’s highest noble, clinging to this crumbling body—is it truly heaven’s punishment?
With bloodshot eyes, Shahad stared at the two sorcerers and the priest kneeling before him.
“It’s done.”
“The same for me.”
The gaunt sorcerer, thin as a twig, spoke first, followed by the priest releasing his hand.
At Shahad’s glance, his adjutant rasped in an uncharacteristically rough tone.
“Speak.”
The sorcerer, wrapped head to toe in red cloth embroidered with golden thread, opened his mouth first.
“I saw the black swamp and the light trapped beneath it.”
The light was brilliantly radiant, yet sunk in the dark, murky swamp, unable to shine, dragged ever deeper into the abyss—the sorcerer rubbed his eyes over his blindfold.
The priest, draped in a coat crudely knitted like patchwork, spoke in turn.
“A single, tiny chain binds it, so the bigger it grows, the less time it has.”
Put a collar on a young beast before it’s fully grown, and as it enlarges, the collar tightens. The stronger it grows, the deeper it digs, until death is inevitable.
In essence, they were saying the same thing.
Shahad himself bore a seal. One hidden so well not even the imperial eyes and ears could detect it.
‘And the crucial question: am I the only one?’
A headache like his eyes were being gouged out—Shahad pressed his palms to them, breathing raggedly.
“It will wind back the way it came. Per the god’s contract, you’ll take what you desire and leave, but this matter stays buried forever.”
At his adjutant’s gesture, tongueless, earless servants led away the blindfolded sorcerer and priest.
The basement door shut, and only then did Shahad let out his stifled groan.
“Haa, kuh. Medicine… bring the medicine.”
“You’ve already taken your full dose for today, Shahad-nim.”
“Just… bring it.”
No strength left to shout—pain made him grit his teeth until his gums bled, staining his visible molars red with every word.
His adjutant easily lifted Shahad, now trembling not just in his fingertips but all over.
It wasn’t some mere illness; his innate frailty couldn’t endure. Neither priests nor potions helped.
No matter what elixirs for body and mana he consumed, it leaked out like water from a shattered cup—utterly pointless.
Only painkillers bordering on narcotics offered any relief.
Carried to his ornate bed, Shahad lifted his now-convulsing hand and clutched the cloudy cup of medicine like a lifeline, downing it.
His head spun from the drug’s effect. Pain ebbed, but so did his will and resolve.
A hazy illusion that lying there, drugged forever, adrift on clouds, wasn’t so bad.
“Kuh, kekeke.”
Shahad twisted his lips into a dry chuckle.
The whole world spun around him. Or maybe he was the one spinning.
No—his body lay on the bed, so his mind must be unraveling.
Breathing felt burdensome; he forced deep breaths and chewed out his words.
“Build a maze garden. And at its center, a space no one can enter without my permission.”
“Yes, Shahad-nim.”
Shahad raised his hand, thick with calluses from thousands of swings, and swept it across his face. Madness trickled through his fingers in a golden glow.
* * *
“Shall we start with a drink?”
Adelrian pulled up a chair and sat, and somewhere, an “Ah!” echoed.
From the arena outside, perhaps.
‘No clue what’s going on.’
Arman propped his chin, watching amber liquor pour into his glass.
Across the table, Adelrian swept back his flamboyant golden hair, raised his glass to clink against Arman’s, and took a sip.
“You serious?”
“We’re friends now—drop the formalities.”
When did that happen?
If this was a strategy to distract and rattle him, it was working.
Arman fixed an arrogant gaze on Adelrian, who handed over documents on siren trading rights from the empire’s southern sea islands.
Was the rumored brainless wastrel really tossing out such lucrative shares on a whim, or was there a scheme? Impossible to read.
“This works for me… but you’d better specify exactly what I owe in return.”
“Of course. Read it over first, friend?”
Adelrian smiled lightly, almost flippantly, but his eyes were sunken.
‘Rumors aren’t reliable, as usual.’
Arman pretended to read while scanning Adelrian.
Swaggering posture, disdainful eyes. A balanced build that had never been truly pushed.
And not a single toxic clause in the documents.
How was he supposed to judge this?
If Adelrian was truly the thoughtless playboy of rumor, a hint of killing intent would stiffen him.
But if this was all a facade for some plot?
In the end, Arman let loose a bit of killing intent as he watched Adelrian.
A measured provocation and probe. Then intensifying it.
If he was the incompetent with no worthwhile traits as rumored, how would he react?
But Adelrian chin-propped, plucked grapes one by one, and popped them in his mouth—as if no killing intent registered at all.
Even as Arman openly scanned his body with mana alongside blatant bloodlust, no response.
Not strong, yet unresponsive to killing intent—Arman felt a twinge of confusion.
One thing was clear: he was absolutely not the brainless wastrel of rumor.
Then maybe test with a real strike.
The moment Arman shifted from artificial intent to genuine malice—
“Kuh…!”
Arman groaned low, crushing the table edge. Adelrian looked over, mildly surprised.
“Something off in the docs?”
“N-no. Nothing.”
A chill like a blade halted right at his heart.
Too sharp to distinguish—killing intent or manifested mana?
Plus an instinctive terror, like being crushed and trapped in a vicious beast’s coil.
Cold sweat trickled down Arman’s spine.
Such a potent warning, issued so proactively.
‘The rumors of a worthless, trash-tier figure—smoke screen after all.’
The sensation vanished quickly, but Arman clutched his clothes as if gripping his plummeting heart.
“If I take the southern monopoly, won’t the imperial family intervene?”
“Offer a cut of the profits separate from taxes—they’ll allow it. The empire’s unique: strong throne, but structured against dictatorship.”
With three grand dukes precariously balancing that power among themselves.
Arman nodded.
“Then what exactly do I have to do for you?”
A price not explicitly stated in the contract.
Sharing siren profits after securing the monopoly—anyone could do that.
Yet Adelrian had singled him out. The reason must be a price too taboo for paper.
Arman swallowed dryly, staring at that smooth, unreadable face.
Arrogant, haughty, refusing to bow to anyone—Adelrian curled his lips in a smirk and spoke slowly.
“Strengthen your naval forces.”
“…What?”
For a moment, Arman wondered if his ears deceived him and asked again.
“What did you just say to me?”
“Arman, strengthen your navy. Your whole house is fine. Best is elevating the quality of the fleet under your command.”
Arman let out a hollow laugh at Adelrian’s words.
“And what’s in it for you? Should I just accept this suspiciously one-sided deal without question?”
“You don’t get my patriotic heart. Listen up, Arman.”
Adelrian swirled his glass with a frivolously light gesture and grinned.
“Quantitative expansion can’t dodge imperial eyes. Conscription alone is a nightmare. Qualitative’s different.”
Not overnight strength. Step by step, in secret. Years if needed—look unchanged on the surface, but forge ironclad foundations within.
“Money from sirens? One typhoon sweeping trade ships punches holes in budgets. Disrupt the money flow like that. Grind relentlessly until your fleet outmatches every pirate.”
Adelrian chuckled softly, leaning back languidly.
“Stronger navy, stronger ships and crews. Mana cannons instead of standard, artifact figureheads instead of mere ornaments. Sound good?”
Not numbers of ships or sailors—pure quality upgrade. With sirens enabling precise coordination…
Arman laughed emptily.
‘What the…’
Fooling everyone this long? The cost was enormous—mocked as incompetent across the empire. Worth it?
Yet after this display, he couldn’t claim it fooled him.
What did he want so badly to endure that humiliation to reach this point?
“All good. Sounds perfect. But Adelrian, that doesn’t answer my question.”
Arman met his eyes seriously.
“I’d be a fool to refuse. Zero downside for me. But I’m not convinced.”
Tell me what it means to you if I—the southern naval forces—grow stronger.
Under Arman’s gaze, Adelrian exhaled loosely.
“One thing I want, Arman.”
Adelrian mouthed it slowly.
A debt in your heart.
“That’s what I want.”