Chapter 73
Chapter 73
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 73
Chapter Title: The Devil's Scroll
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The atmosphere had chilled to ice.
If not for the need to conserve their strength for escape, a fight could have erupted right there amid the tense standoff—it wouldn't have been strange at all. Yet the first to step back was Bator.
"...Hoo."
Swish!
He was genuinely furious at Tia's insolent attitude, but Bator forcibly steadied his mind, letting out a sigh as he relaxed the tension in his right arm.
Tia was indeed weaker than him, but with his weapon and left arm both gone, the gap wasn't wide enough to guarantee victory in his current state.
'My own situation is pathetic enough...'
Swallowing his bitterness, Bator turned his body.
Twirl!
"...Let's call it off. We're still smack in the tiger's maw—no time for us to be at each other's throats."
As Bator took the lead once more, Tia followed silently without showing further hostility.
Of course, she inwardly scoffed at how much Bator had changed from before.
The two shifted their route through the back alleys repeatedly, double- and triple-checking for any royal pursuit.
After a long while, convinced no more pursuers were on their tail, they slipped into a rundown antique shop tucked between the alleys.
Creak!
The neglected old door groaned open laboriously, exposing the shop's shabby interior—empty of customers.
Scrub, scrub!
At the counter's center, a ragged old man was wiping down an ancient antique with a cloth.
His long eyebrows shrouded his eyes completely, and even as Bator and Tia entered, he didn't so much as turn his head.
Step, step!
As they approached the old man slowly, he cracked open one eye beneath his bushy brows and spoke.
"Tsk tsk, looks like a failure, huh?"
"...That's right."
"Tsk tsk tsk. Why not just run? If you head back home like this... it won't end pretty, you know."
The old man subtly urged Bator to rethink it, but Bator didn't waver in the slightest.
Bator already knew.
This old man was a devil.
He'd put on a sympathetic face and feign comfort for mission failures, but in truth, no one mocked them harder.
"...If we don't go back, an even bigger hell awaits."
He wouldn't fall for the temptation.
What if, against all odds, he changed course on the old man's urging?
The instant he did, the old man would—as if he'd never suggested fleeing—mobilize every imperial spy lurking in the South Continent to hunt them down.
That was the old man's purpose here from the start.
Smirk!
Unlike his tiny eyes hidden by brows, the old man's mouth stretched into an unnaturally long grin, twisting his face into something grotesque.
"Kekeke! Eh, you already knew? Tsk... Kids these days get info so fast; no fun messing with 'em like the old days."
Whether pleased or disappointed by Bator's reply, the inscrutable old man set down his antique and rummaged beneath the drawer.
"Lemme see... Ah, here we go. Catch."
Thud! Roll roll roll.
What the old man tossed before Bator and Tia was none other than an aged scroll.
It bumped against Bator's foot and stopped.
"......"
Rustle!
Bator snatched up the scroll and unfurled it, revealing a vast plain rendered in oil paint.
The field grass was depicted with such precision it felt like gazing at the real thing—but surely, he hadn't tossed it just to show off.
The old man's explanation followed.
"Scroll with Absolute Teleport set to Kairun Plains coordinates. Rip it, and it'll ignore mana disruption spells to zap you straight there."
Absolute Teleport.
A spell forcing unconditional relocation to specified coordinates, distance be damned.
A priceless item even the Magic Tower rarely parted with—due to military risks and sky-high production costs.
Yet the old man flung it their way like street-vendor trash.
Aside from his vile hobby of mocking Bator and Tia, it proved he grasped how vital relaying this intel back home was.
"......"
A fleeting but intense conflict shadowed Bator and Tia's faces as they clutched the image.
They knew full well its value.
In other words, they'd botched a mission critical enough to squander such a treasure.
Their hands hovered, hesitating to the very end before tearing it.
But from the outset, they had just one option.
Failure to return meant far graver punishment awaited.
Riiiip!
Steel at last, Bator bit one corner of the scroll and shredded it savagely.
Flash!
As it tore, blinding light bloomed, enveloping their forms.
"Heh heh! Gone now."
The glow that had lit the dim shop faded, leaving only the tattered painting—as if no one had ever been there.
"Heh heh heh! What a riot, a real riot. Never dreamed a wildcard like this in a land I thought I'd mapped out completely."
The one who'd deemed Bator, Tia, and Adam's forces sufficient—and requested them from HQ—was none other than the old man.
Even with his judgment smashed to bits, the antique shop owner kept chuckling endlessly.
Soon, he scooped up the painting and held it slowly to the lantern's flame.
Fwoosh, crackle!
The fire voraciously consumed the oil, reducing it gradually to ash.
Moments later, only cinders remained.
The old man who'd stared into the blaze was nowhere to be seen, the shop steeped in silence.
As if empty from the start.
Having wrapped up his lengthy talk with Viscount Sozen, Ian slowly exited the room.
Step, step!
Traversing Brussels' long corridor, he recalled the viscount's parting words.
-This matter... seems beyond my sole discretion. Acting on just the young lord's word burdens the kingdom too heavily. For starters, I'll test it in my own territory as you suggest.
After agonizing deliberation over Ian's proposal, Viscount Sozen offered conditional assent.
Ian felt no dismay at what wasn't quite a refusal.
Far from it—for a green youth's pitch to earn such consideration spoke volumes of the viscount's character.
To sway Fang Kingdom's nobles per Ian's plan, they'd need time to witness and accept it firsthand anyway.
Even if they wrote off Viscount Sozen's trial as a loss, the results would force their hand.
No ignoring proof before their eyes.
Ian's move to the East Continent would follow once all nobles acted on his advice.
"Three years... no, four should do it."
There was another key reason Ian couldn't head East just yet.
'My power now won't convince that stubborn bastard.'
The bandit crew was Thief Lucas Alexei's life's legacy.
To 'persuade' them, Ian needed matching groundwork.
Thus, convincing Viscount Sozen and planting future seeds was plenty for now.
Step, step!
Leaving the corridor, Ian wandered the palace grounds at length.
From Brussels' grandest, most majestic halls to ever more secluded, deserted corners—he halted only in a remote nook.
As Ian stepped forward again,
Swish!
Ghostly figures materialized from the shadows, barring his path.
"Halt, Young Lord Ian Lichtenauer. No entry without authorization."
Courteous words, laced with iron resolve to draw steel if pushed.
Strange indeed.
Armed sentries in a forsaken spot, stonewalling Ian who'd earned royal merit no less.
Meaning the site he sought was crucially guarded.
Ian addressed the blockers calmly.
"You've worked hard. I have words for Count Gilbert—could you pass them on?"
"...What words?"
The guards' faces stiffened tighter.
Ian merely shrugged.
Conflict etched the Eagle Eye operatives posing as guards.
Ian Lichtenauer was high nobility, true...
But this locale was known only to select royals and a handful of Eagle Eye elites.
Yet here he was, implying prior word with Count Gilbert.
They regrouped, vigilance intact.
"...Mind waiting briefly?"
"Take your time."
As expected.
With his tie to top contributor Count Gilbert—direct superior—no easy dismissal.
About time for a coffee later,
The vanished Eagle Eye man returned, bowing crisply to Ian.
"Thank you for waiting, Young Lord Ian. His Excellency awaits—please, follow."
The agent led the way.
Into the forbidden gloom, where he deftly worked outer wall bricks in sequence.
Click, click! Rumble!
The solid floor parted, unveiling an underground passage.
"Enter here."
"Ah, thanks."
"My pleasure. Farewell."
The agent dipped his head briefly and melted back into shadow.
Thud, thud!
Ian descended solo.
Walls sealed tight, perhaps—
His quiet footfalls echoed everywhere.
How far he'd gone,
"Come in. Been waiting."
At the vast plaza's heart, deep underground,
A stately middle-aged man rose to greet him.
Eagle Eye's chief, Count Gilbert.
"Sorry for barging in without notice, Count."
"Hahaha! Nonsense. The hero who foiled the capital's horrors seeks me out—what's this? Straight to it: why trek here?"
Gilbert cut direct; Ian matched.
"No other reason—I haven't heard a peep on the latest captive... so I came myself."
Twitch!
Gilbert's brow twitched ever so briefly.
"Hahaha! Shameful, really. Kingdom's premier intel outfit, and all. But that one's no pushover. Mouth sealed like iron. Hate to admit it, but first I've seen hold out against our techs' best."
Count Gilbert scratched his nape abashedly, pained by the culprit's silence.
'As I figured.'
Ian sensed his hunch spot-on from Gilbert's reaction.
They hadn't clocked Adam as bear tribe.
Maybe beastkin data was nil altogether.
Eagle Eye was Aslan's finest, but beastkin stayed obscure.
'They know beastkin exist, but Adam? No way.'
Had they? No torture tactics.
Beastkin don't crack that way.
"If not too bold... mind if I see him?"
"Eh? You?"
Gilbert eyed him at the abrupt ask.
"Not dismissing you, but cracking prisoners? Worlds apart from beating them."
Gilbert hinted refusal.
But Ian hadn't come to fold.
"Trusted Your Excellency a full week, waited patiently. No results yet... grant me one shot? Won't let you down."
"Hmm..."
Reluctant at Ian's steel, Gilbert sighed curtly and relented.
"Sigh! Fair—you requested intel, got zilch; frustrating. Fine."
Swish!
Gilbert sidestepped, opening the way.
"Head in. Note: tech's still grinding at his jaws. Might catch rough play, ugly stuff... overlook it."
Rough play...
If Gilbert termed it so, the brutality was anyone's guess.