Chapter Twenty-Seven: Upholding the Covenant

The unusual events in the Alchemy Cottage were inevitably discovered by Dericht. After Carlos, shrouded in black mist and somewhat dazed, was carried to the bed in the storeroom by Cook, the half-orc, Dericht climbed in through the window.

He looked at Carlos, whose foolish grin bore no resemblance to the sharp and spirited young lord of a noble house he usually was.

“Damn it, did my brother turn into an idiot?”

“I don’t know.”

Dericht drew his sword from behind his back, his gaze cold as he stared at Cook, gritting his teeth. “What did you do to my brother?”

Vivian arrived just in time and hurriedly explained the situation, again and again. Carlos had mentioned these foreign, nonhuman guests living in the cottage in his letters to their father, Mori, so Dericht was not surprised. Yet, seeing Carlos unconscious, he could not bring himself to believe the elf’s explanation.

“So you’re saying it was all caused by that witch? And she’s Dubois’ granddaughter?” Dericht’s eyes flickered.

Vivian nodded, then shook her head. “It was the demon who approached them first. After making a pact with the witch, it hid itself. The witch may not harbor any ill intentions toward Carlos.”

Dericht fell silent for a moment, then gritted his teeth. “If Carlos is a fool now, you’ll all stay here and serve him for the rest of your lives. No one leaves.”

He tossed out this threat and hurried off. This was old alchemist Dubois’ domain; clinging to the last shreds of reason, Dericht rushed back to inform Mori.

Vivian sighed, watching the madness in Carlos’s brother’s eyes. She was certain that if Dubois weren’t right outside, the swordsman would have drawn his blade without hesitation and demanded answers.

Maclin’s situation was hardly any better. He had taken a blow from Enzo; to say he was unharmed was wishful thinking. The gap between a low-tier knight and a commander-level demon was vast, and after pushing through his injuries, the dwarf Maclin had retreated once more to nurse his wounds behind closed doors.

Vivian closed the door and left with Cook, the half-orc.

Now only Carlos remained in the cottage, unconscious. Yet his condition wasn’t as dire as it appeared. Dubois had simply said that he had absorbed too much and too varied a dark energy, and the dwarf knight of light could not purify enough of it. There was no one who could help now; Carlos would have to rely on his own body to digest it.

It was best not to disturb him. None among them had ever experienced swallowing dark energy; their worry was unnecessary.

Yet, though Carlos seemed comatose, inside he was utterly clear-headed—never had he felt so lucid.

He observed the dark energy coursing through him, like ants relocating their colony on a rainy day: chaotic yet orderly.

The news that young master Carlos Stevenson had suddenly become a fool was a catastrophe for the Stevenson family. Though the old mayor Mori was skeptical and not entirely convinced, he still hurried with his entourage to Dubois’ Alchemy Cottage.

If anything were to happen to Carlos, it would mean the collapse of the Stevenson household—the sky itself would fall. Though Mori had long since reached a calm acceptance of fate, on the road he couldn’t help but show signs of anxiety.

Usually a courteous mayor, when passing through the town’s main street, faced with crowds blocking their way, he shed his good temper. About a dozen night patrolmen, mounted on poor horses and armed with pistols and swords, herded the crowds aside like ducks driven to water, opening up a path down the center.

In the small town of Saltwell, the Stevensons had always maintained harmony and a good reputation. An occasional act of force such as this was little more than a stone tossed into the sea—quickly forgotten.

Even those who felt shocked or found it hard to accept dared not show it, for when a drunken bounty hunter tried to make a scene in the street, he was dispatched on the spot by the mayor himself, who leapt from his carriage and ended it with a single stroke.

The townsfolk often said the mayor’s good temper did not necessarily extend to his men.

Those who were slow to realize soon woke up to the fact: this was the only hereditary noble in East Cyprus.

Given the strictness of the Light Dominion’s laws regarding noble rights, hereditary status carried immense weight—no need to explain.

People acted accordingly: when fear is real, they move swiftly. All at once, the crowd parted, scampering out of the way, afraid to be the last and fall victim to the mayor’s merciless driver.

When the Stevenson family’s carriages surrounded the Alchemy Cottage, Mayor Mori Stevenson finally stepped down.

Old alchemist Dubois stood at the door, looking at the night patrolmen nearby. “You don’t trust me?”

Mori glanced coldly at Dubois, then looked up through the window at the eyes peering from behind the curtains within, his face expressionless. “On the contrary. You never told me your granddaughter was a witch—seems you didn’t trust me first.”

Dubois’ face flushed slightly, but the darkness of his skin concealed his embarrassment.

Mori continued, “How is Carlos now?”

Dubois led the Stevenson father and son into the cottage. Grant and the night patrolmen remained outside, vigilant, sealing off the building. Should the witch—the culprit behind Carlos’s plight—try to escape, they would not hesitate to unleash their weapons upon her.

Even though she was Dubois’ granddaughter, fleeing in guilt was reason enough for execution.

Dubois, dark circles under his eyes, sighed and spoke quietly to Mori. “Carlos should be fine for now, but the secret of his dual bloodline may not be kept much longer.”

Mori nodded calmly, though his step faltered slightly.

“Was it an external force that triggered the bloodline?”

“To be frank, the demon targeting Carlos seemed to know him from before. This is likely due to loose ends you failed to tie up. An undead demon clan member provoked the bloodline in Carlos—a commander-level demon lost half its dark energy in a matter of moments. Such a bloodline is too wicked, too extraordinary.”

Dubois spoke at a measured pace, yet managed to answer nearly all of Mori’s questions.

“A commander-level demon, you say? That must be connected to the incident in Rottenwood Forest recently. Its neck was twisted by the Puppet Radiance, right before my eyes. The undead are remarkably tenacious—we must pay closer attention to even the smallest matters. But I heard that demon formed a pact with your granddaughter?”

Dubois scoffed, “The demon is dead; the pact is void.”

Mori paused as he mounted the stairs, then stopped to look at Dubois. “Forming a pact with a demon clan is a capital offense.”

Dubois nodded, saying nothing.

“I’ve heard witch pacts are tied to aura. Now the demon’s aura is within Carlos.”

Dubois glared, “What are you getting at?”

A sly glint flashed in Mori’s eyes, though his face was impassive as he spoke.

“Some people dislike witches or sorcerers. I have no prejudice, even though they like to cause me trouble—it’s only because we don’t understand each other. Now, there’s an opportunity. I hear your granddaughter’s mother is famed among witches. Let her daughter maintain her pact with Carlos, so the sorcerer world can get to know us, and stop bothering us. The pact can be dissolved later. Keeping the pact helps her, too—at least, it offers her amnesty for contracting with a demon.”