Chapter Thirty-Four: The Mist

In April, Eastern Cyprus was often blessed with fine weather; the only exception was that the sky remained perpetually overcast, yet the land teemed everywhere with hope and industry.

Regrettably, Anderson Moray, confined in the underground dungeon, could see none of it.

After half a month, the Sword Guild adherent had suddenly come to many realizations. For instance, the cunning young noble had used his servant and Anderson’s own identity in an attempt to murder three foolish thieves, and those thieves had, in fact, been sent by that very youth named Carlos.

The reason for Anderson’s sudden enlightenment was simple.

Yesterday, the three Hunter brothers had been thrown into the same dungeon, lodging right next door to him.

The short-statured Murray’s abdomen was still wrapped in bandages; Grant’s triangular dagger had failed to pierce his spleen, granting him a narrow escape from death. Though the wound was now entirely scabbed over, any movement still brought searing pain.

Murray drew a sharp breath. “Conrad, if you keep touching my wound, I’ll have the jailer put you in the next cell.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to. It was Solly crowding me,” the fat one hastened to explain.

“Then why haven’t you moved your hand?”

The tall Conrad quickly withdrew his hand and shot a glare at the burly Solly.

“I told you bounty hunters shouldn’t take on thieves’ work. That ruthless Black Hat Anderson nearly stabbed you to death, and if I hadn’t pulled you into the river in time, you’d be a corpse now,” Solly grumbled, leaning against the wall.

Murray, still shaken, muttered, “Running into that mad dog was just our rotten luck.”

“But why would that noble brat have us thrown into prison?” Conrad wondered aloud.

All three fell silent.

A cold voice drifted from the adjacent cell, “Three utter fools, being played and yet still oblivious.”

Though the trio was scolded, they showed no anger. In truth, when the Stevenson family’s patrol had locked them up earlier, they had already noticed Black Hat’s presence next door and recognized the Sword Guild emblem on his regulation black robe. Instinctively, they felt some fear.

Naturally, as newcomers to the dungeon, they had no desire to stir up trouble for themselves—at least, not yet.

Even if their neighbor was now a fellow prisoner.

The Hunter brothers’ faces looked grim, but they pretended not to have heard, leaving the air thick with awkwardness.

Suddenly, a youth clad in sumptuous attire approached the cell door, holding a glass bottle filled with green liquid. Elegant, handsome, and noble, he surveyed the filthy dungeon as though inspecting a grand castle.

Fat Conrad immediately recognized him, his face lighting with surprise.

“Young Master, are you here to get us out?” he asked eagerly.

The other two hunters also looked hopeful.

Carlos smiled, nodding slightly to the three bounty hunters, but he did not deign to answer these former, temporary hirelings. Instead, he strolled toward Anderson’s cell.

Having passed his alchemy assessment, he had taken a day’s leave from Dubois, intending to clean up certain affairs early—just as his father, Moray, wished.

“How have you been, honored adherent?” he asked.

Anderson Moray fixed Carlos with a cold stare and said nothing.

Carlos’s gaze shifted to the black cat sprawled languidly in the hay. The last time he’d seen it, the creature had been skin and bones; now it was plump and glossy, its coat sleek and eyes bright with spirit.

Clearly, it had been well fed.

The black cat, recognizing its new benefactor, lifted its head, gave a single “meow” toward Carlos, and resumed grooming itself.

For the first time, Anderson Moray’s expression showed a flicker of reaction.

He curled his lip. “Even if you didn’t murder those three fools, illegally detaining a Sword Guild adherent is a serious crime.”

Carlos merely shook his head with a faint, noncommittal smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Anderson, but news arrived from Cyprus a few days ago—you’ve been dismissed from the Sword Guild.”

Anderson stared at the youth in disbelief, then erupted in anger. “Are you bluffing?”

Carlos raised his hand. Grant emerged from the shadows and handed a letter to Carlos, who offered it to Anderson.

“See for yourself.”

Anderson hesitated, then took the letter from Carlos and skimmed it. His eyes widened, pupils dilating; the steadfast man’s hand shook uncontrollably as he held the letter, and he looked up, trembling with fury.

“Was it you?” he demanded.

Carlos met Anderson’s strained gaze and laughed, somewhat unkindly.

“Do you truly believe that the son of some impoverished country noble could influence the Sword Guild’s decision?”

He refrained from further mocking the now-disgraced adherent, lapsing instead into polite silence.

The letter’s contents were stark and simple.

In light of Anderson Moray’s flagrant desertion during the Abyssal incursion at Silin Town, he was stripped of his status as an adherent and to be escorted to Cyprus City for further trial.

Carlos sighed inwardly. For a man so fiercely devoted to rooting out evil, to be charged with desertion—he wondered what those people could have been thinking.

Anderson, still clutching the letter, fell silent, his anger now the only emotion left visible.

Meanwhile, the three hunters next door were astonished to discover that Grant, standing beside Carlos, was the same Black Hat who had pursued them days before.

His expression was as impassive as ever, those cold, emotionless eyes now resting on them with a hint of amusement.

The Hunter brothers realized they had misunderstood everything—profoundly so, perhaps absurdly so.

Yet they did not dare to be sure, or perhaps, they simply could not bring themselves to believe it.

The short one felt his wound throb anew, his eyelids twitching as his face grew even paler; terrified, he scarcely dared to breathe.

Anderson gradually regained his composure, slowly grinding the letter into powder between clenched fists, the only expression left upon his face was rage.

“So, are you now planning to escort me to Cyprus City?” he asked.

Carlos shook his head. “Of course not. I have no ties with the Sword Guild.”

Anderson, gritting his teeth, said coldly, “Then you want me to work for the Stevenson family?”

Carlos shook his head again, unmoved by the man’s astonishment. He extended a slender finger, from which a wisp of black energy curled and floated above his fingertip like a dragon.

“Do you know what this is?” Carlos gazed at the shimmering darkness, then murmured a word. Instantly, the black energy burst forth, filling the air at the cell door with thick, black mist.

“Dark Aura—you’re a sorcerer too?” Anderson asked, surprised.

Carlos shook his head once more.

“Of course not. Quite the contrary—I despise sorcerers.”

Anderson ceased his speculation. The letter’s contents had shifted his state of mind; he realized that any judgment made under such circumstances would likely be flawed. He fell silent, simply waiting for the young noble to reveal his purpose.

Carlos, satisfied with his handiwork, watched the black mist gather above his head, concealing everything behind it. This was the simplest manipulation he could perform with Dark Aura.

It was nothing sophisticated—he merely catalyzed the Aura, expelled it from his body, and spread it evenly through the air.

Though the mist covered no more than a few square meters and seemed unimpressive, Carlos knew the limitation was simply that he could not yet muster more Dark Aura.

If he could convert all the Aura within him, he might be able to conjure a vast curtain of darkness in an instant.

Carefully observing the black mist, Carlos took the bottle of green liquid from Grant and began to spray it into the swirling gloom.