Chapter 14: Not Dead

  Sandro pushed aside the female corpse, pulled out a large cloth used to line the corpse table from beneath it, shook off the dust, and tossed it to Ethan. “This ‘outfit’ should be worth another six months of work from you, don’t you think?”

  Ethan took it—only to find it was a tattered old cloak. “Six months? The entire continent’s bandits are missing out by not having you join them,” he said, shaking his head. The cloth was thick, stinking, and heavy, caked in dust. Stains of dried blood and other unidentifiable fluids were fused into its fibers, having set long ago.

  Sandro’s eyes bulged. “This is a treasure I collected when I was young—it’s very sentimental!”

  Suddenly, there was a knock at the door of the large house.

  Three knocks, rhythmic and measured—revealing the caller’s poise and refinement. The volume was perfect: loud enough for those inside to hear, yet gentle enough to avoid startling anyone. Even the most irritable or sensitive homeowner would never find such a visit intrusive.

  Whoever had come this far must know what kind of place this was. And faced with a house full of corpses, an old man who tinkered with the dead, and a hunchbacked cripple helping him—who would knock with such grace, as if visiting an elegant hermit?

  Curious to see who this polite caller was, Sandro went to answer the door himself. Ethan quickly pulled on his mask.

  When the door opened, a dignified middle-aged gentleman stood outside.

  He had the slight paunch of a man who lived comfortably, a lavish yet ornamental sword tucked at his waist, a well-tailored suit, a top hat, neatly trimmed beard, crinkled eyes, and a warm, polite smile. This was truly a man who would knock politely at any door.

  The gentleman bowed slightly, greeting Sandro with a graceful gesture. “Excuse me, are you Mr. Sandro?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” Sandro replied hastily, as if afraid someone might jump out to claim the title.

  “I am Duke Mrak,” the portly, affable gentleman introduced himself. “Might I come in? I’m looking for someone.”

  “Of course, of course—please, come in!” Sandro played the part of a hospitable host, gesturing warmly to let the duke enter. He then gestured to the room full of corpses and organs. “There are plenty of ‘people’ here. I wonder which one Your Grace is looking for?”

  “I’m looking for him.” The duke’s smiling eyes had been fixed on Ethan—who had just draped the corpse-lining cloth over himself—since he stepped in. Hands clasped behind his back, he walked slowly toward Ethan.

  Ethan took a step back.

  He did not know why he retreated. This polite, graceful gentleman had a charming aura; and when he heard this was the duke himself, an urge had risen in him to step forward, explain everything, and ask his questions. But for some reason, the moment the duke walked toward him, he stepped back unconsciously.

  Yet he stopped after just one step. The duke approached slowly, and as Ethan looked down at the man—who stood half a head shorter—he suddenly realized he was no longer hunched, no longer pretending to be lame.

  He should have been. For two months, he had grown used to automatically hunching and limping in front of others. But the moment his eyes met the duke’s, all his attention had been drawn away—he had completely forgotten to maintain his disguise.

  No, that was not it. Ethan soon realized: he had not forgotten—his body had unconsciously shifted into a state of full alert. Like a beast catching the scent of danger, every muscle in his body tensed, ready to spring.

  His mind had slipped into the empty state he achieved during meditation these past two months. He could feel every tiny twitch of his muscles, every faint current of air brushing his skin. He even sensed his magic and focus converging and flowing within him, ready to erupt at any moment.

  He had stepped back only once not because he thought it unnecessary to retreat further—but because he could not retreat.

  To step back again would cross a line. The line between a beast and its prey.

  If he moved even slightly, this seemingly kind duke would strike with the speed of a leopard and the ferocity of a lion, killing him instantly.

  The duke’s gaze seemed to pierce Ethan’s eyes, seeping into every part of his body, laying him bare.

  A smile tugged at the duke’s lips—part approval, part regret, part mockery. He spoke calmly: “Last night, this young man saved my younger daughter from some ruffians. And I understand he also saved my elder daughter two months ago. I truly wish to thank him. But…” The duke brought his right hand from behind his back. It was a casual movement—he rested his hand on his waist, right beside the overly ornate sword.

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  Ethan could not hear a word the duke said. All his focus was on the duke’s right hand and the sword beside it.

  He had no proof, but he knew: even if the lavish scabbard held nothing but a charcoal stick, the moment that hand drew it, he would be sliced in two like a brittle radish.

  Ethan’s strength and magic had fully converged, merging with his focus and resolve into a single, ready-to-burst point. Even if there was only a one-in-ten-thousand chance, he would unleash all his power before his head hit the ground.

  He was overcome by a familiar feeling—the same dread of being hunted in Lizard Marsh. This hunt had reached its end; he had nowhere left to run. The beastly resolve and madness in his heart stirred again.

  Ethan did not move. His mind was even calm, fully immersed in the empty state of meditation. Yet he could feel the wolf deep in his soul baring its fangs and howling.

  You want to kill me? Come on—try it. See if I’m easy prey.

  The duke’s smile widened, the mockery in his approval growing stronger. His clean, neatly groomed hand slid onto the sword hilt.

  “Oh? Rescuing maidens in distress—how heroic!” Sandro suddenly piped up in a weird, singsong voice. No one knew when he had moved behind the duke; he was twirling a few human teeth in his hand—a old habit of his, fidgeting with bits of the dead when he had nothing else to do.

  Ethan saw the duke’s hand suddenly tense, veins bulging angrily. But it was not killing intent —it was tension. The duke’s breathing faltered; his intense gaze wavered, and the overwhelming pressure vanished. Ethan could even see a flicker of fear in the duke’s eyes. It was like a hunter, poised to strike a beast, suddenly having a block of ice stuffed down his trousers just as he was about to move.

  The teeth in Sandro’s hand clicked together. Sandro’s hands were old—wrinkled, pale, so white no veins or hairs were visible. A paleness even paler than a corpse’s. Even the sound of the teeth clacking had that same ominous whiteness.

  The duke’s expression did not change. But it was no longer a smile, not even an expression—just a frozen mask of his earlier face. His facial muscles held their shape, but all emotion was gone, like a mechanical demonstration of what a “smile” looked like.

  The duke’s eyes still seemed to focus on Ethan’s face. But Ethan could feel it: he was not looking at him. He was looking at Sandro—who stood behind him, out of his line of sight. Staring intently, just as Ethan had stared at the duke moments before.

  Ethan could have stepped back now, even danced, and the duke would not have reacted. He suddenly felt like a bystander.

  Ethan did not move. The duke did not move. Sandro, too, stood like a stone statue—except for his hand, still twirling the teeth. The entire hall seemed frozen, time itself grinding to a halt. Only the teeth clicked, a sound that felt inherently “dead.”

  It felt like a century had passed before the duke let out a long breath, regaining his composure. The warm smile returned to his face.

  The clicking stopped. Sandro ceased fidgeting with the teeth and shuffled around to stand in front of the duke.

  The duke’s gaze fell on Ethan again—now free of any discomfort. “And who might this young man be to you, sir?” he asked Sandro.

  “My assistant,” Sandro replied, dropping the teeth onto a stone table.

  “Only an assistant?” The duke’s brows furrowed slightly, but his smile never faded. “But… I suspect your assistant is deeply involved in a matter of great importance. I wish to take him back with me…”

  “No,” Sandro refused firmly. “If he leaves, who will help me? Those corpses are heavy work!”

  The duke sighed, a look of regret crossing his face. “Then I’m sorry for disturbing you.” He bowed to Sandro, turned, and walked out of the house—closing the door behind him.

  Ethan’s eyes darted to the table. The dead teeth Sandro had just set down were undergoing a strange change—one no tooth should ever undergo. Teeth were not ice, not iron, not mud. They did not soften, let alone melt. Yet these small things, which had clicked moments earlier, were slowly softening—like caramel in the mouth—stretching and deforming under their own weight, gradually melting into small puddles of odd liquid. The liquid quickly evaporated, leaving fist-sized holes corroded into the granite tabletop.

  Ethan looked at the old man in front of him as if he were an egg that had just swallowed a person, scanning him from head to toe. He nodded. “Thank you for saving me.”

  “Of course I’d save you,” Sandro said, as if surprised Ethan would ask such an obvious question. “You still owe me four years of work.”

  Outside the house, Duke Mrak removed his top hat and pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing the sweat from his forehead. He mounted his horse and galloped back to the duke’s mansion.

  Clovis was waiting for him in the study. He had heard from Chris where the duke had gone, and had roughly guessed what it was about.

  He was about to speak, but the duke spoke first: “Return to the Paladin Order. Bring your entire unit—fully equipped.”

  “Sir?” Clovis heard him clearly, but did not understand. The Paladin Order was the elite of the imperial army. His unit of over forty men had once wiped out a thousand-strong heretic group that planned to seize a city.

  The duke did not explain, only giving a further order: “Remember—no fanfare. And move quickly.”

  Back in the large house, Ethan put on the cloak Sandro had just given him, reverting to his hunchbacked, lame disguise. He needed to slip out of the city as soon as possible, to leave the capital.

  The duke had said he knew Ethan had saved his daughter. That meant the duke’s reason for wanting to kill him could not have been a misunderstanding.

  Ethan did not know what that reason was. All he knew was that if a duke was determined to have him dead, his only chance was to run—desperately. He also did not want to get anyone else involved. He could tell Sandro was powerful, but even the strongest had limits. The duke could send hundreds of royal guards to arrest him here—if hundreds were not enough, thousands, or even deploy the Paladin Order.

  He bowed to Sandro. “Thank you for letting me hide here these two months.”

  Sandro stared at him. “You’re not thinking of running, are you? You still owe me four years of work.”

  Ethan shrugged, helpless. “When I make a fortune someday, I’ll repay you properly. But if I stay here now, I’ll only bring you trouble.”

  Sandro shook his head. “If you run, the trouble will linger forever—and some of it will stick to me. Don’t fear trouble. Solve it, and it’s gone.”

  Ethan smiled bitterly and walked toward the door. If he did not run, he would never have the chance to face “trouble” again. He was about to open the door when the sound of horse hooves approached, growing louder.

  Ethan’s face paled. He spun around, lunging for the window—but Sandro raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t panic,” he said. “The one who’ll solve the trouble is here.”