CHAPTER 145: THE MIDNIGHT BLOOM - 1

The wind caught under him—not random gusts, not clumsy pushing, but controlled channels, guided by his own magic, the air pressure shifting beneath his feet like an invisible platform lifting him upward.

His hands swept down, directing the slipstreams, small currents spinning under each foot, his body staying upright as he sailed just above the rooftops, his shirt fluttering open slightly, his hair catching the wind like wings.

The world below was a quilt of shadows, faint lanterns flickering in windows, vendors closing stalls, the town’s hum fading into quiet.

But ahead, in the noble crescent—the glow.

Warm light.

Subtle.

Sinister. Gold-hued, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.

The Marble Sanctuary.

Lor grinned, his heart thudding with excitement, his cock stirring faintly in his pants as he angled downward, guiding the wind to his back like a bow drawing tension.

Whatever was waiting inside—

He was ready to find out.

________

The front courtyard of House Viremont glowed with soft magic—lanterns strung high along marble archways, casting golden pools of light, flowers releasing subtle plumes of perfume that blurred the senses, intoxicating even from a distance.

A steady stream of carriages rolled past the inner gate, each bearing velvet-lined passengers dressed to seduce, to watch, or to be watched, their silhouettes cloaked in silk and shadow.

The air was thick with wealth, secrets, and expectation, the faint hum of warding spells vibrating beneath the cobblestones.

Lor stood in shadow, high up on a copper drainage ledge along the neighboring estate, his hazel eyes narrowed, breath quiet, his lean frame crouched low.

His tousled black hair caught the breeze, his shirt fluttering faintly as he watched the perimeter—footmen, servants, and staff moving in precise patterns, their steps clipped and purposeful.

There was no slipping through a hedge without someone noticing, no gap in their vigilance.

His gaze shifted to the entry process, his mind sharp with calculation.

The system was simple, yet impossible to bypass.

Guests handed in sealed invitations—thick parchment, noble crest, deep ink.

The steward, a tall figure in silver-trimmed robes, accepted each with a nod, and a servant returned with a single mask: slim, elegant, velvet-black with golden filigree or something, shimmering with light enchantment—likely keyed to the name on the seal.

No invitation, no mask.

No mask, no entry.

Lor wasn’t dumb enough to think he could fake a seal.

He knew a lot of things, but ink and nobility were another art entirely, one he hadn’t mastered.

He needed someone careless.

Or unlucky.

The universe delivered.

A modest, aging carriage rolled up—plain wood, not gaudy, no jewels or crest on display, but the detail in the framework whispered old money.

It stopped, the door creaking open, and Lor’s eyes caught the glint of a polished bald head, soft jowls, a weaselly chin, a high collar.

Master Toren.

The handsy Professor of Class C.

A man with wandering hands and the nasal voice of a smug mosquito.

He stepped out awkwardly, his sharp shoes clicking against the flagstone, adjusting his tunic and peering around like he’d never seen a social function before.

And following him—his wife.

Lor inhaled, his hazel eyes widening slightly.

The woman on Toren’s arm was stunning, curves wrapped in blood-red silk that hugged her like it had been stitched on wet, accentuating every line of her body.

Long dark hair curled behind her ears in intricate knots, bare shoulders gleaming under the lanternlight, her legs moving beneath the high slit of her dress with a confidence that radiated power, her presence commanding attention without effort.

Toren offered their invitation to the steward with a flourish, his hand trembling slightly as he kept glancing at her cleavage, his eyes hungry but nervous.

The steward nodded, gestured, and within moments, a servant returned, bearing two masks—twin pieces of smooth black velvet, shaped like half-lidded eyes, lined with gold, shimmering faintly with enchantment.

Lor’s heart kicked once.

That was his way in.

The pair entered through the arch, vanishing into the scent-thick interior of the house, masks in hand, the woman’s hips swaying with each step.

Lor was already moving, his lean frame sliding silently off the ledge, hitting the ground in a crouch behind a trimmed hedge, rolling once to melt into the shadows near the east corridor where overflow guests passed through quieter doors.

He didn’t need to sneak inside.

He just needed Toren.

Alone. For thirty seconds.

And the gods, as if wanting to be entertained, indulged him again.

Minutes later, through a carved lattice of stone and vine, he saw the familiar balding silhouette retreating down a secluded stone path just beyond the atrium garden.

Alone.

Muttering to himself, adjusting his robes, his wife clearly having gone ahead.

Perfect.

Lor moved, his steps silent, practiced, sliding around the side wall, cutting across the path behind a fountain, staying low between planters.

Toren had paused near a marble alcove, staring at the engraved names on the donor wall like he was pretending to appreciate the art, his posture nervous, out of place.

There was a tall decorative planter beside him—terracotta, filled with exotic blooms that looked far too expensive to be natural.

Lor didn’t hesitate.

He pressed his hand to the base and nudged, a faint hum of mana guiding the motion.

Thunk.

The pot tipped.

Wobbled. Fell.

Toren turned at the worst moment, his eyes widening as the terracotta hit him square on the crown of his head with a hollow, wet sound. He dropped like a sack of laundry, arms twitching, eyes rolled back, unconscious but breathing.

Lor was on him in an instant, dragging the limp man into the alcove, checking his pulse—shallow, steady.

He worked fast, untying Toren’s robe, the silk still warm from his body, swapping it for his own shirt in a matter of seconds.

The mask was easy, untouched, lying beside Toren’s hand.

Lor stripped, swapped, and adjusted, smoothing the black-and-gold velvet over his face, the enchantment humming softly as it settled, a subtle shimmer running down his spine.

It masked more than just features—it shifted perception.

Anyone who looked at him would see what they expected: a man who belonged, not Lor, just another masked noble come to indulge.