Chapter : 713

The rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels against the hard-packed dirt road was a monotonous metronome, counting down the seconds of a life Lloyd no longer felt was entirely his own. Outside, the lush, rolling hills of the Ferrum Duchy’s southern territories painted a picture of serene prosperity. Inside the finely upholstered carriage, however, the air was thick with the cold, sterile reality of war.

“The trap was crude,” Lloyd said, his voice a low monotone that seemed to absorb the light in the cabin. He stared out the window, but his gaze was turned inward, replaying the failed deadfall trap in his mind. “Amateurish, even. Relying on a single point of failure in the trigger mechanism. No redundancies. No secondary plan. They expected a fool. Or at least, someone without adequate protection.”

Across from him, Ken Park sat as still as a granite statue, his hands resting on his knees. His uniform was impeccable, his posture a testament to a lifetime of discipline. Only the faintest flicker in his dark eyes indicated he was listening. “Their confidence has made them complacent, Young Master.”

“It’s not confidence,” Lloyd countered, a dry, humorless smile touching his lips. “It’s arrogance. The assassins—Jager and Kael, as the Gilded Hand’s terrified leadership so helpfully provided—are professionals. But they are professionals operating with catastrophically flawed intelligence. They believe they are hunting a lordling, a soap-merchant with a bit of luck and a powerful father. They have no concept of who—or what—they are truly facing.”

The second failed ambush, the poisoned stream, had been more sophisticated. It spoke of a mind that understood logistics, a mind that knew how to turn the environment itself into a weapon. Yet, it too had failed. Ken’s monstrous display of strength, lifting the carriage clear of the water, had been a deliberate, contemptuous message. It was a declaration that the rules they thought they knew did not apply.

But Lloyd knew this game of cat and mouse on the open road was unsustainable. Each avoided trap was a temporary victory, but it also confirmed their location and direction of travel. His pursuers were like wolves, patient and persistent. They would continue to set traps, and eventually, luck or a moment of inattention would grant them the kill they sought. The Major General within him, the eighty-year-old soldier KM Evan, knew that predictable movement was a death sentence.

“We need to change the battlefield,” Lloyd stated, his eyes finally focusing on the rolling landscape. “This road leads to Zakaria, but it’s also leading us into a tactical box. They know our destination. They will simply set up their next welcoming party at the border.”

Ken’s response was a single, clipped word. “Agreed.”

“Therefore,” Lloyd continued, leaning forward and tapping a finger on the polished wood of the door, “we will give them a destination to watch. Just not the one we are going to.”

The plan that unfolded from Lloyd’s mind was a classic piece of military deception, a feint designed to send the enemy on a long and fruitless chase. That afternoon, they stopped at a bustling crossroads town. Lloyd, using the full weight of his ducal authority, commandeered a second, identical carriage. He hired a driver, a man whose greed outweighed his curiosity, and paid him an exorbitant sum to continue the journey east towards the Zakarian border. To complete the illusion, he placed a decoy inside—a mannequin dressed in a spare set of his own fine, but not ostentatious, traveling clothes. He even sprayed the interior with a hint of the rosemary elixir he favored, a subtle piece of olfactory misdirection for any pursuer with enhanced senses.

As the decoy carriage rumbled eastward, Lloyd and Ken slipped out of the town’s northern gate on foot, melting into the vast anonymity of the countryside. They were now ghosts, their trail deliberately and expertly erased. They traveled for the rest of the day through woods and farmer’s fields, avoiding roads and settlements, the powerful Lord Ferrum and his formidable retainer now reduced to fugitives hiding in the shadows of their own land.

As dusk settled, casting long, purple shadows across the landscape, they found shelter in a dilapidated barn. The air was thick with the scent of hay and old earth. Ken, with his usual silent efficiency, started a small, smokeless fire, producing dried rations from his pack.

Lloyd sat against a rough-hewn wooden beam, chewing on a piece of tough, salted meat that was a profound insult to the fine cuisine he was accustomed to. The Major General, however, was satisfied. The discomfort was a necessary component of survival.

Chapter : 714

“They will follow the decoy for at least three days,” Lloyd mused, staring into the flickering flames. “That gives us the window we need. By the time Jager realizes he’s been chasing a ghost, we will be gone.”

“Your orders, Young Master?” Ken asked, his voice as calm and steady as ever.

“We need a new identity. A new life, temporarily.” Lloyd’s mind, a finely tuned engine of strategy, began to construct the persona. He couldn’t be a merchant; it would attract attention. He couldn’t be a mercenary; it was too conspicuous. He needed a role that was both unassuming and essential, a position that would allow him to blend into the fabric of a city while granting him access to its people.

A doctor.

The idea was perfect in its simplicity and its audacity. A humble young healer, perhaps one who had studied at the lower rungs of the Bathelham Academy before finding his calling serving the common folk. It was a role that inspired trust, not suspicion. It provided a perfect, unassailable cover for his true purpose. With his [All-Seeing Eye], he wouldn’t even be lying about his abilities; he truly could diagnose illnesses with an accuracy that would seem miraculous.

“We head to Rizvan,” Lloyd said, naming a bustling, grimy port city two days’ walk to the northwest. It was large enough to get lost in, a chaotic hub of trade and transit where a new face wouldn’t be questioned. “I will establish a new identity there. ‘Zayn.’ A simple doctor. You, Ken, will go dark. Utterly dark. I want you to become a shadow in that city. Your mission is not to protect me, but to observe them. When Jager and Kael realize the trail is cold, they will double back. They will search. I want you to find them first. Learn their methods, their contacts, their chain of command. I want to know everything. We are no longer the hunted, Ken. We are the hunters, and we are setting our own trap.”

Ken nodded, the firelight glinting in his dark, unreadable eyes. There was no hesitation, no question. The order was given, and it would be obeyed.

Lloyd looked down at his own hands, the hands of a lord, an industrialist, and a warrior. He was about to trade his fine silks for coarse linen, his ducal authority for a healer’s quiet humility. The eighty-year-old soldier within him felt a grim satisfaction. This was the true nature of the Great Game. Not the glorious charges and grand pronouncements, but the quiet, dirty, and absolutely necessary work of survival in the shadows. The birth of Doctor Zayn was not just an act of concealment; it was an act of war.

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The city of Rizvan was an assault on the senses. Unlike the stately, clean-swept avenues of the capital, Rizvan was a city that lived and breathed with a raw, chaotic energy. The air was a thick, briny soup of salt-spray from the sea, the smoke of a thousand cookfires, the metallic tang of the smithies, and the ever-present, cloying sweetness of rot from the fish markets. It was a city of a hundred thousand souls crammed into a labyrinth of cobblestone streets, a place where fortunes were made on the docks and lives were lost in the shadowed alleys. It was the perfect place to disappear.

Two days after abandoning their ducal life, Lloyd and Ken arrived at the city’s southern gate, indistinguishable from the countless other travelers seeking work or passage. Lloyd’s fine silks had been replaced by a simple, durable set of a traveler’s clothes—a homespun linen tunic, dark wool trousers, and sturdy leather boots. The fabric was coarse and itchy against his skin, a constant, humbling reminder of his new station. He had even allowed a few days’ worth of stubble to grow on his chin, softening the sharp, aristocratic lines of his face. He was no longer Lord Ferrum, heir to a great house. He was just a man.

“This is where we part ways,” Lloyd said, his voice low as they stood in the shadow of a crowded market archway. “From this moment, you do not know me. You are a ghost, Ken. A rumor. Nothing more.”

Ken’s nod was barely perceptible. “Understood, Young Master. I will establish my network and begin surveillance. I will find a way to report, but it will be discreet.” He paused, and for the first time, a flicker of something other than professional duty crossed his face. It was a deep, almost paternal concern. “Be careful.”

“Caution is for men who have the luxury of time,” Lloyd replied with a grim smile. “I have a clinic to open.”