CHAPTER 136: BLUNDER

Riverfall—a city that lay nestled between Mesarith and Valthorn—had long earned itself a reputation soaked in blood and shadow. Though it offered the shortest route to Mesright, most travelers preferred the longer path through the outer ranges, choosing safety over speed.

Why?

Because Riverfall had a secret everyone pretended not to know:

It was under the thumb of the Blood Fang Gang.

Every merchant caravan that dared to pass through its gates had to deal with smaller offshoot gangs—parasites operating openly yet fearfully—each backed by the notorious Blood Fang. These were not common thugs, but organized predators who leeched off trade and instilled dread in every whisper of their name.

If Damien had known this before...

If he had even suspected it...

He would’ve torn across the countryside in the dead of night without waiting for dawn.

But regrets meant nothing now.

What was done, was done.

This path—dangerous or not—was now the quickest route to where he needed to be.

So without wasting another breath, Damien stormed out of the city, a dark figure moving with purpose. His cloak flared behind him as wind pushed against his body—though whether it was the natural wind or pressure from his own rapid movement was anyone’s guess.

Meanwhile, Devrok hurried toward the royal stables, boots pounding against stone. He knew Damien didn’t need a horse—he never had. The prince’s acceleration talent made beasts of burden redundant. But not everyone was like Damien.

No, not even Devrok.

Though their cultivation levels weren’t far apart in theory, the difference in real combat power and movement speed was night and day. Damien had long since surpassed what was considered ’normal’ within their realm.

He could vanish and reappear in blinks.

Devrok, on the other hand, still relied on muscle, sweat, and hooves.

It took him only five minutes to return, galloping up the road atop a sleek black stallion bred for endurance—but even then, Damien had been waiting.

Standing silently, arms crossed, his face unreadable.

Not out of anger...

But out of quiet, simmering frustration.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

The wind around him seemed sharper, colder, crackling with barely suppressed impatience.

Devrok dismounted and adjusted the reins.

Damien glanced at him, and for a fleeting moment, the thought crossed his mind:

Why is he even coming with me?

By the time Devrok reached Riverfall, Damien could’ve circled the city a dozen times, mapped it, scouted every alley, and left a mark on every gang hideout.

It was... inefficient.

He opened his mouth, tempted to say, "Wait here. I’ll handle it."

But he didn’t.

Not because Devrok would’ve argued—he wouldn’t.

Not because Damien doubted he could do it alone—he didn’t.

But because asking him to stay behind... would be the same as calling him useless. And that wasn’t something Damien was ready to do—not to Devrok. Not now.

So he said nothing.

And turned toward the road.

With that thought in mind, a silvery aura surged out from deep within Damien’s body, washing over him like liquid moonlight. His entire frame shimmered as the aura cloaked him—ethereal, sharp, and refined.

Dervok’s horse had barely trotted forward when a thunderclap split the air.

BOOM!

A deafening hypersonic shockwave exploded outward, ripping through the dirt road and rattling the surrounding trees. The raw force of Damien’s takeoff knocked the breath out of Dervok’s lungs. His horse neighed in panic, rearing back and stumbling, nearly toppling over from the aftershock.

Dust hung in the air, suspended like a curtain of smoke, and deep cracks marred the earth where Damien had just been standing.

Dervok coughed once, then broke into a half-laugh, half-sigh as he surveyed the miniature battlefield left behind.

"This younger brother of mine..." he muttered under his breath, a crooked grin curling on his lips. "Truly a freak of nature."

Without wasting another second, he tugged the reins hard and urged his steed forward, disappearing into the distance behind his brother’s vanishing trail.

---

Meanwhile, in Riverfall City:

The city wore a strange, eerie stillness like a funeral shroud. Streets that were once bustling now lay barren, lined with broken carts, discarded crates, and the occasional gust of wind stirring dust through the alleys. A few stray dogs nosed through garbage heaps, their ears twitching at the silence.

But this emptiness was a lie.

Shadows clung to every wall and alley. And within those shadows, figures moved—silent, disciplined, dangerous. Warriors clad in pitch-black robes crouched on rooftops, lurked behind half-closed doors, and stood motionless in alleyways. Each one was armed to the teeth—curved blades, spears, crossbows, throwing knives—the kind of arsenal only killers and mercenaries kept close.

There weren’t just a handful. Hundreds of them hid like restless ghosts waiting for a signal. Their presence was suffocating, the tension so thick it could be felt in the bones.

It might seem absurd to hide like this when the streets were already emptied. But there was a reason for the paranoia.

Riverfall hadn’t always been this quiet. In fact, just this morning it was filled with chatter and color, until chaos struck like a thunderbolt.

A woman—furious, wild-eyed, and terrifyingly strong—had rampaged through the city gates. She had torn through guards and buildings alike, a storm in human form. Her presence had sent the city’s population scattering like leaves before a gale.

In a desperate bid to avoid further carnage, the city lord had enforced a full lockdown, sealing the outer walls and commanding every civilian indoors.

The berserk woman was eventually subdued—not by overpowering her, but by wearing her down over time. A group of elite warriors managed to corner her, overwhelming her with sheer numbers and tactics.

Now, she sat chained deep within the dungeon beneath the city—a caged storm, silent for now.

But everyone knew silence could be deceptive.

Especially in a city owned, in whispers and rumors, by the Blood Fang Gang.

Below the dungeons of the city lord’s castle—deep underground where torchlight struggled to pierce the darkness—Violet and Niomi sat chained against a damp, moss-covered wall.

The stench of mildew, blood, and rust lingered thick in the air, making every breath feel like swallowing rot. Water dripped steadily from above, echoing like a slow, cruel clock in the silence of the cell.

Their condition was pitiful.

Their once-elegant garments were now little more than rags—torn, smeared with dirt and blood. It was hard to tell whether the blood belonged to them or to the men who’d tried to subdue them.

Niomi sat trembling, her wrists bound with heavy iron cuffs that clanked softly every time she shifted. Her swan-like eyes, once filled with curiosity and innocence, were glassy and red-rimmed, brimming with tears that refused to fall. She sniffled softly, trying to hold herself together, but her fragile composure cracked with every second.

Watching her like this shattered Violet’s heart.

She clenched her fists, the edges of the iron cuffs biting into her skin, but she didn’t care. The guilt gnawed at her with a vicious intensity.

It was my decision... I led us here.

She had acted rashly. The moment she had heard rumors of a Rank 2 Alchemist passing through Riverfall, she hadn’t even waited for confirmation. She had dragged Niomi with her, eager to secure a potential ally or resource for the royal family.

But it had been a trap.

Masked warriors were already waiting in ambush when they arrived. Dozens of them. Too coordinated to be random brigands. Too prepared to be anything less than professionals. She had fought tooth and nail, but in the end, they were overwhelmed and dragged into this hellish place.

She cursed herself again for ignoring her instincts—for ignoring her husband’s concerns.

If I had waited even a single day...

Above them, hidden behind the shadows of a grated overlook, a silent observer watched.

The figure stood motionless, draped in a flowing crimson robe that shimmered with subtle runes, barely visible under the flickering torchlight. Their face was concealed behind a pale cross-shaped mask—an eerie design that gave the illusion of serenity, despite the suffocating pressure that radiated from them.

After a long, quiet moment, the figure turned away from the pair of captives and faced another man kneeling before them.

It was the Lord of Riverfall, his forehead pressed tightly against the cold stone floor. Sweat rolled down his temples in thick beads.

The masked figure’s voice was calm, but laced with something unsettling—neither masculine nor feminine, yet carrying the weight of absolute authority.

"Does the Valthorn Court know their queen has been kidnapped?"

Their words echoed like blades drawn in a silent temple.

The Riverfall Lord didn’t dare look up. "They should be aware by now... my lord."

No reply came. Only silence. A silence heavy enough to suffocate.

Then came the next words—detached, philosophical, almost absentminded.

"Iron... Silver... Gold... and finally, Channel Construction."

The figure took a slow step forward, boots clicking against the stone.

"You understand, don’t you? Just how hard it is to cross those thresholds?"

The question was rhetorical, but the kneeling lord instinctively nodded. He had no idea where this was going, no clue what he was expected to say—but he dared not speak unless prompted.

The masked figure tilted their head, watching him as if he were a curious insect wriggling on a pin.

Each of those realms represented a lifetime of suffering, of tempering, of relentless cultivation. To the uninitiated, they were mere titles. To the initiated, they were blood-forged milestones paid for in pain and sacrifice.

The silence that followed was unbearable, and the Riverfall Lord’s breath hitched. Somewhere behind his ribs, his heart thudded wildly.