CHAPTER 213: CHAPTER 213: TRACES AND THREADS

The Drunken Hammer came into view long before Noel reached its creaking doorstep. From the outside, everything sounded the same—drunken laughter, glass breaking, the occasional yell followed by a round of cheers. The familiar chaos bled through the wooden walls.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the noisy warmth. Eyes glanced his way, but no one paid him much attention. The scent of ale and roasted meat hung thick in the air.

Noel scanned the room.

’No sign of him.’

The bar was busy, as always, but Balthor’s thick beard and booming voice were noticeably absent. Noel’s gaze swept past the rowdy dwarves, past the tables cluttered with mugs, and toward the bar counter.

He approached the woman behind it—a tall half-dwarf with braided hair and sleeves rolled up past her elbows. She raised a brow as he came closer.

"What’ll it be?" she asked, already reaching for a mug.

"Something without alcohol," Noel said, tapping the counter lightly. "Also... I’m looking for Balthor. Is he around?"

The bartender paused. "The boss? Nah, he’s gone. Left two notes before he took off. One said he was going on vacation—said he’d be back in a few weeks. The other was for some blond kid with green eyes, around sixteen or seventeen, give or take." She eyed him. "I’m guessing that’s you?"

Noel nodded. "Sounds like it."

She handed him a folded square of paper and a small glass filled with amber liquid. "Juice. It’s all we’ve got that’s clean. Good luck."

Noel took the drink with a quiet "Thanks" and unfolded the note.

Balthor’s handwriting as blunt as the man himself:

Kid, I went ahead.

Now that you told me my brother’s alive back in our homeland, I need to see him with my own eyes—to see who he’s become, just like you said... I can’t wait any longer.

Noel sighed, folding the note slowly.

’Ugh. I didn’t expect Balthor to be so impulsive. I thought he’d be more grounded—business-minded, level-headed... Guess that was just a front.’

He took a sip of the juice and leaned back against the counter, thinking.

’Not that it changes much. I’ll figure out who he is once we get there. The guy uses illusions—too weak for direct fights, so he hides behind tricks.’

Noel reached into the inner pocket of his coat and touched the smooth band of metal wrapped around his wrist—Omen Coil.

He smirked faintly.

[Item]

Name: Omen Coil

Type: Artifact – Arm Accessory

Grade: Rare (Modified)

Description: A forged relic designed to protect against mental interference and enhance cognitive reflexes. Originally used by assassins and information brokers.

Trait: Mindlock – Grants resistance to mind-control, illusions, and fear-based magic.

’With this, I’m practically immune to illusions. Good thing I bought it when I did. If he’s still acting like in the novel, he’ll be manipulating people behind the scenes, not fighting himself.’

He traced the edge of the glass with one finger.

’In the original story, the academy we’re going to wasn’t directly guilty. They were being extorted. If I find the right people and push in the right places, I might get someone to talk. At least, that’s how it went back then.’

He finished his drink, set a silver coin on the counter, and stood up.

’Balthor got ahead of me. I doubt he’ll find anything on his own—he doesn’t have the same knowledge I do. Still... I wonder if Nicolas has discovered anything from his side.’

—----------------

Far from the lively streets of Valon, in the fortified port of Vaelterra operated by the dwarves, Nicolas von Aldros sat inside a small office aboard a moored transport ship. The room swayed gently with the tide, lanterns fixed to the walls casting golden light over stacks of thick ledgers and travel logs.

Across from him stood a dwarf with slicked-back black hair and round spectacles perched low on his nose. He wore a navy-blue vest with silver clasps and held a ledger thicker than a tower shield.

"I assume King Deyron has already informed you of the situation," Nicolas said, arms folded behind his back. "I’d like access to the records of passengers who’ve used this crossing."

The dwarf squinted at him. "Well, since the request comes from the King of Velmora himself, I suppose I’ve got no choice. But I’ll warn you—hundreds of thousands have crossed between the continents over the past decade."

Nicolas nodded. "I’m not interested in all of them. Just the window between eleven and ten years ago."

The dwarf grunted and heaved the massive ledger onto the desk. "Suit yourself. I’ll be nearby if you need clarification."

Page by page, Nicolas sifted through rows of names—foreigners, traders, mercenaries, pilgrims. It was slow, methodical work, but he never wavered. After several minutes, his hand paused.

There it was.

Lereus. The false identity used by Kaelith.

Eleven years ago, precisely, he had entered Elratih from Velmora. No background checks, no red flags—just a name on a page.

Nicolas narrowed his eyes. "This is it."

He called out calmly, "Bring me everything you have on this one. You keep identification copies for passengers, don’t you?"

"Of course," the dwarf answered from the other room. "I’ll fetch it now."

Left alone, Nicolas placed a hand on the log and whispered to himself,

"Finally... something."

Outside the ship, the port buzzed with activity. Crates moved on enchanted lifts, dwarves barked orders in thick accents, and the tide lapped rhythmically against the stone docks. But amid the steady flow of goods and laborers, a different kind of arrival drew attention.

At the far end of the harbor, a sleek vessel bearing the crimson insignia of Velmora—the continent of demons—had just docked. A metal ramp lowered with a dull clang, and soon, students began to descend.

Forty in total. All wore uniforms unfamiliar to the locals—sharp-lined and dark, with accents of silver and red. Some bore physical traits that marked their heritage: small horns curling from their foreheads, patterned skin, glowing eyes, or tails tucked neatly beneath their coats. Yet their steps were measured, casual. They laughed, whispered, or pointed curiously at the architecture.

They were students.

A few dwarves slowed their work to watch them, more out of interest than fear. For all their exotic features, they moved with the same energy and uncertainty as any group of teenagers in unfamiliar territory.

At the base of the ramp, a girl with silver hair and charcoal-grey skin paused, glancing around the port. She adjusted the strap of her bag and gave a small nod to the group behind her.

"Alright," she said, her voice clear but calm. "Let’s not make a scene. We’re guests here."

The others murmured in agreement and began to follow her toward the checkpoint.