Chương 63: Chapter 27 Part 1

For thirty grueling years, Vice Guild Master Durgan had measured his entire life in copper, silver, and the metallic tang of his own blood. He was a creature born of the Elyndria Warrior's Guild. It was a gritty, unforgiving life defined by taking desperate contracts from arrogant nobles, slogging through the freezing mud of the borderlands, and praying that the cheap dwarven steel he bought from the local blacksmith wouldn't shatter against the hide of a magical beast.

But as Durgan walked down the bustling, cobblestone streets of the capital's merchant district, the sun beating down on his dark brown skin, he realized with a profound sense of finality that the mercenary life was officially dead to him. He didn't just feel like a new man; he felt like a completely different species. The successful absorption of the S-rank Earth core had violently, fundamentally rewritten his physiology.

His muscles were no longer just thick bands of brute strength; they possessed a terrifying, condensed density that felt like he was walking around with a mountain anchored in his chest. Every step he took felt solid, perfectly balanced, and thrumming with boundless potential. And strapped across his broad back was a weapon that cost more than the entire net worth of the Warrior's Guild combined.

The colossal, double-bladed battleaxe, forged by the High Forgemaster from pure Sungold and Ancient Gold Dragon scales, rested comfortably against his shoulder. The deep-earth ironwood haft radiated a heavy, oppressive ambient mana, while the adamantine-alloy blades hummed with glowing crimson kinetic runes. The weapon didn't just feel heavy; it felt alive, perfectly attuned to his newly expanded meridians, silently begging to be swung at something indestructible.

Walking to his left, completely silent and moving with the fluid, predatory grace of a phantom, was Axel. The dark elf was flipping his newly forged, perfectly balanced Sungold longsword in his hand, a lethal smirk playing on his lips. To Durgan's right was Garrick, his massive shoulders completely unburdened as he carried a towering, draconic-alloy shield that had been runically enchanted to weigh less than a wooden buckler. They approached the heavy, iron-bound oak doors of the Elyndria Warrior's Guild.

Normally, the guild hall was a chaotic, deafeningly loud sanctuary of boasting mercenaries, clinking ale mugs, and the heavy thud of coin purses hitting the bounty boards. Durgan reached out and pushed the heavy oak doors open. The Vanguard stepped across the threshold. They didn't draw their weapons. They didn't shout a greeting. But the moment they entered the massive hall, a palpable, suffocating wave of heavy atmospheric pressure washed over the room.

It was the passive, unsuppressed aura of three warriors who had completely shattered their mortal limits. The laughter died instantly. A C-rank hunter sitting near the entrance froze mid-sip, his eyes widening in primal terror as the wooden ale mug slipped from his trembling fingers and shattered on the floorboards.

The hardened veterans standing by the bounty boards instinctively took a stumbling step backward, their hands dropping defensively to their sword hilts, their bodies reacting to a threat they couldn't even consciously comprehend. Durgan looked around the quiet hall. These were men and women he had fought beside for decades. But right now, looking at their cheap iron armor and feeling their shallow, unrefined Qi signatures, they looked incredibly fragile. He didn't say a word.

He simply walked toward the heavy wooden stairs leading to the Guild Master's office, Axel and Garrick falling in right behind him. The sea of mercenaries parted for them without a single whisper of protest. Upstairs, the heavy oak door to the master office was slightly ajar. Durgan pushed it open. Guild Master Gordon sat behind his massive desk, vigorously rubbing his bloodshot eyes. The air in the room was thick with the smell of cheap cigar smoke, stale coffee, and profound bureaucratic despair.

He was buried beneath a literal mountain of apocalyptic reports detailing the destruction of the Vael Estate and the sudden execution of Duke Morvant. Gordon looked up, fully expecting to see a frantic courier with another ridiculous report. Instead, the breath caught entirely in his throat.

"Durgan," Gordon breathed, slowly standing up from his desk, the parchment in his hand fluttering to the floor.

"By the gods... you're alive. The reports said the Vael estate was a slaughterhouse. I thought you were dead."

"I was, for a few minutes," Durgan rumbled, his deep bass voice vibrating the floorboards of the office. He walked into the center of the room. Gordon's eyes immediately darted away from Durgan's face, magnetically drawn to the colossal, glowing battleaxe strapped to the half-orc's back.

"What... what in the nine hells is that?" Gordon choked out, recognizing the terrifying, ambient hum of artifact-grade weaponry.

"Durgan, the guild didn't issue that. The Royal Armory doesn't even possess something with that kind of mana signature. Where did you get that?" Durgan didn't answer immediately. He reached down to his thick leather belt and unclasped his heavy silver Guild Badge, the physical symbol of his rank and authority within the mercenary hierarchy. He tossed it onto the desk. It landed right on top of the apocalyptic reports with a dull clink. A second later, Axel stepped forward and tossed his silver badge next to it.

Garrick did the same. Gordon stared at the three pieces of silver, and then looked up at his oldest friend, his face pale.

"What is this? You survived a high-tier cult siege. You should be taking a month of paid hazard leave, not throwing your badges at me."

"We are cashing out, Gordon," Durgan said smoothly, his posture completely relaxed but unyielding.

"I am terminating my active guild status, and I am formally withdrawing my squad from the registry." Gordon's jaw went slack. He looked from the mythic-tier weapon to the badges, and then finally back to the half-orc's flint-hard eyes.

"The reports," Gordon whispered, a cold chill running down his spine as the impossible suddenly became very real in his office.

"The anomaly they are whispering about in the upper rings. The one they are calling the Heavenly Demon. It wasn't mass hysteria. You took a private contract with her."

"I didn't take a contract," Durgan corrected, his tone shifting into one of unwavering reverence.

"A mercenary takes a contract. A knight serves a Sovereign." Gordon fell back into his leather chair, completely overwhelmed. The Elyndria Warrior's Guild was losing its best frontline tank, its deadliest scout, and its premier shield-bearer, all in a single afternoon.

"The Cult breached the estate, Gordon," Durgan continued, his voice dropping an octave, carrying the heavy weight of the horrific battle.

"Any other noble would have let us rot to save their own skin. She dropped from the sky, incinerated the necrotic curse eating my heart, and gave us the gear and the cores to break our mortal limits. I owe her my life. We belong to her now." Gordon rubbed his temples, knowing he had absolutely no authority, magical or political, to stop this. He looked at the three men who had evolved far beyond the scope of his guild.

"May the Ancestors pity anyone who stands in her way," Gordon muttered, pulling out his official wax seal and stamping the termination papers. He slid the forms across the desk.

"Safe travels, Durgan. Try not to level the merchant district on your way out." This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

"No promises," Durgan grunted. He took the paperwork, offered a sharp, respectful nod to his former commander, and turned around. The three Sovereign Knights walked out of the office, leaving the mercenary life entirely in the past.

Back within the heavily fortified, autonomous walls of the Morvant Estate, Ming Xuan Ji was officially bored out of her mind. The Heavenly Demon sat lazily on a plush, cushioned lounge chair positioned on the sunlit wooden deck overlooking the courtyard. She was sipping a cup of high-grade jasmine tea, her dark obsidian eyes watching Evanthe practice in the grass below. The estate was running like a well-oiled machine.

Down in the subterranean levels, Silas Vane was weeping tears of pure alchemical joy as he brewed master-tier potions using the rare flora from Xuan Ji's inventory. Lynx had completely vanished into the city's underbelly, establishing a sprawling informant network using his sound-dampening mythril dagger. And taking up the entirety of the grand ballroom, Lithia was peacefully asleep, curled around a massive, localized pool of magma she had generated to keep her egg warm. The quest log was completely empty.

In the courtyard below, Evanthe was moving through a series of basic, foundational sword katas. She wasn't using her Qi. After the incident where she nearly blew up her own arm due to the terrifying elemental friction of her Heavenly Killing Star, Xuan Ji had strictly forbidden her from channeling mana until her physical vessel was stronger. Evanthe gripped her new Sungold longsword with both hands, pivoting her hips and launching a clean, precise horizontal strike. The blade whistled through the air.

"Your footing is too wide," Xuan Ji called out lazily, resting her chin on her hand.

"If a goblin sweeps your lead leg right now, you'll fall on your face. Tighten the stance." Evanthe instantly adjusted, bringing her back foot in a few inches, her red eyes burning with focus.

"Like this, Master?"

"Better," Xuan Ji nodded. She took another sip of tea, looked at the perfectly blue sky, and sighed heavily.

"Alright, that's enough theory for today. Sheath the sword, Evanthe. We are going shopping." Evanthe paused, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead.

"Shopping? For what?"

"For loot," Xuan Ji smirked, standing up from her lounge chair and smoothing out the fabric of her dark silk hanfu.

"Crown Prince Theron offered us unfettered access to the Royal Treasury as a reward for saving his city from a dragon. It's been nearly a week. I think it's time we collect our due reward." Twenty minutes later, a sleek, heavily armored royal carriage transported the Heavenly Demon and her Crimson Disciple through the pristine, heavily guarded streets of the inner ring. As they approached the towering, white-stone structure of the Royal Spire, Evanthe noticeably tensed.

The last time she had been anywhere near the palace was when she was still a kid, going to the capital to celebrate the King's 50th birthday. Xuan Ji noticed her disciple's stiff posture. She reached out and lightly tapped Evanthe's shoulder.

"Keep your chin up," Xuan Ji instructed, her voice calm but carrying the authority of a faction leader.

"You are not a fugitive anymore. You are my disciple. You do not bow to anyone. They are currently existing entirely by our grace." Evanthe took a deep breath, the lingering anxiety evaporating beneath the profound, stabilizing weight of her master's presence. She squared her shoulders, her striking red eyes hardening, and stepped out of the carriage with perfect, aristocratic grace. Crown Prince Theron was waiting for them on the grand marble steps of the Spire.

He looked completely exhausted, dark circles under his eyes from managing the massive geopolitical fallout of Duke Morvant's treason, but he offered a deep, genuinely respectful bow as Xuan Ji approached.

"Lady Ming," Theron greeted, his voice thick with gratitude.

"Lady Evanthe. The Spire is honored by your presence. I have already cleared the royal guard from the subterranean levels. The vault is entirely yours to peruse."

"Lead the way, Your Highness," Xuan Ji replied smoothly. Theron led them past the opulent throne room, navigating through a series of increasingly secure, heavily guarded corridors that descended deep into the bedrock beneath the capital. Finally, they arrived before a colossal, circular door forged from pure adamantine, completely covered in interlocking, glowing blue runic arrays. Theron pressed his royal signet ring into the center console.

The runes flared, the heavy gears ground together with a deafening screech, and the massive door slowly rolled aside. The Zareth Royal Treasury was breathtaking. It was a cavernous, subterranean chamber illuminated by floating orbs of pure light. Mountains of meticulously stacked gold bars and minted silver coins lined the walls. Racks of beautifully crafted, gem-encrusted elemental staves and polished suits of enchanted mithril armor rested on velvet displays.

It was the accumulated, paranoid hoarding of a thousand-year-old kingdom. Theron stood by the entrance, gesturing grandly.

"Whatever catches your eye, Lady Ming. You may claim it." Xuan Ji walked into the vault, her dark obsidian eyes sweeping over the vast fortune.

"Trash," she murmured quietly to herself, walking right past a massive pile of flawless diamonds.

"Trash. Vendor trash. Stat-stick." Evanthe followed closely behind, completely bewildered.

"Master, that is a staff forged from the heart of a Wyvern. It radiates immense fire mana."

"It's a crude mana-battery, Evanthe," Xuan Ji dismissed effortlessly, her gamer-logic completely overriding the shiny aesthetics.

"I don't need raw gold, and I don't need rudimentary elemental boosters. I have a dragon incubating in our living room. We are looking for high-tier utility." She bypassed the glittering center aisles entirely, heading toward the dusty, forgotten corners of the vault where the older, more obscure artifacts were kept in heavy iron lockboxes. She stopped in front of a heavy stone table.

Resting on top of it were four heavy, utterly unadorned black-iron spikes, each about two feet long and covered in jagged, crude geometric carvings.

"Ah," Xuan Ji smiled, her eyes lighting up with genuine excitement. She picked one of the heavy spikes up.

"Now this is premium loot."

"The Black Anchor Pins?" Theron asked, walking over, looking highly confused by her choice.

"Lady Ming, those are relics from the First Age. They are incredibly heavy, entirely lack offensive capabilities, and consume a massive amount of ambient mana just to activate. The Royal Guard abandoned them centuries ago."

"Your Royal Guard lacks use for them but not for me," Xuan Ji smirked, casually tossing the heavy spike into the glowing spatial distortion of her void ring.

"These are Warden's Pillars. When you slam all four into the corners of a battlefield, they create an unbreakable spatial lock. Absolutely no teleportation, no portal magic, and no shadow-stepping can occur within the radius." It was the ultimate anti-kiting technology. The next time she cornered a slippery Blood Priest, there would be no magical escape routes. Xuan Ji continued down the dusty aisle until she found a small, velvet-lined wooden box resting on a pedestal.

She flipped the silver latch and opened the lid. Resting inside were two identical, delicate silver chains. Attached to each chain was a half of a fractured, glowing violet crystal. They hummed with a deep, resonant spatial frequency.

"I will be taking these as well," Xuan Ji declared, picking up the necklaces.

"The Twin Pendants," Theron noted, nodding slowly.

"They are ancient communication devices, though their range is incredibly limited. Are you certain you don't want the Mithril Plate Armor?"

"They aren't communication devices, Theron. They are tether anchors," Xuan Ji corrected. She turned to Evanthe. Without a word, Xuan Ji unclasped one of the silver chains and stepped forward, securing the glowing violet crystal around her disciple's neck. The metal was cool against Evanthe's collarbone. Xuan Ji then clasped the second necklace around her own neck.

"Listen to me carefully, Evanthe," Xuan Ji said, her voice completely serious, her dark eyes locking onto the young girl's red irises.

"This is a Twin Soul-Tether. They are permanently quantum-locked to one another. If you are ever in danger, if a dungeon collapses, if an enemy overwhelms you, or if you simply cannot win, you take that crystal in your hand, and you crush it." Evanthe's eyes widened, her fingers gently touching the violet crystal resting against her chest.

"What happens if I crush it?"

"It instantly summons me using our spatial coordinates," Xuan Ji stated, her tone carrying the terrifying certainty of a Heavenly Demon.

"You will instantly teleport me to wherever you are standing. I will materialize exactly where you were, directly in front of whatever was trying to kill you." Evanthe stared at her master. The sheer, overwhelming magnitude of the gesture hit her like a physical blow. It wasn't just a magical artifact; it was an absolute, unbreakable, permanent guarantee of her safety. Her master was willingly offering to step into the jaws of death for her at a moment's notice.

"I..." Evanthe's voice cracked slightly, a profound warmth blooming in her chest.

"Thank you, Master. I will guard it with my life." She turned back to the Crown Prince.

"Alright. The inventory is full. Let's head back up to the surface." As they exited the massive adamantine doors and began the long walk back up the subterranean corridors, Xuan Ji suddenly stopped. She frowned, her head tilting slightly to the left. The deeper they moved into the bedrock beneath the Spire, the more she felt it. It wasn't the ambient, refined mana of the palace wards. It was a thick, cloying, suffocating pressure in the air. It smelled faintly of rotting copper and dried blood.

"Theron," Xuan Ji asked, her voice dropping into a cold, clinical register.

"What is located in the exact center of this level?" Theron paused, a deep shadow passing over his exhausted face. He gestured down a heavily quarantined, dimly lit hallway branching off to their right.

"That is the Royal Bedchamber," Theron answered softly, his voice thick with quiet grief.

"It is where my father rests. The royal physicians have sealed the wing. His illness has progressed to the final stages. They say he will not survive the week." Xuan Ji stared down the dark hallway. Her gamer instincts, honed by a decade of analyzing debuffs and curse mechanics, flared violently to life.

"Theron," Xuan Ji stated, her dark obsidian eyes narrowing as she turned to the Crown Prince.

"Your father isn't sick."