"Is it seriously this easy?" Seol-ah muttered, her voice barely a whisper as we moved through the bustling streets of the capital, cloaked in the thinnest veil of masked presence. Her golden eyes darted from one oblivious passerby to another, her expression a mix of bemusement and disbelief.
I understood her incredulity. This was trivial—insultingly so. For a capital city, the lack of vigilance was staggering. But then again, this was a thousand years ago.
"They have no proper identification systems," I murmured, my voice low enough to blend with the ambient hum of the crowd. "No intricate spell arrays, no advanced technology. What we're used to? It doesn't exist here."
Ren snorted, his tone tinged with disdain. "Even a backwater village in our time has better security than this."
He wasn't wrong. The very idea of a capital city without checkpoints, scanners, or surveillance was laughable. Here, the guards were little more than ornamental, their vigilance dulled by routine and an inflated sense of their own authority. It was as though they relied more on the city's reputation to deter threats than any real measures of security.
"Seriously, this is a capital?" Jin muttered, his dark mana coiling lazily around him like a restless shadow. "No wonder they were so easily conquered."
The thought hung in the air, unspoken but shared. This empire—whatever it was called before history erased its name—was already teetering, its foundations brittle and outdated.
The streets were wide, cobbled paths that twisted and turned in a maze-like pattern. The citizens bustled about their lives, oblivious to our presence. Without the vast information networks of our time, the identification process here was laughably primitive—gender, hair color, eye color. That was it. Even if someone suspected us, all we needed was a plausible story.
"Nobles from another domain," I mused aloud, earning a quirked brow from Lucifer. "It's what we'd tell them if we're questioned. Different nobles with the same features. They'd have no way to verify it."
Lucifer's gaze shifted upward, locking onto the distant silhouette of the palace. It loomed over the city like a sentinel, smaller than the grandiose palaces of our time, but impressive for an era this primitive.
"The palace," he said simply, his verdant eyes narrowing.
Even from this distance, it was clear that its security was leagues ahead of the rest of the capital. Mana wards flickered faintly, layered enchantments that hummed with an almost archaic complexity. It was the first sign of real effort, and yet, compared to what we were accustomed to, it was quaint.
"It's decent," Lucifer admitted, his tone begrudging. "For this time."
"Do we just break in?" Ian asked, his spear resting casually on his shoulder, though his posture betrayed his eagerness.
"I'm tempted," I replied with a wry grin. "But we need information first. Blind charges aren't my style."
I turned toward the City Lord, who had been trailing behind us like a sullen shadow, his presence a grudging acceptance of his circumstances. "You," I said, my tone sharp enough to make him flinch. "Take us to the information guild."
The man straightened, his face a careful mask of compliance, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of resentment. "As you command."
We followed him through the winding streets, the crowd parting unconsciously around us. The City Lord moved with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to navigating this place, and yet there was an edge to his movements—a subtle stiffness that hinted at his unease. Whether it was fear of us or something else, I didn't particularly care.
The information guild was tucked into a quieter part of the city, its exterior unassuming save for a small, weathered insignia etched into the door—a quill and a compass. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of parchment and ink, the quiet murmur of hushed voices lending an almost conspiratorial atmosphere.
A clerk looked up as we entered, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the City Lord before narrowing suspiciously at the rest of us.
"Welcome," he said cautiously, his gaze lingering on me. "How may the guild assist you?"
The City Lord opened his mouth, but I cut him off with a raised hand. Stepping forward, I let a fraction of my mana ripple outward—a subtle display, just enough to make the air hum and the clerk's face pale.
"We need information," I said evenly, my voice carrying the weight of command. "And we need it now."
The clerk swallowed, nodding quickly. "Of course. What specifically are you looking for?"
"A half-elf," I said, my tone leaving no room for interpretation. "And anyone who might be connected to her."
The clerk hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding again, his hands already moving to sift through a stack of documents. As he worked, I leaned back slightly, my gaze sweeping the room.
This place was a relic, much like the city itself—functional, but antiquated. And yet, for all its flaws, it was a start. A thread that, if pulled carefully, could lead us to what we needed.
The air in the guild hall thickened, tension swirling like a brewing storm. The clerk froze mid-motion, his hands trembling as he clutched a stack of documents. My friends shifted uneasily behind me, their instincts sharp enough to sense what was coming.
And then, the voice—a voice as sharp and deliberate as a blade drawn across stone.
"And why do you want that?"
I turned, my thoughts cursing the lapse in my vigilance. The figure stepped forward, shedding the illusion of rags to reveal gleaming armor that caught the dim light like a predator's glint.
The Sword Saint.
The name hung in the air, spoken in a hushed tremor by the City Lord beside me. "S-Sir Owen."
I studied him, letting my gaze rake over the man who now stood between us and our goal. He was imposing, not just in stature but in the sheer weight of his presence. Mana radiated from him in disciplined waves, dense and controlled, like the tide before a storm.
'The Sword Saint, huh?' I mused silently. He lived up to his title. His strength wasn't merely in mana; it was in precision, in the unshakable confidence that came from mastery honed over countless battles.
Slightly above Li Zenith. That thought lingered, tinged with both irritation and reluctant respect.
"None of your business," I said, my voice steady but dismissive, as though he were an inconvenient gust of wind rather than a storm.
Owen's face remained impassive, but there was something in his eyes—something that told me he wasn't a man who accepted being ignored. "I think it is some of my business," he replied, his tone measured, but the weight behind it was palpable.
I turned fully toward him, my movement deliberate, ignoring the subtle gestures from my friends that screamed caution. My hand landed on Lucifer's shoulder, a silent command. Get the information. I'll handle this.
"Oh?" I said, stepping forward until I was mere inches from Owen, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "And why do you think that is?"
BOOM.
The clash of our mana was immediate and deafening, like two tidal waves colliding. The room shuddered under the force, the shelves groaning and rattling, and the clerk stumbled backward, his face pale with terror.
Owen didn't flinch. His mana surged like a torrent, refined and deadly. It wasn't chaotic like a novice's; it was deliberate, like an executioner's blade.
'I could kill him a few times,' I thought, my mind assessing the situation even as my body braced against the pressure. But killing him wouldn't be simple. The aura emanating from him told me he had already undergone the second body metamorphosis. He could regenerate entirely—a fact that made him both a frustrating opponent and a formidable one.
"If I'd reached Immortal-rank, this wouldn't even be a contest," I muttered under my breath, the frustration boiling beneath my calm exterior. The wall loomed in my mind—the barrier that separated me from Immortal-rank. I could feel it, tantalizingly close and yet stubbornly immovable.
The Wall.
It wasn't as notorious as the barrier between Integration and Ascendant-rank, but it was just as real. It stood as a silent challenge, a reminder of the gap between potential and mastery. Most never reached this point, which was why the Wall was spoken of less—only the strongest ever encountered it.
"Tell me," Owen said, his voice cutting through the cacophony of clashing mana, "Why does a man of your strength meddle in things that do not concern him?"
I smirked, the edge of it sharper than my blade. "Why does a man of your strength serve a master who doesn't deserve him?"
His eyes narrowed, and for the first time, there was a flicker of something—resentment? Frustration?—in his otherwise impassive expression. It was fleeting, gone before it could settle, but it was there.
The room trembled under the weight of our clash, the space between us an invisible battlefield. Behind me, I could hear the faint rustle of movement—Lucifer, taking the opportunity to secure the information we needed.
Owen's gaze flicked briefly toward the movement, and I seized the moment, pressing forward. "Step aside, Sword Saint," I said, my voice low and unwavering. "This doesn't have to end with you."
He didn't move. But there was a hesitation—a flicker of doubt in the steadfastness of his stance. For all his strength, for all his titles, there was something in him that bent under the weight of his own choices.
But the question was, would he break?