Meanwhile in Norton. Neclord stormed into Norton with a fury that seemed to radiate from every pore. His face was twisted in anger, and his missing arm—a painful reminder of his failure—throbbed with phantom pain as he made his way through the dimly lit streets toward the base of the Nameless Dynasty.
His heavy boots slammed against the stone ground, the weight of his rage dragging behind him like a dark shadow. The people of Norton, who recognized him well, quickly stepped aside, whispering nervously, but Neclord didn't spare them a glance. His thoughts were consumed by one thing—revenge. Revenge on Amukelo and vengeance for his own humiliation.
As he reached the large, imposing building that housed the guild's leadership, he kicked open the door with a resounding crash, sending a shudder through the entire entrance hall. His blood was boiling, and with every step, he seethed. The flickering torchlight cast his face in deep shadows, emphasizing the hard lines of his jaw and the tight grimace that hadn't left his face since his failed mission.
Ahead of him stood two guards, stationed on either side of the grand wooden doors that led into the guild master's chambers. They stiffened when they saw Neclord approaching. The first guard, recognizing the fury in Neclord's eyes, stepped forward cautiously and said, "I'm sorry, but... but our lord is currently busy. He cannot—"
Neclord didn't care. His anger surged, and he waved his severed arm in front of them, his voice a growl, "Does it look like I care about his schedule? Open these doors now, or I'll force my way in."
The two guards exchanged anxious glances, clearly unsure of how to handle Neclord in this state. But Neclord was done waiting. Without hesitation, he pushed one of the guards aside with a forceful shove and drew his sword, its blade gleaming menacingly in the torchlight. The second guard, now panicking, stammered, "Okay, okay! We'll let you in."
Neclord sneered at them, his lip curling in disdain as he growled, "You're lucky." The guards quickly opened the doors, and Neclord stormed through without another word.
The room beyond was large and austere, dominated by a long, wide desk at its center. The walls were adorned with maps and trophies of past conquests, and the air was thick with the weight of the Nameless Dynasty's influence. Behind the desk sat Eyvind White, the guild master, and Neclord's father.
He was a towering man, lean but built like iron, with hair as white as snow and a single sharp, cold eye that gleamed with intelligence and ruthlessness. His other eye was long gone, replaced by a deep scar that stretched down his face like a cruel reminder of some past battle. Despite his age, there was an unmistakable strength about him—a man who had survived more battles than most had ever seen.
Opposite Eyvind, sitting in a chair, was Ivish, her expression hard and focused, though there was a glint of irritation in her eyes at having their conversation interrupted.
Neclord, his rage still boiling, slammed his hand against the large desk, the sound echoing through the room. "Why did you give me such a weak team to deal with that brat? He's wielding a legendary sword! It was clear he must be strong!" His voice was laced with fury, his eyes burning with the humiliation of his defeat.
Ivish's expression barely shifted, though she shot Neclord a sidelong glance filled with disdain. Eyvind, however, remained seated, calm and collected. He didn't even flinch as Neclord's fist struck the table. Instead, he waved his hand dismissively and said, "Sit down, kid. We're in the middle of—"
But Neclord, his fury unchecked, slammed his fist down again, even harder this time. "I don't care! Answer my question!" His voice was sharp, filled with desperation as much as anger.
Eyvind's demeanor shifted. Slowly, deliberately, he rose from his chair and moved around the desk, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor as he approached Neclord. His one good eye bore into Neclord with a cold, calculating intensity. The room felt smaller with every step Eyvind took, the air thick with the weight of his presence.
When he was finally standing face to face with Neclord, Eyvind spoke, his voice low and dangerous. "It was *you* who underestimated that kid," he said, his tone ice-cold. "Now, sit down and be quiet. I've already prepared our strongest team to deal with him when he finally arrives in Norton."
Neclord's breath hitched slightly as his father's imposing figure loomed over him. The rage that had been burning so fiercely began to flicker under the weight of Eyvind's cold, calm authority.
Eyvind's eye narrowed slightly, and he continued, "I'm currently discussing a deal with Ivish to get the tracking artifact. Your failure doesn't concern me anymore. Sit down. Be quiet. Otherwise, the fact that you're my son won't save you from that brat, and it won't save you from *me*. Do you understand?"
The words hung in the air like a threat, and Neclord, for all his bravado, suddenly found himself at a loss for words. He faltered, taken aback by the sheer power of his father's presence.
Eyvind stepped closer, his face mere inches from Neclord's now, his single eye boring into him like a predator sizing up its prey. "Is it clear?" Eyvind repeated, his voice barely more than a whisper, but the threat in it was unmistakable.
Neclord, now humbled, swallowed hard and muttered, "Ye... Yes."
Eyvind's lip curled into a faint, mocking smile. "Good," he said, before turning his back on Neclord and walking back to his seat. "Now sit down, and we'll finish this conversation like adults."
Eyvind slowly turned back to his seat, his long, deliberate steps reverberating in the tense air. As he sat down he looked over at Ivish, offering a calm but apologetic nod. "I'm sorry for this interruption," he said in a voice so smooth, it almost erased the tension that had just unfolded. Almost. "Now, returning to our conversation... How many of the artifacts can you sell us?"
Ivish crossed her legs and leaned back slightly in her chair, unfazed by the outburst moments earlier. "Like I said," she replied coolly, "only two. I've recently sold one. I'll sell you each for ten gold bags."
Eyvind's eyebrow twitched at this information. He squinted, suspicion crossing his face as if he were trying to read beyond her words. His single eye narrowed, focused on her like a predator watching its prey. "Sold one?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, a subtle warning in his tone. "To who?"
Ivish met his stare head-on, her face unmoving, her expression carved in stone. "I'm not going to tell you," she said without hesitation, her voice calm and firm. "Our deal was that I'd give you lower prices—not my customer list. And ten gold bags for one artifact is a very good price."
For a moment, Eyvind held her gaze, the tension between them as sharp as the daggers they metaphorically wielded in their words. The room seemed to shrink, silence hanging in the air, and even Neclord—still standing, too angry to sit—shifted uneasily. But Ivish didn't flinch. Her reputation as a ruthless merchant was well-earned, and her refusal to be intimidated was part of that legacy.
Eyvind's lips curled slightly, barely forming a smile, as he leaned back in his chair. "Very well," he said, his voice relaxing but still cold. "That's correct. Ten gold bags is a fair price." He paused, his gaze flicking to Neclord before returning to Ivish. "In that case, we have a deal. Bring us the artifacts, and you'll get your payment."
Ivish stood up, her movements smooth and confident. She nodded once, acknowledging the agreement. "I'll bring them in no time," she said simply before turning to leave the room, her footsteps echoing as she exited.
Once she was gone, the room seemed to grow colder. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Eyvind's gaze snapped back to Neclord, his earlier calm demeanor replaced by a sharp, biting tone.
"You stupid son," Eyvind said, each word a cold stab. "I wouldn't expect such bad decisions and planning from you. The fact that I have to clean up after you shows me that maybe your brothers are more suitable for my place."
The words hit Neclord harder than any physical blow. His eyes widened in shock, and for a moment, he stood there, speechless, his mind racing. He lowered his head, gritting his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. But he didn't dare say anything.
Eyvind's gaze didn't soften, but his voice did, marginally, as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Anyway," he continued, his tone more calculating now, "I've prepared a plan to deal with that brat you couldn't handle."
Neclord's stomach twisted at the reminder of his failure, but he listened carefully, afraid of what his father might say next.
"You said he has no more allies?" Eyvind asked, his voice sharp as he gauged Neclord's response.
Neclord hesitated for a moment, recalling Padrin, a person who Amukelo trained with back in the say. For a brief second, he wondered if Padrin might somehow involve himself—but no, he didn't think Padrin would be involved. He nodded, shaking his head negatively. "No, I don't think so," he said, his voice quiet but firm.
"Very well," Eyvind said, satisfied. "He'll likely try to get to Norton. When he arrives, I want you to leave the town immediately. I don't want you anywhere near him. Let our strongest team handle it." His gaze darkened as he added, "We can't risk you getting harmed again. You've already been humiliated once."
The insult burned deep, but Neclord stayed quiet, nodding his head in obedience. His father's words, though harsh, held a layer of care beneath the cold exterior. For all his cruelty, Eyvind didn't want his son dead—just strong.
"And in case he manages to escape," Eyvind continued, his voice softening to a dangerous whisper, "I've purchased two tracking artifacts from Ivish. We'll be able to hunt him down, no matter where he goes."
Neclord felt a strange mix of emotions—shame, relief, and anger—welling up inside him, but all he could manage was a stiff, "Tha... Thanks, Dad."
Eyvind didn't respond with words. Instead, a cold, thin smile spread across his face, one that sent shivers down Neclord's spine. With a dismissive wave of his hand, Eyvind motioned for Neclord to leave the room.
"Now go," Eyvind said simply, his tone final. "And don't disappoint me again."
Neclord's jaw tightened, and though the sting of his father's words clung to him, he forced himself to turn and walk toward the door. The weight of his failure—and the simmering hatred he held for Amukelo—pressed down on him with every step.