The alley was silent after the parcel exchange, but Umbra's shadowy presence clung to the rooftops like a lingering mist. His eyes, sharper than a hawk's, followed the man who had received the Abyss-marked package. The assassin leader, equally silent, stalked below in the narrow veins of the city, his footfalls vanishing into the rhythm of the Mining Capital's restless night.
The man moved with purpose, never glancing over his shoulder. He threaded through deserted streets until he reached a heavy-iron warehouse on the outskirts of the slums, its structure plain yet oddly reinforced, as if designed to be overlooked but impossible to penetrate.
They watched in silence as the man entered, closing the reinforced door behind him.
Minutes stretched into half an hour. No sound, no movement. Then, as quietly as he came, the man stepped back into the street—yet noticeably lighter. The parcel was gone.
Umbra's whisper coiled through the hidden link:"Master, suspicion confirmed. The warehouse is being used as storage. The parcel didn't leave with him. It's still inside."
The assassin leader added, his voice edged like steel:"This isn't a lone agent. This reeks of preparation. Whoever controls this place is building toward something larger… perhaps for the event itself."
Kael received the report as he walked through the busy veins of the Mining Capital with Sara at his side. Their masks concealed their identities, but their presence drew subtle glances nonetheless. The city around them pulsed with life—slums where children chased scraps, markets where merchants bellowed promises of ore and steel, and streets where the clanging of hammers echoed endlessly from smithies.
Sara's eyes softened behind her mask as she watched a child tugging at a loaf of bread too big for his small hands. "This city thrives on ore and weapons, but its heart is uneven," she whispered. "The nobles live in mansions of iron and stone, while the slums starve a few streets away."
Kael's gaze swept over the broken cobblestones, the cracked walls, the desperate bargaining of the poor. His voice was calm but cutting. "The Mining Capital is a city of extremes. Wealth flows like a river here, yet it doesn't wash the filth from the corners—it drowns them in it."
Sara looked at him, curious. "And yet you seem… unaffected."
He shook his head slightly. "Not unaffected. Just… observant. Where there is disparity, there is opportunity—for change, or for corruption. And the Abyss feeds best where suffering already thrives."
Her lips parted at his words, but before she could speak, a drunkard stumbled past them muttering about "lords who steal coin faster than pickpockets." Kael didn't react. His focus was already elsewhere.
When they reached the central district, the market gave way to wide streets paved with steel plates engraved with dwarven symbols. The glow of enchanted lanterns cast a steady light on the mansion Duke Harrond had prepared for their stay. Guards in gleaming armor lined the gates, standing stiff with discipline as the princesses' banner flew high above the roof.
Kael and Sara stepped inside the mansion, the air shifting instantly from the chaos of the streets to the hushed reverence of nobility. Servants bowed as they passed. The halls were spacious, adorned with rare ores polished into murals of battles and victories long past.
Sara glanced around, her voice low and teasing beneath the mask. "Quite the place for someone who claims to admire simplicity."
Kael only gave her a quiet glance, replying with a hint of wryness. "Stone walls don't matter. What happens within them does."
As the two entered the wing assigned to them, Kael's mind was already elsewhere—on the warehouse, the Abyss-marked symbol, and the unseen hand pulling the strings. The city's surface bustled with trade and ceremony, but beneath, in the shadows, something was being prepared. And Kael intended to uncover it before the first stone of the annual event was even laid.
The mansion was quiet, the Mining Capital's bustle muffled by thick stone walls. In his chamber, Kael slept with the steady calm of one who trusted nothing yet feared nothing. His breaths were even, his mask set aside on the bedside table.
Unnoticed, Sara slipped in again, silent as a shadow. Her bare feet barely touched the cold floor before she eased under the blanket, nestling against his warmth. Her arms wrapped around him instinctively, her cheek brushing against his chest. Only when she felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat did her own racing heart slow. And then she drifted into slumber.
The morning came with a gentle knock on the door.
"Lord Kael," came the voice of the head maid, aged but firm. "Breakfast has been prepared. The Duke and Their Highnesses await you in the dining hall."
The knock stirred Kael awake. His eyes opened instantly, sharp as always. At the same moment, Sara stirred too, her hand still clutching his sleeve.
Kael's gaze flicked to the door, then back to her. Calmly, he answered, "I'll be downstairs in five minutes."
A respectful pause, then the sound of retreating footsteps.
Sara's eyes widened as she realized their position—her body pressed against his, her arms still holding him. A blush spread rapidly across her cheeks. "W-why… why do I keep ending up here…?" she muttered, burying her face in her hands.
Kael said nothing at first. Instead, he simply pulled her into a brief, steady embrace. "Because you want to."
Her face grew crimson, her lips parting soundlessly. And then, as if to confirm what she couldn't admit, a sudden warmth surged through her. Her eyes shimmered with a golden-red hue as the Phoenix stirred within. Before she could stop herself, Sara's lips pressed against his in a fiery, fleeting kiss.
When the warmth subsided, both of them froze, staring at one another in silence—Sara's breath ragged, Kael's expression unreadable.
The Phoenix receded, leaving her stunned in her own skin. With a flustered squeak, she pulled away, bolting for her things. "I-I'll get ready downstairs!"
She scrambled into her attire, hastily securing the mask over her burning face before slipping out of the room. Kael remained sitting for a long moment, his hand brushing over his lips. Then he stood, composed, and donned his own mask.
By the time he descended to the dining hall, the air was filled with the smell of roasted meats and fresh bread. The long table was set, sunlight streaming through the tall windows.
At its head sat Princess Elira and Princess Selene, both discussing parchment scrolls filled with event preparations. Across from them was the imposing figure of Duke Harrond.
The man was a mountain in human form—broad shoulders, arms corded with muscle like tempered steel, his simple tunic stretched taut against his physique. He had the presence of a warlord, but his eyes were sharp, calculating.
"Ah," Harrond's deep voice rumbled as Kael entered. "The masked man himself. Sit. Eat. A soldier's strength is nothing without his meal."
Kael inclined his head slightly and took his place. Sara sat quietly beside him, her mask hiding the faint flush that still lingered.
The meal was short, filled with the princesses discussing ceremony arrangements—security, speeches, and processions. Kael listened without interruption, though his mind catalogued details.
At last, Harrond leaned forward, setting down his mug with a dull thunk. His eyes fixed on Kael. "They say you're strong. Strong enough to turn the tide at Greyspire." His grin widened. "I'd like to see it for myself. A spar. My personal training grounds. No weapons. No tricks. Just strength."
The princesses exchanged worried looks, but Harrond's tone left no room for refusal.
Kael studied him, then quietly opened his vision. What he saw made his eyes narrow.
[Status Detected]
Name: Harrond Ironfist
Title: The Fist of Steel, Duke of the Empire
Level: 50
Mana Capacity: 0
Magic: None
Physiology: Reinforced – Enhanced muscle density, bone structure reinforced with natural ore assimilation.
Skills: [Titan Grip], [Iron Body], [Mountain Stance], [Earthbreaker Strike], [Unyielding Will]
Kael exhaled slowly, understanding dawning. A man with no magic, no mana, yet standing at level 50 through sheer physical mastery alone. His body itself had become a fortress—ore-infused flesh and bones tempered by years of combat.
So this is the Iron Fist of the Empire… A warrior who defied magic itself to forge strength from nothing but will and flesh.
A rare smile ghosted Kael's lips beneath his mask. "Very well. I accept."
Harrond slammed his palm against the table, delighted. "Good! After breakfast, then. Let's see what you're made of, masked man."
The princesses looked at Kael with a mix of worry and curiosity, while Sara's hand fidgeted beneath the tablecloth, her heart still unsettled after the kiss earlier.
Kael remained composed, though his mind turned with intrigue. Level 50. No mana. No spells. Just raw skill. This spar may reveal more about the Duke than he intends.