476. The Traitorous Guards! The Executioner’s Lament!

"If warlocks aren't some kind of monsters that can survive without a head, then yes—he's definitely dead."

Allen curled his lips into a faint smile and gave Danthe a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"Let's move. Drakenborg's guards are almost here."

They were, in fact, very close—close enough for both witchers to clearly hear the stream of curses mixed with Redanian slang.

And retching sounds.

The warlocks' collection, which utterly defied any standard of human aesthetics, was clearly nauseating to even the battle-hardened prison wardens.

Fortunately, like all warlocks, Ronnie Dickinson had been arrogant enough toward witchers—so arrogant, in fact, he had tried to capture them alive for experimentation.

If the fight had dragged on any longer, Drakenborg's guards might have joined forces with Ronnie Dickinson, and that would've complicated everything.

Just imagine—facing a grand mage with an entire squad of guards behind him...

And then picture trying to fend off both the mage and the guards, while still protecting Bond...

Even Allen shivered at the thought.

"Yeah… this isn't over yet."

The curses and the pounding of approaching boots were now practically on top of them. Danthe inhaled deeply, then quickly hoisted the unconscious Bond onto his back, unfastening his sword belt and securing him tightly.

"What's your plan?" he asked, gripping his sword with a grim expression.

Sure, they'd gotten through the hardest part—and saved Bond—but Drakenborg's guards were still a serious problem.

For some reason, the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization hadn't installed windows in this lab. Just a single bronze door—one narrow exit.

Between them and that door: an unending stream of elite soldiers, all wielding enchanted weapons.

To be honest, if not for Allen's miracle-working track record, Danthe would've had no choice but to raise his sword and gamble everything—

See whether he could terrify the guards into retreat first, or if they'd cut him down.

"Let's try walking out," Allen said, snapping his fingers.

"What?"

Danthe blinked, just about to ask what he meant—

"Vmmm~"

The school crest on their chests began to hum softly.

Before Danthe could react, ripples shimmered across Allen's body—and he vanished before his eyes.

Then the ripples touched Danthe himself, starting from his arm, until he too began to disappear, sinking silently like a stone into the still lake of the void.

"Is… is this an illusion?"

Stunned, Danthe turned to see Allen reappear beside him.

The school crest was still humming—proof the magic hadn't yet worn off.

That meant they were both cloaked in a layer of illusion-magic camouflage.

"Exactly. Illusion," Allen nodded. "No guarantee it'll work—this is Drakenborg, after all. They probably have countermeasures. But it's worth a try."

"Wait," Danthe suddenly remembered the black arcane web that had passed right through Allen's body. "You used this same trick to sneak past the warlock's senses and get behind him?"

"But… can someone as powerful as Ronnie Dickinson really be fooled by an illusion?"

"Vmmm~ Vmmm~"

The Mirage Pearl on Allen's chest buzzed indignantly at the doubt.

Allen soothed it mentally and responded with a quiet, knowing smile. Using the Mirage Pearl's illusion alone wouldn't have been enough—not at its current level.

Ronnie Dickinson's perception, pushed to its limits, wasn't easily deceived.

But with the chaotic fire-elemental backlash caused by Elisha, Allen had managed to craft a brief, split-second disguise. It was just enough to cloak his blink movement and land him behind the warlock unnoticed.

When it came down to it, Allen had only ever presented himself as slightly more agile than the average witcher.

The only possible giveaway was when he summoned Elsa with his staff.

But maybe because of Allen's young age, or the fact that his first move had been to steal the instant-cast gems like a petty thief, even the shrewd Ronnie Dickinson hadn't paid that detail much mind.

Then again…

You couldn't really blame Ronnie Dickinson.

If anyone had been in his shoes, facing a scrawny, young witcher acting like a sneaky pickpocket, they wouldn't have gone on high alert either.

And let's not forget—if Allen hadn't identified Ronnie Dickinson's stat sheet, he himself might've blown it.

Without the perfect disguise under Elisha's chaotic attack, revealing his full power or blinking behind the warlock would've immediately put Ronnie on edge.

And in that moment?

Who could say what might've happened?

No one knew what kind of devastating spells a warlock with maxed-out Perception and Mystery could unleash.

Of course…

Once word of Allen's deeds in Aerlrand reached the northern continent, these little advantages from knowledge gaps probably wouldn't last much longer.

"Stay close to me later…"

Allen didn't answer Danthe's question. He stepped out of the chamber.

Danthe didn't press him either. But the look he cast at Allen's back was growing ever more complex.

---------------------

Outside the Chamber

The spacious laboratory felt especially cramped once its rough-looking guests arrived.

"Boss, who are we fighting this time?"

A burly man holding a tower shield flexed his strong muscles, carefully sidestepping a glass tank large enough to hold a human-sized insect, even though he was still more than an arm's length away from it.

"The enemy is the enemy," Wyatt said tersely, gripping his own tower shield.

"But… but…" the man hesitated. "They're not those damned elves. I saw their eyes… like wildcats. Boss, aren't they witchers?"

"Whether they're elves or witchers—does it matter?" Wyatt replied impatiently, shaking his head. "We're Drakenborg's guards. If Lord Evenson tells us to kill, we kill. Besides, didn't you see them kill Padrek Vasquez?"

"They're enemies of Drakenborg. That's all we need to know—"

"But Padrek Vasquez wasn't exactly a good man either," another man on Wyatt's other side chimed in, his voice simple and honest. "None of those Rissberg or Ban-Ard sorcerers are. We saw it with our own eyes…"

"Shut up!" Wyatt shot him a glare with his beady eyes. "You wanna get yourself killed? This is a Rissberg lab. Those warlocks could be listening right now."

The man fell silent, glancing around nervously. When his eyes met the bloodshot, ogre-like glare of a bald man with sallow skin, he quickly looked away in fear.

After a moment, he couldn't hold it in and muttered again: "Let 'em listen. Boss will protect us."

Seeing Wyatt say nothing, the man grew bolder. "Honestly, I think those warlocks stole something from the witchers. Why else would they come here themselves to take it back…"

"They're from the School of the Wolf!" said the first man. "That's Master Danthe—I know him. He's a witcher from the Wolf School. Came to Drakenborg a few years ago. Boss, he even saved Big Hammer from that giant insect's jaws."

Wyatt—called "boss" by the others—didn't say a word. He just walked forward, slow and silent.

"Big Hammer's leg got busted, but at least he escaped this hellhole. Wonder how he's doing now…"

"However he's doing, it's gotta be better than us."

"Come to think of it, a couple years back, there was a witcher from the Lionhawk School—"

"Lionhawk? That's Griffin! The one who saved Tom from the ghoul was Coën from the Griffin School. He even detoxed Tom and healed his wounds before leaving. Those cold-blooded warlocks didn't lift a finger, and Lord Evenson never said a word for us either…"

"Five years ago, the Wolf School came… and saved—"

"Eleven years ago, before Evenson even got here…"

---------------------

Wyatt's two companions echoed him clumsily, chiming in as they recounted the many times witchers had come to Drakenborg. Every so often, they cast a glance at Wyatt, clearly trying to test the waters.

Whenever something went horribly wrong in Drakenborg, it was always the shield guards who were sent in first—meaning they were also the ones who had the most encounters with witchers.

Besides, in a living hell like Drakenborg, your fellow brothers-in-arms were your only real shields. In that light, who among them hadn't been helped by witchers before?

Whether from the Griffin School or the School of the Wolf, in their simple worldview, witchers were considered "good folk."

As they continued talking, a few more shield guards joined in—brothers who had been personally saved by witchers.

"Enough!" Wyatt growled under his breath, scanning the area before speaking softly, "I already went easy in front of Evenson. Don't pretend you didn't notice."

"I knew it, Boss! You didn't charge on purpose—you were trying to save that bastard Padrek Vasquez!" the man to Wyatt's left exclaimed with joy.

"Keep it down, blockhead!" Wyatt smacked him upside the head. "I wasn't doing it on purpose—well, maybe a little. But it just happened while I wasn't paying attention."

That was true.

Evenson hadn't said much—just sent them in with magic suppressants to deal with a "prison riot." But when Wyatt saw Master Danthe's face, he hesitated.

Before he could decide what to do, that small male—err, female—sorcerer helped him out with a spell, so he didn't have to make a choice.

Truthfully…

It wasn't just his fellow guards who'd been saved by witchers—Wyatt himself had too. Not only him, but his wife, kids, parents, and neighbors back home. If you were a commoner living outside the city, it was nearly impossible not to have received a witcher's help at some point.

"But this is as far as we can go," Wyatt reminded them softly. "Don't forget who we are. Our families back home rely on our pay. If Evenson decides we're traitors… they're as good as dead."

"But… but none of us want to fight the witchers…" Blockhead looked around at the visibly disheartened faces of the other guards.

"We won't have to fight them… probably…" Wyatt murmured. "There's so much… uh… valuable stuff in the warlocks' lab—"

He glanced around. Honestly, he couldn't bring himself to call those grotesque specimens in the giant vats valuable.

"Whatever. Just be careful. Don't break anything."

"So it's normal we're walking a bit slower."

"I get it!" Blockhead's eyes darted around, then he shouted to the others behind them, "Watch your step, everyone! The warlocks' precious… uh… hobbies are very expensive! You break it, you can't pay it back even if they sell your whole body. Eyes on the ground!"

"Yes, sir!"

The nearby shield guards responded in exaggerated seriousness. The other guards behind them exchanged confused looks at first, but gradually slowed their pace, following the "careful" rhythm of the shield guards.

Wyatt noticed and let out a cold snort, shooting Blockhead a sharp glare—but said nothing.

Blockhead grinned sheepishly and scratched his head. "But even so, we're still gonna run into Master Danthe and the others, right? Do we really fight them?"

"Of course!" Wyatt replied gruffly. "But that's only if they even survive the warlocks. I'm telling you, they're way too full of themselves—two people charging into Drakenborg?"

"We need like seventy or eighty just to go down into the 'Pits'…"

"But… but…" Blockhead hesitated.

"Don't overthink it. We've done all we can. That's more than enough to repay the witchers from the Wolf School," Wyatt sighed. "Don't forget—Iron Shield and Furi were both seriously injured in that landslide. They probably won't make it…"

Hearing that, Blockhead and the other shield guard thought of Iron Shield and Furi, who had been gravely wounded—coughing blood, with sunken chests. They exchanged a glance and both fell into a heavy silence.

After a long pause—

"Boss," Blockhead sighed again, "who do you think is to blame for all this?"

Wyatt didn't answer. Because he didn't know—or rather, he did, but knew he shouldn't know…

That twisted logic was as tangled as the future of every man in Drakenborg.

This wasn't something a so-called "muscle-headed brute" like him, in the eyes of the warlocks and nobles, should be thinking about.

Thinking made even the strongest shield brittle and weak.

He was supposed to be an unthinking longsword—wherever the masters pointed, he struck.

Even if the tip of the blade was aimed at defenseless women, children, or the elderly.

"Boss, boss…"

Another shield guard suddenly called out with urgency.

"What now?" Wyatt frowned. "I already said—we can only…"

"No! Boss, listen! The sounds of battle ahead—they've stopped!" The guard paused, then added hesitantly, "Could it be… could they all have been killed by those damned whores' bastards?"

Wyatt's head shot up. It was then he realized—aside from their marching footsteps, the entire laboratory had gone eerily silent. Not even a trace of magical fluctuation could be felt—

Wait…

Wyatt narrowed his eyes.

On his chest, the stars engraved on his tower shield—two of them had flickered, almost imperceptibly.

Whatever he saw, Wyatt's pupils shrank sharply, and his massive frame suddenly stiffened.

"Silence!"

He shouted, and the chatter in the squad ceased instantly.

"The enemy might be fleeing! Stay alert!"

"Keep advancing along the right side! Give the lords behind us room to cast their spells—don't get caught in the blast!"

"Yes, sir!" The shield guards immediately responded, quickly shifting right and reforming their formation.

The regular guards behind, hearing that they might get caught in spellfire, were terrified and quickly followed suit.

"But if the enemy's fleeing, shouldn't we be blocking all exits?"

Blockhead, obediently moving to the right, suddenly realized something was off. He tilted his head and asked.

"Shut up!" Wyatt's face turned blue with fury.

Just as he raised a hand to smack Blockhead—

From the empty corridor to their right came a strange sound…

It was the sigh of "Headsman" Karlo.

"Wyatt. You've crossed the line."

.....

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