480. Undercurrents.

Drakenborg Tower — Laboratory of the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization.

"Boss, the order to search the lab has been issued," Blockhead said, trotting over with his shield in hand.

"Mm," Wyatt nodded, leaning his heavy tower shield against the wall. "The Rissberg gentlemen's collection is… quite valuable. Keep an eye on them. Don't let them get grabby or try to pocket anything."

"We're not the kind to steal junk," Blockhead muttered with dissatisfaction. "It's all guts, hearts, and brains. No one wants that crap, not even for free."

"Stop whining! Just do what you're told!" Wyatt snapped, bristling with irritation.

"Yeah, yeah…" Blockhead shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he left with a few shield guards in tow.

Their half-hearted scolding of the guards masked the real goal of this mission—ostensibly a search for hidden enemies, but in truth just a cleanup of the battlefield's wreckage.

Once the guards were out of earshot, Wyatt turned to the empty air beside him and muttered, "You sure this'll fool the sorcerer?"

"Of course not," came Karlo's voice from the void.

"Ronnie Dickinson isn't some average sorcerer. He's the top man under Master Ortolan of the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization—only a few years younger than Ortolan himself. Born of minor nobility, well-versed in a wide range of disciplines…"

"Interrogation, rituals, divination, spellwork… with all these tools, he'll uncover the truth sooner or later."

"Then why?" Wyatt's eyes widened.

"Because no one wants to confront witchers from the School of the Wolf," Karlo said, watching the busy guards, shaking his head. "But they can't be left idle either. Let's go. We'll clean up the corpses of those Rissberg sorcerer…"

"When Ronnie Dickinson returns, we'll need a few excuses to fob him off."

Wyatt gave a short nod, picked up his tower shield, and followed Karlo inside.

The lab's front half, closer to the main door, had taken the brunt of the destruction. The specimens farther in, however, were largely intact.

The scent of formaldehyde in the air gradually faded as they moved away from the battlefield. In its place came the cloying sweetness of over-fermented apples—an oddly disturbing aroma that matched the grotesque and bloody specimens around them.

Wyatt scowled and averted his eyes from a jar containing a frog-like thing covered in warts and wrapped in a snake.

"These sorcerer are getting crazier by the day. They even dared to mess with witchers…" he muttered.

"The witchers were even crazier," Karlo shook his head. "A gravely injured master and a half-trained apprentice who somehow picked up a few spells—they had the guts to charge into Drakenborg head-on. Lucky bastards."

"That's not craziness," Wyatt grumbled, correcting him with a simple honesty. "That's what a real man does. If your comrades are taken, what're you gonna do—stand there and watch?"

Karlo suddenly stopped and turned to give Wyatt a long, incredulous look.

"What?" Wyatt fidgeted under the stare.

"You really think that way?" Karlo's tone turned strange. "Didn't expect someone who's spent years in Drakenborg to still be so naïve…"

"Naïve? Me?" Wyatt blinked, then snapped, "What do you mean naïve? If your brothers are captured, are you just going to sit on your hands? What kind of man are you?"

Karlo froze for a moment, then said coldly, "Did you forget where we are?"

"This is Drakenborg—the largest and most impregnable prison in the Northern Continent!"

"The Aen Seidhe sent in wave after wave of people. Did they manage to rescue even one of their own?"

"No!"

Karlo answered himself, his voice rising. "All they did was throw away innocent lives!"

"The same goes for those two witchers from the School of the Wolf. If they hadn't been lucky—if they hadn't killed Padrek Vasquez first, if they'd run into Ronnie Dickinson, if we hadn't let them slip past—"

"If even one of those things hadn't happened, they'd be dead now."

"The sorcerer who died will be investigated by Ronnie Dickinson. Evenson has noble ties and the king behind him. But those two witchers from the School of the Wolf?"

"No one will come for them, Wyatt! No one!"

"Once they leave Drakenborg, no one will even know that two witchers from the School of the Wolf once charged into the greatest prison on the Northern Continent like true 'men,' risking everything to rescue a comrade."

"Maybe…"

"Maybe only after the harsh winter snow blankets the icy walls of the Old Sea Fortress…"

"…only then will the remaining witchers of the School of the Wolf, warming themselves around a fire, raise a glass to mourn two fallen brothers—and then, after one drunken night, forget those two fools completely."

"Wyatt!"

Karlo stepped out from the void, his clear black eyes blazing with a fierce, angry light.

"Saving them only causes more harm!" he snapped.

Wyatt was startled by Karlo's sudden, inexplicable outburst.

He didn't understand.

The witchers from the School of the Wolf hadn't even died at their hands—so why was Karlo suddenly so furious?

"Th-those long-eared elves can't be compared to witchers, right?" Wyatt gave an awkward smile. "The Lady of Fate watches over them, and the Skyfather himself admires warriors who bear blades against evil. Surely he wouldn't let witchers die at the hands of their own kind…"

But before he could finish, Karlo suddenly vanished back into the void.

Still, Wyatt could sense it—Karlo's emotions had suddenly calmed. Now he was just watching him. Quietly. Intently. The feeling made Wyatt's scalp tingle.

A long silence followed.

"…Karlo?" Wyatt asked cautiously.

"The Aen Seidhe are considered non-human. But aren't witchers the same?" Karlo asked.

"What? Witchers… Witchers aren't non-humans," Wyatt scratched his head, confused. "They may look a little different, but they're still human-born."

"And they risk their lives protecting people, too."

Karlo was silent for a moment. Then, in a voice barely audible, he whispered, "The Aen Seidhe once protected humans too…"

"Huh?"

"Nothing," Karlo shook his head and said quietly, "Sorry. I lost control of my emotions for a moment."

Wyatt waved his hands quickly.

"No, no, it's alright. I get it. Being stuck in Drakenborg this long, anyone'd get irritable. I mean, I've still got all my brothers here, but you've always been alone all these years…"

"Oh, right, Karlo, brother!"

"Once all this mess is over, how about you ask the new warden for some leave? Go home for a few days, get some rest."

Wyatt stepped forward and patted Karlo on the shoulder.

Karlo halted for a few seconds, then slowly shook his head.

"…No need."

"What do you mean no need? I'm telling you, nothing beats going home. Hugging your little brats, curling up at night with—"

"I don't have a home."

"Oh… you don't…" Wyatt realized what Karlo meant and fell silent, his voice dying in his throat.

Luckily…

Before the awkwardness could drag on, they finally reached their destination.

The wooden door before them was carved with mysterious, eroded runes. Blood trickled slowly from its base, pooling into a dark crimson puddle.

The scent of iron was so thick, it overwhelmed even the sharp sting of formaldehyde.

Wyatt and Karlo exchanged a glance—then pushed open the door.

Creak—

The moment Wyatt's left foot stepped into the chamber, his body froze stiff.

"What is it?" Karlo raised his short blade warily.

"Karlo…" Wyatt's voice was dry as he pointed toward the chamber.

"Maybe Master Danthe and his apprentice didn't survive on luck alone…"

Not luck?

What did that mean…? Karlo frowned, stepping around the massive tower shield that took up most of the space, and looked into the room.

The small chamber was utterly devastated—no trace of a cutting-edge laboratory remained.

Severed limbs, decapitated heads, charred corpses, toppled iron chairs split in half, broken torture instruments… Only at the far end, a few test subjects—monkeys, humans, and elves—still floated inside glass tanks, bubbling faintly, preserved specimens that served as the only reminder this had once been a lab, and not a bloody slaughterhouse.

"Squelch… squelch…"

Thick, sticky blood seeped into the seams of their leather boots, making a sickening noise with every step.

Karlo's eyes dropped to the floor.

A blood-smeared head lay in the crimson pool, eyes wide with disbelief—staring straight at him.

Karlo felt a jolt of recognition. Then his pupils shrank sharply.

"Ronnie… Dickinson?!"

Step, step— Karlo took two hurried strides, entering the chamber.

Behind a melted iron chair, the headless corpse was soaked in blood beneath its ruined white lab coat. But underneath that, a black robe—the mark of a Conclave of Mages Sorcerer.

No doubt about it!

Ronnie Dickinson!

It was Ronnie Dickinson!

Wait…

Karlo's gaze swept the room again.

One, two, three bodies… Including Quade outside, and Padrek Vasquez by the tower gate… Eight in total.

All the sorcerer from the Non-Human Research Division of the Rissberg Civil Cooperative…

All of them were here. All of them were dead.

The witchers from the School of the Wolf… they hadn't survived on luck.

They fought their way through.

Wyatt stared blankly at the corpses on the ground, murmuring, "Was Master Danthe really that strong?"

"It wasn't Danthe," Karlo said firmly. "His aura was chaotic—he'd sustained serious injuries."

"Could it have been from here—?"

"No, they were old wounds. Not fresh."

"Then…?"

Wyatt stiffened and lifted his head in shock, locking eyes with Karlo, who had come to the same realization.

Karlo's eyes glimmered with disbelief, but he nodded with certainty. "That's right! It was the boy!"

"By the Father of Skies…" Wyatt sucked in a sharp breath. "But… he didn't even look sixteen…"

"Wait…"

Wyatt turned to Karlo. "Didn't you fight him before?"

Karlo frowned, thinking back, and shook his head.

"That was just a ruse. We were both holding back. But I do remember—he's pretty strong."

Silence fell over the chamber for a few seconds.

"You're really sure about this?" Wyatt couldn't help asking again.

Karlo hesitated now, no longer fully convinced.

After all, a thirteen or fourteen-year-old kid with decent swordsmanship, good physical ability, and some knowledge of spells…

Time is limited. In just a little over a decade, you focus on swordplay, there's no time for magic. Focus on magic, you can't hone your body. To be good at everything—and still be able to kill Ronnie Dickinson?

That… that was almost impossible.

"Wait!" Karlo suddenly remembered something. "Do you know the boy's name?"

"Allen!"

The answer didn't come from Wyatt.

Milo, clad in full knight's plate armor, stepped in through the door from outside.

"That boy's name is Allen."

He glanced around the room. His eyes swept past the pool of blood and briefly paused on the wide-eyed, unblinking head of Ronnie Dickinson before resting calmly on Wyatt and Karlo.

Wyatt was the first to crack. He blinked his small eyes guiltily and looked away.

Karlo, on the other hand, maintained steady eye contact without the slightest ripple.

"There's not a single wounded man outside," Milo said calmly. "Is there anything you two would like to explain?"

The chamber fell into silence once again.

"Where's Lord Evenson?" Wyatt finally broke the tension.

Milo's tone remained flat. "Taken by the witchers of the Wolf School. They flew off with him on a royal griffin."

"Oh, he was taken on a griff—" Wyatt blinked, confused, before the words sank in.

"Taken on a royal griffin?!!"

Whether Evenson had been kidnapped or killed, that part he could understand.

But why did a royal griffin suddenly appear?

And it was the witchers of the Wolf School who brought the griffin…

How were those words even supposed to go together?

Karlo, too, lost the calm he'd maintained earlier. He stared at Milo in stunned disbelief.

"Sigh~"

Milo was silent for a few seconds, then shook his head and sighed, briefly recounting what had happened in front of the tower.

When he finished, the chamber once again fell into silence. Wyatt and Karlo exchanged glances.

Wyatt let out an awkward laugh. "You sure you're not reciting a scene from some knight novel? Sounds fun. The ones I read always had dragons…"

Milo, holding his helmet in one arm, simply stared at him. The gaze made Wyatt's grin freeze on his face. His throat went dry, and the words died in his mouth.

"You mean… you're serious?!!"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Milo replied coldly.

Wyatt turned again to glance at Karlo.

Karlo asked, "Given everything that's happened, what do you plan to do now?"

"What happened tonight—I've already sent messengers riding at full speed to Tretogor," Milo said. "The king's orders should arrive by tomorrow evening. Maybe even with a whole crowd of nobles eager to stir up trouble."

He paused, glancing again at the blood-soaked chamber.

"As for the Rissberg Civil Co-op's nonhuman research division, I'll wait until the king's orders arrive before sending anything."

"In the meantime, make sure you've tied up all the loose ends."

Karlo and Wyatt were momentarily stunned. Then they both said, "Thank you."

"He was just a baron. It's nothing. But don't forget our mission."

Milo's gaze lingered on Karlo's eyes for a moment before he turned to leave.

"What will happen to the Wolf School?" Karlo suddenly asked.

"I don't know," Milo said, shaking his head. "But our king is Radovid IV the Bald. So what do you think?"

Karlo fell silent for a few seconds. "Even with a royal griffin?"

Milo left behind one last sentence, never looking back.

"Even with a royal griffin."

...

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