Neithan Dortmund (2)

The rusty door groaned on its hinges as it opened. I didn't need to look up to know who it was. That dragging gait, the way he wiped his hand over his bald head as if to polish it, the wide robe stained with strange spots…

Rokla.

My original servant.

I watched him step inside, his sharp, weathered features as gaunt as ever, like someone had chiseled his face out of stone long ago and forgotten to smooth the edges.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at his luck.

Not only had he escaped what should've been his end—death by Gorlam's hand—but he somehow… stayed. Still here. Still watching me. Still serving me.

And that was the problem.

He was too normal.

Always calm. Never asking questions. Never arriving late—but never arriving early enough to seem eager.

If I thought of needing something, I'd find him already standing behind me, waiting with it in his hand.

Not a servant.

A shadow.

I narrowed my eyes and summoned the evaluation screen again, for the third time, because I couldn't quite believe it even now.

[Name: Rokla]

[Race: Human]

[Awakening State: Nascent Core - Stage 1 (Level 60)]

That level… anyone else would be treated like a living treasure in a seventh-rate sect. Inner elder at least, maybe even ancient gatekeeper.

But him? He chose this.

Or rather… he chose me.

I'd heard once, in passing, that he swore an ancient vow before the former sect leader. Something about protecting "the Heir," no matter what shape he was in.

That vow should have died with the sect. Should have died with my family. Should have died with me.

But Rokla stayed.

And despite everything… there was still something about him that didn't sit right.

What worried me most wasn't his strength. It was his presence—or lack of it. Every time I tried to track his energy, it simply wasn't there. Not hidden. Not suppressed.

It simply… wasn't.

Like it only existed when he decided it should.

But I didn't press.

Not because I trusted him. Not even close.

I simply didn't have the energy for more questions.

I barely understood what was happening to my own body. Barely clung to the authority of a dead sect. Barely held on to my sanity some nights.

Maybe if I dug deeper, I'd find out what he really was.

And maybe if I did, I'd never be the same again.

So I let him walk in my shadow. Pretended he was just a servant. Pretended my Legacy System wouldn't betray me.

Not yet.

**

Three days later.

The headquarters felt heavier than usual, as if the very air was thick with dust and dead energies.

Between the cracked wooden walls, Rokla stood before me again, parchment in hand, eyes as empty and unreadable as ever.

"Patriarch," he said in that low, unhurried voice of his. "The back cave has partially collapsed. We found traces of another sect's energy lingering there… cold. As though they've been covering their tracks for days."

I didn't answer. Just took the parchment, unrolled it, and read it in silence.

"And the fermentation well?" I asked eventually.

"Dried up. The latent root is nothing but spiritual dust now. It no longer ferments anything."

I exhaled slowly, folded the parchment, and handed it back.

"And the other points? Defensive inscription? Supplies?"

"The inscription is distorted, my lord. Whether by tampering or erosion of its self-awareness, I cannot say. As for supplies… only five bags of spirit rice remain, and one pot of old bone soup."

"And the spiritual bubble?"

"Cracked," Rokla said flatly. "Its effect fades more with each dawn."

I stood there for a long moment before walking to the old map of Nirath Province, hanging on the wall. My fingers traced faint lines of forgotten roads, fallen sects, and resource circles.

"How many of those left here are even capable of awakening?"

"No one," he replied, quiet but unflinching.

It hit like a slap.

No fighters. No resources. No support. No sect.

Just me.

But Rokla stepped closer and, almost conspiratorially, lowered his voice.

"But we have one thing."

I turned my head. "What thing?"

"The headquarters itself. The ground beneath us still bears a seal from the era of the Seventh Emperor. The Night Guardian hasn't vanished. He has… crossed the threshold and fallen into the dream of the seals. Last night, I saw him whispering ritual words and sinking his fangs into a dead tree."

I froze.

"Crossed the threshold? That's impossible. We haven't even activated the transition array yet."

"We didn't," Rokla said, meeting my eyes for the first time in days. "But it's begun moving on its own."

A chill ran down my spine.

This place was alive.

And neither of us was an inscription master. Not even close.

In a sect like ours, that kind of shift was usually a sign of disaster.

"Monitor the inscription," I said sharply. "Record every single change. Don't touch it. Just… watch."

"As you command," Rokla murmured, bowing, but his gaze lingered on me longer than it should have before he turned and left.

Alone now, I stared at the map. My hand fell to an empty spot in the northeast—dead land. No sects. No life.

"The Silent Place," I whispered. "Why does that name sound so familiar…?"

And from somewhere deep beneath the floor, the ancient seal trembled.

The sound was so faint no one heard it.

No one but the gray cat perched high on the shelf, growling low into the dark.

"Rokla," I said later, spreading the map on the table, brushing dust from its tattered edges.

He came forward, bony fingers pointing at marks on the map, each one worse than the last.

"The eastern hills hold the Shadow Farmer Sect. Sixth-rate, but they wield influence far beyond their level thanks to royal connections."

I nodded. "Dangerous. Like a sword kept in its sheath."

"The south belongs to what's left of the Lotus Sun Sect," Rokla continued. "They call themselves the Gray Lotus now. Survivors with a grudge."

"Pathetic," I muttered.

"And the west…" He hesitated. "Deadlands. Nothing of note."

I tapped that spot with a broken stick. "Then we start there. What of the north?"

He was silent for a beat. Then:

"Rumors say a stellar meteor is set to fall near Eirasia, in the north. Said to carry a celestial legacy."

[Warning: Probability of global imbalance: 0.8%]

[Future Event: Fall of meteor—1 year, 3 months, 14 days.]

[Probability of Benefit: Unknown. Probability of Demise: High.]

I pursed my lips.

"Good! Let's invest in chaos."