Silas was alone in the lounge. The dull, boring glaze in his eyes vanished, replaced by the sharp, terrifying intelligence.
He stared down at the paper. He hadn't been calculating cabbage expenditures.
The page was covered in hurried sketches.
A sphere. Several curved lines. Arrows showing the direction of rotation. Beside them were rough notes describing the flow of Ye Lingling's soul power. He tapped the end of his quill against the paper
He tapped the end of his quill against the paper.
Once. Twice. Then stopped.
'The rotation wasn't stable.'
His eyes narrowed.
'It should have collapsed.'
'Idiots,' Whisper thought internally, his heart beating a fraction faster.
'They think it's just a clever trick. They don't understand what they just watched.'
Whisper was genuinely, deeply disturbed.
As a Soul Douluo, he understood better than most where the limits of a Soul Master's body and spirit lay. The usual path was simple.
Cultivate soul power, hunt a beast, you get a ring, you gain a skill.
That was how the world worked.
Yet Ye Lingling had just taken her own soul power, shaped it with nothing but control, and turned it into something capable of injuring another Soul Master.
Not a soul skill granted by a soul ring. Something created by the Soul Master herself.
Whisper slowly leaned back.
'And Arthev taught her.'
That was the part that bothered him. He looked at the sketches again.
The technique was incomplete. He could see that clearly from the unstable rotation and the tearing effect it had produced. But even an incomplete technique had been enough to defeat an Agility-type Soul Master.
His fingers tightened around the quill.
'What exactly has that boy been teaching them?'
The physical training was already strange enough. Their movement, balance, control, and combat habits had all changed.
Then there was Dugu Yan.
Whisper had enough intelligence about her condition to know how difficult it should have been to deal with the poison in her bloodline.
Yet Arthev had found a way.
And now Ye Lingling. A Support Master had learned to weaponize her own soul power without relying on a soul ring.
'He's not merely collecting powerful abilities.'
He looked toward the window.
'He's teaching people to create their own.'
That realization disturbed him far more than any artifact Arthev might possess.
Knock knock.
Whisper went still.
'...Tch.'
Click.
The sharpness drained from his face mid-breath. Shoulders rounded. Eyes glazed. He hunched over the sketches and slid a boring ledger on top of them , all in the time it took the door to open.
A steward poked his head in. "Silas. You alive in here?"
"Eh? Ah... yes. Barely." He rubbed his eyes for effect. "Ledgers."
"Ugh. Condolences." The steward stepped in, hauling a bundle of linens.
"Oh ... and a warning for you. Stay away from the kitchens. Head cook is on a rampage."
"...Oh?"
"Someone ruined an entire cauldron of gravy. Burnt it black, somehow. Whole thing's ruined." The steward shuddered.
"He's been screaming for an hour. Some poor scrullion is scrubbing it as we speak. Genuinely, I fear for his life."
"Tragic," Silas said, deadpan. "Gravy is the backbone of this academy."
"Finally, someone understands." The steward dumped the linens and left.
"Balance your cabbages in peace, you accounting freak."
The door clicked shut.
Whisper waited. Three breaths. Five.
'...A cauldron of gravy, ruined.'
His eyes flicked to the window. Toward the kitchens.
'...Coincidence. Surely.'
He pulled the sketches back out.
Then he drew a fresh sheet of paper and began writing , thin, coded script only a Circle reader could parse.
Target: Arthev.
Occupation: student.
Abilities: ....
The quill stopped. He stared at the blank space.
Then wrote: unknown.
Crossed it out.
Wrote: unmeasurable.
Crossed that out too.
Methods: unknown.
Resources: unknown.
Objective: unknown.
The page was mostly crosses.
'Threat level...'
The quill hovered for a long moment.
He finally wrote: PENDING.
He frowned at it. In twenty years, Whisper had never once written "pending" in a report. Reports had numbers. Edges. Answers.
Yet this one had a hole shaped like a boy.
'How do I report a man I can't measure?'
Whisper reached up and tapped his earpiece.
Fzzt.
"Spark."
"Yeah, boss?" The reply buzzed back, drenched in misery.
"I'm currently elbow-deep in a cauldron of gravy. Please tell me you need something blown up. Please."
"Cancel all sabotage plans."
"...Eh?"
"Do not engage the Royal Team. Do not approach the target. Do not so much as look at him too long."
"Wait..... what?! Why?!" Spark nearly dropped the ladle.
"We've been prepping for weeks!"
"Because we've been looking at the wrong thing."
"The wrong thing?" Fabric rustled. "Then what's the right thing?!"
A beat of silence.
"We assumed his danger lay in what he possessed."
Whisper's eyes hardened.
"But It doesn't."
"...Boss. That's vague, ominous, and I hate it."
"Do nothing until I understand him. Nothing."
"...Understood." A pause. "So, can I stop scrubbing the....."
Click.
The channel went dead.
Whisper turned back to the window.
"If we don't handle this perfectly..."
He let the sentence die there. Because the truth was .... what unsettled him wasn't how strong Arthev was.
It was that Whisper. Professional liar. Reader of men. The Circle's blade in the dark. He had profiled. Soul Saints. Soul Douluo. Even a Titled Douluo.
He had always found their ceiling.
But this boy had none he could find yet. No edges. No pattern. Just more questions the deeper he dug.
His eyes narrowed.
'What are you, Arthev?'
The question remained unanswered.
-------------
Meanwhile..... the kitchens
Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.
Spark glared at the cauldron like it had insulted his mother.
"Cancel everything," he muttered. "Not postpone. Not adjust. Just Cancel."
Six years in the organization. Boss never canceled an operation. Boss really never canceled one with no explanation and no timeline. Just.....
'Do nothing until I understand him.'
Scrub. Scrub.
"...Tch." He plunged his arms back into the gravy. "What kind of monster did you see, boss?"
--------
The Lounge .... a few minutes later
Knock knock.
"....and I'm telling you, that's not how you count a crab..."
The door swung open.
Click.
The sharpness drained out of Whisper's face. Shoulders rounded. Eyes glazed. By the time the lamplight hit him, Shadow Seven was gone.
Just Silas. Hunched over a ledger. Boring as bread.
"....Oh! Silas! Still awake, you accounting freak?"
Silas looked up. Blinked. Twice. Slowly.
"Eh? Ah... yes. The cabbage count." He held up the ledger with a pained look.
"It refuses to balance. Again."
"Tough break. What's wrong with it?"
"That's what I keep asking!" Silas threw his hands up. "Eight team members. Eight cabbages. Simple. So why do the records say ten?! Who are these two mystery cabbages?!"
"No clue. Good luck with that."
"Ohh, hey, settle a bet first .... the Royal Team. Four wins so far, yeah?"
"Three," Silas said immediately. "You're forgetting the draw."
"See?! Three! Pay up." The first mate grinned and elbowed the other.
"What would we do without you, Silas? A brain like that, wasted on turnips."
"Yes, tragic," Silas mumbled. "Goodnight."
They left, laughing.
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Whisper's eyes slid back to the ledger, still sharp in the dark.
Nine cabbages.
'...Even the cabbages make more sense than that boy.'
To be continued....