He didn't return to the manor that night.
Instead, his path led him to the Emberlight Hotel—a sanctuary tucked into Duranth's noble quarter, unmarked by gaudy signs or street fanfare. It was a place whispered about in high circles. A place where names were verified with a glance and privacy was currency.
This was his first time checking in.
A steward in ink-black robes approached with a bow. "Sir. Welcome to Emberlight. Your suite has been prepared as requested."
Charles raised a brow. "That was fast."
"We pride ourselves on foresight," the steward replied smoothly. "And discretion."
As he crossed the polished obsidian floor, a silent waterfall shimmered to the left, fed by aquifers enchanted with lunar essence. It was luxury as art—nothing excessive, just precise.
His suite?
A masterwork of indulgent restraint.
A private volcanic hot spring steamed beside a miniature moss garden aglow with dreamgrass and starlit lilies. The bed—stitched with frost moth silk and filled with phoenix down—looked like it had never known unrest. Every detail, from the celestial rune-trimmed bathrobes to the tea brewed with glacial water harvested from sky-serpent breath, whispered: You belong here.
And yet, he barely slept.
He sat in the hot spring bath, submerged to the collarbone, motionless.
[SIGMA: Sleep protocol interrupted. Recommendation: mental silence. Shall I engage Stormmind meditation?]
"No," Charles said softly. "Let it churn."
Dawn painted the skyline with streaks of fire and gold.
By the time the city stirred, Charles had already bathed, meditated, and dressed.
Not as "Charles," the masked merchant.
Today, Charlemagne Ziglar would walk in full view.
He stood before the mirror, staring at the mask on its velvet cradle. Familiar. Useful. Safe.
But he didn't reach for it.
Instead, he pulled on the formal noble wear of House Ziglar: midnight-blue cloak stitched with silver sigils, platinum-threaded cuffs, an obsidian glass crest pinned to his throat. Beneath it, spiritual runes shimmered faintly under the fabric, pulsing with protective qi.
[SIGMA: Warning. You are re-entering the noble sphere of influence. Shall I initiate secondary identity shields?]
"No need," Charles said, slipping on his gloves. "Let them see me. No more shadows today."
Outside, his carriage awaited.
It wasn't just a ride—it was a statement.
Carved from enchanted elderwood and inlaid with storm-thread and frost sigils, the high-tier transport gleamed under the morning light. Twin storm elk—their antlers sparking with ambient lightning—snorted and stomped, ready to bolt like thunder incarnate.
Two dusksteel-armored guards stood beside the vehicle, flanked by a pair of cloaked combat cultivators with masked faces and unreadable qi signatures. Professionals. Unquestioning. Lethal.
This wasn't escort service. This was a mobile fortress on wheels.
Charles boarded without a word.
Inside: crimson velvet seating, privacy wards etched into every panel, and a concealed cabinet of scrolls, tonics, and weapons. A nobleman's traveling war room.
He settled into the seat, eyes distant.
Outside, the golden-tipped spires of Duranth shimmered like blades raised to the sky.
"I'll be back," he murmured.
[SIGMA: As a guest or a kingmaker?]
Charles smirked.
"As a storm they'll have to plan around."
The wheels turned. The city began to fade behind him.
And in its place rose something far more dangerous than a masked merchant.
A Ziglar—with vision, power, and no more patience for playing small.
Whispers in the Dark
The Duranth City Jail was not made for nobles.
Within the inner ring—far from the stink of the truly wretched—one prisoner still paced, radiating a fury that crackled just beneath the skin.
Malfor Hayde.
Son of Count Hayde of the Southern Duchy. Wind-style qi user. Academy-trained duelist. And now? A glorified cautionary tale in silk bindings.
He had been arrested like a street rat. Humiliated in public. Beaten with one strike by a masked nobody while half of Duranth watched. Worst of all? He hadn't even been allowed to defend his honor. Not that the magistrate cared—not with Victor Sorelle's glare looming silently over the courtroom.
Assault. Sexual harassment. Disturbing public order. Resistance to apprehension.
His bail? A pitiful 3,000 gold.
His fine? 2,500 more.
And his dignity? Priceless. But thoroughly incinerated.
Malfor spat onto the floor, teeth clenched.
The crack of his own bones still echoed in his ears. His forearm had been realigned by a court healer that morning, wrapped in a delicate silver-imbued splint, but it wasn't pain that gnawed at him.
It was humiliating.
He growled and slammed a fist against the mana-barred wall—sending a jolt of pain up his already bruised knuckles.
A voice answered from behind the curtain of enchanted moss beyond the gate.
"You're out," it said simply.
Malfor turned. "Braylen."
The man stepped into view—lean and angular, dressed in hunter's leathers blackened with dye. A former scout turned into a private contractor. Keen eyes. Quick hands. And most importantly, absolutely no loyalty to anyone but gold.
"You got the name?" Malfor snapped, brushing down the dust from his sleeves as the mana gate slid open.
Braylen tilted his head. "Not exactly. No full name, but I've got threads. Threads that lead places."
"I'm listening."
"The guy who flattened you?" Braylen smirked. "He calls himself Lord Charles. Masked. Polished. Witty bastard. Made waves at the Duranth Auction House last night."
Malfor stiffened.
"Bought two rare-tier items. Used a Stellar Bank VIP token. But... no name in the northern registry. No land claims. No family crest. Just... Charles."
"That doesn't make sense," Malfor hissed. "You don't get a Stellar Bank VIP card without blood or clout. That requires a qi imprint. A real one."
Braylen nodded. "Exactly. His qi is registered in the Arcana Empire's Central Registry. Meaning... someone somewhere knows exactly who he is. And he's not some backwater upstart."
Malfor's lips curled into a sneer. "Then get me that name."
Braylen hesitated. "To do that... I'd need a soul-code thief. One who can breach the registry."
"Then hire one."
Braylen raised an eyebrow. "That costs—"
"I don't care!" Malfor snapped. "I paid seven thousand gold to be released like some drunken street swine. I've already committed to this war. Now finish the damn map."
Braylen gave a low whistle, half amused. "Alright, alright. Just don't come crying when your father finds out."
Malfor's eyes gleamed. "Oh, my father will find out. But by then, I'll have a name. And when I do... I'll make sure it disappears."
Braylen's smirk faltered. "What about House Sorelle?"
That gave even Malfor pause.
Victor Sorelle. The name alone made generals step lightly and merchants lower their eyes. He was no simple noble—he was old money. Quiet power. The kind that didn't need swords because rumors obeyed him faster than blades.
Malfor's father once told him: "If you ever cross House Sorelle, make sure it's at your funeral. Saves the undertaker time."
Malfor inhaled sharply. "We don't touch the Sorelles. Not now. Not directly."
"Then what's the plan?"
A crooked grin bloomed on Malfor's face. It wasn't charming. It was hungry.
"We follow the mask. Quietly. Discreetly. And when he slips?" He raised his splinted hand. "We drive a dagger through his shadow."
Braylen folded his arms. "And if he doesn't slip?"
"Then we dig. Find what he loves. What he fears. What he hides. Everyone has a crack somewhere, Braylen. And when we find it, we wedge it open until he crumbles."
There was a flicker of movement behind them. A servant—young, barely past his Rite of Binding—stepped too close to the corridor.
Malfor turned on him like a whipcrack. "You."
The boy froze.
"Do you speak of what you see here?"
"N-no, my lord."
"Do you think of it?"
"No, my lord!"
Malfor reached into his cloak and tossed the boy a silver coin.
"Good. Because the last one who thought out loud... forgot how to breathe."
The boy caught the coin with trembling hands and vanished into the shadows.
Braylen gave him a sidelong look. "You always this dramatic?"
Malfor's grin widened. "No. I'm usually worse."
Outside, the wind had picked up. The banners of Duranth flapped like tongues made of silk and defiance.
Malfor stepped into the light.
A noble in fox-fur and shadow. But behind the fabric, his bones still ached. His pride still bled.
But oh, how he would bleed others in turn.
Somewhere across the city, Charles sipped tea beneath a golden arch, eyes fixed on tomorrow.
He did not know it yet, but a shadow now moved behind his back. A fury made of shame and broken bones. A noble without cause—but with coin and venom.
And in the depths of Duranth, vengeance had found its scent.
Six hours later…
The Ledger of Vengeance
The Hollow Mare's underlight dimmed the moment the soul-code thief vanished. The last trace of her shadow melted into the velvet drapes, leaving only silence and the residue of forbidden magic in the air.
Malfor Hayde leaned back against the plush booth cushions, a thin smile playing across his lips. He swirled what remained of the Whisperroot Wine in his glass and raised it toward the flickering crimson crystal above him.
"To unmasking."
He took a sip, slow and venomous.
Braylen, still seated across from him, checked the perimeter—subtle gestures, small pulses of qi to ensure they weren't being traced.
"You got what you wanted," Braylen said, voice low. "The signature matches an archived chi imprint from the Arcana Imperial Registry."
Malfor tilted his head, savoring the moment.
"And the name?"
Braylen didn't speak immediately. He let the words fall with weight.
"Charlemagne Vale Ziglar. Second son of Duke Alaric Ziglar. North Duchy."
Malfor's expression froze, but only for a breath.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't the smile of a man amused.
It was the smile of a man watching the noose tighten.
"A Ziglar," he murmured, almost reverently. "Of course he was."
He stood, cloak rustling behind him like storm wind against sails. His broken arm remained in its brace, but he ignored the throb. That pain was now fuel. Sacred, even.
"The son of the Duke himself," Malfor whispered, more to himself than to Braylen. "That arrogant little bastard shattered my bones and fed me humiliation—with a smile—and not only is he noble, he's Ziglar."
Braylen tensed. "Malfor… this might be a line you don't want to cross."
Malfor turned to him, eyes gleaming. "No. This is exactly the line I was born to cross."
He strode to the edge of the booth and looked down toward the distant corridors of The Hollow Mare, where shadows slithered and whispers carried more power than coin.
"We're not just picking a fight with a merchant playing noble. We're challenging the very steel spine of the North Duchy."
Braylen lowered his voice. "Your father warned you—Ziglar blood isn't just noble. It's militarized. That entire House is a fortress."
"Which is why," Malfor said calmly, "we won't storm the gates."
He turned slowly, the crimson light catching the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the wildness buried behind a nobleman's composure.
"We infiltrate."
Braylen blinked. "You want to send spies?"
"To the North Duchy, yes. Quiet ones. Not saboteurs—observers. I want names. I want servants. I want bathhouse maids, disgruntled squires, disowned cousins, anyone with eyes and grievances. I want a whisper of every breath Charles Ziglar takes inside those walls."
Braylen frowned. "That's a long-distance operation. We'll need a front."
"Then we'll build one." Malfor sat again, pouring himself another glass of wine, hand steady despite the madness brewing behind his gaze. "Something boring. A trade guild. Alchemical research. A traveling drama troupe if we have to. Just enough to justify housing new people."
Braylen hesitated. "What's the objective?"
Malfor looked at him like the answer was obvious.
"To find his weakness."
He tapped his temple slowly, deliberately. "Every noble has one. A bastard sibling. A forbidden lover. A disgraced tutor. A sword that should've killed them in a duel ten years ago but didn't. I don't care if it's a guilty pleasure for moon blossom liquor or a secret meditation spot in the forest. We find it."
Braylen's voice dropped. "And when we do?"
Malfor grinned, slow and sharp.
"We make it bleed."