Lawrence blinked, bewildered. "A storyteller? For entertainment? In this city, such people are—"
"No," Voss interrupted, shaking his head while keeping his gaze fixed on the flames. "I need one who can reshape the world with words. One who can make lies tasted like truth. One who can bind the hearts of men with their tales and incite movements. For my new nation, I require a storyteller who can forge a new 'Truth'."
A look of sheer horror dawned on Lawrence's face. He understood then—this was no request for mere amusement. This was the herald of something monumental and catastrophic.
"What... what kind of person should I seek? What qualities must they possess?"
Voss gestured toward the hearth. The flames surged upward, bathing the hall in a fierce orange light.
"They must have a voice—a voice that people ache to hear. They must have eyes—eyes that can see the shape of a person's fear. But most importantly... they must be devoid of belief. Someone who believes in nothing. Someone who loves nothing, and hates nothing. A heart that is a hollow vacuum. Because... I intend to fill that void with my own stories."
Lawrence fell silent. The fire subsided once more, allowing the shadows to reclaim the hall.
"To find such a person... it may take time. In this city—"
"There is no time," Voss cut him off. "Find them within three days. Otherwise... I shall have to find them myself. Should it come to that, many in this city will be 'involved.' And that would be an unfortunate outcome."
Lawrence nodded, his face tight with a sense of desperate urgency.
Voss stood up and stepped away from the hearth. His shadow stretched long and imposing against the wall, exerting a crushing pressure upon the entire room.
"A story is a weapon, Lawrence. The finest weapon. Sharper than a blade, more precise than a bullet. And once unleashed, it can never be taken back. I am looking for the hand that will wield that weapon."
He turned to look back as he walked toward the door, the light in his eyes flashing once more.
"Three days. Do not forget."
Inside the manor's drawing-room, the air was more than just cold; it was thick, an oppressive layer of tension and palpable dread. While the hearth cast flickering amber light across the floorboards, shadows stretched long and jagged against the walls and polished mirrors. Four storytellers stood in a row, their legs trembling against the cold asphalt floor, hands clenched tight in silent anxiety.
The first—a man in his fifties who knew every famous historical epic by heart—began with, "Once, in an ancient war..." but his words were stale, sounding like a dry recitation from a dusty tome. The second spun a heroic yarn with practiced ease, yet failed to stir the soul. The third possessed a magnificent voice and grand gestures, but every syllable was stained with fear. The fourth told a technically perfect tale, yet it lacked the spark to touch the human heart.
Kaelen Voss sat motionless on a long sofa, one leg crossed over the other, radiating a chilling composure. His silver hair shimmered under the firelight, and his dark eyes pierced through each storyteller like a physical blade. His fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic beat against his knee—a gesture that masked his impatience while tightening the room's already frayed nerves.
"Next..."
His voice was low, yet it reverberated through the entire hall. Lawrence, standing by the door, wiped his sweat-soaked palms against his forehead. Not a single storyteller he had brought satisfied Voss. Their tales were lifeless, mere echoes of books, utterly devoid of spirit.
Just then, a solitary footfall echoed at the entrance. A man stepped inside.
He was of average height, but his frame was hunched and withered, as if he had been broken by countless beatings. He wore an old Mandarin-collared shirt, frayed and stained with oil. His trousers were coated in grey dust, and his boots were scuffed to the bone. From his person emanated a pungent cocktail of scents: the sweet tang of opium, dry earth, stale sweat, and old liquor. His face was a roadmap of deep wrinkles, and though his eyes were hooded, a fire seemed to smolder within them.
Ignoring everyone, he crouched in the center of the room and pulled an old opium pipe from his pocket. His fingers shook, yet he flicked his flint with practiced mastery. As the thick, cloying smoke curled upward, it filled the room with a hazy malaise.
"What story have you brought?" Lawrence asked impatiently. "We have no time. Speak quickly."
The storyteller took a long, satisfying drag of the pipe. He closed his eyes, drifting into a moment of absolute silence. Then, slowly opening them, he spoke in a voice that was low, resonant, and deep—muddled by the opium haze, yet terrifyingly sharp in its clarity.
"Once... there lived a man named Kaelen Voss."
"Mr. Lawrence," Kaelen interrupted calmly, "please take your people and leave."
Without a word, Lawrence gathered the other storytellers and retreated from the house.
Kaelen's brow arched slightly. It was the first time he had heard his own name spoken in this place. The room fell into a silence so profound you could hear a pin drop. The fire burned low, allowing the shadows to deepen into an abyssal black.
The storyteller continued, his voice gaining a sudden, haunting strength.
"That man was the most peculiar soul I ever encountered. He carried a sword, but not to slaughter; he used it to forge a path. He amassed gold, but not for his own belly; he used it to feed the starving and the orphaned. He was a 'Rebel in Saint's clothing,' a man whose entire existence was dedicated to the salvation of mankind over his own comfort."
"He drifted into hearts like a shadow emerging from the mist. His eyes could read a man's darkest secrets in a heartbeat. His voice could lure people into a dream. But one day, that man asked himself: 'How can I change this? This city, these people, this system?'"
"That man is now plotting to dismantle the House of Gear, the commercial empire of the Valerius family. He intends to sever their lifelines—the Coal Factory and the Power Plant that hold this city in a stranglehold. The day those structures fall will be the day the tyrants' dark age ends. But what that man does not yet know... is what kind of ending is being written for him in the very story he is creating for himself."
The storyteller slowly tapped his pipe clean. He then looked directly at Kaelen, his eyes burning with a light that did not come from the fire.
Kaelen Voss rose slowly from the sofa. As his long coat shifted, a gargantuan shadow stretched across the wall. For the first time, a satisfied smile played across his lips—a smile that held a hint of warmth, yet was brimming with danger and cold excitement.