Chapter 46: Tear Off the Head

  Oufu had fallen into complete silence.

  Ethan knew three half-orcs slept in the building he stood atop: two adults and one child. He could tell them apart by the rhythm and depth of their breathing.

  A faint, strange sound drifted from nearby—soft scuffling that grew heavier, then lighter, in a steady cycle. It was the sound of a werewolf’s thick paw pads hitting the ground.

  Three… two… one. There it was. Right on time, a werewolf emerged from the corner up ahead. It was one of the two that had caught him earlier—part of Oufu’s night watch. They carried no torches or lanterns; their night vision and hearing were far beyond human reach.

  An hour ago, Ethan would have thought the same as everyone else. But now he knew better—at least, not completely better. Right now, he’d surpassed that "absolute." When he focused, his hearing and sight became a hundred times sharper than usual.

  Perhaps it was his state of mind, but this meditation had gone deeper than ever before, and its effects were more pronounced. Not only had his body and senses improved dramatically, but all distractions had vanished from his mind. Only one thought remained, clear and unshakable: retrieve the book.

  "Five sounds confuse the ear, five colors blind the eye, five desires trouble the heart." Cast aside all other thoughts, and you grow stronger.

  The werewolf turned down the next street. Ethan listened as its footsteps faded, then climbed down the wall slowly, landing so softly not even a speck of dust stirred. His movements were smoother than a tree snake’s.

  It wasn’t just his senses—every part of his body felt different. He could control the tiniest muscle fibers to make the subtlest movements, and he could trace exactly how his muscles and bones worked in perfect harmony, driven by the flow of his blood. It was as if he were an observer, dissecting an insect to study its parts, seeing his own body with cold clarity. Yet at the same time, all his senses felt unified; his will and his body were one. Every tiny action was under his complete control.

  More sensitive than a beast, more focused, and ready to unleash his fighting spirit and killing intent at a moment’s notice—this was the perfect state of mind. He could feel life surging through his veins once more.

  He took a step forward. The sole of his calfskin boot was soft, lined with cotton and linen, making no sound as it touched the ground. He landed on the balls of his feet first, then let the strong muscles of his arches absorb the impact gently, spreading the force evenly so no single moment bore too much weight. Every joint and muscle in his legs moved in perfect sync, ensuring each step landed precisely. His center of gravity was low and steady; his feet adhere to the ground without a single scraping sound.

  The city hall was close. Another werewolf’s footsteps approached from ahead. Now, he could detect them before they detected him. Ethan slipped into the narrow gap between two buildings—no sound, no movement. He was like a shadow with substance.

  The werewolf drew closer. Ethan recognized its gait: it was the other werewolf that had caught him, the one with a slight limp. He didn’t hold his breath—he knew he couldn’t keep it up for long, and the thud of a racing heart would be easier to hear. Instead, he opened his mouth, widening his airways to let his breath flow as slowly as possible.

  The werewolf passed by without pausing, its footsteps fading into the distance. Ethan slipped out of the gap like a shadow, his robes not even brushing the rough stone walls.

  Behind the grand city hall stood a stone house. Like all buildings in Oufu, it was simple—and this was where Lord Sedros and General Gru lived.

  Ethan pressed himself against the city hall’s uneven outer wall, moving toward the house like a gecko. Perhaps it was an illusion caused by his body’s heightened sensitivity, but his robe felt like an extension of his skin. He could control its folds and fibers to avoid catching on the wall’s protrusions, making no sound.

  He froze, focusing all his attention on his ears.

  Ten paces ahead, two meters deep, a mouse scrabbled in the dirt. A lizard jumped from a crack in the stone house’s wall, landing with a soft thud. Wind whistled through the gaps between buildings, brushing against rough surfaces. Beyond that, there were no other sounds of breathing or heartbeats. The house was empty.

  Ethan didn’t know why—and he didn’t care. Empty was best.

  The door stood open. It wasn’t surprising; no one in Oufu locked their doors. Ethan stepped to the doorway, blocking the light from inside with his body, then held out a finger. A tiny spark flickered to life between his digits.

  The flame danced unsteadily, but Ethan was satisfied. It wasn’t just his body—he now had full control over his magic and mental power. Sustaining magic was far harder than casting it; holding a small flame for light was something he’d never dared imagine before, even a mid-tier mage couldn’t do it.

  The house was large, with no wooden partitions to divide it into rooms—spacious and open. A table stood in the center; a pile of books lay in the corner, and two beds stood nearby.

  No need to search. The book sat on the central table, plain to see—like bait in a mousetrap, as if for fear that whoever entered would miss it.

  Ethan didn’t move. He trusted his senses completely now—there was no one, no orc, lying in ambush within a hundred paces.

  He scanned the ground from his feet up to the table. No traps, no mechanisms. He knew more about setting traps than a top hunter; it was a survival skill he’d learned in the wild.

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  He stepped closer—and finally saw the trap.

  Beneath the book, faint lines blended with the table’s grain. But Ethan could tell: the book was resting on a magic circle. It wasn’t large, but the complexity of its lines and the phosphorescent glow of its materials told him it was powerful.

  It might have worked on anyone else, but Ethan didn’t care. He reached out and grabbed the book.

  Crackle. White light flooded the room. Streaks of lightning leaped from the air, striking toward Ethan. It was a lightning trap—even the strongest ogre would collapse under its force, waiting to be dragged away like a dead pig. But the lightning faded halfway to Ethan, vanishing like ice thrown into boiling water. His robe resonated with his aura, extending its protective effect from his skin to a half-meter around his body.

  Ethan tucked the book into his arms. The noise and light might have alerted other orcs. He needed to get back to the inn as quickly as possible.

  Clap. Clap. Clap. Ethan froze, as if turned to stone.

  It wasn’t a magical sound—just the rhythmic, lively clap of two hands meeting. It came from the corner by the doorway. Along with it came two sets of breathing: one deep and steady, the other strong but showing signs of age. Both were calm and smooth, with no rapid heartbeat from holding one’s breath.

  A tiny firebird flew out of the corner—no bigger than a palm—beating its wings as it circled the room. It landed on a torch mounted on the wall, igniting it, then flew to the next. The room brightened instantly, every detail illuminated.

  Lord Sedros and General Gru stepped out of a magic circle by the doorway—a spot hidden from view if you stood outside, visible only if you turned around from inside the house. The circle was simple, with no special effects or magic; it seemed only to block air vibrations within its range, which was why Ethan hadn’t heard a thing.

  The small firebird lit the last torch, then flew back to Sedros’s hand, dissolving into a tiny flame that flickered and died. It was a low-level fire spell, but even the most advanced mages at the Magic Academy couldn’t control their power with such ease.

  Clap. Clap. Clap. Sedros continued clapping, the sound loud with genuine admiration. "Truly magnificent stealth. Even the most heavily guarded royal palace would be a wide road to someone with your skill. If I hadn’t witnessed the Assassin Guild’s fall twenty years ago, I’d think I was looking at a top-tier killer." He sighed, sounding slightly annoyed. "I thought you’d come earlier. We’ve been waiting quite a while."

  "I know you’re not a killer—let alone a thief," Sedros said, fixing Ethan with a stare. "No member of the Necromancer Guild would do this, just as a cobra wouldn’t learn to sneak like a mouse to steal food. You see, a snake is still a snake. No matter how much it mixes with mice, you can tell it apart at a glance. You shouldn’t have hidden with those thieves—it only made you more noticeable. Or you should have acted the part better. When they pounced on the goods like starving dogs, you shouldn’t have just stood by and watched. And when this book was found, you shouldn’t have turned away to hide it—only to hold your breath so hard your breathing grew loud. You should have been more patient, too. No need to rush off with the thieves tomorrow. You could have stayed here for months, even years, to get close to the book. And you shouldn’t have asked the officials about our residence so directly. Isn’t it strange for a stranger—a thief—to ask that? It was a dead giveaway you’d come tonight. So we had no choice but to wait for you." The governor paused, shaking his head. "Then again, you don’t seem like a Necromancer. So clumsy, so hasty—nothing like their usual calm, ruthless style. But maybe times have changed. Maybe those fellows want to try something new. Recruiting a young man like you is certainly a creative change."

  Ethan said nothing. He couldn’t—he didn’t even have the mental energy to think. A beast-like instinct told him to fear the overwhelming aura radiating from General Gru. The meditation had kept his mind highly focused, highly pure, allowing him to unlock his body’s full potential. But that intense focus left no room for thoughts of escape, surrender, or explanation. Like a frightened beast, he tensed every muscle, ready to fight.

  Sedros’s bright, clear eyes fixed on Ethan’s robe—eyes that held the certainty of a judge’s gavel. "The key is that robe of yours—and its power. It’s a dead giveaway of who you are."

  The governor turned to General Gru. "What do you do when a cobra slips into your house?"

  "Kill it," Gru replied, his voice short and sharp. His expression remained as still as stone, as if the forceful words had vibrated into existence from his thoughts.

  Strike first. Ethan leaped backward, kicking the table toward the two men. Its wide surface blocked their view completely. Ethan charged forward, right behind the table.

  But halfway across the room, the table froze—then rose upward like a balloon.

  In that split second, a primal danger sense washed over Ethan—the feeling of a blind man about to crash into a wall, a wall that would crush him. He slammed on the brakes, stopping his charge.

  When the table moved out of the way, General Gru—who’d been standing casually by the door a moment ago—was suddenly right in front of him, reaching for his chest.

  Gru’s hand wasn’t clenched into a fist, nor was it reaching to grab. It was just a casual gesture, as if he’d held it out for Ethan to see. Ethan saw it clearly: a faint white glow, like mist, covered his palm.

  No time to dodge left or right. Instinct told Ethan what to do. He pushed off with all his strength, leaping backward. His agility and speed were several times greater than before—there seemed to be no gap between his charge and his retreat, faster than any beast’s reaction.

  Even so, Gru’s hand touched his chest.

  The force was light, like a casual push, but Ethan didn’t stop until he crashed into the wall. He landed, then tensed like a cat. His evasion had been perfect; his movements were seamless.

  "Good," Gru said. His dark eyes—black as ink—flashed with a sharp light. Life stirred in his sculpted, calm face. It was like a obsessed painter discovering a masterpiece, a reclusive musician finding a perfect score—suddenly, he’d found a way to unleash his vitality. Excitement ignited his energy.

  Since the meditation ended, Ethan had felt his robe—once tough enough to resist swords and axes—grow even more protective. The gaps between its fibers absorbed his aura, swelling to soften incoming blows. But now, three small spots on his chest ached faintly, and one was bleeding. Gru’s middle, index, and ring fingers had pierced the robe’s buffer.

  The robe itself was unharmed. But Ethan knew: if that hand had hit him head-on, his body might not have a hole in it—but his ribs would have shattered like porcelain under a hammer.

  At Sedros’s gesture, the table was lifted by an invisible hand, floating slowly to the side and setting down gently. It was a basic air spell, almost useless in combat—mages usually only used it to blow away poison fumes. But in this old man’s hands, it became something marvelous.

  Sedros watched like a renowned author observing a play, commenting calmly: "That robe is the Necromancer Guild’s treasure—the Robe of the Lich Lord. Legend says it was woven by Archibald, the Guild’s founder, using feathers from thunderbirds on the peaks of Sanderfirth and phoenixes from volcanic islands overseas, fused with magic. It resists all spells, and when worn by someone who’s practiced his Dark Meditation, its effects are unimaginable. It’s one of the most defensive artifacts in the world. Your strikes will only do half the damage."

  "Then tear off his head," Gru said, his words still simple and direct. But a flame had begun to burn in his eyes.