Chapter 42
Chapter 42: Visitor to the Blood Hall
The ivory staircase.
Nagel held his torch as he slowly ascended.
The weak light revealed dried spots of crimson blood at his feet.
The cultists’ welcoming ceremony was always crushing—this creditor from the Blood Wine Society had finally entered the “palace” after enduring the frenzied howls and songs of those madmen.
To meet with a tyrant.
The cultists called him the High Priest, the leader of these lunatics.
Whispers echoed faintly.
Nagel finally stepped into the “palace.”
Even without light, he could glimpse its vast magnificence from the shadows. Porcelain tiles reflected the firelight, each pillar carved with intricate patterns—epics and myths stretching from angels to demons.
At the far end, a beam of light fell.
A throne.
A throne woven from bone and blood, with a beating heart.
A man in red robes sat upon the throne. The light illuminated his eyelids and nose bridge while leaving his eye sockets and lips in shadow, cold and hard as an iron mask. Nagel couldn’t make out the man’s features.
The whispers grew more frequent and clear, like invisible things swirling around him, impossible to dispel.
“You’ve come.”
The man on the throne spoke.
Deep and resonant, echoing through the hall.
But Nagel need not offer respect or submit in fear. All this luxury, this majesty, this unreachable height—everything the tyrant now possessed had been forged by Nagel’s own hands.
He was the true architect behind it all.
“Wes Howard is dead.”
Nagel stepped into the hall, and as he moved forward, the lights between the pillars ignited one by one.
Chains and blood, along with pairs of scarred, frail arms—the shadows on both sides of the hall concealed living humans. The whispers came from there.
“The Iron Finger of Blackwater District, guardian of generous fate.” The man tilted his head slightly. “I know, Nagel. The fire in Blackwater District—all of Gray Cloud Fortress knows.”
“Apart from that giant lizard and three hundred bottles of Whisper Potion, everything else was moved before then.” Nagel placed his torch in a bracket beside a pillar.
“Bad news. We don’t have many eighth-sequence witches left who still retain their sanity.” The tyrant on the throne raised his hand, and amid the rattling chains, a disheveled girl crawled on all fours like an animal from behind the seat into the light. “Whisper Potions can be brewed again, workshops can be rebuilt, but losing this stable source of Sword Rust secretions will make forcing the girls to advance much harder.”
The girl with the chained neck was so weak she could barely manage to kneel. She struggled with incoherent sounds, saliva dripping and stretching to the floor.
The man snorted coldly and kicked her thin, fragile spine viciously.
The crisp sound of breaking bones echoed through the hall.
The chains shattered along with it, and the sudden violence sent the girl tumbling down the steps, rolling until she reached Nagel’s feet. Blood flowed from beneath her body, and her vacant gray eyes had lost all light.
Her spine and neck were both broken.
She was dying.
Nagel remained unmoved.
This was just what happened every day—some went mad after the Whisper trials, another batch went mad after advancing to the eighth sequence, and soon another batch would go mad if they couldn’t speak prophecies. Witches were like consumables, batch after batch.
But he hadn’t fallen so low as to give the girl another kick. He simply ignored her.
“Catching a Black Sword Lizard really isn’t easy. They all live in rainforests across the ocean. Corenzo’s climate isn’t suitable for lizard breeding.” Nagel said. “The Church has tightened control over potion materials again. Merchants don’t dare trade in such prohibited items anymore. Now a drop of Sword Rust secretion is more precious than a drop of melted gold.”
“Who do you think did it? Who do you think could have done it?” The man smiled mockingly, then asked in a low voice.
“Someone was seen in the alleys of Blackwater District—a strange woman, not tall, with crystal-clear silver hair. She was hunting down Blood Wine Society members, asking about warehouses and debt collectors.”
“Crystal? Interesting…” The man spoke deeply. “Could it be a witch from that airship?”
“Probably not. None of us have seen her. Joseph wouldn’t allow those witches to come down and go on killing sprees, and the Scarlet Witch is someone who keeps her word.” Nagel dismissed this possibility.
“But then who could it be?”
The man slowly rose, his robes falling. The style was almost identical to a Kabala bishop’s robes, only dyed the crimson of blood—an act of defiance against the Lord.
He believed in something completely different from Kabala doctrine. He was the leader of this cult group, with Chaos and Garden being the religious terms they often spoke of.
“To defeat Wes, kill the lizard—this person is at least a fifth-sequence extraordinary. To set fire to the workshop and glass factory, they certainly wouldn’t be on Joseph’s side. This is perfect evidence for accusations. A hired hand from other gangs secretly sabotaging Blood Wine Society operations? Or…”
“Or maybe Jared sent someone to keep you and me in check. Destroying workshops and potions, hindering our witch-making process, while leaving no trace for Joseph and other gangs to catch—killing two birds with one stone.” The man sneered. “Fight poison with poison. Just like Joseph brought in the Church and Black Rose Society to check the four major gangs, Jared feels threatened so he found a mysterious powerful extraordinary to check you and me. The great godfather of the Blood Wine Society has now fallen so low that he needs others’ support to barely maintain his tottering crown.”
“Then this person’s next target will definitely be Siddy Bell District, Charles’s territory—our second workshop in Gray Cloud Fortress.” Nagel rubbed his temples, feeling slightly dizzy from the murmuring whispers.
“And Westing Manor.” The man’s expression suddenly turned cold.
“The serial murders…” Nagel remembered something, his face looking rather unpleasant. “Those incompetents at the Temperance House won’t discover anything, but this person is different. If…”
“No need to worry. It’s not yet time for you and me to take the stage. Let the debt collectors in Siddy Bell District do what they should. I have a countermeasure.” The man said in a low voice.
“Countermeasure?”
“Already here—a guest.” The corner of the man’s mouth curved slightly. “Nagel, you should know her.”
Footsteps.
Coming from behind, someone was climbing the ivory staircase.
But Nagel didn’t understand who else besides him could earn an audience with the tyrant.
That slender figure finally stepped slowly into the hall, silk dress trailing, footsteps light—a young girl.
The whispers from both sides suddenly fell silent. Those chained beneath trembled, seeming to fear, to dread, to marvel. The thin, withered witches all looked toward her.
Porcelain-white, sickly skin, snow-white hair. White lilies.
The girl held a bouquet of flowers.