Spark circled the perimeter. He kept his frame to the deeper shadows. His senses were cranked to the sharpest degree.
The air here smelled of stale stone and iron. And something more. Something less pleasant. The heavy, stagnant odor of confinement.
He located the designated point on the outer wall. A section that looked indistinguishable from the rest. Yet held a secret beneath years of accumulated grime and overgrowth.
The blueprint indicated a long-forgotten drainage conduit. Sealed off with runic lock. Leading not out of the prison grounds. But inwards. Towards the older, foundational levels built into the very rock of the hill.
Accessing it required more patience than brute force. He spent precious minutes carefully clearing away debris. And loosening a specific, oddly-shaped stone block. One that served as a hidden entrance.
The technique to open it was not easy. Requiring knowledge of ancient masonry. or archaic runes. To make a delicate touch in the correct place.
Jack didn't know much about the first. But, for the latter, rune was never complicated for him. Archaic rune included.
Jack observed the rune circuits and made a few necessary touches.
Finally, the block shifted. With a low scrape of stone on stone. Revealing a dark, narrow opening. A rush of stale, damp air greeted him.
He slipped inside. Pulling the block back into place behind him. Plunging himself into utter darkness. Save for the faint glow of the tiny aether-lantern he activated. Casting a small pool of light.
The tunnel was cramped and unpleasant. Probably due to his unusual size. Water seeped from the walls. And the floor was a slick mess of mud and grit.
Despite the discomfort, Spark pushed onwards. His eyes were tracking the ancient runes etched into the tunnel walls. They were guide markers from a bygone era. Things that confirmed he was on the right path.
The tunnel sloped downwards. Deeper under the prison's foundations. Bypassing layers of more current security... Pressure plates. Arcane tripwires. Thermal sensors...
After what felt like an age, the tunnel opened into a larger, vaulted chamber. This was clearly part of the original prison structure. Abandoned and unused for centuries.
From here, secondary passages branched off. Spark consulted the mental map derived from the blueprint. He needed the passage leading upwards. Intersecting with the prison's operational levels.
Navigating these dusty, forgotten passages was a gamble. But the blueprint was remarkably accurate. He located a vertical shaft. Disguised behind a crumbling section of wall. Fitted with ancient, corroded ladder rungs.
Ascending was slow and strenuous. The metal felt cold and slick under his gloved hands.
He emerged not into a corridor. But into a supply closet on a lower level of the functional prison.
The sounds of the prison were muffled but present now. The distant clang of metal. The shuffle of guards' boots. The occasional shout. He listened intently. Timing his movements to the rhythm of the patrols. One that had been outlined by Lilith.
Moving through the prison required absolute stealth. He hugged the walls, stayed low, and used every shadow to his advantage.
The internal lighting was harsh and utilitarian. Unforgiving in open spaces. He avoided runic surveillance cameras and guard patrols with practiced ease.
He was like a predator moving through its chosen hunting ground. The air grew sharper here. Laced with the smell of blood, disinfectant, and despair.
He reached the entrance to the women's wing. A single guard was posted there. No way in without bypassing him. But Spark had anticipated this.
He consumed the prepared antidote. And opened a small vial of odorless sleeping gas. Ivy's products. And they worked much better than what he expected.
A moment later, the guard slumped silently to the floor. His breathing was heavy and regular. Spark secured him quickly. Ensuring his posture wouldn't immediately raise an alarm.
The women's section of the prison was marginally quieter. The cells lining long corridors. With thick metal doors. The atmosphere was heavy with suppressed emotion.
Spark moved swiftly but carefully. His gaze was sweeping over the cell doors. Checking the numbers against his mental map. Section C, Block 9... there. Cell 4.
He paused outside the door. Listening. Muffled, even breathing. She was asleep. Good. Less complication. Picking the lock was trivial for him. A momentary click and scrape of tumblers.
He slipped inside the cell. It was spartan. A narrow cot. A small basin. A single, barred window high on the wall. Lady Oleanna Finch lay on the cot. Her face was pale in the dim light filtering from the corridor.
She looked similar to the past Melody. Just older. More mature. She seemed composed even in sleep. Her current situation didn't seem to affect her too much.
She was the special envoy of the Holy Sun Cult though. An organization whose doctrines and aims were currently causing considerable unrest in the kingdom. Captured and held here. A valuable yet volatile asset.
Spark silently approached the cot. He didn't hesitate. A swift, precise pressure point strike to her neck. Her body went momentarily rigid. Then relaxed completely. Her breathing softening further. She was deeply unconscious.
He pulled the dark Slave Grimoire from his Spatial Belt. The book felt surprisingly creepy in this location. But he ignored that.
Holding it open in one hand, he extended the other. Hovering it over the unconscious woman. He focused his will. Calling upon the runic, binding power contained within the tome.
The Grimoire pulsed faintly in his hand.
A faint reddish glow appeared on her whole body for a split second. And then she dissolved into a stream of crimson mist. Containing warm energy. The mist flowed directly from her form. Into the open pages of the Slave Grimoire.
The grimoire trembled. And then, it clicked shut. With a soft, final sound.
On the cot, only the impression where she had lain remained. Lady Oleanna Finch was gone. Contained within the Grimoire.
The weight of the Grimoire in Spark's hand felt quite different now. Heavier. More... alive. Lady Oleanna Finch was locked inside.
He opened and looked at the Grimoire page. A two dimensional charcoal drawing of Oleanna Finch was there. On the left-hand page of the book. On the other side, status panel appeared in specific format.
=====STATUS PANEL=====
[Name: Oleanna Finch]
[Gender: Female]
[Age: 36]
[Class: Sorceress]
[Level: Fortified (3rd Tier)]
[Loyalty: 0%]
[Soul Power: Fortified Level (3rd Tier)]
[Mind Power: Awakened Level (1st Tier)]
[Body Power: Awakened Level (1st Tier)]
[Talent: Melodic Soul]
[Personalities: Fanatic, Manipulative]
[Modifier Currency: Arcane Quartz]
[Soulcraft Fairy: Flute Fairy, Harp Fairy, Drum Fairy]
==[Growth Item: Mint Leaf, Water Berry, Black Orchid]
==[Shared Talent: Lingering Echo, Seductive Aura, Source of Chaos]
==[Ability: Soulcraft Crest - Mystic Lullaby, Weakening Symphony, Oppressing Beat]
Similar to her daughter, she carried the raw potential of a Sorceress. A class fueled purely by Soulcraft. The art of weaving magic through the power of fairy bond.
Her talent, [Melodic Soul], was completely the same with her daughter's. Harmonizing perfectly with sound-related fairies. Enhancing her sound-based magic to extraordinary levels. All the instrumental fairies bonded with her soul were reasonable.
Yet, similar to her daughter, her dominant personalities were a big problem. Fanatic and manipulative. Both traits spelled trouble. Especially given her previous ties to the Holy Sun Cult.
Her loyalty was at zero percent. Not surprising. But those things could be treated. And the treatment was not that hard.
The modifier currency for her was Arcane Quartz. A pretty common material in this world. He had plenty back in his treasury chamber. But they were in Gutlark. Going back there before the King's Centennial Birthday Celebration was troublesome. And suspicions.
But he could purchase the materials here quite easily. Spark smirked. Anything that could be solved with money was never a problem at all for him.
He could easily modify her. Bring her under control. Adjust her dominant personalities. And gain necessary information about the Holy Sun's schemes. So that he could anticipate them.
Spark checked the cell one last time. Nothing seemed disturbed. The process was clean, silent, and complete. He secured the Grimoire back in his Spatial Belt. Mission accomplished.
He exited the cell. Relocked the door from the outside. Erasing any trace of his entry. He moved back through the women's wing. Carefully maneuvering around the still-slumbering guard. Back into the general prison structure.
His path was the reverse of his entry. Through the dusty, unused passages. Down the vertical shaft. Through the cramped drainage conduit. And finally, out into the cool night air behind the prison walls.
He re-seated the hidden stone block. Leaving the exterior looking just as overgrown and undisturbed as he had found it.
He was back outside. Having bypassed the entire formidable security of the Broken Claw Prison. Leaving no sign of forced entry.
He didn't linger. Pulling his hood tighter, Spark Nighthawk melted back into the shadows. Into the city's industrial district.
Leaving the impenetrable fortress behind. Unaware that one of its most valuable prisoners was no longer within its walls. But instead, contained within the pages of a mystical Slave Grimoire. Carried by a wealthy young noble with aspirations of the sky.
The night's work was done. Now came the waiting. For the morning light to reveal the empty cell. And for the inevitable, chaotic scramble to cover up the impossible vanishing act.
And Spark, by all accounts, would be nowhere near the prison. He would be at his villa. Likely enjoying a late breakfast back at his villa. And appraising the recent items he acquired from the Great Auction. The perfect alibi.