Before they approached the looming gate, Luka leaned close to Devon, his voice a low murmur beneath the creak of the wagon wheels. "Lord Devon, can you Tell the councilman to order his guards to don their cloaks. I know you wouldn't want everyone knowing about your arrival." His gaze flicked toward the horizon, where the city's silhouette stood stark against the fading light.
Devon nodded, his jaw tight, and turned to Councilman Werba. "Have your men wear their cloaks. We move discreetly." His tone was clipped, authoritative, leaving no room for debate.
Werba, his silver hair catching the dim glow of twilight, gave a curt nod. "Guards, cloaks on," he commanded, his voice steady but laced with unease. The guards complied swiftly, their heavy woolen cloaks swishing as they draped over polished armor, muffling the glint of steel.
The gate loomed ahead, a massive structure of weathered brown wood, its grain scarred by time and elements.
It stood seventeen feet high and thirteen feet wide, framed by ancient stone walls that rose just four feet taller, their surfaces pitted and moss-streaked.
The walls, though unremarkable, were built for utility—wide enough for sentries to patrol above, sturdy enough to offer a vantage point in battle.
The air carried the faint scent of damp stone and old wood, mingling with the distant tang of smoke from the city beyond.
As they reached the gate, a guard's voice rang out from above, sharp and commanding. "State your business!" He stood atop the wall, his chainmail glinting faintly under a tattered black surcoat, a long spear gripped tightly in his calloused hands.
Devon stepped forward, pushing back his hood to reveal his face.
The guard's eyes widened, his spear wavering. "Lord Devon!" he stammered, shock etching his weathered features.
"I—I'll be down at once, my lord!" He scrambled down the narrow stone steps, his boots thudding against the worn slabs.
The gate creaked open, its hinges groaning like a beast roused from slumber.
Devon's gaze swept into the city, expecting the familiar bustle of Traventis. Instead, the streets lay eerily quiet, the usual vibrancy drained.
No merchants hawked wares, no children darted through alleys. The air felt heavy, oppressive, as though the city held its breath.
Frowning, Devon turned to the guard, who stood rigid, sweat beading on his brow despite the cool evening.
"Why are you alone at the main gate?" Devon asked, his voice low but edged with suspicion. "Where are the others? I see no sentries on the walls."
The guard swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "My lord, there's… an execution in the town square. A woman accused of sorcery. Most of the guards are there, overseeing it."
Councilman Werba, standing just behind Devon, stiffened. "Sorcery?" he echoed, his voice a mix of disbelief and unease, his fingers tightening around the reins of his horse.
The guard's eyes flicked to Werba, uncertainty clouding his face. He hesitated, then gathered his courage. "My lord, if I may… who is this man with you?"
Devon's expression remained impassive. "He's with me," he said simply, his tone brooking no further questions.
Turning back to the guard, Devon's voice grew sharper. "This woman—what do they plan to do with her?"
The guard shifted uncomfortably, his spear tapping against the ground. "They'll… likely execute her on the spot, my lord."
A ripple of tension passed through the group. Even Werba's guards, hardened men in their own right, flinched, their hands twitching toward their swords.
Devon's eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them. "That has never happened here," he said, his voice a low growl. He dismounted the wagon with a fluid motion, his boots hitting the dirt with a soft thud. "You," he pointed to one of Werba's guards, "get off your horse."
The guard obeyed instantly, swinging down from his mount. Devon took the reins, his movements swift and purposeful.
"Let the councilman and the others through," he ordered the gate guard, already swinging into the saddle.
Without waiting for a reply, he spurred the horse forward, its hooves pounding against the cobblestones as he galloped into the city.
The streets blurred past—rows of wooden houses, their thatched roofs sagging under the weight of neglect.
Stray dogs skulked in the shadows, their ribs stark against matted fur.
The absence of children's laughter or the clatter of daily life gnawed at Devon's gut. 'What's happened to this place?' he thought, the question heavy with dread.
Ahead, a crowd gathered in front of the The legislative House.
Their murmurs grew louder as Devon approached, a mix of fear and anticipation. He caught sight of more guards dragging a second woman toward a makeshift platform of uneven bricks. It was a few meters higher than the ground and it appeared to have been built for this sole purpose.
Her face was streaked with tears, her hands bound tightly behind her.
Nearby, a familiar figure struggled against two guards—Chief Silas, his gray beard quivering as he shouted, only to be knocked to the ground with a brutal shove.
The system's voice hummed in Devon's mind.
'Subject identified as Silas.'
Silas, one of the chiefs of the Small Council, the governing elders of Traventis.
'Can I push through this crowd with my current strength?' Devon asked inwardly, his eyes scanning the mass of bodies.
The system's response was immediate.
'It would be difficult. An upgrade would make it possible.'
Devon's jaw clenched, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
"This madness cannot go on in my presence. System!" he called aloud, his tone commanding.
'Yes, Devon?' the system replied, its voice a calm hum in his mind.
"Upgrade all physical core attributes to the maximum of current rank," he ordered, his voice steady despite the fire in his veins.
A surge coursed through him, like lightning igniting his blood.
His muscles twitched and expanded, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He staggered slightly, gripping the saddle to steady himself, the sensation both exhilarating and disorienting.
His vision sharpened, the world snapping into vivid clarity—the rough texture of the cobblestones, the faint scent of sweat and fear from the crowd.
The system's HUD flickered into view.
[All physical core attributes upgraded to max.]
[Strength: 20/20]
[Speed: 20/20]
[Endurance: 20/20]
[Calculating Supremacy Points used…]
Devon barely registered the text. He could feel the change—his shoulders broader, his frame slightly taller, power thrumming through every fiber.
With a deep breath, he urged the horse forward, bursting through the crowd with a force that sent people stumbling.
Grunts of annoyance turned to gasps of recognition. "Young Lord Devon!" a voice whispered. "He's back!" another cried. "Praise the gods," murmured a third, the words spreading like wildfire.
He reached the brick platform, his presence commanding silence.
"What madness is this?" he bellowed, his voice echoing over the crowd, his eyes locking onto the guards binding the second woman.
Her gaze met his, wide with terror but flickering with hope.
An older man stepped forward—Chief Galanas, another member of the Small Council.
His priestly tunic, green and white with intricate gold embroidery, shimmered faintly in the torchlight.
Rings glinted on his fingers, two gold, two gemstone—his himation draped elegantly around his neck.
Despite his age, he stood straight, his eyes sharp and unyielding.
"Young Lord Devon," Galanas said, his voice smooth, almost warm. "It's splendid to see you.
You look… astonishingly well since we last met." A faint smile played on his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Devon's face remained stone.
"Save your greetings, Galanas. What are the crimes of these women? This humiliation, this savagery, has never tainted our village.
What madness is this?" His voice trembled with barely restrained fury.
Galanas's expression hardened, though his tone remained calm. "These women stain Traventis's honor.
They stand accused of witchcraft, and the verdict is death."
Devon's gaze swept to the other chiefs behind Galanas, their faces a mix of defiance and unease.
"You, chiefs of the Small Council, support this barbarity?" he demanded. Then, turning to the crowd, his voice rose.
"And you, the people—would you stand idly by if these were your wives, your daughters, facing such a gruesome fate?"
Silence hung heavy, broken only by the distant thud of a drum and the caw of circling birds.
The women on the platform, their faces swollen from tears, stared at Devon, their eyes pleading.
The system's HUD flickered again.
[Subjects identified as townsfolk. Gender: female.]
[Subjects regaining hope. +10 Supremacy Points.]
[+20 Supremacy Points.]
Galanas stepped closer, his voice low but firm. "You should not obstruct justice, Lord Devon."
"Justice?" Devon snapped, his hand drawing a dagger from his belt. "Justice will be served when I know their crimes."
With a swift motion, he cut the ropes binding the women, their gasps of relief echoing in the stillness.
The HUD flashed.
[Subject freed from captivity.]
[Subject's gratitude knows no bounds.]
[Loyalty and trust increased by 40% each.]
[King Supremacy Recognition: 80%]
[+200 Supremacy Points.]
A faint bell tolled, its source unknown.
Before Devon could react, a shadow loomed—a seven-foot executioner, masked and massive, charging toward him.
The crowd's gasps were his only warning.
The giant's fist connected with a bone-jarring blow, sending Devon crashing to the ground, pain exploding through his back.
The HUD blared.
[Enemy detected.]
[Life-threatening danger!]
[Warning!]