Chapter 36 – The Abandoned Castle
Leaving from the northern gate of Pita City, the small convoy of three carriages passed through rows of suburban townhouses, weaving factories, and flour mills. Beyond them stretched open country—a clear river crossed by a narrow wooden bridge, and then a winding path that led into the forest.
The road narrowed into a dirt trail, twisting between mossy trees and thick undergrowth. After an hour's travel, the forest finally broke, revealing a small town tucked within the embrace of the surrounding woods.
From afar, the town appeared to rest in the shadow of a tall hill. Amidst the lush greenery, patches of white and reddish-brown rooftops dotted the landscape. A single curved road ran through the center, dividing the settlement in two, with houses neatly clustered along both sides. Around noon, thin trails of smoke rose lazily from the chimneys, curling into the sunlight.
And there—at the crest of the hill—stood a black castle.
Under the midday glow, its dark spires loomed like a relic from a forgotten age. The rising smoke from the town below drifted around it, cloaking it in a hazy shroud. The castle gleamed like a black pearl hidden in fog—beautiful, mysterious, and faintly ominous.
That was their destination.
The carriages rattled steadily along the uphill path, wheels crunching over uneven gravel. Each bump made the wooden frames creak, the sound echoing faintly between the trees.
Villagers on the roadside stopped what they were doing to stare. Their clothes were plain, their eyes suspicious. As the black carriages rolled into town, whispers rippled from door to door. The townsfolk exchanged uneasy looks, muttering to one another.
By the time the convoy reached the town square, it became clear they could go no further.
It wasn't a matter of choice—there was simply no way through.
The sight of sleek black horses and polished carriages had drawn too much attention. Within minutes, a crowd had formed, blocking the road. The air grew thick with hostility.
"Get out of here!"
"You don't belong in this town!"
"Where do you think you're going?"
"The castle?"
"Don't let them near the castle!"
Angry shouts erupted all at once. People surged forward, surrounding the carriages, waving their fists. The horses whinnied in panic, stamping their hooves against the cobblestones.
Seeing no other choice, Charles and the others stepped out.
Two uniformed police officers pushed through the crowd to make way, with Charles walking calmly behind them. But the moment he appeared, the uproar only intensified.
"It's him again!"
"Leave! This isn't your land!"
"Get out of here!"
"Don't you dare set foot in that cursed castle!"
"—"
BANG!
One of the policemen raised his pistol and fired a single shot into the sky. The sharp crack echoed through the square, instantly silencing the mob.
The smell of gunpowder lingered in the air.
Charles cleared his throat lightly, glancing sideways at the officer beside him.
"According to Dulin law," he asked evenly, "what's the penalty for obstructing police business?"
"Anywhere from ten pennies to ten gold pounds," the young officer replied promptly.
Charles recognized him—the same officer who'd once searched his house. Back then, the man had treated him like a suspect. Now, he followed like a lackey.
Charles smirked faintly. "With this many people, I suppose the law won't punish them all, hm?"
The crowd's tension seemed to ease for a moment—until the young officer flashed a wicked grin.
"Oh, it will," he said. "The Chief loves a big crowd. More trouble means more fines."
As he spoke, the other officers climbed down from the remaining carriages—ten in total, all in matching dark uniforms, each holding a flintlock musket.
The sight alone was enough to quiet the mob.
One villager dared to shout something under his breath—then froze when another gunshot split the air. Silence fell once more.
Unlike the peaceful societies of Earth, the Kingdom of Dulin was far less restrained. Police here were the direct descendants of the city guard—the same enforcers who once ruled the streets like soldiers. They were men of power, feared and brutal, not afraid to shoot first and justify later. Even now, after a century of "reform," they remained the law's iron fist.
With the crowd subdued, the carriages rolled forward once more. The townspeople parted reluctantly, muttering curses under their breath.
But the convoy didn't head straight for the castle. Instead, it stopped in front of a large, weathered house at the far end of the town.
The earlier commotion had clearly drawn attention. Before long, an old man shuffled out of the building. His posture was hunched, his features sly and ratlike. Upon seeing Charles step down from the carriage, his face lit up with forced enthusiasm.
"Ah, Lord Cranston! What an honor to have you in our humble town! Welcome, welcome!"
Charles didn't bother with pleasantries. His expression was cold, his tone clipped.
"The key."
He extended a hand, eyes hard with impatience. The disdain in his voice was impossible to miss.
The man before Charles was the current mayor of Canyon Town. If memory served, he'd been the loudest one cursing the "old Cranston" during the previous visit. Charles remembered him well—not for his courage, but for that freckled, bulbous, wine-stained nose of his, which twitched with every word he spoke like it had a life of its own.
"The key? Heh, of course, of course! I've had it ready for ages! Just a moment, I'll fetch it right away!"
Despite his claim, the mayor scurried back inside, rummaging noisily through drawers and cabinets. His babbling excuses and brazen shamelessness were so ridiculous that even the policemen nearby averted their eyes in disgust. Still, with Charles present, none of them said a word.
After a short while, the old man came trotting back, both hands clutching a ring of heavy black iron keys. As he handed them over, he plastered on an oily grin.
"You understand, of course, heh… we were only following orders—nothing personal! You see, we just do what we're told. Heh… I hope you understand, truly understand."
"Orders from who, exactly?" Charles asked, taking the keys slowly. His tone was casual, but his sidelong glance at the old weasel was sharp and disdainful. Any notion of "respecting one's elders" had long since evaporated.
"Well, from the ones who, uh… control the purse strings, heh. You know how it is," the mayor said with a conspiratorial wink that made Charles's skin crawl.
The ones who control the money? Charles thought grimly.
Tax officials? City council? Or perhaps someone else entirely?
He didn't press the issue. Pita City wasn't large, and there were only a handful of people who could command both the mayor and the chief of police. He already had a few names in mind—but until his strength grew, there was no point in speaking them aloud.
"One step at a time," he reminded himself quietly.
Pocketing the keys, Charles climbed back into the carriage. The convoy started forward again, following the rocky road that wound toward the black castle.
This time, there were no interruptions. The path curved gently upward, and before long, the castle gates loomed into view.
They were not drawbridges but solid iron doors, locked tight and rusted at the edges. Through the narrow slats, Charles could see a courtyard blanketed in fallen leaves and overgrown weeds.
Two spired towers flanked the gate like twin sentinels, their jagged silhouettes clawing at the gray sky. The surrounding walls of weathered stone rose twenty feet high—crumbling, scarred, and stripped of their outer plaster. It had clearly been decades since anyone cared for this place.
The castle's design suggested it wasn't particularly ancient—more decorative than defensive—but its age and neglect gave it the weary dignity of an old man long past his prime.
After some effort, the officers managed to turn the gate's manual crank, and the heavy doors creaked open inch by inch. The convoy stepped inside.
The entrance hall was dim and cold. Past the archway lay a training yard surrounded by barracks, forges, and stables—all long abandoned. Beyond another iron gate, they entered the heart of the castle—the inner keep.
This was Black Maple Fort, the true seat of the Cranston family.
The policemen looked around curiously, whispering to one another. The musty air, the cobwebbed rafters, the thick layer of dust—it was like stepping back in time.
But Charles wasn't here for sightseeing. He fit one of the keys into the main hall's lock and forced open the heavy black door. The hinges groaned, and a wave of stale, cold air rolled out.
Inside lay a vast, empty hall. Whatever furniture once stood there had been stripped away long ago. Only a massive stone fireplace remained, looming at the far end like a tomb monument.
In one corner, a wide stone staircase wound upward to a second-floor gallery. From there, another stairway climbed toward the upper levels, vanishing beneath a ceiling covered in faded frescoes.
Charles barely spared it a glance.
Because the moment he stepped into the hall, a faint whisper brushed his ears.
It wasn't wind.
The sound was low, hushed—like someone murmuring right beside him. The words were indistinct, their cadence eerily similar to the chants he used in spellcasting. The tone carried a ghostly chill… and yet, inexplicably, something about it felt familiar.
Unnervingly familiar.
"What the hell…?" he muttered.
Before he realized it, his feet were moving on their own, drawn toward the source of the sound.
It led him to a corner of the hall—a narrow passage with a stone railing and a flight of steps descending into the earth. A heavy wooden door barred the way at the bottom.
The whisper grew louder. Urgent. Beckoning.
Charles felt his pulse quicken as if in trance, his body moving without thought. He was halfway down the steps when—
[Your spirituality is being invaded by an unknown force. Spellcasting abilities temporarily reduced.]
The glowing message flashed before his eyes.
The shock snapped him back to awareness. He froze, glanced at the door below, then at the steps already behind him—and turned on his heel, retreating without a second thought.
As if angered by his resistance, the whisper suddenly rose in pitch, shrill and desperate. But now that he was alert, it no longer had any hold over him.
"So this is what you call 'nothing unusual,' huh?" he hissed under his breath, glaring back toward the stairway.
The police officers in the main hall, still oblivious, chatted idly among themselves.
Charles clenched his fists.
"If this is considered safe," he muttered darkly, "I'd hate to see what counts as dangerous."
His curiosity was gone. Whatever fascination he'd had with the castle vanished entirely. He had no interest in living here now—certainly not in a place that whispered like it had a mind of its own.
If someone wanted to play ghost hunter, they could have it.
As for him—he'd seen enough.
Heading upstairs, he searched through the third-floor study. Dust blanketed the furniture, but after a long search, he found what he came for: the Cranston family sigil, the official token of dominion over Canyon Town.
Tucking it safely away, Charles left the castle without looking back.
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