The next morning was bleak and biting. Not that Charles needed the sky to reflect his mood; he was already simmering with anger.
[SIGMA SYSTEM: Loadout verified. Mission status—"Subtle Flight."]
"You know," SIGMA said with sardonic calm, "statistically, noble heirs sneaking out to play detective have a seventy percent chance of being stabbed in the first twenty-four hours. It's your funeral—or several data points."
"I'll beat the odds," Charles muttered. "Or stab back harder."
He moved through the East Wing like a ghost, avoiding main corridors for a forgotten route behind the grain storage chamber—an old, moldy service tunnel heavy with damp straw and cellar dust.
SIGMA remarked dryly, "Aromas detected: rat urine and unresolved childhood trauma. Delightful."
Charles smirked. "Good. It means nobody else uses it."
Past the bulk food stores, he reached a warped wooden hatch half-hidden beneath a collapsed shelf. He eased it open. Beyond lay the delivery bay, where two carts waited at the outer gate. Drivers were drowsy and preoccupied with tobacco smoke and complaints about noble schedules.
As the guards waved them forward, Charles moved.
One breath. Two steps. Leap.
He landed silently in the second cart, slipping between crates of ore. The scent of iron filled his nostrils—metallic, grounding. He nestled into a space between a canvas tarp and a sealed barrel. With a low creak, the gate opened.
And just like that, he left the Ziglar estate behind.
No ceremony. No farewell. No trace.
The guards didn't even notice him.
Charles said quietly, "This bad security makes me think about how many assassins we've let in."
With fake excitement, SIGMA said, [Statistically? Definitely more than one." Should I set up Fortify Estate Perimeter, or do you want to keep playing statistical roulette?]
"Put it between 'Dissect House Gayle' and 'Install Paranoia Mirrors in the Study.'"
"Done."
They rode in silence for a while, the road uneven but mercifully unguarded. Charles waited until the estate shrank into a blotch on the horizon before slipping out at a bend in the road, vanishing into the nearby forest.
From his cloak's inner pocket, he withdrew a folded mask of supple black leather and slid it over his face.
Not Charlemagne Ziglar.
Today, he was Charles Vale—a minor merchant's son traveling to Duranth for a trade apprenticeship. Anonymity stitched into every thread of his disguise.
And for once, the world beyond the gate felt like a beginning—not a burden.
The Land and the Lies
Two hours after slipping from beneath the manor's watchful eye, Charles dropped from the rear of the wagon.
He landed in a low roll; his cloak caught the wind like a flag. Moss softened the impact. The empty granary ahead was quiet and broken. Ivy-covered stone; the collapsed roof exposed it to rain. It smelled of mold, rot, and broken promises.
[SIGMA SYSTEM: Extraction finished. No surveillance arrays were found. No pursuit signatures.
Nobody noticed you leaving. Congratulations, you've officially ghosted your own home.]
Charles dusted off his cloak, and his face was blank. "Let's keep it that way."
He turned west—and ran.
The unpaved trail met him with gravel teeth and open arms. Wind raced past, carrying loam, wildflowers, and a distant memory of burning leaves. His boots struck earth in perfect rhythm—each step fueled by six relentless days of training.
His breath stayed steady. His movements are efficient.
The world no longer resisted him—it yielded.
[Abyss-Forged Vessel – Stage I (Peak): ACTIVE] Vital Energy Output: 112% | Bone Density: Reinforced | Qi Circulation: Stable and Amplified. Internal Load Threshold: Do not exceed burst output for longer than 12 seconds without backlash.
He smiled.
"I won't push it." Not yet.
The land ahead looked like an old painting that had been forgotten.
To the left, vineyards climbed trellises across terraced hills. In the morning sun, dew on the leaves looked like melted glass.
To the right, golden wheat fields undulated in the wind, swaying to its gentle song. Every stalk moved as if recalling struggle—standing proud, unyielding, noble.
Charles drank it in. The color, the motion, the silence.
For a moment, the poison, the betrayals, the memories—they drifted to the edge of his mind.
Just earth. Just breathe. Just forward.
[SIGMA: Scanning active...] "All clear. No aerial surveillance. No magical signatures. No boots at your heels."
"Enjoy the moment. Before the next knife comes flying."
"I'm learning to enjoy the quiet," Charles muttered. "Like the pause before a hostile merger."
In the distance, dark silhouettes moved through the fields—farmers bent in labor, tools in hand, backs crooked with time and repetition. Their clothes were threadbare. Their hats were stitched from old canvas and hope. Their skin was tough as bark.
He slowed.
This was the truth of the duchy.
Not the painted banquet halls. Not the gilded thrones or shallow court bows.
This.
Sweat. Hunger. Silence.
Lives that were ground down one harvest at a time, until they became soil for the next.
[SIGMA ANALYSIS: Rural labor force detected. Nutritional deficiency in 62.9%. Infrastructure non-enhanced. Risk of peasant rebellion: low to moderate.]
"Efficiency: poor. Resource management: negligent. Land value: salvageable with intervention."
"If this were one of my former divisions," Charles said darkly, "I'd gut the leadership, clean the logistics pipeline, and install enchanted irrigation conduits within the quarter."
"You'd also monopolize the wheat supply, let it bottleneck, and then sell access to the Empire at triple cost during a manufactured famine."
He smirked. "Ethics are flexible in a stable monopoly."
"Still ruthless," SIGMA sighed. "Just cleaner and better dressed."
He stopped atop a small ridge and scanned the horizon.
The land was tired, not dead. It could grow, it could thrive—it just needed the right tools.
He saw everything clearly, like a man who had built companies from scratch:
Fertilizer mixes based on mana that are right for the soil in your area. Elemental exhaustion determines crop rotation. Water channels that are powered by attuned spirit stones. Storm runes on scarecrows to keep pests away. Preservation vaults with extra storage glyphs and refrigeration.
Not just food.
Control. Affect. Steadiness.
"This isn't farming," he said in a low voice. "It's the infrastructure."
[More like guns. Whoever has the grain decides who eats. And who is hungry?]
"Exactly."
[Should I put this in the Agricultural Tier of Operation Empire Takeover?]
"Put it in between Military Logistics and Infrastructure Soft-Power Play."
"Logged. Codename: Bread and Blade."
The road ahead forked.
To the right, a worn but safe path led toward the main highway and, eventually, to the market city of Duranth.
To the left, a narrow trail curled around an overgrown hedgerow and into the remnants of an old border watchtower—long disused, long unguarded.
Charles stopped.
"Shortcut?"
[Confirmed shortcut. 27 minutes saved. Risk factor: Moderate. Possible encounters: wild dogs, territorial boars, and squatters who grow crops." "Chance of survival: 87%.]
"I like those chances."
He went to the left.
As he walked down the side path, the canopy closed above him. Vines hung low from dying trees. The ground was slippery under his boots, and the shadows were full of birdsong and silence.
The ruin appeared: Watcher's Rise, a mossy stone sentinel. The tower's top was gone, the stairs open to sky and rot, crows perched among the cracks.
He passed it without slowing.
"No signs of life," SIGMA reported. Mana traces: negligible. Structural integrity: pathetic."
"Then no ghosts today."
"Pity. They're more polite than nobles."
Soon, the forest thinned.
And the city emerged.
Duranth.
She rose like a gem from the earth, ringed by polished stone walls and ceremonial towers. Her banners snapped in the breeze—bright cloth bearing merchant emblems, noble crests, and foreign sigils.
The roads became crowded as he approached. Caravans clattered over stone, carts pulled by mana-augmented beasts and tired horses alike. Street vendors shouted, hawking honeyed dates, smoked lizard meat, and enchanted needles for tailoring cloth that never tore.
Even from here, the city pulsed.
SIGMA intoned analytically, "Civil activity: high. Magic density: moderate. Wealth distribution: sharply skewed." A hint of amusement: "Security presence: light. Ideal for blending in—unless you cause trouble."
Charles adjusted the hood of his cloak and stepped toward the gates.
"Ready?" SIGMA asked.
Charles smiled faintly.
"No. But let's raise hell anyway."
The Mask and the Marketplace
By midmorning, Duranth bloomed over the hillcrest—a city that didn't whisper welcome but shouted opportunity. A clash of color and ambition.
Smoke rose from ovens and spice carts, fragrant with saffron, pepperroot, and meat roasted over mana-coals. Flags and merchant banners flapped like gossipers' tongues—marked with family crests, trade runes, or smuggling symbols. The limestone walls glittered with gemstone mosaics, ceremonial rather than defensive, as if the city were showing its teeth.
[SIGMA SYSTEM: Entry Point Detected – Duranth Outer Gate, East Quarter.] "Traffic is moderate. Surveillance light. Social chaos: optimized for infiltration." "Also, someone's selling fried serpent tails near the gate. That's new."
"Make a note. I might need lunch and leverage."
Charles stepped into the city, flowing like water joining a river, his cloak drawn, boots silent. The crowd swallowed him whole—merchants shouting prices, street performers balancing on mana-tuned stilts, illusionists flickering images of exotic beasts in the air to bait curious children. Hawkers offered amulets that "repelled curses" and "enhanced stamina," and perfume peddlers sprayed enchanted scents with a little too much enthusiasm.
The air smelled of risk, dust, and dreams.
Duranth didn't care who you were. Just what you could offer.
"Any idea what I should offer today?" he murmured.
"Mysterious aura. Controlled arrogance. Enough gold to flash but not flaunt," SIGMA replied. "And preferably, a face no one can trace."
"Working on it."
Ten minutes and two winding alleys later, he stopped before an unmarked shop with a discreet crescent-moon insignia carved into black cedar above the doorframe. No glowing glyphs. No flashing banners. Just shadow and silence—and a feeling that if you hadn't been looking for it, you wouldn't have noticed it at all.
He stepped inside.
The air changed instantly. Cool. Still. Filtered. The noise of the marketplace fell away like someone had severed it with a blade.
The shop was long and narrow, its walls lined with masks—not the festive kind worn at masquerades, but masks that spoke. Whispered. Threatened. Bone-white visages with painted snarls. Silverleaf masks that shimmered with faint aura-warding runes. War masks used by desert clans. Ceremony masks etched with celestial script. One even looked like it had been carved from obsidian and polished with blood.
"Cozy," SIGMA remarked. "One wrong step and you're cursed by ancestral theater ghosts."
From behind the counter, a woman rose, middle-aged, with steel-gray eyes and a robe embroidered in patterns that flickered when viewed from the corner of the eye. Her gaze slid across Charles with precise calculation.
"Seeking anonymity, spectacle, or intimidation, sir?" she asked, voice low and musical.
"Something refined," Charles replied. "Functional. Difficult to track."
She nodded once. No sales pitch. No preamble.
A true professional.
She led him to a recessed alcove in the back. A locked glass case awaited, glowing faintly with a containment glyph. Inside: a half-mask of mana-treated Silverwood, matte gray with subtle ridges that followed the curve of the face like sculpted smoke. Aura-dispersive. Non-reflective. It covered the upper half of the face—cheekbones, nose bridge, and eyes—without restricting vision or expression.
A phantom's elegance. A predator's restraint.
"That one," Charles said.
The woman tapped a sequence on a silent sigil plate. The case hissed open.
"Ten gold coins and six silver," she said. "Though I suspect haggling isn't your style."
Charles drew eleven gold coins and dropped them in her palm.
"You're correct. Keep the change."
Her eyes gleamed. "Then allow me to wish you a profitable day… whoever you are."
He slipped through a side alley behind two cooper shops, the scent of tar and damp wood thick in the air. It was empty, quiet—perfect.
He changed swiftly.
Coarse tunic off. Noble shirt on—slightly dated, but well-cut. Court-fit pants. Polished boots with just the right scuff. And then, the mask.
He fastened it in place. The enchantment settled like a second skin. The world dimmed slightly. The past blurred.
Gone was Charlemagne Ziglar.
Now stood Charles Vale—an enigma in silver-gray.
"New identity initialized," SIGMA said. "Codename: Phantom Heir."
Charles sighed. "That's… awful."
"Correct. But it will confuse spies and irritate assassins."
He chuckled. He tugged the cloak forward and stepped out.
The street swallowed him again—but this time, he was untraceable.
"Next?" SIGMA asked.
"Auction reconnaissance. Underground contacts. And serpent tails," Charles said, eyes scanning the city.
"For the empire I'm going to build."