Noah towered over Zabo. His intentions were unclear to Sabir, but he knew only one thing. That orb was bad news, from the way Zabo’s usual cocky demeanor had transformed into something that could only resemble abject fear. It has to be some torture device. Sabir winced at his own thoughts, the memories of laying in that iron chair resurfacing, causing the burns and cuts he received to ache.

I should try to help him. Sabir analyzed the tense atmosphere, looking for a way to interfere. Perhaps he shouldn’t get in the way. He’d only be drawing attention to himself, but Noah was an evil bastard. Whatever he was planning would not be nice. But all he felt was a pair of eyes locked on him, a gaze that made him freeze in his tracks. Frederick’s ancient eyes continued to glare at him. He wore a predatory smile, one that made Sabir want to crawl into a hole and hide.

Sabir fought back the urge to run away, with his body stiffening under the pressure that the head butler released. One wrong move and he’ll kill me. I can just feel it.

There was nothing he could do.

He hated it. Hated that he couldn’t save Zabo, couldn’t even save himself. But the truth of the matter was simple: he would die if he tried. And so, all Sabir could do was apologize silently to Zabo, regret sinking deep into his bones. He had to live for another day.

Sabir could only watch on as Zabo’s eyes flicker between Noah and the chains that bound him, calculating an impossible escape. Zabo, an injured prey, was at the mercy of a true predator. He cursed under his breath, frustration leaking from every pore. He wriggled under the chains, straining against them, but his efforts were in vain. The iron balls weighing down the chains made every movement a struggle.

His aurasphere was completely empty, all his power he had drawn up, wasted trying to escape. It was stupid on his part to use his aura so recklessly. He could not focus nor meditate, recharging his aurasphere had become impossible. Zabo cursed himself. Powerless once again. How many times had he found himself in situations like this, unable to summon his aura when it mattered the most? Too many times. Regret gripped him as he thought about Master Mourning, his teacher. He had wasted so much time, distracted by chasing after girls and playing around. Had he truly dedicated himself to the journey of cultivation, maybe he wouldn’t have been in this mess.

Noah’s smirk deepened as he leaned down, grabbing Zabo’s right arm. Zabo gritted his teeth and tried to push back, his fist clenched tight in resistance, but the chains and his own exhaustion held him fast. With almost casual ease, Noah pried Zabo’s hand open and shoved the dark orb, the Astral Gauge, into his palm.

Noah caressed his hand, showing great care with his new toy. “Let’s see what powers you really possess.”

The orb was an Astral Gauge, Sabir finally understood, an object of extreme importance, that measured the strength of one’s Esper powers, from F to S rank. He had heard about them, but never seen one in action. The Threshold had one at all times, to test if people had the power to enter Havana.

He didn’t understand why knowing his strength truly mattered until he realised that with this Sabir could truly know if what Zabo was saying was true. Was he truly a dud? If that were the case, then everything else–him dying, it could all be true. Sabir swallowed hard. The outcome of what this orb revealed was unclear even now. Would it truly change anything?

They all waited in anticipation, staring at the orb in Zabo’s hand, waiting for it to glow with a different shade other than black, but nothing happened.

Noah’s brow furrowed in confusion. He turned to Frederick, the old butler who was still standing at the cell’s entrance. “Frederick, what are the chances this Astral Gauge is broken?” Noah asked, his voice slightly contained.

Frederick responded without hesitation, “Impossible. The gauge cannot lie.”

Noah shot a bewildered look back at Zabo, then back at Frederick. “Then what does this mean?” he demanded, clearly agitated by the result.

Frederick’s response was calm, but his words were cutting. “It means you almost lost to a dud.”

The insult hung in the air. Noah’s face twisted with disbelief. “No… he can’t be a dud. He was too strong to be a dud.” He shook his head as if the answer could somehow change through sheer will. Noah stuck his own neck out, promising his father that he brought a prize, even though he had failed in capturing the bastard. But now–everything was disintegrating in front of his eyes.

Frederick’s lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile. “Perhaps Master Noah was simply having a rough day and created this fabricated tale to save face.” He shrugged before he shot Noah with a judgemental stare. “Your father won’t take too kindly to this.”

Noah scowled, frustration clear in his tone. “This is no time for your stupid jokes, Frederick,” he snapped, pacing back and forth in the dimly lit cell. His cyan hair fell loose from its tie, his long hair fluttered in the cold cell, while his new fringe covered his eyes full of thoughts. “Why is he listed as having super strength and attending a hunter academy if he’s a dud? It doesn’t add up.”

His gaze drifted back to Zabo, who lay completely prone, his expression hard to read. Yet Noah knew the boy was hiding something. The Astral Gauge had shown nothing, yet something about it felt wrong. He was no fool. He sensed Zabo’s strength during their fight. It wasn’t just brute force; it was something more. There had been a presence, an energy contained in all of his movement, in each attack. Energy so strong, he had seen nothing like it. Noah had felt it in his bones. It was no illusion. There was power buried deep within him.

He’s hiding something, but what? And why? Noah questioned.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Frederick, ever calm, stood idly by while Noah seemed to throw a baby tantrum. His expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker of impatience in his eyes as he interrupted Noah’s thoughts, “There isn’t time for conspiracies or irrelevant distractions, Master Noah. Need I remind you, I am here to fulfill my own duties.” His gaze sharpened as it slid over to Sabir, who still seemed unable to take a breath fraught with fear.

Sabir’s muscles tensed, feeling the weight of Frederick’s attention on him. It was like being caught in a spider’s web, his entire body screaming at him to move, to fight, to do something, but he couldn’t. The more he tried, the more his heart slowed, yet each heartbeat pounded in his chest, and sweat trickled down his neck. But he forced himself to remain still, his golden eyes fixed on the floor. If he moved now, even a flinch, it would be over.

Noah’s frustration simmered on the surface before he glanced once more at Zabo, lying defenseless in chains. Something gnawed at him, a gut feeling he couldn’t shake. Zabo was hiding something. “You’re not a dud, I can feel it. I know there’s something in there.” He glanced towards the Astral Gauge in his hand. “But if this gauge can’t show it… why?”

His jaw clenched, his temper flaring. He didn’t enjoy feeling as though he was missing something. Being left in the dark, when he should know everything and he definitely didn’t like being undermined. Still, he would not lash out, not now, when he still had a lead.

He turned to Zabo, his eyes narrowing, studying the boy. Bound, battered, and helpless, Noah couldn’t shake the feeling he was getting played. Sure, Zabo fought him, with a strength no ordinary person had, and yet here the gauge measured him as a nobody. He didn’t need some piece of technology to tell him what his instincts already knew.

“I’ll find out what you’re hiding, Kiakor,” Noah said, a dark promise woven into his words. His voice echoing across the room, his voice lowered into a near whisper, low enough for only Zabo to hear. “You think you can fool me? You can’t. Not forever.”

Zabo’s face remained a mask of defiance as he lay on the ground, but he knew if Noah continued to push for the truth, everything would be over. Noah’s push for the truth would expose the order, leading to hundreds of deaths. I’m sorry everyone. He couldn’t help but feel that everything would become his fault, a sense of guilt biting at him viciously.

Noah stood and turned to leave, but he paused at the doorway, glancing over his shoulder one last time. “You’re lucky today,” he spoke with a coldness that made Zabo fearful. “I don’t have time to torture you, but don’t think for a second this is over. I’ll figure it out. And when I do…” His sentence trailed, allowing the threat to hang in the air. He harrumphed, turning to leave, storming toward the exit, the Astral Gauge still clutched tightly in his hand.

As the door groaned shut behind Noah, the heavy thud of its lock seemed to reverberate around the room. Frederick watched the young Voltaire disappear down the corridor, his face inscrutable. Slowly, he let out a great, quiet breath that he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding onto, shaking his head in silent reprimand.

“The Lord’s children still have much to learn,” he muttered under his breath, his voice carrying a note of both amusement and disappointment.

With a swiftness that belied his old age, Frederick’s hand moved smoothly toward a pocket within his jacket. As he drew out his knife, its gleam caught the dim light, the intention of the act plain as daylight.

Frederick turned to Sabir next, his eyes shone brightly with killer intent. The head butler looked on with a detached gaze, though a sea of lethality laid around him. He looked at Sabir from top to button, seeing his white shirt turned gray from specks of grime, his black trousers and dust and dirt scuffed his black leather shoes. Frederick smiled, knowing that the cell hadn’t been kind to him. In truth, he thought this punishment for anyone was far too soft.

Sabir’s golden eyes clashed with Frederick’s, sizing each other up. Throughout his life, Frederick had seen that fire in eyes, soaked in vengeance, forged by dogmatic views of striking back at a world that took everything from them and gave nothing. Frederick had killed many of such men.

They had all failed.

Frederick’s thoughts lingered on the name Quinn, a bitter taste filling his mouth at the very mention of it. To most, it was just another name, but to Frederick, it was a stain on the Voltaire legacy, a festering wound that had almost destroyed everything he had sworn to protect.

He thought lust and greed cursed the Quinn bloodline. There was no other explanation. Frederick had watched, years ago, as Cynthia Quinn sought to bring down the glorious Voltaires, a family that stood as pillars of power, untouchable by common men. She had nearly succeeded, too. Her ploy to seduce master Vincent was successful, however the patriarch had foreseen it all.

His grip on the knife’s hilt tightened as he thought about the past. Lord Voltaire gave Frederick a purpose, a reason to exist. Frederick owed everything to the Voltaire family: his life, loyalty, and soul were theirs to be used as an instrument. It wasn’t just that the Voltaires held immense power; they were gods, their lineage traced by the threads of fate themselves to lead, to rise above the weak. To Frederick, they were not mere nobles but gods amongst mortals. And he, their dutiful servant, would do anything for the sake of the family.

He couldn’t–he wouldn’t let the Quinn’s blood rise again. They were parasites, gnawing at the very root of the Voltaire Empire and dulling the purity of what his lord had built. This was no longer a question of revenge or duty; it had become fanaticism. Just the fact that a threat toward his family existed, breathing somewhere in the world, propelled him into a righteous rage. The very concept was sacrilege to him. The Quinn’s blood was vile, an affront to the sanctity of the Voltaire lineage.

The little blade in his hand was tiny, deadly, and a symbol of his devotion. Having tasted the blood of traitors before, with every killing, Frederick felt this strange satisfaction that he was purifying the world in the name of his lord. The killing of Sabir was not some sort of task but a holy act, an offering to the first Voltaire sovereign, a means of ensuring his legacy would never be tarnished.

As his fingers traced the sharp, cold metal, Frederick’s eyes narrowed on Sabir. There he sat, defiant, yet so clearly afraid, oblivious to the weight of history that surrounded him. To Frederick, Sabir wasn’t just a boy. He was a symbol of everything that threatened the Voltaires. A filthy, vile stain that had somehow escaped being wiped clean.

How dare he sit there with those eyes brimming with hatred? How dare a filthy dud, a parasite that had no right to exist anymore—challenge the will of the Voltaires? Frederick’s lip curled in disgust. The Quinns weren’t just enemies; they were a blight on the very fabric of Voltaire supremacy, and Frederick couldn’t let them pollute the world any longer.

This was his lord’s mission to him, and never once had Frederick turned his back upon a mission. The blood of the Voltaires was sacred, untainted by disgusting duds and weaklings. The very idea that Sabir could walk freely, plotting vengeance, was blasphemous. Sabir’s survival threatened the purity of the Voltaire family, and Frederick could feel his hatred swell at the thought.

His steps were slow, measured; the knife flashed in his hand as he neared Sabir. His eyes stayed steadily fixed upon the boy; his eyes shone bright with contempt. It wasn’t murder in Frederick’s mind, but justice. A divine act that would clean the world once again of another impurity.

“Your blood…” Frederick muttered under his breath, his voice a growl. “It will never tarnish the Voltaires again. I shall kill you like I killed your sister.”

“What- what did you say?”