Chapter 61: The Godsworn

In a dim chamber, a man sat bound to a chair. The room’s stone-gray walls closed around him, with only a single torch on the wall lighting up his battered body. His hands were shackled by mana-infused cuffs that glowed faintly against his blemished skin. These cuffs were specially designed—strong enough to hold even the most seasoned of A-rank Paragons. Escape was unlikely.

A gag of cloth silenced him. His clothing, save for a thin layer of undergarments, had been stripped away. Cuts, bruises, and streaks of dried blood marked his body, while fresh wounds still oozed.

Four figures stood before him, each bearing a look of superiority mixed with a detached pity, as though he were little more than a small rabbit caught in a bear trap. He was now their prisoner, and the secrets he held, if extracted, would prove invaluable.

“So… this is him? This is what we have?” A bored female voice broke the silence, low and full of disdain. She was adorned in lavish jewelry from head to toe, platinum and obsidian bracelets and necklaces glinting against her black dress, adding an edge of opulence to her aura.

“Yes. He’s the closest link we’ve found so far, though I doubt we’ll get much.” Another woman’s voice, this one smooth and measured, replied back.

One of the men stepped forward, dressed in a stark black suit that bore no other adornments. The prisoner’s golden eyes, burning with defiance, glared up at him. The suited man bent forward and, with a quick motion, ripped the gag away, tossing it to the floor.

The prisoner spat immediately, a mix of blood and saliva hurtling toward his captor. Unfazed, the man simply lifted a single finger, and the spittle froze mid-air. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it back, splattering it across the prisoner’s forehead.

“No, no, we won’t be indulging in your lack of manners,” he murmured, a note of condescension thick in his voice. “Both your actions and your ideals are as pitiful as you are.” With that, he straightened, folding his hands behind his back as he took a few steps back, his gaze cold and piercing.

“Big talk from a man blessed by a unique class, Custodian,” the prisoner mumbled, the broken teeth within his mouth making speech hard.

“He gotcha there, Dorian,” spoke the gruff and burly voice of the man next to him. Custodian sent a sideways glance at the Draconid. His red skin looking almost like a dark, blood-like crimson color from the dim lighting of the room. His wings were massive, but luckily, could also contract behind his back, otherwise they might have spanned the entire cramped chamber.

“Could you refrain from using my real name, Vezavok?” Custodian muttered.

“Does it matter?” Vezavok’s lip curled in a smirk. “This one won’t live to tell the tale.”

Custodian shrugged, turning his attention back to the prisoner. “I believe your name is… Korvian?” he asked, his tone almost mocking.

Korvian, still bound, glared at Custodian with narrowed, burning yellow eyes. The intensity of his gaze was nearly tangible, defiant and filled with unspoken rage.

Custodian met Korvian’s glare head-on, narrowing his own eyes, matching the prisoner’s defiance with his own. “I don’t appreciate being glared at, especially not by filth like you,” he sneered, turning his attention away from the prisoner to the woman in the finely tailored dress standing beside the Draconid.

“Lady Jira, if you would,” Custodian requested, giving a slight nod toward Korvian.

She wore a sleek blue and white ensemble that served as both fashionable attire and armor, a blue breastplate embellished with silver embroidery, fitted over a cascading layered dress of fine, silken fabric.

Korvian’s gaze shifted warily to Lady Jira—just as a strangled cry tore from his throat. His body went rigid with pain, and his eyes snapped down to his right leg, where a neat, copper-sized hole now punctured clean through his calf. Blood seeped down his leg as he grit his teeth, his mouth filling with more blood as he suppressed the scream.

Lady Jira’s ring flashed briefly, then dimmed, leaving a faint gleam in her otherwise impassive gaze.

Vezavok chuckled, giving her a nod of approval. “You really ought to get me one of those, Jira. Seems quite handy for dealing with the stubborn sort,” he said, flexing his scaled, armor-like fingers with a grin. “Though… perhaps not a ring. Perhaps a claw gauntlet of sorts?”

He raised his right hand, admiring the metallic sheen of his draconic claws, each one like a weapon crafted from his own flesh.

Lady Jira scoffed. "Do you have any idea how much material it would take to make something that fits your claws? Forget it, unless you’re willing to pay the cost of three of these rings."

“Stingy crafter,” Vezavok grumbled, waving her off dismissively. His gaze settled back on Korvian, whose chin was streaked with fresh blood. “Are we certain this is the right one? Glowing eyes are hardly a rare skill,” he remarked.

"A skill that lasts indefinitely? His eyes haven’t dimmed since we restrained him here," Lady Jira replied coolly.

Vezavok shrugged, unconvinced. "Fine, whatever." He stepped closer, looming over the prisoner before extending a massive hand, resting his sharp claws just shy of piercing Korvian’s skull. With a small increase in pressure, he forced a strangled scream from Korvian’s lips, the claws pressing menacingly into his temples.

“Listen here, heretic,” Vezavok snarled, his voice low and dangerous. “Tell us where the Godsworn are, or your head will decorate these walls.”

Korvian gritted his teeth, fighting through the agony that pounded at his skull. His eyes, still glowing fiercely, narrowed in defiance. "H-heretic? You… you are the heretics!” he rasped.

With a snort, Vezavok released his grip, causing Korvian to lurch forward. He eyed the prisoner with contempt. “I’ll never understand your kind. Your ‘Godsworn,’ so eager to tear down everything they touch,” he growled. “Even now, with your life on the line, you cling to your beliefs.”

Korvian took in a shaky breath, a dark smile twitching at his lips. "Y-you really think… you can stop their ascension…” he whispered, his words laced with manic fervor. “You all wield their power, unknowingly… With or without the Godsworn, someone… someday… will release them.” A deranged laugh escaped his mouth, growing louder and more chilling, as his captors watched him in cold silence.

“It’s happened… once… twice… countless times… and it will happen again. He’s already… seen it. There’s no… stopping their arrival, hah…” Korvian sneered, his voice laced with a twisted satisfaction.

A frown deepened on Custodian’s brow as he narrowed his gaze. Korvian’s words could mean only one thing. He glanced around, noting his comrades’ expressions, each turned grave at the same moment.

“You… you’re all mere pawns… when the day comes—” Korvian’s mocking proclamation was abruptly cut off as his head exploded in a gruesome eruption of sinew, blood, and shattered bone, spraying outward in every direction.

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Three of the four standing figures quickly activated mana shields, deflecting the mess from their clothing. The only one who didn’t, and instead stood with his claws still outstretched toward the chair, was Vezavok. Blood and gore clung to his scaled skin, dripping down his form.

The others shot him exasperated looks.

“What was that for?” spat Lumina, the hearty woman beside Lady Jira, dispelling her mana shield and letting the blood fall to the floor. “He was the only lead we had, you stupid lizard!”

Vezavok shrugged, a slow, annoyed exhale escaping him. “Oh be quiet, Lumina. That man had nothing left to say. He already told us everything we needed.” His scales began to glow faintly as heat radiated from his skin. Steam erupted from his body, the searing heat burning away the dirty blood and biological matter until his crimson scales were spotless once more. Without another word, he turned and began to step out, leaving Korvian’s headless corpse slumped in the chair.

Lumina huffed, stomping after him. “You reckless lizard! I don’t know why we tolerate you! Every single time it’s always…” her voice grew faint as they both left the chamber.

Only Custodian and Lady Jira remained, silence stretching between them for a minute. Finally, Jira spoke, her voice thoughtful. “Do you believe his words? That they’ve already seen what’s coming?”

Custodian’s eyes stared at the prisoner’s mangled remains. His gaze had been troubled ever since Korvian’s cryptic remarks. If there was truth to them, then their timeline had just been shortened. Preparations would need to accelerate, and quickly.

“True or not, we’ve left the Godsworn unchecked for far too long,” Custodian murmured, his voice edged with steely resolve. “Korvian’s words may hold some truth, but honestly? We’d likely have reached the same conclusion without them.”

Lady Jira nodded in agreement, her gaze thoughtful. “It’s been over three years since we’ve seen them. At their last appearance, they already had a few at S-rank. It wouldn’t be surprising if, by now, they’d made… progress. The real question is—how much time do we have?”

Custodian straightened, his hands clasped behind his back as he turned toward the door. “Doesn’t matter. Whether it’s days or years, we need to start preparing now.” He took a few measured steps toward the exit, pausing only to add, “We still have failsafes in place and can shape the situation to our advantage. But assuming everything will go as planned? That would be the first mistake.” His words echoed in the chamber as he passed through the doorway, with Lady Jira following close behind.

image [https://i.imgur.com/ZiLMGqb.png]

“Alright, which one of you called this meeting?” The voice came from a man seated near the back of the dimly lit room. His tone was clear but low, commanding without force. His broad shoulders and solid build gave him an imposing presence without overwhelming the space. He wore a dark brown hood, reminiscent of a ranger’s, with a single, slightly curved black horn jutting from the top right of his forehead. He lounged back on a wooden chair, balanced on its back legs, his fingers tapping idly on the armrest.

Across the room, a woman with scarlet-red eyes leaned against the wall, humming a lilting tune to herself. Her hat, large and adorned with ruffled feathers around its edges—had the look of something a noble might wear to a grand ball. Her form was slender, her tight-fitted, black leather outfit outlining her figure like a rogue’s assassin attire.

“Does it matter?” replied a playful voice, tinged with mockery. In the center of the room, a man twirled about, his finely tailored clothing with flaring frills adding an absurd elegance to his movements as he danced by himself, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room.

“Yeah, it does matter,” the man in the chair snapped, halting his rocking as he swept his finger accusingly toward the four figures in front of him. “Because if one of you called this little gathering,” he sneered, “I say we take a vote and gut ’em. Ever heard of communication magic? Real handy stuff.”

The dancer paused mid-spin, chuckling. “Aw, what’s wrong, Ginny? Did we pull you away from your favorite little haunt at the Mernarry Brothel?” he taunted, a sly grin twisting his lips. “Emphasis on little—whoa!” He bent backward just in time to dodge a knife that whizzed right past his head.

The man in the chair glared, his hand still raised from the throw. “Call me Ginny again, and next time I’ll make sure your jaw joins that awful footwork of yours on the floor,” he growled.

The dancer’s feet shuffled in a quick, smooth recovery, his body twisting upright with an exaggerated flourish. He closed his eyes and performed a grand bow directly toward the man. One eye peeked open, and the faintest smirk played on his lips. Though human in appearance, something about his movements seemed too fluid, his limbs almost unnaturally agile.

A weary sigh broke the tension from across the room. Leaning against the far wall, opposite the feathered-hat woman, was a young woman’s silhouette. Her voice, calm but tinged with exasperation, sounded no older than twenty. “Ginne, Jowlaw—do you two have to start every meeting with this nonsense? Last time, whoever called a meeting ended up in pieces, thanks to Livira.”

“Good on her,” Ginne muttered, leaning back on his chair with a satisfied smirk, “was about to do it myself back then either way.” He flicked his fingers, and the dagger embedded in the wall vanished, reappearing with a shimmer in his grip as he twirled it absently.

Footsteps came from down the hall, approaching towards the door of the small, cozy room that they all stayed in. Small candles lit with flames, and random papers scattered about, some worn and illegible, made it clear that it was an old room, one that had been used as a private, non-magical study.

The wooden door creaked open as a man stepped inside. His appearance was strikingly normal, his face and build so utterly generic that it seemed almost intentional. He wore a large black cloak, concealing every detail save for the bland image of an unremarkable man. "Boss is coming," he announced, his voice flat and raspy, as if sick—or perhaps purposely masking his own voice. Without a fuss, he took a seat in the corner, sitting properly in his seat, unlike Ginne.

Another set of footsteps echoed from the hallway. At the door, a tall woman with glasses appeared, stepping into the room. She wore a long white dress with a high leg slit, revealing her leg in elegance as she moved. The gown, decorated with black engravings and symbols, provided a striking, mysterious glamour. Her hair was sleek and draped past her waist, with a heavy bang partially veiling her right eye. Short, pointed ears displayed herself as an elven-like grace as she closed the door behind her.

Her gaze settled immediately on Ginne and Jowlaw. "You boys really should consider getting along better," she said, her voice smooth and low, yet commanding the room’s full attention. "Not everyone here finds your bickering entertaining. Why can’t you two act like Livira or Aisha and wait patiently?"

Ginne clicked his tongue, but he kept twirling his dagger. Jowlaw, meanwhile, spun on his heel to face her, bowing deeply with a wild flourish. "Welcome, Mrs. Veraine."

She acknowledged him with a slight nod before crossing the room to a small desk littered with books and crumpled notes. With a wave of her hand—flames. Golden flames. They erupted, consuming the clutter in an instant, lighting up the room in a brilliant flash of light. As the flames died, leaving only ash, she moved to the chair behind the desk, repeating her actions, and reducing the entire thing to cinders with a single glance. She then lowered herself gracefully, seating herself on an ethereal throne of transparent mana that formed instantly beneath her.

"You’re all likely wondering why I’ve called this meeting," Veraine began, her gaze sweeping over each of them. "We have a new commission. One that requires… particular attention."

The room fell into silence. Ginne’s dagger stopped twirling. Livira lifted her face from beneath the brim of her feathered hat, eyes gleaming with curiosity. Aisha remained watchful, her gaze unbroken, while Jowlaw stood with his hands clasped behind his back, anticipation flickering across his face.

"A special request? Must be quite the large commission," Livira murmured, her voice low and sultry.

"For all of us to gather here? Who’s the big fish?" Ginne asked, leaning forward, eyes narrowed with intrigue.

Veraine's glasses caught the glow of the nearby candles, casting a sharp gleam over her lenses, turning them into opaque white panes that obscured her gaze. She took a measured breath, closing her eyes briefly as she spoke.

"This time, the commission isn't a paid request. It comes from… those above us. Higher than me. But I trust you all will treat it with the utmost respect and give your absolute best, no matter the difficulty."

Her eyes opened, revealing a piercing yellow glow. Within these pupils, held the single wing of a bird—the seal of eternity—the mark of the Godsworn. "The task is a bounty retrieval. The target…" she said, reaching into an unseen space behind her and drawing out a small photograph, which she slid onto the table.

Jowlaw, closest to the desk, stepped forward to examine it. He lifted the photograph, frowning. "A girl?"

Veraine nodded solemnly. "Recently, a certain high noble declared war on the Empyrian Empire. I’m sure you all know who I mean."

Jowlaw returned the photograph to the desk, his eyes still on it, puzzled. The image showed a young girl, perhaps eight or ten, smiling innocently. She wore a black dress and stood in a grand palace, her small hands clasped by the Empyrian King and Queen.

"There’s a rumor," Veraine continued, her gaze sharp behind her glasses, "that the lost daughter of the Empyrian family may be in another realm. The commission this time is target retrieval." She scanned the room, locking eyes briefly with each of her five subordinates. “We are to find and capture her alive, this young girl who goes by the name: Lia Empyria.”