Upon their arrival in Linston, the air of the dwarf-city settled upon the trio. The inhabitants—sturdy, proud dwarves—regarded Jai, James, and Zayn with expressions ranging from open curiosity to unconcealed surprise. To see actual humans in this secluded domain was as rare as seeing a dragon take flight. Yet, the three youths, veterans of far stranger sights, remained unperturbed. They maintained a casual air, their true purpose a deep current beneath the surface of their calm demeanor, and began their exploration.
Their steps soon led them to an exquisite sight: a beautiful garden where a diminutive, white castle stood. Though small, its ethereal beauty and impeccable design made it an elegant reflection of the grand Linston palace, encircled by the towering dwarf city.
Beside this architectural marvel, a middle-aged man sat upon a wooden stool, his entire being focused on a paper sheet. His brush danced, transforming the very likeness of a couple seated before the castle into a breathtaking painting.
He was a man of the earth, his presence marked by hair the shade of rich, cultivated soil and eyes that matched—a deep, unwavering brown. Yet, these were no ordinary eyes; they were the lenses of a master, possessing a startling, hawk-like accuracy as they pierced the paper before him. Every detail, every stroke, was first absorbed by his gaze.
He was garbed in simple, dark cloth: a jet-white outer shirt that seemed to absorb the light, paired with pants the color of dry oak. His attire spoke not of vanity or wealth, but of an ascetic dedication to his craft, ensuring nothing distracted from the fierce concentration poured into the creation upon his sheet.
"Guys!" Jai, ever the forward-thinker, brightened. "Why don't we go and have our portrait done? It would be a fine keepsake from this dwarven realm!"
James and Zayn, caught up in the simple, mortal pleasure of the idea, agreed with immediate enthusiasm. "Let's do it!" Zayn said.
They waited patiently for the couple's session to conclude before approaching the artist. Jai, with a respectful bow, spoke first. "Sir, my name is Arthur. Your skill is truly astonishing and your art, beautiful. If it is not too much trouble, could you immortalize my brothers and me before this fine little castle?"
The painter, a man whose hands held the weight of untold artistic talent, nodded solemnly and gestured them to an antique bench. For a full hour—a blink of an eye to cultivators but a stretch of focus for a mortal artist—the painter worked. When he finally presented the completed piece to Jai, the trio gasped.
It was more than a portrait; it was a soul captured on paper. Every minute detail, from the faint spark in their eyes to the subtle folds in their garments, was rendered with uncanny perfection. Jai was deeply satisfied. He paid the artist the handsome sum of 1000 ZUO, a generous offering for such mastery.
As he tucked the painting away, Jai's keen eye noticed a small, indistinct sign etched near the paper's edge. The mark was smudged, but the beginning of the artist's name was clear: "WI". A flicker of thought, a split-second internal computation, ran through Jai's mind.
"Excuse me, Mister," Jai inquired, his tone casual, "I'm curious, what is your distinguished name?"
The painter looked up, his brow furrowed slightly. "My name is Winston, youngster. What's the curiosity about that?"
The moment the name Winston left his lips, a palpable, invisible chill descended upon the three youths. Their guards immediately went up, their spiritual energy locked down and masked. This was no mere coincidence. The name echoed one they had seen on a missing persons list—a vital clue in their greater quest.
"Nothing at all, Mister," Jai smoothly countered, playing the role of the appreciative patron. "I was merely admiring your beautiful sign and wondered which master created it."
"It is merely a habit of mine," Winston replied, then reached for a small vial. "If it troubles you, you can erase the sign with this black ink."
"Oh, no, I wouldn't dream of it!" Jai refused, forcing a warm smile. "I love this sign. It makes the picture even more unique. We must bid you farewell now, good sir!"
They exchanged goodbyes, their surface demeanor perfectly calm, their inner thoughts a tempest. They had to act as though the name meant nothing, for the fate of their mission likely rested on this seemingly innocuous painter.
Near a fragrant food stall, they purchased bread with fesko meat (the chicken of this realm) and began to converse in hushed tones.
"Arthur, Clement," Zayn began, his voice low, "tell me I did not mishear. Did you hear that same name, that 'Winston'?"
"Do you think we have a hearing problem, Zayn?" James retorted, his eyes narrowed. "We heard the very same name."
The weight of their shared undertaking settled upon them. In the crucible of this secret journey, the bonds between the three had become stronger than mere friendship. James and Jai might one day soon reveal their full, disguised identities to Zayn, but not yet. Not before they could refine the artifact with their own blood, a ritual that demanded both time and perfect solitude.
Their journey was also a relentless path of cultivation. Every night, the trio dedicated themselves to advancing their spiritual cores, pushing for the elusive Tier 9 realm.
Jai's Core: Only at 30 percent. He possessed no external artifacts, relying solely on arduous cultivation to break through to Tier 9.James's Core: 55 percent in his Air elemental magic, and a budding 20 percent in his Space magic. With continued effort, he calculated he could hit Tier 9 in Air magic within two months.Zayn's Core: A formidable 90 percent across all his awakened elemental magics. Having awakened three elements at the age of fifteen, the challenge of advancing from Tier 9 to Tier 8 was immensely difficult, demanding exponentially more power.
As dusk deepened, they stalked their prey. They waited until they saw Winston retire to his dwelling, a solitary building. Immediately, Jai and the others rented a room directly across from his building, securing a perfect vantage point.
They watched until the deep hours of midnight, yet no movement stirred from Winston's place. Trusting their instincts and needing the precious time, they returned to their room and began their nightly cultivation cycle.
Then, from the absolute stillness of the night, a single, piercing scream tore through the silence.
Winston's scream.
Jai's eyes snapped open. James and Zayn instantly abandoned their meditations. In a flash of motion, they were out the door and sprinting towards their target's room. The door was securely locked.
"Stand back!" Zayn commanded. He instantly conjured the familiar, spiraling power of his Ice Drill, the same technique he had used in their first fateful confrontation at the palace. The drill slammed into the lock mechanism, grinding it to dust.
They burst into the room.
The sight before them was one of savage, chaotic violence. Winston lay on the cold stone floor, his body hemorrhaging, a sickening pool of his blood spreading rapidly. Standing over him was a figure—a woman—whose head was obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, her entire form swallowed by a voluminous white dress.
The moment the lady saw the three intruders, she acted with chilling swiftness. A small orb impacted the floor, releasing a cloud of dense, choking smoke. Before the youths could react, the figure vanished, escaping into the night as if she were but a wisp of shadow.
Jai rushed to the wounded painter. Without a second of hesitation, they stabilized him enough to rush him to the nearest hospital.
For two agonizing hours, the doctors battled to save his life. Finally, the chief surgeon emerged, wiping his brow. "He lives," the doctor declared, his voice weary but relieved. "He is stable, but leave him alone. He must heal through sleep."
The trio slept fitfully in the hospital, guarding their charge. When the first rays of the sun pierced the window, Jai checked his golden watch clock. It was 9:30. He quickly roused James and Zayn.
They found Winston seated in a wheelchair, pale but alive.
"Mister Winston, how are you feeling?" Jai asked, his face a picture of concern.
The middle-aged man looked at them, a flicker of gratitude in his weary eyes. "You youngsters… you are the ones who saved my life. I heard the commotion."
"Yes, sir," Jai confirmed. "We rented a room across the street. We heard your screams and rushed over. You were on the ground, covered in blood." Jai then leaned in, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "Mister Winston, who was that lady? The one who tried to kill you?"
Winston's eyes darkened, and he let out a long, shuddering sigh. The time for secrets was over. The man who had once been a mere target on a missing persons list was now ready to speak, and in doing so, he would finally unveil a major truth—a truth that spoke of the dreaded, clandestine organization known as the Shadow Ledger