Chapter 15
Taran Thornevale walked through the door of the conference room of the Thornevale estate. Inside, tall windows lined the chamber, letting in the bright midday light that spilled across a polished table around which a dozen people were sitting comfortably.
At the head of the room sat his father, Isaac Thornevale, the current head of the branch family and Town Lord of Lint. He was draped in formal dark robes with the insignia of the Thornevale crest pinned to his shoulder. Isaac wore a calm, composed smile as he welcomed his son in.
Taran bowed lightly to the man, then took his seat.
Beside Isaac sat Maerel Farrow, a sharp-eyed, middle-aged woman representing one of the two cultivation families of Lint, the Farrow family. On Isaac's other side, Joren Blackholt, lean and watchful, nodded without greeting. Neither of the two representants looked fully at ease.
Directly across the table from Taran was Nox, the leader of the Vein, Lint's most influential civilian guild. His posture was loose, but his eyes missed nothing. He was flanked by a younger aide who said nothing and only took notes.
Next to Nox sat Verrun, head of the Arena Consortium. A gruff man with wide shoulders and a branded forearm. Verrun represented the less refined arm of Lint's political machine: public entertainment and sanctioned bloodsport.
Silas Dren, a gold-robed merchant lord whose shipping contracts tied him to three trade cities, leaned back with fingers steepled.
On the far left, closest to the exit, sat Heiran, a soft-spoken scholar representing the City Archive and responsible for tracking wraith activity data and civilian morale reports.
Next to him, the tenth seat was occupied by Lance Vane, the current commander of the town guards and militia. A man who looked as tired as he did armored, with silver threading visible at his temples and a tired hand resting on a formal report scroll.
All in all, there were ten of them. Each a thread in the city's fabric. Each watching Isaac with their own quiet questions.
"We'll begin," Isaac said smoothly. "Thank you all for coming on short notice. I'm sure that most of you have realized it, but the past few months have been difficult," He paused. "Wraith incidents have unsettled the population. Trust in our town's defenses is waning. And beyond our walls, unrest is growing. The request for assistance coming from the nearby villages keep increasing by the day."
A mild understatement, Taran thought.
"There are demands," Isaac went on, "from merchants and minor houses, calling for action, especially from those with the means to intervene."
"You mean us," Joren Blackholt said, folding his hands neatly. "The cultivator families. The arena. The Vein. Everyone but themselves." His tone was dry, but the implication sharp.
Maerel Farrow let out a low breath. "They're not wrong. If they see us sitting still while their sons go missing, they'll stop believing we're capable of anything."
"We've already tripled patrols around the town to cover the wraith sightings," Lance Vane said. His voice was steady, but it carried fatigue. "Night rotations, street presence, perimeter routes. We've stretched what men we have. Added to the that the missions outside of town-"
"And what good have those done?" Verrun, the Arena head, cut in. "Can any of your men strike a wraith down? Even with numbers?"
Lance's jaw tensed, but he didn't argue. The guards lacked the necessary weapons and tool to be truly efficient.
Silas Dren gave a small shrug. "Perception is what matters. Due to these frequent incidents, the market's slowing. Rumors kill business faster than monsters do. I've had to personally guarantee two caravans in the last week."
"Let's not forget," Nox added quietly, "that the last confirmed wraith sighting was near the northern ward node. That node has failed twice in the last month. And I don't believe that's coincidence."
Heiran, the scholar, cleared his throat. "I have to agree. We've charted overlapping paths in recent sightings. The wards seem to be destabilizing. Whether it's due to wear or tampering, we don't know."
Isaac watched them, each jumping to expose a problem without really offering any solution. He suppressed a snort, and waited until the murmurs settled before speaking again. "I see that you are all aware of the situation."
The room quieted as his voice raised. All eyes turning towards the man holding the most power in town.
"It's not just Lint that is unstable. All the nearby villages have sent reports of trouble. Beast, bandits, and horrors. This problem does not concern only us. But extends way over our walls."
"And as it stands, our current forces are no longer sufficient to quell the growing unrest." Isaac's eyes lingered on Lance Vane, and the man lowered his head, his fists betraying his anger and frustration.
"Which is why, I suggest that we rally our forces."
Isaac saw more than one person frown at his words, but he ignored them.
"We will form a task unit, drawn from our own resources. Volunteers from the cultivation families. Support from the Vein and the Arena. They will work with the city guard, and coordinate with Heiran. We'll keep patrols consistent, but with reinforcement. Experienced reinforcement."
"As for those outside the walls, we cannot simply ignore them. Once this force is established, we will dispatch teams to properly investigate the cause of this issue."
Isaac paused for a moment, letting his words sink in before continuing.
"What we need is order. Structure. Control. Visibility. We need to reassure the people, yes. But we also have to band together to protect our collective benefits."
The members of the conference mulled over Isaac's words for a while. Each thinking about the consequences and impact the idea could have on them.
"This sounds like a good idea. We can take the time to iron out the details later. But before that, I need to know, who would lead this?" Joren asked.
"I will," Isaac said calmly.
Silence followed.
It lasted longer than it should have.
Taran watched the room carefully. No one laughed. No one challenged the claim. Because Isaac could back it.
With cultivation at the peak of Rank 2, his father was the strongest person in Lint. He was stronger than anyone seated there, stronger than the enforcers patrolling the walls. He hadn't needed to prove it in years, but none of them had forgotten.
Maerel was the first to recover, she glanced at Taran Thornevale, then looked at Isaac. "Is this… appropriate? As the town lord, isn't it better to leave tasks like these to the younger ones?"
"Perhaps it isn't. But it's been a while since I have been properly involved in Lint's management," Isaac replied. "Fear spreads quickly. And the people need someone to rely on. We have to show them that we're acting. That I, the town lord, am still here."
"It's bold," Nox admitted, eyes narrowing slightly. "And slightly unusual."
"Unusual times," Isaac said. "And do not fear, I will not leave our town vulnerable. All mission outside the walls will be led by different person."
Across the table, Verrun leaned back, folding his arms. "I suppose the Arena could spare a few trained hands. They won't take care of wraiths, but they're skilled enough to count as muscles."
Nox nodded once, still watching Isaac. "The Vein can provide support. Mercenaries. Runners. Relay channels."
Heiran hesitated. "We've modeled wraith dispersal patterns, short-term formations could help... but there's a deeper issue."
Isaac tilted his head. "The wards."
Heiran nodded. "Yes. They're degrading faster than expected. The northern node failed last week. And the outer-east node has started to pulse out of rhythm."
"The network is fractured," Maerel Farrow said flatly. "You know what that means."
"The city's protections are crumbling," Nox added. "And without them, it won't just be wraiths we're dealing with."
Isaac held up a hand, silencing the growing argument. "I'm aware."
He glanced toward Taran, then the rest.
"I've already sent word to the main Thornevale family. They're arranging for a runemaster to be dispatched. Someone with the skill to assess and restore the array."
"Assuming they come quickly," Joren muttered.
"They will." Isaac's tone didn't leave room for doubt. "They understand the stakes."
No one challenged that, but some of those present remained worried. The wards were old, anchored into the bones of the city. If they failed completely, it wouldn't be a matter of rumors and missing merchants. It would be a disaster.
Taran looked at his father's face. And despite the resolute aura on him, he couldn't help but feel that something was amiss. There was something deeper buried in those eyes.
If the branch leader himself was willing to personally step into the streets, then something bigger was going on. Something that the latter wasn't willing to openly share.
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After a rough day of training, Alden tiredly dragged his feet out of the Thornevale estate and headed straight for the Mercy Inn. He was so exhausted that his mind barely registered his steps, his mind blurring out his surroundings until he walked the front doors of the inn.
A wall of sound welcomed him. As usual, the place was booming.
"Thought the arena chewed you up for good," a voice called out.
Alden looked toward the counter just in time to see the owner emerge from behind a pair of swinging kitchen doors, wiping her hands on her apron. She was plump, sharp-eyed, and always three steps ahead of every drunk and fighter that walked through her inn. Her gray-streaked hair was tied up in a no-nonsense bun, and her sharp grey eyes met him head-on.
Alden trudged his way to the counter and set his pack down. "Evening, madam."
"Five days," she said, leaning on the counter. "Five. I was this close to bundling your things and tossing them out back."
"I paid for the full week," Alden replied.
"You did," she agreed, eyes twinkling. "Which is the only reason your boots didn't end up feeding stray dogs."
He huffed out a breath, a mix between a laugh and a snort. "I got busy."
The woman raised an eyebrow. "Training? Fights? Or finally decided to start chasing after a girl with bad taste?"
"Training," Alden said dryly.
She looked him over, noting the faint bruising still fading along his jaw, the stiffness in how he carried his left shoulder. "Mm. That kind of training."
"Still got two nights left, don't I?"
"Room's still yours," she said, turning to fetch his key from the board behind her. "Though I may have dusted your things, just to check you hadn't keeled over in your room."
She tossed the key into his hand.
"Good to know someone would've noticed."
"Well, not everyone pays by the week like you. Some people are aware enough to know that they might die tomorrow."
Alden gave the woman a dry laugh and just decided to make his way to his room. It was the same as he left it: small, tucked in the corner, with a narrow window and a bed that was just comfortable enough not to complain about.
It wasn't much, but it felt a bit like coming home.
Alden kicked his boots off and unceremoniously dropped into the mattress. Muscles he hadn't realized were sore pulsed in response. His arms, his back, even his feet had a dull ache from holding too much tension too long.
Renna had run him hard. But hopefully, a single visit to the fog realm would take care of it all.
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During the next couple days, Alden got introduced to a new rhythm.
His mornings began at dawn with basic drills, forms, footwork, precision strikes. After that came sparring. Renna rotated between partner and observer, offering adjustments in short, clipped critiques. Alden learned to stop expecting praise and instead tracked progress by what she no longer corrected.
After that, the two would tackle cultivation materials. For the time being, they were mostly focused on theories. Practical exercises would follow after Alden actually had an idea about what he was trying to do by cultivating.
His evenings were quieter. Alden returned to the Mercy Inn to rest, eat, or occasionally watch a match at the arena from the higher seats, silently mapping out fighters' habits and mistakes. Learning. Always learning.
And so, after just five days, thanks to his rapid healing ability, Alden had grown stronger again. He wanted to test himself. After a short discussion with Renna, he finally decided to pay the Arena's management office a visit.
The place hadn't changed much. But as he walked through the hallway leading towards the administration wing, Alden noticed something.
There were less fighters hanging around than usual.
Alden found himself facing Bill's office door. He gave it a few knocks before stepped inside. Billy, looked up from a logbook with a familiar squint. It took him a second to recognize Alden.
"Well, well, well" He started, leaning back on his stool. "Silver Hunter. This is a surprise. I thought you hit the bucket, kid."
"Hello, Bill." Alden greeted with a cordial smile. "I've been a little busy the past few days. But as you can see, I'm well and alive."
The rotund man smirked. "Yeah. Coincidentally, I haven't seen Jarek around here for a couple days too. You know something about that?"
"Nope." Alden replied, his smile growing cold.
Seeing the look, Bill laughed heartily. He cast an appreciative look at Alden's new gear, and a glint of understanding passed his eyes.
"You seem to be doing better. So, what can I do for you today?"
"I'm looking for a match. Someone a little more challenging than my previous opponent." Alden said. "I remember there was a rank 4 who was slotted for a reevaluation. Is she still available?"
Billy shook his head. "Still planning on working towards rank 5?"
"Yeah."
"I'm afraid that will become a little difficult now."