Episode-240

Words : 1624 Updated : Oct 1st, 2025

Chapter : 479 A serpent, eating its own tail. He stared at Joseph, his mind reeling with the impossible, cataclysmic implications. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. The ghosts of his past were one thing. But this... this was another level entirely. He had been wrong. This wasn't just about his old enemies. This wasn't just about a commercial sabotage plot. The board was larger, the players more ancient, more powerful, than he could have ever imagined. He had just stumbled upon a clue, a thread, that connected his strange, new life in this world of magic and monsters, to the deepest, darkest shadows of the life he had left behind. A new, terrifying, and utterly, comprehensively, world-shattering question now burned in his mind. What in the name of all the gods, and all the devils, was a clandestine intelligence agency from 22nd century Earth doing operating in the back alleys of a medieval fantasy kingdom? He looked down at the two pathetic, broken men at his feet. They were no longer just criminals. They were the first, unwitting, and deeply unfortunate, casualties in a war that had apparently crossed worlds, crossed lifetimes. A war that he was, whether he liked it or not, right at the very center of. Without another word, his mind a silent, screaming storm of impossible questions, he lowered the spear. The brilliant, divine light winked out of existence, plunging the cellar back into its greasy, yellow gloom. The lesson was over. And the true, terrifying nature of the game had just, finally, been revealed. — The greasy yellow light of the oil lamp seemed to sputter and shrink away from the profound, echoing silence left in the wake of Jacob Croft’s confession. The name Jager, the description of the green-glowing eyes of a Black Spirit user, and the impossible, world-shattering revelation of the ouroboros pin—they all hung in the foul air of the cellar, a tapestry of a conspiracy far larger, far more ancient, than Lloyd had ever conceived. He was no longer just dealing with the ghosts of his own past life; he had stumbled into a shadow war that had apparently been raging across dimensions for centuries. He stood over the two broken brothers, the incandescent Spear of Justice having faded back into the latent energy of their shared bond, leaving behind only the sharp, clean scent of ozone and a deep, resonant ache in his Spirit Core. The immediate, physical threat was over. The brothers were shells, their arrogance and greed scoured away by a terror so profound it had likely rewritten their very souls. But the information they had provided had opened a Pandora’s Box of new, and infinitely more terrifying, questions. He looked down at the pathetic, whimpering forms of Joseph and Jacob, still bound in the gleaming steel chains that were an extension of his will. He felt a flicker of something—not pity, not for these men who had so callously used a child—but a kind of weary, clinical disgust. They were no longer the enemy. They were just... evidence. Loose ends to be tied up. A problem to be handed off to a higher authority, while he dealt with the much larger, much more dangerous implications of what he had just learned. The Major General, the cold, pragmatic strategist, reasserted control over the reeling, bewildered man within. The mission had changed. His primary objective was no longer just the protection of his brand or the neutralization of a commercial rival. It was now intelligence. Survival. And preparing for a war against an enemy whose resources, whose motives, whose very nature, were a complete and terrifying unknown. He turned, his back to the broken men, and spoke to the empty air near the shadowed staircase. His voice was quiet, but it held the crisp, clear authority of command. “Ken.” The shadow at the top of the stairs detached itself from the gloom without a sound. Ken Park flowed down the rickety wooden steps, his movements a symphony of silent, deadly grace. He surveyed the scene—the unconscious workers buried in the sea of cooling, foul-smelling soap foam, the two bound and broken brothers, the lingering scent of ozone and terror—his face the usual impassive mask. But his eyes, as they settled on Lloyd, held a new, deeper intensity. He had been watching. He had seen the spear. He had felt the shift in power, the absolute, undeniable judgment that had been delivered. “Young Lord,” Ken acknowledged, his voice a low, level rumble that seemed to absorb the lingering echoes of the cellar’s chaos. He stopped beside Lloyd, a silent pillar of unwavering competence. “The situation has been... resolved,” Lloyd stated, the words a profound understatement. He gestured with his chin towards the whimpering brothers. “These two require transport. And a formal debriefing. By an authority higher than my own.” Chapter : 480 He looked at Ken, his gaze direct, uncompromising. “Your report to my father was to be verbal, detailing only the initial plan of sabotage. This,” he said, his voice dropping, taking on a new weight, “changes things. The involvement of a Black Spirit user, the potential connection to an unknown, external organization... this is no longer just a matter of commercial rivalry. This is a matter of state security. A potential threat to the entire Duchy.” He was carefully, deliberately, framing the narrative. He could not speak of the ouroboros, of Earth, of his own impossible knowledge. That was a secret he would carry to his grave, again, if necessary. But he could present the facts he had uncovered here, in this world: a mysterious, powerful agent known as Jager, a wielder of forbidden magic, manipulating local criminals to destabilize a ducal-backed enterprise. It was enough. It was more than enough. “You will take them, Ken,” Lloyd commanded. “Directly to the Arch Duke’s private detention cells beneath the main estate. Not the city guard. No public spectacle. This must be handled with absolute discretion. I want them secured, isolated, and prepared for... a formal interrogation. By my father.” He paused, then handed Ken the ledger he had taken from Debala, the one detailing the Gilded Hand’s pathetic operations. “You will also deliver this. And a full, comprehensive report of everything you have witnessed here tonight. The Black Spirit. The chimera. Jacob Croft’s apparent status as a Devil Worshiper. And my... countermeasures.” He met Ken’s steady gaze. “Omit no details. My father needs to understand the true nature of the threat we are facing. The threat he is facing.” This was a calculated, strategic move. By handing this problem, this conspiracy, over to his father, he was accomplishing several things at once. He was demonstrating his own maturity, his understanding of the chain of command, his recognition that some threats were too large for a mere heir to handle alone. He was showing trust in his father’s authority, his ability to deal with matters of state security. And, most importantly, he was focusing the immense resources and formidable intelligence network of the Arch Duke himself onto the problem of Jager and his shadowy masters. He was turning his personal enemy into the state’s enemy. It was a classic move of political jujitsu, using the weight of a larger power to solve his own problem. Ken Park listened, his expression unchanging, but Lloyd could see the sharp, analytical mind behind the impassive mask processing the orders, understanding the strategic implications. He was not just being tasked with transporting prisoners; he was being made the official conduit of a piece of intelligence that could shift the political landscape of the entire kingdom. “The prisoners will be secured and delivered to the Arch Duke’s custody, my lord,” Ken affirmed, his voice a low, final promise. “And a full, detailed report will be on his desk before sunrise.” He looked at the two bound, whimpering brothers with a flicker of something that might have been professional distaste. “They will be... cooperative.” Lloyd nodded, a grim satisfaction settling in his heart. He trusted Ken to handle the logistics with his usual ruthless efficiency. The brothers Croft, who had thought themselves masters of their small, grimy world, were about to discover the true meaning of a ducal ‘debriefing’. With a final, almost imperceptible nod, Ken moved to his grim task. He effortlessly hoisted the bound form of Joseph over one shoulder, the massive brawler as light as a sack of grain to him. He then grabbed the still-babbling Jacob by the collar of his tunic, dragging him along like a misbehaving child. He turned, and with the two former masters of the Gilded Hand in tow, he melted back up the rickety staircase and into the concealing darkness of the Rais night, a silent, deadly cleaner, taking out the trash. Lloyd was left alone in the silent, stinking, soap-strewn cellar. The immediate crisis was over. The counterfeit threat was neutralized. The traitors had been delivered to a justice far more terrifying and absolute than any he could have meted out himself. He had played his part, had used the crisis to not only eliminate a threat, but to further solidify his father’s growing, if still bewildered, respect for his capabilities. He felt a profound sense of weariness wash over him, the strain of the past few days, the battle, the interrogation, finally catching up to him. He looked around the ruined factory, at the monument to his own destructive, transformative power. He had cleansed this place, yes. But the larger rot, the one represented by Jager, by the ouroboros, by the ghosts of his past, was still out there, festering in the shadows.

Episode-240

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