[Master's POV]
"Useless, they are all useless. Not a single one capable of following my orders."
The hooded, shadowy figure of the Master paced back and forth before a ruined throne in the royal hall of a palace abandoned for centuries.
[This is what you get for defying the natural order of things.]
[You chose your own fate.]
The same voices that had tormented him for nearly a millennium continued whispering in his mind.
"Silence!" the Master suddenly roared.
The eleven other hooded figures in the hall had no way of knowing his command wasn't directed at them. They immediately stiffened, forcing themselves not to even think in the Master's presence.
The eleven knelt at a distance before the ancient throne. It was rare for all of them to gather like this.
Today should have been a day of celebration. But when they found the Master in such a disturbed state, his aura radiating malice, unease settled over them.
Someone had made a grave mistake, and none of those present wanted to be in the fool's place.
Suddenly, the hall doors burst open.
Everyone, even the Master, turned toward the commotion.
The twelfth and final hooded figure strode in triumphantly… only to freeze upon sensing the tense atmosphere and the Master's suffocating dark aura. His legs trembled.
His once-proud posture now slumped. His hands shook.
He dropped to his knees before the Master and bowed deeply.
When no response came, his fear only grew.
"Master, this humble servant stands before Your Excellency to report that your will has been fulfilled. The heir of betrayal is dead."
He tried to speak with pride, but his trembling voice betrayed him.
"You dare lie to my face?" the Master hissed, his voice dripping with menace.
In that instant, chains of dark energy erupted from the ground, coiling around the hooded figure. The agony they inflicted was unbearable.
The other servants recoiled. None wanted to be seen as complicit in whatever mistake the fool had made.
[You reap what you sow.]
[A worthless master can only have worthless servants.]
The voices in the Master's mind continued torturing him.
"I can still smell the stench of that traitor's blood. So how can he be dead?"
The Master leaned close to his chained servant, whispering in his ear. His sinister presence made the hooded figure's muscles spasm in terror.
"A fluctuation in the fabric of reality…" the servant stammered. "A foul god interfered… Have mercy, my Master!"
"And instead of informing me immediately, you chose to lie?"
The voices in the Master's head cackled and mocked, fueling his rage.
His patience had run out.
"You were once my most loyal servant. I gave you everything, knowledge, wealth, power."
The Master turned back toward his throne as he spoke. With each word, the chains tightened further.
"You are no longer of any use to me."
With those final words, the chains began devouring the servant's very existence. He screamed as his flesh dissolved into dark energy.
The other eleven watched in stunned silence. They all knew that one misstep could lead to the same fate.
Once the servant had been completely consumed, the Master issued new orders.
"The heir of betrayal still lives. Bartholomew."
The Master called upon one of his remaining servants. Reluctantly, Bartholomew stepped forward.
"At your command, my Master," he said with a bow.
"You will take that fool's place. I want the heir of betrayal dead, and I will accept no failures."
Bartholomew bowed again before retreating to his place.
"You are dismissed."
The Master wanted them all gone as quickly as possible. As long as he maintained this form, the voices would continue taunting him, mocking his failures.
He longed to return to his true form, where he could find some semblance of peace. But these incompetent insects still lingered.
He had awakened that morning expecting glorious news. Instead, he was met with the same disappointment as always.
The descendants of that traitor kept slipping through his fingers.
They kept carrying the cursed legacy of the First Emperor.
***
[Bartholomew's POV]
Bartholomew awoke in his chambers, his hands still shaking.
Only his astral projection had stood before the Master, yet he could still feel the crushing weight of that sinister aura pressing down on his body.
He had certainly risen in rank after accepting the position as Acolyte of Darkness. But the higher he climbed within that shadowy order, the more he regretted his choices.
Today, more than ever.
The fate of every acolyte who had failed in hunting down the heirs of the First Emperor had been the same as that unfortunate fool who had just died before his eyes.
Even those who succeeded often bore incurable scars from their missions.
Bartholomew himself still carried wounds from his battle against the Sword Saint, Edward.
They had once numbered over a hundred acolytes, powerful mages and warriors from kingdoms and empires across the land.
One by one, they had been mutilated by that monster's insatiable blade.
They had emerged victorious in the end, but at a terrible cost. Their forces had never been weaker. Only twelve acolytes had survived that battle.
And now, one more had fallen.
If he failed, his fate would be the same.
At least the Master was weakened. It would take him years to recover after expending so much energy to ensure the acolytes' victory against Edward.
That meant Bartholomew had time, a few years, at least, to complete this new mission.
But he couldn't afford to waste it. He needed to activate his spy network immediately to track down the surviving heir. The longer he waited, the colder the trail would grow.
A knock at the door snapped him from his thoughts.
"Enter."
A servant stepped inside.
"Your Excellency, Bishop Edgard requests an audience."
"Edgard? What is that old fox scheming now?"
Bishop Edgard was known as "The Wellspring of Gossip" among the church's upper echelons.
Bartholomew couldn't stand the man, but he couldn't deny the usefulness of the information he always brought.
"It's likely related to the announcement he made earlier through the Voice of the World," the servant replied.
"Announcement? What announcement?"
Bartholomew had been with the Master nearly all day. He must have missed it.
"A child of royal blood was born into House Demetria."
"The Duke finally succeeded. Good for him. Inform Edgard, I will receive him shortly."
At that moment, Bartholomew had no way of knowing that this child was the very heir the Master had ordered him to hunt.
It took him some time to prepare. The constant pain from his wounds, inflicted by the Sword Saint, had worsened after his exposure to the Master's malignant aura.
Nearly half an hour later, he finally received the bishop.
"Your Excellency, Cardinal Bartholomew."
Bishop Edgard bowed, then kissed Bartholomew's hand in blessing, as church protocol demanded.
"Bishop Edgard, please, sit." The Cardinal gestured to a luxurious sofa. "Would you care for a cup of coffee?"
Bartholomew didn't care for coffee, he far preferred the strong black tea he'd enjoyed since childhood.
But coffee was a luxury, imported from the southern colonies. Serving it was a display of status, especially a brew of such high quality.
And when dealing with men like Edgard, known for his loose tongue, appearances had to be maintained.
"This is truly exceptional coffee, Cardinal. The donations to your congregations must have been quite generous this season."
Bartholomew knew exactly what Edgard was implying. The bishop had valuable information, and it would come at a price.
He didn't need to pay, of course. Edgard would spread the gossip regardless, selling it to anyone who'd listen, simply for the joy of being the first to share it.
"Indeed, they were, Bishop. Rest assured, your congregation will receive a privileged position in this year's budget."
Edgard's grin widened instantly. Bartholomew couldn't tell if the man was happier about the promised funds or the chance to start talking.
"Your Excellency must know I've just come from House Demetria." The bishop finally began his tale.
"Yes. I was napping when the announcement was made, but my servants informed me."
"That poor woman has finally fulfilled her duty as a wife."
Bartholomew's patience waned. Why wouldn't the bishop get to the point?
Edgard seemed to notice and cut to the chase.
"What no one knows is that it was a close call. This time, she bore twins."
He paused, savoring the Cardinal's surprise.
"One was stillborn, like the previous two. The other barely survived."
Honestly, this information meant little to Bartholomew. Seeing his lack of interest, Edgard continued.
"The Duke's other wives believe they performed some forbidden ritual to bring the child back to life."
That didn't impress the Cardinal either. He knew those vipers, their words were poison, nothing more.
"Of course, I knew it was nonsense. I even examined the boy myself and found no trace of dark magic. Though he is remarkably healthy for an infant who was at death's door for days."
Unknowingly, the bishop was planting a false lead in Bartholomew's mind, one that would protect Edward for years.
After this conversation, the Cardinal would never suspect that Edward might be the very heir he sought.
Since Bartholomew still seemed unimpressed, Edgard pressed on.
"The poor thing survived, but had the misfortune of receiving only a Crafter class. A Special Rank, at least, but still just a Crafter."
"Which class, exactly?" The Cardinal finally showed interest.
"Wizard Engineer. I've never heard of it, have you, Your Excellency?"
"Some of history's greatest inventors bore that same class. I wouldn't call the boy unfortunate."
Bartholomew was a scholar of magical history. He knew the importance of Magecrafters throughout the ages.
Of course, bards didn't sing tales of the reclusive tinkerer who spent months locked in his workshop forging the perfect sword.
They sang of the dashing hero who slew the dragon with that sword.
"The most intriguing part is his stats. His Athletic Constitution is unremarkable, as expected. But his Intellect and Mana Pool? An impressive potential for a Crafter."
Finally, something useful.
A Wizard Engineer with sharp intellect and an abundant Mana Pool could revolutionize the Empire's magical technology.
The Church would need to keep an eye on the boy. They didn't outright oppose progress, but they did monitor advancements that might threaten their influence.
The Cardinal's satisfied expression filled the bishop with pride.
Bartholomew would pay without complaint for this information, even though he knew the entire
Empire would soon be whispering the same "secret" he'd just bought at a premium.