When the hooded woman was mentioned, the old man's body trembled even more. He clutched his head as if trying to squeeze out the haunting memories.
"I tried to ask Captain Ordo for help," he said, his voice cracking and growing hoarse. "But no one responded. I...I don't want to go back..." His shoulders trembled and his eyes were wide with terror. "My entire family—my daughter, son-in-law, and grandson—died at the hands of that terrible woman!"
His fear was genuine; his frail body seemed on the verge of collapse. William watched silently, taking in every detail, such as how the man's voice sounded more like a cry from the grave than a living confession.
Now it was clear that his reason for following Louis wasn't to attack but rather to plead for help in the most ill-conceived way. But desperation can often look like a threat to the wrong person.
Louis stood tall, his eyes sharp. Beneath the sternness, though, William could detect a tenderness. Louis was still capable of being touched by the suffering of others—a quality that William considered both noble and dangerous.
The Sentinel slowly sheathed his sword, the blade ringing softly as it returned to its scabbard. "You needn't worry for now," he said calmly and authoritatively. "If you seek help, the Royal Order of Valmorra will protect you."
William rolled his eyes and suppressed a sneer. Inwardly, a bitter comment emerged: Louis is trustworthy, but the Royal Order of Valmorra? They care more about upholding the honor of the palace than listening to the people's cries. Their captains are bad in matters of conscience.
William also noticed, however, that Louis had been glancing at him several times, as if considering something. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaned forward slightly, and spoke in a cold, sarcastic tone.
"I'm in it. That hooded woman attacked me, and she's clearly connected to this old man. I won't entrust my fate to the Royal Order of Valmorra, who have repeatedly ignored the cries of their people."
His words were harsh, but deep down, Louis had a certain respect for him—an exception amidst the rotten system.
Louis let out a thin sigh. "You take care of this old man. I must contact my captain and confirm this with the Order of the Hall of Letters."
William simply shrugged, a gesture that had become second nature to him. As soon as Louis stepped into the narrow alley on the right, William was ready to play. He released a small silver butterfly from his grasp. The insect flew silently, following Louis as he activated a magical communication device.
A flash of pale blue light illuminated the shabby wall. A projection of a woman in a black dress emerged from the device. Her skin was pale as porcelain, and dark lines shadowed her eyes, giving her a tired and intimidating appearance.
William knew her—who wouldn't? Lady Ginerva of the Order of the Hall of Letters. She was a woman with a cold reputation, a sharp mind, and a talent for gathering information that was more dangerous than a sword.
Besides Elizabeth, only a few women had made a lasting impression on William, and Ginerva was one of them. A sentinel in the past and an intelligence agent in the present, speaking with her was like dancing on the tip of a needle.
One of the lower-rank sentinels had taken the old man to sanctuary. Meanwhile, this exploratory mission reunited William with Elizabeth, who was accompanying Louis.
She greeted him with a warm smile, as if the darkness around them had never existed.
"William, we meet again."
William responded with only a curt nod, his arms crossed over his chest. If he were still Morgan Welshman, he might have returned the greeting with equal cordiality. But now, as William Langley, any vestiges of humanity within him were but a fading shadow.
Elizabeth continued, her voice filled with sincerity that seemed out of place in the world of intrigue around them.
"Besides, I really didn't expect you to be attacked by that mysterious woman. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," William replied, his tone flat and matter-of-fact. "But I don't like the fact that a stranger would threaten me. That would certainly raise suspicion. I'll be involved."
Louis, who accompanied them, simply shook his head slowly. For someone like William, who was not officially part of the Royal Order of Valmorra, being on a mission with two royal sentinels was unusual. But William didn't care. To him, this opportunity was a path to finding traces of an old enemy: the one who had killed Morgan Welshman—his former self. That dark, deep-rooted grudge would never be extinguished, even if he were now just a shell of a man with the remains of a shattered soul.
William walked with Louis and Elizabeth from the east gate, joining a merchant caravan traveling along the Golden Triangle Road—a bustling trade route recently marred by the disappearance of merchants. The wealthy merchants were consumed by fear, leading them to seek protection from the Royal Order of Valmorra.
Louis and Elizabeth had been appointed as the bodyguards of a prominent merchant named Sir Roster, a plump man with a luxury fabric business catering to the nobility. The caravan was heading to the Dunness Kingdom, carrying merchandise exuding arrogance and the scent of wealth.
"Thank you...thank you so much for protecting Lady Elizabeth and Lord Louis," Sir Roster repeated, his face shining with gratitude.
William, who was walking beside them, seemed to drift into the shadows. No one looked at him. He was left to sink into silence like a foreign spirit walking among them. He didn't mind—his hands were crossed behind his head and his eyes looked far ahead.
William had been ignored throughout the journey, but he didn't seem to care. Leaning lazily against the carriage laden with bolts of beautiful fabric, he seemed to view the world around him as a meaningless shadow. Ahead, Louis and Elizabeth rode their horses alertly and vigilantly, like holy guardians who never let their guard down.
The Golden Triangle Road was long and bustling with caravans from dawn to dusk. Lush trees towered on either side of the road, their branches casting dense shadows that blocked the blazing sun. The beauty was deceptive, however, as it seemed as if their journey were a peaceful pilgrimage rather than a path leading to danger.
William lay there with his eyes closed as if he were sleeping in comfort he had never experienced. But his senses remained sharp. Those ears, tempered by the shadows of the past, could hear even the slightest whisper. A silver butterfly—his silent creation—flapped its wings in the air, circled the merchant group, and landed on the shoulder of the coachman of one of the carriages.
From there, voices echoed clearly in his mind. He ignored the meaningless conversations, but one caught his attention. It was between Louis, Elizabeth, and a shabbily dressed coachman holding the reins of a silk-filled carriage.
"This has never happened before," the coachman said, his breath heavy with anxiety. "The Golden Triangle is always busy with caravans passing by from various kingdoms. But I never imagined several caravans could simply disappear."
Elizabeth leaned forward, her gaze serious and her voice piercing the tension.
"If I may ask, did those disappearances happen at a specific time?"
The coachman nodded slowly. His hoarse voice sent shivers down her spine.
"Usually at night. They vanish without a trace. The carriages and belongings are left behind, and no one has looted them. Only the men are missing. That's why Sir Roster requested the Royal Order of Valmorra's assistance. We need sentinels on guard all night."
William remained silent, though his thoughts were racing in that silence. The silver butterfly perched on the coachman's shoulder fluttered gently, serving as secret eyes and ears.
Nothing had been stolen, only a human was missing. If this was related to devil worship, then surely they needed living humans for their dark rituals, he thought.
An image flashed through his mind—the figure of the purple-clad woman who had attacked him earlier. She had used a cunning concoction—a powder mixed with poisonous flower petals—kept in a small cloth pouch to rob her prey of consciousness. What caught William's attention wasn't the poison itself, but the dark symbol imprinted on the pouch: a finely carved skull, a mark that whispered death more than it symbolized it.