Chapter 725
Ludger took it. The paper was good quality, too smooth, too expensive, the kind that felt like it expected obedience. The ink was crisp and dark. No wasted strokes. No warmth. He read.
To Vice Guildmaster Ludger of Lionsguard,
Your report has been received.
I will be direct: I am disappointed.
The objective presented was not complicated. The sea beast remains uneliminated, and the matter of Lionsguard’s reputation, of your reliability, remains unresolved. Results are what secure confidence, not explanations.
Be advised: the beast has not returned to the waters of interest. This absence is noted. It will not be treated as a resolution.
The Empire has been made aware of the situation and is preparing for the eventuality of the creature’s reappearance. Appropriate measures will be taken.
That is all.
Rufas Dalmoren
Ludger finished reading and didn’t move for a few seconds. No threats. No demands. No instructions. Just a cold line drawn across the situation, and a deliberate refusal to step closer.
He lowered the letter slightly and held his chin, eyes unfocusing as his mind began to pick at the edges. Disappointed. Fine. Predictable.
But the tone…
Rufas sounded evasive. Distant. Like he was speaking through a curtain. Like he didn’t want to give details. Like he didn’t want to share anything, information, plans, coordination, anything that looked like partnership.
And that line:
The Empire has been made aware… preparing… appropriate measures…
It was the kind of wording nobles used when they wanted to say “don’t ask questions” without actually writing it. Ludger’s fingers tightened a fraction on the page.
Yvar watched him carefully. “That’s… it?”
“That’s it,” Ludger confirmed.
He read it again, faster this time, not for meaning but for intent. Rufas wasn’t asking for help. He wasn’t trying to work together. He was fencing Ludger out. Ludger’s mouth flattened.
Why?
Was Rufas afraid of him? Afraid of what Ludger might say if given details? Afraid of admitting the beast wasn’t simply a “monster” to be killed? Or was it simpler: Rufas had already decided this was an imperial matter now, and Lionsguard was meant to sit still and be grateful it wasn’t blamed.
Ludger exhaled slowly, still holding his chin. The absurd part was that even if Rufas had asked him to cooperate with the Empire’s “measures”…
Ludger wouldn’t accept it. Not blindly. Not with their secrets and sealed routes and polite lies. He folded the letter once, clean and precise, and handed it back to Yvar.
“He doesn’t want to coordinate,” Ludger said quietly.
Yvar took it, brows knitting. “And you do?”
Ludger’s eyes sharpened.
“I want influence,” he corrected. “And I want information.”
He turned away from the desk, already moving, already thinking several steps ahead.
“Tell the scribes to keep copying the manuals,” Ludger added. “And keep the marble vault sealed.”
Yvar’s expression tightened. “You think this is connected?”
Ludger didn’t answer directly. He didn’t have to.
The Empire was “preparing,” Rufas was suddenly distant, and Ludger had returned from an otherworld route carrying boxes of “almost alive” marbles tied to imperial crates.
Coincidences were for people who survived on luck.
Ludger survived on patterns. He walked deeper into the guild with the letter’s cold phrasing still echoing in his mind, and one thought settling into place like a blade sliding into a sheath:
Fine. If they won’t work with me… then I’ll work around them.
There were too many threads in Ludger’s head, all of them sharp, all of them pulling. But one sat on top like a knife laid across the throat of everything else. Sealed labyrinths.
The creature’s warning still echoed in the back of his mind, not as prophecy, but as pattern. The Empire didn’t seal anything it could profit from. It hid things. It controlled access. It lied with clean paperwork and confident voices.
And now Ludger had the marbles.
Boxes that should’ve sunk. Boxes that had washed ashore like the sea itself had returned them to his hands with intent.
Raukor’s words, almost alive, made his skin itch. He needed the origin. The supply chain. The route.
And he needed to make sure Vek and the Roderics weren’t tucked away inside one of those “sealed” labyrinths like rot in a wall, waiting to spread. If the Empire was using sealed routes secretly, then any enemy with enough leverage or coin could be doing the same.
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The problem was simple.
Infiltration.
After the ant incident, “walking into a sealed labyrinth” wasn’t just difficult, it was a giant red marker on the map labeled DON’T BE STUPID. Security would be tighter. He could still do it. But doing it clean would take preparation, misdirection, and time he didn’t like spending.
Ludger’s jaw tightened as he walked through the guild’s inner corridor, eyes unfocused as he mentally ran scenarios, routes, entry points, cover stories, how to smuggle gear, who to bring, how to avoid turning it into a public incident…
A recruit nearly collided with him and squeaked an apology. Ludger didn’t even register the words. He was already somewhere else. Then, as he entered his office space, reality grabbed him by the collar.
A stack of reports sat on his desk. Not one or two.
A pile.
The consequence of being “vice guildmaster” and “the boy who fixes things” and “the person everyone now expected to have an answer.” He stared at the stack for a long second, expression blank.
Right. Commerce. Logistics. Town issues. Money. The boring parts that keep the swords sharp.
He pulled the top report, skimmed it, set it aside. Another. Another. Numbers. Requests. Progress notes. Then one header made his eyes stop moving.
Julia, Spider Silk Processing Division He picked it up.
Julia had been the one he’d put in charge of turning the spider silk stockpile into something useful instead of “expensive thread that attracts thieves.” She was sharp, practical, and, most importantly, she didn’t flinch when Ludger started talking about mana conductivity and weave density like he was discussing bread recipes.
He read the report. Once. Then again, slower. And something rare happened. Ludger smiled.
Not big. Not warm. Just the small curve of satisfaction that came when the world actually behaved the way it was supposed to: cause → effect → progress.
Julia had done more than follow instructions.
She’d used the data Ludger had given her from that last experiment, the mana conductivity readings, the failure patterns under mana load, the way certain fibers “held” enchantment better when treated in specific solutions, and she’d built on it.
Prototypes. Durable. Flexible. And, more importantly… magic-conductive. Not “kind of works if you pray to it.” Not “fine until a mana surge turns it to ash.”
Properly conductive. Stable enough to be worth testing in the field.
Ludger’s smile lingered as he flipped to the section where she’d included diagrams and notes in neat, confident handwriting. She’d even marked potential uses: reinforcement layers, rune-thread channels, armor lining that didn’t choke mana flow.
A tool. A real tool. He set the report down carefully, like it mattered. Because it did.
The sealed labyrinths were still top priority. The marbles were still a threat wrapped in mystery. The Empire was still moving pieces he couldn’t see.
But this? This was momentum. This was Lionsguard building its own answers instead of begging the world for them. Besides, who said that one thing couldn’t solve the other?
Ludger tapped the report once with a finger, eyes narrowing as his mind instantly began connecting it to everything else. Conductive silk meant lighter gear with better rune integration. Better rune integration meant better stealth, better protection, better containment.
He exhaled, the smile fading back into focus.
“Good work, Julia,” he murmured, already reaching for a pen to write a response.
For the first time that day, the pressure in his chest eased. Not because the problems were gone. Because he’d just found a new weapon.
Later that day, Ludger met Julia in one of the quieter rooms beneath the guild hall, stone walls, a single lamp, and a warded door that kept curious ears out.
Not because he enjoyed secrecy. Because secrecy was cheaper than damage control.
Julia arrived with a bundle of sample cloth rolled under one arm and a notebook under the other. Her hands still smelled faintly of treatment solutions and boiled fibers. She had the look of someone who’d spent the whole morning turning “impossible” into “maybe.”
She sat, set her things down, and got straight to it.
“You said this was urgent,” she began. “And private.”
“It is,” Ludger said.
He didn’t waste time warming her up. He’d learned that Julia respected directness more than ceremony.
“I want a special set of clothing,” Ludger continued. “A runic base layer and outer layer designed from the ground up for mana flow. As conductive as you can possibly make it. Light. Quiet. Durable. And…” He paused, choosing the word carefully. “Modular.”
Julia’s brow furrowed immediately.
“A secret project,” she said slowly. “And you want me to direct the whole thing?”
“Yes.”
Her frown deepened, not offended, calculating.
“You’re not asking for a uniform,” she said. “You’re asking for purpose-built gear. In secret. Yes, only you work on and are aware of it.”
Ludger nodded once and slid a packet across the table.
“Schematics,” he said.
Julia opened the packet, eyes scanning the first page. Then the second. Then the third. Her frown didn’t just deepen. It transformed into something between professional concern and personal insult.
“These are…” she started, then stopped, lips pressing together as she tried again. “These are weird.”
Ludger’s expression stayed neutral. “They work.”
Julia’s eyes flicked up. “They look like some sort of costume you’d see in a circus.”
Ludger didn’t deny that either.
The designs were tight in places and layered in others, with strange seams, hidden channels, overlapping parts that made no sense unless you understood what they were meant to hide. There were reinforced points at joints, oversized hoods, a mask component with filtration slots, and a chest section designed to accept rune strips like you were feeding a device.
It wasn’t “fashion.” It was function dressed in something that wanted to be cool. Ludger cleared his throat once, and for a heartbeat, the boy behind the vice guildmaster showed through. He forced a smile.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “My design to look cool… did, in fact, look like a costume.”
Julia stared at him like she was trying to decide if he was joking. His face didn’t change. She sighed through her nose and went back to the pages.
“Where did you even get this?” she asked.
“Linne and Dalan,” Ludger said. “A while back.”
That made Julia pause. Those names carried weight, crafting talent, specialized skill, the kind of people who didn’t waste their time on nonsense unless there was money or danger involved.
“They made this?” she asked.
“They started it,” Ludger corrected. “They were too busy to continue. Other contracts. Other priorities.” His eyes narrowed. “So I’m taking control.”
Julia flipped to the notes section, reading the handwritten addendums, measurements, material suggestions, rune placement warnings.
Ludger watched her process. Watched her mind shift from “this is ridiculous” to “this is a challenge I can solve.”
“I see what you’re trying to do,” she said slowly. “You want the clothing itself to act like a mana network. To reduce loss. To keep rune output stable even under movement.”
“Yes.”
“And you want it quiet,” Julia added, tapping a section where seams were designed to minimize friction. “Which means no metal plates, no buckles. Probably minimal hard fittings.”
“Yes.”
Julia clicked her tongue, eyes narrowing at a particularly absurd-looking hood-mask assembly.
“And you want it to fit like a second skin,” she said. “Which is going to make half the guild think you’ve joined a cult.”
Ludger’s forced smile twitched.
“I don’t care what half the guild thinks,” he said. “I care whether it works.”