Chapter 179 – Noble Agent

The intricate teleportation runes etched into the stone floor of the secret workshop flared from a dull amber to a searing, actinic white. The air in the small room crackled, thick with ozone and the scent of scorched stone. With a sound like a thunderclap contained in a barrel, there was a deafening BANG and a flash of light that left purple afterimages dancing behind the eyelids.

When the glare faded, two figures stood swaying in the center of the circle, the runes beneath their feet now cooling to a faint, cherry-red glow. Between them lay a heavy, stained canvas sack. Both Cid and Scarlett were bent double, hands on their knees, riding out the violent wave of nausea that was the hallmark of long-distance, circle teleportation. It wasn't just dizziness; it was a full-body revolt, a feeling that every organ had been briefly shuffled and replaced slightly out of alignment.

Cid groaned, a deep, pathetic sound from his core.

Cid: “Ugh… I don’t think my stomach is ever going to get used to this method of travel.”

Scarlett: “You… really don’t,” she managed through gritted teeth, though her recovery was visibly faster.

Scarlett straightened up with a sharp intake of breath, her face pale but her eyes already regaining their hawk-like focus. The disorientation was a physiological tax, one she paid without complaint but clearly didn’t enjoy.

Cid moaned again, the reality of his new life settling in with the lingering gut-churn. As a known associate—and now disciple—of the continent’s most wanted black mage, conventional travel was a luxury of the past. Buses, ships, even trains were fraught with peril. This brutal, nauseating leap through compressed space was his highway now. The thought made him absurdly nostalgic for Fenny’s unique method of travel—those unsettling portals woven from assembled bones and whispers, which, while creepy, at least didn’t make him feel like he’d been spun through a washing machine.

As they stood there, waiting for the world to stop spinning around them, the heavy oak door on the far side of the spartan room swung inward without a sound.

Luke Vaga stood in the doorway. He was impeccably dressed as always, his posture relaxed, his face arranged in its usual mask of mild, detached interest. But there was a peculiar stillness to him. His gaze settled on them, clear and intelligent, yet somehow distant, as if he were observing through a very clean, very thick pane of glass.

Luke: “You’re back already?” he asked. His voice was calm, measured, perfectly enunciated. There was no hint of surprise, no breath behind the words, just a smooth, sterile inquiry waiting for their data.

Scarlett: “Yeah, we dealt with your problem,” she said, finally standing upright and rolling her shoulders to dispel the last of the teleportation sickness.

Her tone was matter-of-fact, the words hanging in the ozone-tinged air.

A beat of silence followed. Luke’s unnervingly still form in the doorway processed the statement.

Luke: “Then Klavis is dead.”

Scarlett: “Well… we said your problem is dealt with,” she clarified, a hint of sharpness in her voice.

She bent down and grabbed one end of the heavy, stained canvas sack. Cid, catching her meaning, moved to the other end with a resigned sigh.

Luke’s head tilted a precise fraction to the side. The motion was mechanically smooth, a pantomime of human confusion that felt more like a camera adjusting its lens.

Luke: “What do you mean by that?”

Instead of answering, Scarlett grunted with effort, and she and Cid began dragging the bulky sack across the stone floor. It scraped unpleasantly as they maneuvered it past Luke’s motionless figure and into an adjacent chamber of the workshop. This room was less a living space and more a clinical staging area: a heavy metal table bolted to the floor, a few austere chairs, shelves lined with tools whose purposes were best not pondered. With a final heave, they hoisted the sack and unceremoniously dumped its contents into one of the chairs. It slumped with a muffled thump and a faint, panicked squeak.

Scarlett wiped a bead of sweat from her temple with the back of her hand, then reached for the knotted cord at the sack’s neck. With a brisk yank, she loosened it and pulled the coarse fabric down.

Luke, who had followed them into the room with silent, fluid steps, now had a clear view. The sack revealed the head and shoulders of a man. As the fabric fell further, the man’s identity became unmistakable: Lord Klavis Yigso. He was bound tightly with thick cord, a strip of dirty cloth stuffed in his mouth and tied behind his head. His expensive clothes were disheveled and smudged with grime. His eyes, wide with terror and fury, darted around the unfamiliar, grim surroundings before locking onto Luke.

Recognition sparked, then ignited into pure, incandescent rage. Klavis strained against his bonds, the cords digging into his fine jacket. Muffled, furious shouts erupted from behind the gag, his body jerking violently in the chair.

Luke’s gaze shifted from the struggling noble to Scarlett. His face remained a placid mask, but the air around him seemed to grow several degrees colder. The stillness became charged, not with confusion now, but with a potent, silent disapproval. Though no muscle twitched, a wave of palpable frustration emanated from him, as tangible as the smell of ozone from the teleportation circle.

Luke: “Scarlett,” he said, his voice still that same, measured monotone, but now each word fell with the weight of chilled steel. “The parameters were explicit. A discreet termination. A tragic, accidental death. You were not supposed to bring him here.”

Scarlett: “I thought you might appreciate the chance to… pick his brain a little,” she said, a grim smile touching her lips as she gestured at the furious, gagged noble.

Luke: “His knowledge holds no interest for me,” Vaga replied, his flat tone conveying profound disinterest. “I wanted him removed, not interrogation. More pertinent: how did you accomplish this? A kidnapping from a secured estate in the heart of Cordova is not a subtle operation.”

Scarlett: “I created a diversion,” she explained with a shrug, as if discussing a minor chore. “Set a wing of the mansion alight. Nothing too catastrophic—just enough panic to make a single missing lord seem like an afterthought amidst the evacuation. We scooped him up from his private study while his staff fought the flames.”

Luke’s obsidian gaze shifted to Cid, a silent demand for a sanity check.

Cid raised his hands slightly in a defensive gesture.

Cid:“Sorry. I tried to talk her out of it, but failed.”

Luke turned his attention back to Scarlett, the air thickening with his unspoken critique.

Luke: “Scarlett, subtlety was the primary focus. He is a noble, with connections and expectations. His sudden disappearance will trigger an investigation far more intensive than a simple tragic accident. That scrutiny could trace back to my interests, or to Yin’s operations. We are currently managing critical logistics for Anya’s campaign in Gix. We cannot afford the delays from a high-profile kidnapping investigation.”

Scarlett: “The war in Gix is currently a stalemate. A short delay is affordable,” Scarlett countered, her voice losing its casual edge and gaining a razor’s sharpness. “And, if my theory is correct—and it usually is—you have nothing to fear or that fox bitch.”

Before Luke could demand an explanation, Scarlett turned and walked back to the chair. In one swift motion, she reached behind Klavis’s head and untied the gag, pulling the sodden cloth from his mouth.

The result was instantaneous. Klavis drew in a ragged, furious breath and erupted.

Klavis: “LUKE! You treacherous bastard! I should have known you’d resort to gutter tactics! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? When my associates find out—and they will—you are finished! Your empire, your pathetic little schemes, all of it! You’re a dead man walking!”

Scarlett didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned down slowly, bringing her face to within inches of his, her expression one of cold, academic curiosity.

Scarlett: “Fascinating,” she murmured, her voice a mocking whisper. “The unshakable arrogance of a man who still believes his title is a shield. I often wonder what particular failure of evolution produces creatures like you.”

Klavis: “How dare you, you bitch! Do you have the faintest clue who I am? The power I command?”

Scarlett: “I do,” she said, straightening up slightly, her eyes glinting. “But a more relevant question is: do you know who I am?”

Klavis: “Why would I waste a single thought on some red-haired whore who’ll be rotting in a ditch alongside this bastard!” he spat, straining against his bonds. “You have no concept of the forces that stand behind me! You’re insects, and you’ve just kicked a dragon!”

Scarlett’s smile turned icy, utterly devoid of warmth.

Scarlett: “I’m not sure you’d be saying this if you did know who I am. The Blood Callers, for instance, know my name quite well. And I can assure you, they will not be coming to save you.”

The color drained from Klavis’s face so rapidly it was as if a valve had been opened. His furious bluster vanished, replaced by sheer, unadulterated shock. His mouth worked soundlessly for a second.

Klavis: “Y-you… you know about the Blood Callers? You know I’m…?”

Across the room, Cid’s jaw went slack. The aura of frustrated disapproval emanating from Luke Vaga underwent a sudden, profound shift. The cold stillness became charged, not with irritation, but with a deep, calculating intrigue.

Scarlett: “No,” she said sweetly, taking a deliberate step back from the chair. “Not until this very moment, I didn’t. It was merely a strong hypothesis. But thank you so much for the confirmation.” She turned fully to face Luke, her earlier defiance now replaced with the serene confidence of a strategist whose gamble has just paid off. “It seems your ‘problem’ was more deeply connected than we thought. This isn’t just a greedy noble. He’s an asset of one of the Big Three.”

Luke: “I… see,” his voice finally intoned, the flat monotone now carrying a different weight—the sound of gears recalculating. “Well, this does change things. It seems information extraction is now justified. I will take him for now. Do you mind waiting? It shouldn’t take too long.”

Scarlett: “Take your time,” she replied, settling into a chair with the air of someone who’d just delivered a particularly satisfying report. “We’ll be right here.”

Luke gave a single, precise nod. Then, in a movement of startling, indifferent strength, he reached out and seized Klavis by the collar of his ruined silk jacket. Without ceremony, he began to drag the bound noble from the chair. Klavis’s feet scrabbled for purchase on the smooth stone floor, his earlier rage dissolving back into primal terror as he was hauled like a sack of tools.

Klavis: “Wait! What are you doing? UNHAND ME, YOU FREAK! LUKE! LUKE, YOU CAN’T DO THIS! I AM A NOBLE! I HAVE—LET GO OF MEEEEE!” he screams, shrill and desperate, echoed down the hallway as Luke’s implacable form pulled him deeper into the labyrinthine workshop.

The cries grew fainter, muffled by distance and the closing of a heavy door, until they were swallowed by the hum of unseen machinery.

Cid: “What is going to happen to him? And what… what is he going to do to Klavis down there?”

A visible shudder of profound distaste passed through Scarlett. She waved a hand as if to physically bat the thought away.

Scarlett: “You don’t want to know the details. Trust me on this. It’s… gross. Let’s change the subject.”

Cid, unnerved but recognizing a boundary he shouldn’t cross, swallowed hard and nodded.

Cid: “Okay. Um… how did you know? About the Blood Callers, I mean.”

Scarlett: “Process of elimination and behavioral profiling,” she said, leaning back and lacing her fingers together. “Of the so-called Big Three cults, the Endless War cultists are blunt war mongers—they crave open conflict and chaos. The Rattle Bone cult are macabre artists, obsessed with acquiring bones for their art. Neither typically has the patience or subtlety for long-term political infiltration. The Blood Callers, however… their entire modus operandi is subversion from within. They embed themselves in structures of power, whispering prophecies and offering hidden strength. They are the puppeteers. Given Klavis’s sudden, aggressive, and seemingly irrational drive for Vaga Industries—a move that reeked of external pressure rather than personal greed—they were the most likely shadow behind the throne.” She paused. “Though I don’t know if Klavis is a true believer or just a useful idiot they promised power to in exchange for a foothold in Cordovan high society.”

Cid: “Right, that makes sense,” Cid said, absorbing the lesson. It reminded him of the time Scarlett did something similar to him during their second meeting, making surprisingly accurate guesses. He fidgeted for a moment, then clarified his real question. “I guess what I’m really asking is… how did you even suspect he was working with a cult at all? Before he confirmed it?”

Scarlett’s lips quirked.

Scarlett: “The failed probability kill,” she said, her voice low and analytical in the humming quiet. “Your Book of Grand Design manipulates chance, weaving threads of cause and effect. For it to fail so completely—not just a near miss, but an outcome actively hijacked and redirected by a profoundly irrational act of sacrifice—that isn’t random deviation. That’s intervention. You said it yourself: powerful outside forces can disrupt your calculations. And what outside force is more potent, more fundamentally alien to our ordered reality, than the attention of a Nameless God?”

Cid: “Yes, but when I said that,” he argued, leaning forward, “I was thinking of a directed force. Hypothetically, a Nameless God could do it, but the target would need to be a true conduit, someone whose soul is entwined with their god. Klavis… if he’s just a political puppet, a noble they’re manipulating, the connection should be too thin to shield him. The math should have held.”

Scarlett: “Should it?” her gaze was piercing. “Have you ever empirically tested that boundary? Does the protection require fervent worship, or is mere association enough? Is it a binary switch, or a sliding scale?”

Cid opened his mouth to deliver a confident rebuttal, but the words died in his throat. The truth was, he hadn’t. The Book of Grand Design was still a mystery to him, its rules inferred through trial and error. He had assumed the requirement was a strong, devotional link, but… was that just an assumption?

Scarlett: “That’s what I thought,” Alexandria said, seeing his hesitation. “The way your power operates—requiring such precise, seemingly absurd preparatory actions—suggests it's delicate. It doesn’t brute-force reality; it finds the path of least resistance and gives it a nudge. The influence of a Nameless God, however, may introduce variables that are fundamentally incalculable—because they operate on principles outside logical reality. And, even these minor variables can throw off causality.”

Cid’s eyes widened as the implications cascaded through his mind. It wasn’t a binary of ‘works’ or ‘doesn’t work.’ It was a gradient of interference.

Cid: “And the effect wouldn’t be isolated,” he whispered, dread coiling in his stomach. “If multiple people are connected, even loosely, the contamination compounds. The entire local event space becomes statistically unstable.”

A cold realization settled in Cid’s gut, connecting disparate failures into a single, damning theory. His mind flashed back to Alan Vexal. The Lionheart student had been a statistical anomaly, a walking blind spot in Cid’s otherwise precise equations. He’d attributed it to Alan’s own strange, looming connection to an Outsider entity—a resonance that clearly warped the local rules of probability around him.

But the influence wasn't contained.

The incident with Jafar proved it. Cid had meticulously created a sequence of events intended to eliminate Jafar after his betrayal. Yet, at the critical moment the chain had shattered, even though Alan was not physically able to stop it.

Jafar had been spending nearly all his time with Alan. By association, by simply existing within the sphere of Alan’s warped causality, Jafar’s own fate had become… statistically insulated. The foreign influence, like a dye, had bled from Alan into the web of cause-and-effect surrounding him, staining anyone who lingered within it.

Cid: “No wonder,” Cook breathed, dragging a hand down his face. The frustration was now edged with a chilling understanding. “No wonder John hinted that I shouldn’t rely on this power. Klavis might not believe in the Blood Caller’s god, but by accepting their aid, by aligning himself with their will, he stepped into their shadow. His causality is no longer something that can be predicted." He looked up at Scarlett, his expression bleak. “This power… it’s useless against the cults of the Nameless Gods and anyone associated with them.”

Scarlett: “Well, not completely useless,” she amended, her tone pragmatic. “It can serve as a sensitive detector. If your calculations consistently fail around a particular person or within a specific situation, it’s a strong indicator of external, non-standard influence—likely a connection to a Nameless God or a similar ontological contaminant. But as an offensive or manipulative tool against such targets? Its reliability plummets.” She fixed him with a serious look. “And let’s be clear: we are going to have to deal with them in the future. The Endless War cult is entrenched in the conflict in Gix. If we intend to help Anya secure any kind of lasting victory, we will be operating in spaces saturated with their influence. So, I suggest you diversify your portfolio. Don’t put all your eggs in the Book of Grand Design basket.”

Her words forced a sobering reassessment. Cid had viewed his power with a near-reverential awe. The Book of Grand Design had felt like a fragment of divine authority—the ability to see the threads of causality and give them a deliberate tug. He had believed that with enough data, enough preparation, he could orchestrate the future of anyone.

But reality, as it so often did, was proving to be messier and more limiting. He had understood that truly potent beings—archmages like Lazarus, or outsiders—could distort their own local reality, making them impossible to calculate. He had filed that away as a rare exception, a hazard reserved for confronting the pinnacle of power.

Scarlett’s theory, however, suggested a far more pervasive and insidious problem. The corruption of causality wasn't contained. If even casual association with a cultist—receiving their aid, moving in their circles, being a useful puppet—was enough to introduce statistical noise, then the world was far more riddled with these ‘dead zones’ for his power than he’d ever imagined.

As he sat there, grappling with the diminished scope of his greatest asset, the sound of measured, unhurried footsteps echoed from the hallway. Both he and Scarlett turned in unison to see Luke Vaga reappearing in the doorway. He was back, his task presumably complete. His eyes regarding them with that same unsettling, placid focus. The faint, metallic scent of ozone and something else—something coppery and sharp—seemed to cling to him.

Luke: “I have completed the preliminary extraction of information,” Vaga stated, his voice calm and even, as if announcing the conclusion of a routine meeting.

Cid stared, a mix of unease and intense curiosity warring within him. He desperately wanted to know how Luke had gotten this information so quickly from the bound and screaming noble, especially after Scarlett’s warning, but the man’s impassive demeanor offered no opening for such questions.

Luke: “The arrangement was transactional,” he continued, folding his hands behind his back in a posture of academic recitation. “Klavis was not a true believer. The Blood Callers offered him covert support in removing obstacles and consolidating power, in exchange for his cooperation and resources. A number of the minority shares he recently acquired in my enterprises were procured through their… persuasive negotiations with the previous holders. They also supplied him with rare pharmacological agents to extend his lifespan and dangled the prospect of perfected immortality as the ultimate incentive. A foolish fantasy, but one tailored to a specific pathology: Klavis possesses a deep, obsessive fear of death. It made him a pliable, if ultimately ignorant, asset.”

Scarlett: “Actually,” she interjected, her tone deceptively offhand, “the fantasy might have a kernel of truth to it. The Blood Callers have perfected a form of immortality. I became aware of it during my… deeper forays into the world of black magic mages.”

Luke went very still, his full attention locking onto Scarlett. The usual mild disinterest in his eyes vanished, replaced by a sharp, calculating focus.

Luke: “Are you asserting a verifiable method to halt or reverse biological failure? This is not hyperbole or significant life extension, but actual negation of death? Something countless great mages have tried and failed to find since recorded history?”

Scarlett: “I don’t think I would call it true immortality. But, it is a form of immortality. One where time will not take you,” Alexandria confirmed, though her expression was one of profound distaste. “But it comes at a severe cost…”

Luke: “Fascinating. Please, elaborate,” Luke pressed, his voice retaining its even tone but now carrying a distinct weight of command.

Scarlett: “No,” she said flatly. “I have no desire to revisit the particulars.”

Luke: “Scarlett, this is not trivial intelligence,” Vaga countered, a thread of insistence weaving into his words. “From what I gleaned from Klavis, the Blood Callers are coordinating a significant number of them in Loffa. That port city is under Yin’s purview. She requires complete situational awareness.”

Scarlett’s lips tightened. She visibly wrestled with her animosity toward Yin and the cold logic of the threat. Denying information out of spite was tempting, but allowing a cult of the Big Three to operate unchecked was strategically indefensible. With a barely-audible sigh, her pragmatism won.

Scarlett: “Fine,” she conceded, the word clipped. “I will inform Yin directly of what I know regarding their… methodology. She can filter it to you as she sees fit.”

Luke gave a slight, gracious nod. A minor concession in their tense alliance.

Scarlett: “Did you uncover anything else of value?” she asked, eager to move on.

Luke: “Little of significance,” he replied. “He was deliberately kept isolated from their core structure—something expected for a group as secretive as this one. He knew handlers and promises, but not hierarchy or ultimate objectives. A tool, nothing else.”

Scarlett: “Understood. Then we’re done here.” Alexandria stood, signaling the end of the audience. Cid quickly scrambled to his feet.

Luke: “The initial batch of your requested components will be prepared by week’s end,” Vaga said to her retreating back.

Scarlett acknowledged this with a wave of her hand without turning around.

As Cid moved to follow her out, a secondary door on the far side of the chamber, one he hadn’t even noticed, slid open with a whisper. All eyes turned. Fenny stood framed in the doorway, his cloaked form familiar, the obscuring magic around his hood shifting subtly.

Fenny: “There you are,” the bone fox mutant rasped, a hint of irritation in his voice. “I could trace your signature to this complex, but finding the right room was like navigating a maze in the dark. Vaga, you built this place too big!”

Cid: “Fenny?” he asked, surprised. “Why are you here?”

Fenny: “I’m here for her,” he said, gesturing with a gloved hand toward Scarlett before addressing her directly. “Scarlett. Anya requires your presence. The matter is urgent.”

Scarlett’s eyebrow arched sharply. Cid felt a cold knot form in his stomach. Even Luke’s normally unreadable expression seemed to sharpen with renewed interest. In the sudden, heavy silence, a single, pressing question united them: what crisis had prompted a Hero of Gix to summon Scarlett?