Chapter 117: Not tonight

The library room fell into a silence as heavy and absolute as a graveyard, the quiet hum of the shimmering concealment barrier hanging in the air like a drawn breath.

Every gaze in the chamber remained fixed on Annie, who sat curled in the cushioned leather armchair, her pale face illuminated by the soft, fading silver glow of her residual magic.

Annie sank into deep thought, her brow furrowed as she mentally parsed through the intricate web of spirit pathways required for high-grade visual transfiguration.

After a long, agonizing moment, she exhaled a deep sigh that seemed to drain the last remaining tension from her shoulders.

A small, confident smile touched her lips as she looked up to meet Craig’s expectant gaze.

She nodded firmly. "I can do it, My Lord," Annie confirmed, her voice soft but filled with quiet resolve.

"However... because I have already cast an advanced spatial isolation spell tonight, my spirit pathways are severely inflamed. I will not be able to weave spirit magic again until a full twenty-four hours have passed.

I need those twenty-four hours to completely replenish both my physical mana reserves and my spirituality before I can execute a cosmetic transfiguration of that caliber."

Craig nodded with a satisfied, approving smile.

"As long as it is within your capabilities, Annie, I am content. You have done more than enough for us tonight, and you deserve a thorough rest."

Turning his attention toward Ser Damian, Craig’s expression softened slightly.

"Damian... take your sister back to her quarters. Ensure she eats a hearty meal once her strength returns and gets all the rest she requires over the coming days."

Craig stepped around the dark mahogany table, looking at both of his trusted companions. "We have forty-eight hours to complete our covert preparations. Use this time to quietly pack your essential gear, secure your weapons, and ensure your affairs are in order. Do not draw suspicion from the castle staff."

He then looked at the Indestructible Sword.

"Hughway, you will prepare yourself as well. Over these next forty-eight hours, I will be personally auditing every administrative, economic, and defensive detail across the Myrain Viscounty to guarantee that my domain operates flawlessly in my absence.

Until the Succession War reaches its ultimate conclusion, this viscounty remains my permanent fief, my absolute sanctuary. I will leave no vulnerabilities behind for my enemies to exploit."

Satisfied with the operational directives, Craig raised his hand, dismissing his inner circle.

"You are all excused. Sleep well."

One by one, the quiet figures prepared to take their leave.

Ser Damian gently helped Annie to her feet, wrapping her dark cloak around her shoulders before guiding her carefully out into the silent corridor.

The brother and sister moved like shadows through the castle, slipping away to their private quarters without alerting a single night guard.

In a matter of moments, the library room emptied—leaving only two men behind.

Before Ser Hughway could step across the threshold, Craig’s voice called out quietly through the still air. "Hughway. Stay behind for a moment."

The veteran knight paused in his tracks, his hand resting against the heavy oak doorframe.

He turned back, his dark eyes brimming with curiosity. "Is there a problem, My Lord?"

Craig offered no immediate answer. Instead, he turned back to the towering bookshelves, his slender fingers sliding over the dark leather spine of the volume he had been perusing earlier.

He pulled out the Soaring Sword Art manual once more, holding it in his palms with a faint, wry smile.

"Because I possess the primordial nature and bloodline resonance of a beast," Craig murmured, his eyes lingering on the archaic diagrams within the text, "it took me less than a month to completely master the brutal mechanics of the Beast Blade Art. Yet... this refined, Soaring Sword Art continues to give me no small amount of trouble."

Craig exhaled a long, heavy breath, resting the open book against the mahogany table.

"Despite all my efforts, I have only managed to grasp and execute the very first form."

Ser Hughway smiled warmly, walking back toward his lord with the comforting, grounded aura of a seasoned mentor. "You judge yourself far too harshly, My Lord. You are currently still an Initial-stage Sword Runner.

To master a complete, True Sword Art like the Beast Blade Art and simultaneously execute the foundational form of the Soaring Sword Art at your age is a feat that ninety-nine percent of knights on this continent could never achieve in a lifetime.

You have plenty of time. Do not destroy your own foundation or break your spirit just to rush your growth."

Listening to the older knight’s sincere, caring advice, a low, self-deprecating laugh escaped Craig’s throat.

’Plenty of time?’ Craig thought to himself, shaking his head in quiet, bitter amusement as he stared down at his calloused palms. ’What a tragic joke...’

He closed his eyes for a brief second, suppressing the dark, chaotic memories rising from the depths of his soul.

He could not blame the veteran knight beside him.

How could Hughway possibly understand?

How could anyone on this blissful, ignorant continent comprehend the sheer, existential horror lingering on the horizon?

’I am the only Regressor...’ Craig’s inner voice echoed with chilling clarity, his heart hardening like forged steel. ’I am the only soul alive who knows the absolute truth of what is coming. I am the only one aware of the catastrophic second arrival of the Apocalypse... the slaughter, the fallen kingdoms, the oceans of blood.

I do not have the luxury of time! I must grow stronger by any means necessary... regardless of the cost!’

His right hand squeezed into a tight, white-knuckled fist against the mahogany wood, his resolve solidifying into an unyielding mountain.

Opening his golden-crimson eyes, Craig raised his head, looking straight into Ser Hughway’s weathered face.

The self-deprecating laughter vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp gravity.

"Hughway... I would be lying if I told you that the presence of that traitor, Arya Benova, has not begun to grate on my nerves," Craig admitted softly, his voice dropping into a dangerous register.

"It is not Arya herself that I fear—she is a fragile fly caught in my web. It is the unknown entity standing behind her. The mastermind whose colors she wears."

Craig leaned back against the edge of the table, his eyes narrowing into sharp slits. "The fact that I have yet to definitively identify her true master... having her breathe the air inside my castle while I prepare to journey North makes me deeply uncomfortable."

Ser Hughway’s posture shifted instantly, his warm aura cooling into the sharp, lethal instinct of a killer.

A heavy, suffocating killing intent flickered in his eyes as his gauntleted hand tightened around the pommel of his broadsword.

"If she brings you discomfort, My Lord..." Hughway whispered coldly, his voice devoid of hesitation, "say the word, and I will personally sever Arya’s head from her shoulders before the sun rises tonight. We can bury her corpse in the Old Valley where no one will ever find it."

Craig looked at his loyal knight, a slow, razor-sharp smirk curling his lips as he gently raised a hand, waving off the deadly offer.

"Not tonight, Hughway," Craig declined smoothly.

"A sudden death right now would only cause her master to cut their losses and send a far more discreet, dangerous spy into my domain. We keep her close so we can control the narrative."

Craig’s golden-crimson eyes glinted with a cold, absolute promise as he closed the sword manual with a heavy thud.

"However..." Craig added, his voice laced with absolute finality, "if I return from the Northern Continent after a month and still have not unmasked the mastermind pulling her strings... I will personally grant you permission to take her head."