Chapter 129: Craig’s Determination

The heavens above continued to fracture in a violent display of raw, elemental fury.

A brilliant, jagged streak of blinding white lightning violently slashed across the ink-black canvas of the night sky, instantly followed by a concussive, deafening roar of thunder that shook the wet slate of the Opark Mountain pass to its very core.

Amidst the blinding deluge, Craig stood entirely still, completely soaked by the relentless downpour.

Water streamed down his transfigured silver-white hair and dripped sharply from his chin, but he paid it no mind.

His hands, still clenched tightly at his sides, were trembling—not from the freezing mountain cold, but from a cold, simmering rage that burned straight down to his marrow.

His gaze remained locked downward, fixed entirely upon the lifeless corpse of the mercenary commander who had just been silenced by an assassin’s bolt from his own syndicate.

"Black Winter!" Craig mumbled under his breath, his voice laced with venom as his knuckles turned stark white.

He clenched his right hand even tighter, his breath hitching as a dark, dangerous realization settled over his mind.

"Black Winter!" His gaze darkened into bottomless abysses of ice.

"Black Winter! Hydra! Black Winter!"

The sheer intensity of his boiling wrath triggered a catastrophic reaction within his core.

Uncontrolled, volatile crimson mana—a terrifying manifestation of his true draconic bloodline—suddenly flared outward, bursting past his physical boundaries in a turbulent, swirling vortex that parted the heavy rain inches away from his skin.

Slowly, Craig raised his head, staring straight up into the roaring, lightning-lit sky.

His eyes, normally a calm emerald-green under his disguise, burned with a terrifying, unbridled fury that rivaled the storm overhead.

So hard was his grip that his fingernails broke deeply into his flesh.

Warm, arterial blood began to leak from his clenched palms, mixing with the falling raindrops and washing crimson down his wrists before hitting the muddy ground.

While Craig grappled with the sudden revelation, Ser Hughway had already swung into motion.

Without waiting for a direct command, the veteran Lord Commander had spurred his war stallion up the steep, jagged slopes of the mountain ridge, launching a high-speed search across the entirety of the upper Opark range to hunt down the cowardly assassin who had fired the fatal bolt.

Meanwhile, Ser Damian remained firmly planted on the trail, staying close to his sister Annie and his liege.

Damian’s hand rested steady on his pommel, his vigilant eyes scanning the dark, mist-chrouded tree line for any secondary threats while Craig processed his shock.

"These bastards really are getting on my nerves," Craig exhaled a long, heavy breath, the turbulent crimson mana slowly receding back into his core as his eyes flickered with a cold, murderous promise.

He lowered his gaze, turning his head slightly to face Ser Damian through the sheeting rain.

"This is an undeniable sign... I truly need to grow stronger, and faster," Craig said, his voice dropping into a low, resolute register.

He gestured toward the chaotic field of fallen bodies surrounding them. "Damian. Go through the corpses. Search them thoroughly and strip them of everything valuable they brought with them."

Damian blinked in slight surprise, though a faint, understanding smirk touched his lips.

"You wish to rob dead mercenaries, My Lord?"

"They came to our path with the explicit intent to slaughter us and claim a bounty," Craig replied coldly, his eyes narrowing.

"It is only fair that we collect compensation for the trouble of cleaning up their carcasses."

"Understood, My Lord," Damian answered crisply.

Dismounting from his war stallion, Damian stepped carefully through the mud and blood.

With systematic, practiced efficiency, he moved from corpse to corpse, rolling over heavy black-armored bodies, unbuckling hidden pouches, and searching through reinforced leather belt compartments.

He tossed heavy, clinking sacks of loot into a pile before collecting them all in a sturdy canvas satchel.

Within minutes, Damian returned to Craig’s side, holding up four small, heavy leather bags that jangled loudly with the unmistakable sound of high-denomination currency.

"Well?" Craig asked, looking down at the spoils.

"What is the tally?"

"I counted them thoroughly, My Lord," Damian reported, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

"Between the twenty men, they carried quite a war chest. There are at least fifty gold coins, nine hundred silver coins, and three thousand bronze coins stashed across these pouches."

Craig nodded slowly, a trace of approval touching his features. "Good. Store them safely in your saddlebag, Damian. This unexpected windfall will serve us well. We will use these exact funds to comfortably cover our lodging, horse feed, and travel expenses the moment we cross the border into the Asherian Viscounty."

Just as Damian finished stowing the coin bags away, the sound of heavy hoofbeats echoed down the rocky switchback above them.

Ser Hughway reined in his war stallion as he descended the mountain ridge, riding back into the camp with a grim, disappointed expression on his weathered face.

He dismounted smoothly, walking up to his sovereign and dropping his head in a respectful bow.

"I apologize for my incompetence, My Lord," Hughway reported heavily. "I swept the entire upper ridge, checked the intersecting tree lines, and scoured the old hunting trails. There was not a single trace left behind. The assassin vanished completely into thin air."

Craig offered a calm, understanding shrug, letting out a soft sigh as he shook his head.

"Raise your head, Hughway. Do not blame yourself. I had very little hope of catching them anyway, considering how quickly that coward vanished."

Craig crossed his arms over his heavy travelling coat, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"An assassin who strikes with that kind of surgical precision and retreats instantly would never have taken the shot unless their escape route had been mapped out weeks in advance. They had a pre-arranged extraction network waiting in the shadows."

Taking a deep, grounding breath of the crisp, rain-washed mountain air, Craig looked straight at the veteran knight. "Tell me, Hughway... in all your years serving House Darkstar and fighting across the continent, have you ever encountered or heard whispers regarding an underground syndicate known as Black Winter?"

At the mention of those two words, a sharp, profound shift occurred in Ser Hughway’s posture.

The veteran knight inhaled sharply, his dark eyes widening slightly in sudden recognition.

"Black Winter..." Hughway murmured, the name tasting like ash on his tongue. "Yes, My Lord... I have heard of them. More than just heard—rumors of their existence have haunted the upper echelons of the military and the nobility for decades."

The moment those words left Hughway’s lips, Craig’s eyes lit up with sharp, focused intensity.

The missing piece of the puzzle was finally clicking into place.

"Explain," Craig commanded softly, stepping closer. "Tell me everything you know about them."

Hughway crossed his arms, his expression turning grave as he stared into the dark, stormy night.

"Black Winter is widely whispered to be the true, hidden home of all elite mercenaries, contract killers, and shadow brokers across the continent. However, calling them a simple guild would be a grave mistake.

They do not operate in the light, nor do they hold official guild halls. They act as the absolute, untouchable underworld lords of the mercenary trade."

The knight paused, letting the heavy reality sink in. "They are the shadowy hands responsible for the vast majority of high-profile noble assassinations, political purges, and clandestine corporate wars across the Western and Northern Continents.

Even the powerful Western Ducal Families—including our own house—have repeatedly attempted to track down and thoroughly purge their network.

Yet, every time an army or an elite inquisitor unit moves in to strike their stronghold, they find nothing but empty ghosts and dead ends. They are a phantom organization."

Craig stood in silence, listening quietly to Hughway’s exhaustive report.

A heavy, dark sigh escaped his lips, not out of fear, but out of grim realization.

So the shadowy forces pulling the strings behind the proxy conflicts weren’t just low-level regional thugs—they were backed by the supreme underworld lords of the continent.

He exhaled slowly, letting the cold rain wash over his face one last time before his expression hardened into absolute, unyielding resolve.

He turned his piercing emerald-green eyes toward Ser Hughway, locking gazes with his most trusted commander.

"Listen to me closely, Hughway," Craig instructed, his voice ringing with absolute, sovereign authority.

"Once we complete our present Northern Expedition... once the Crimson Dragon Order is officially raised and our foundations in the North are fully secured... we are going to turn our full attention back home."

Craig clenched his fist once more, the memory of the crossbow bolt still burning in his mind.

"When we return... the Black Winter will no longer be a ghost in the shadows," Craig vowed coldly.

"We are going to hunt them down, rip apart their network, and root them out by the throat."