Chapter 65: The Art of Moving Silently: Pickpocketing

Cassius’s eyes remained locked on the general’s rigid spine. Look at you, he thought, a cold, venomous calm settling over his mind despite the burning exhaustion in his limbs.

Millions of miles from home, a whole different life, and you’re still commanding slaves like it’s your god-given right.

He remembered the pristine leather chairs in the elder man’s human office, the subtle clinking of expensive crystal, and the dismissive, hand-waving gestures that had swept away Kenish’s cruelest actions.

You thought you were a god because you had a checkbook and a political title, Cassius thought, his bare soles pressing flat against the grimy, freezing stone without making a whisper of sound. You built a monster out of your own son, fed him the lie that he was untouchable, and left everyone else to bleed in the dirt.

The biting cold of the freezing curse throbbed heavily in his chest, but he used the pain to sharpen his focus. The low-levels are blind, focused entirely on the carts. If I keep my mouth shut, they won’t even glance away from their tracks.

He closed the distance rapidly, his towering frame cutting through the dim torchlight.

You think you’re safe behind that silver-trimmed uniform. You think this realm changed the hierarchy. Let’s see how pristine that coat looks when you’re forced to look at the wreckage you left behind.

He stepped into the open light, fully exposed, walking directly into the general’s path.

Just as Cassius closed the distance, he stepped directly into the path of the working line, halting right in front of the slaves who were hauling the heavy, metal-filled jute bags over their straining bodies.

The thick fabric of the sacks groaned under the weight of the raw ore, pressing deep into the raw, calloused skin of their shoulders.

As they marched, a chilling, collective sound rose from the line, cutting through the damp air of the underbelly. Cassius froze, listening closely as the words hit him with a jarring familiarity. It was the exact same rhythmic chant he had heard when he first discovered this kingdom’s brutal system levels.

"Long Live Lord Vilucious, it’s your grace."

Hundreds of lower-tier vampires moved in perfect, terrifying unison, working like mindless robots.

Their voices lacked any real human warmth, blending into a flat, mechanical drone that bounced off the cracked granite pillars. Over and over, they repeated the phrase with the exact same hollow rhythm, their empty eyes fixed forward as they dragged the crushing weight through the dark corridor.

Through the mechanical drone of the chanting slaves, Cassius’s sharp gray eyes caught a glimpse of something tucked into the assistant general’s uniform.

Right there, peeking out from the breast pocket of the rigid, red soldier’s coat, was a small corner of old, brownish paper.

It looked completely out of place against the pristine, silver-trimmed fabric.

It was weathered, thick, and stained; the kind of paper that belonged in an ancient human ledger rather than an elite officer’s active military attire.

The texture of it instantly screamed of old secrets, practically radiating a history that predated this unhinged realm.

Cassius stared at the pocket, his mind instantly racing. In a household run by corruption and cover-ups, a man like that didn’t carry old, worn documents in his personal pocket unless it was something leverage-heavy or too dangerous to leave in a vault.

Cassius knew that getting physically closer would be an absolute disaster. Even with the assistant general and the low-levels completely locked in their tunnel vision, slipping right up to a high-ranking officer’s chest without making a single sound or tripping an alarm was an impossible gamble.

If he got caught now, the entire underbelly would descend on him before he could blink.

He needed a cleaner, completely silent approach. His gray eyes locked back onto the weathered corner of the brownish paper peeking from the red military pocket, and an idea took shape.

He would use his magical power: the purple, dark, viscous blood figure magic. If he could manifest it correctly, he could reshape a thread of it into a sharp, narrow tong form, sliding it across the gap to pluck the document straight out of the officer’s coat without a single touch.

But triggering that specific force required a catalyst. He needed to stoke the embers of his own rage.

He needed to get truly angry at everything around him; at this wretched kingdom, at the robotic chanting of the broken slaves, and at the pristine, corrupt figure standing mere meters away.

Cassius leaned back slightly, letting the memories of the human world flood his mind, intentionally feeding his own bitterness. He focused on the injustice of it all, the sheer disgust of seeing the same oppressors thrive in a new world while everyone else bled.

As the shadow rain began to fall in silent, black droplets around him, Cassius’s mind burned with a cold, concentrated fury. Look at him, he thought, his pitch-black, void eyes locked onto the assistant general’s pristine red uniform. Standing there like a king in a graveyard, built on the bones of people he broke.

He stared at the hundreds of lower-tier vampires chanting like mechanical toys in the dirt. They don’t even remember who they were, he realized, a bitter, heavy wave of disgust twisting inside his chest.

You took their lives, you took their names, and now you make them sing your praises while they carry your metal.

A bastard always a bastard, what you did with Ezaily...

He felt the wet, warm flow of his own blood running down his bruised chest, mixing with the dark, viscous energy of the shadow rain. The freezing curse tore at his lungs, but the sheer hatred for the man in front of him burned it away.

Thinking you’re completely untouchable because of your rank. You think nobody sees the filth you keep in your pockets.

Let’s see what kind of secrets you hide like an absolute coward whose even afraid to lose pathetic kingdom.

As the dark fury completely built up inside his chest, the transformation finalized. His analytical gray eyes lost their focus entirely, transitioning rapidly until they became entirely void and pitch black.

The temperature in the immediate air plummeted even further, and the faint, localized shadow rain intensified, tiny droplets of pure darkness condensing out of thin air and falling silently around his towering frame.

The physical components were already in place. The open wounds on his bare chest were still actively bleeding, the dark purple fluid glistening under the dim torchlight. With his mind locked in that state of absolute, unhinged anger, Cassius began to channel his energy downward, consciously mixing his raw, flowing blood with the conjured shadow rain.

The two forces bled into one another, pooling at his fingertips as a thick, viscous, dark purple mass, humming with a dangerous, silent potential, perfectly molded and ready to become the silent tool he needed.

The dark purple fluid immediately went to work. A thin, viscous strand detached from his fingertips and stretched across the gap, flattening into a narrow tong figure. It slithered through the cold air in absolute silence, invisible against the heavy shadows.

The magical tendril reached the red coat, pinching the weathered corner of the old brownish paper. Gripping it firmly, the magic slid backward, pulling the document completely out of the pocket without letting the rough material rustle.

The assistant general remained entirely rigid, his eyes fixed on the chanting slaves, completely oblivious. The dark purple tong retracted back into the crevice.

Just as the dark purple tong slid backward, balancing the old brownish paper in its grip, a sudden streak of metal flashed through the gloom.

A sharp, heavy halberd sliced down with brutal speed, its blade cracking cleanly through the narrow magical tendril. The physical impact shattered the connection instantly, severing the link between Cassius and his viscous magic.

The contact broke violently. Denied its support, the ancient paper slipped from the severed grip and fluttered downward, landing softly in the grimy dirt of the stone floor. The remaining liquid fluid exploded outward in a faint, dark spray before completely vanishing into the cold air.

Cassius’s pitch-black, void eyes remained wide and hollow, staring down at the empty space. His magic had dissolved entirely into nothingness, leaving his blood-streaked hands completely empty as the stolen secrets lay exposed right in the dirt between them.

Cassius’s void eyes tracked the heavy weapon as it planted firmly into the dirt. He didn’t need to see the face to know who it was. He recognized that distinct, powerful blade immediately.

It was Kerwon.

Just after the strike, a sharp, intentional voice sliced through the heavy silence of the cavern. It wasn’t a quiet warning; it was a calculated shout designed to instantly snap the tunnel-visioned army and the assistant general out of their trance.

"We take Vilucious’s blessings for granted,"

Kerwon drawled, his tone dripping with deliberate, mocking amusement.

"Yet something was being stolen so easily right here... just like in that greedy human world."

The words echoed sharply off the cracked granite pillars. Instantly, the rhythmic chanting of the slaves faltered, and the assistant general’s head snapped toward the sound, his eyes locking directly onto the fallen piece of paper in the dirt.

As Kerwon’s voice died down, the shift in the corridor was instantaneous. The low-level guards and sub-officers snapped out of their tunnel vision, their bodies stiffening automatically.

In perfect, mechanical unison, the surrounding armies slammed their right fists over their hearts, dropping into a deep, synchronized kneel; a rigid, unquestioning salute fitting for the highest ranks of the kingdom.

Kerwon paid the display no attention.

He began walking toward the assistant general from the far end of the dark corridor, his posture immaculate and unbothered. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, his steps measured and calculated against the uneven stone floor.

Every stride carried the weight of an elite executioner, his eyes locked onto the fallen piece of brownish paper in the dirt before drifting slowly toward the deep, silent shadows of the charcoal crevice.

Kerwon’s gaze drifted past the fallen paper, his cold eyes tracking upward along the jagged edges of the charcoal crevice.

He looked exactly where the dark purple magic had originated, expecting to find the bleeding, bare-chested intruder pinned against the rock.