Warlock Ch 406. Investigation [Part 1]
Damian stepped outside and put on his mask, the mana wards sealing the door behind him with a soft chi. The mont the magic confird the threshold was closed, he activated his skill.
[Shadow Step]
In a blink, the world distorted—shadows folding around him like a second skin, the streets vanishing into streaks of grey and motion blur. His body shifted through space, landing silently on the edge of a rooftop two districts over.
The wind hit him hard up here—cold, thin, tinged with the coppery scent of smog and distant mana exhaust. The spires of Haven's upper sectors rose like jagged fangs in the distance, but he wasn't heading there. No. Not yet.
[Spectral Surge]
Light flickered around his boots, violet-blue energy pulsing along the runes etched into his soles. The sudden rush of speed kicked off with a crack, like a whip breaking the sound barrier, and Damian blurred across the rooftops—vaulting over alleys, kicking off chimneys, barely leaving a sound in his wake.
He didn't go to the Central Archive vault.
Not yet.
He had a feeling that once he did, there wouldn't be ti to backtrack.
So instead, he shot toward the outer district where Cedric and Alric were last seen—near an inn commonly used by royal envoys. A neutral sector on paper, but known to harbor all kinds of scum if you knew where to look.
Damian's boots hit the rooftop ledge of the inn three minutes later. His breath fogged lightly in the chilled morning air. He crouched low, scanning the street below.
The inn was old. Two floors, cracked stone façade, enchantnts barely holding together around its periter. There was no obvious blood, no wreckage. But he could feel it.
Sothing wrong had happened here.
The kind of wrong that left a scar behind, even after cleanup.
He jumped down from the ledge, landing with a soft thud in a shadowy corner beside the alley entrance.
[Dark Sight]
The world shifted, dulling to grey and purple hues, revealing traces of mana residue most people couldn't see.
And there it was.
A splash of brilliant crimson mana across the cobblestones—faint but still clinging to the stone like smoke. Cedric's signature. Royal fae magic always left a trace. Elegant, strong, a little too pure.
Damian moved closer, crouching to touch it.
It was dry.
Which ant the attack hadn't happened in the last six hours—but not more than half a day, either.
He followed the trail. It zigzagged toward the side wall. There, a partial imprint—soone had fallen, braced against the bricks. Blood. Not human.
Alric's, probably.
Then… nothing.
A teleportation trace. Very faint, barely stabilized, but it was there.
Soone opened a portal at this spot. Soone with enough skill to suppress the mana pulse so it didn't trip the district ward sensors. That took either high-level clearance… or insider access.
Damian stood slowly.
He looked at the stone beneath the portal mark, then scanned the pattern again with [Analyze].
[Skill Activated: Observation]
[Trace Detected: Teleportation Anchor – Royal Signature Suppressed]
[Warning: Incomplete origin trace. Fragnted anchor spell. Possible override used.]
"Tch," he muttered.
A forced teleportation.
Not clean. Not stable. Rushed.
Soone either wanted them out fast… or wanted to make sure they couldn't trace the point of origin clearly. That didn't scream "royal escort." That scread panic. Or misdirection.
He kept moving.
Next stop—the inn itself.
Damian slipped in through the rear entrance, bypassing the front entirely. The kitchen was cold and quiet, though the fire runes were still faintly active. Soone had been cooking not long ago. But now, the place was abandoned. A "temporarily closed" sign hung lopsided on the front desk. Obvious cover.
He walked upstairs, the floor creaking under his boots. Room 203. Cedric's.
He checked for traps first. Nothing active.
Inside, the room was… too clean.
Bed made. No discarded clothes. No scent of blood. Even the mana signature had been scrubbed.
But—
Damian's eyes narrowed. A tiny scratch on the lock. Burned at the edges.
Soone forced it open. Then tried to reseal the door.
[Spectral Echo]
A shimr pulsed through the air, distorting the space in front of him like ripples across glass.
The room around Damian darkened slightly, colors fading to muted greys as the lingering mana in the space ford a ghostly replay.
Phantom outlines—transparent, flickering like mist—began to appear, shaped by the residue of emotional and magical imprint. Cedric stood near the window, posture tense, a sealed scroll gripped tightly in one hand. His clothes were torn, the sleeve of his tunic soaked with blood at the shoulder, and there was a deep cut just above his brow. He looked pale, but conscious. Alert.
Alric was pacing in the middle of the room, his stance unsteady. A heavy gash across his side had bled through his armor. Still, he moved—limping, agitated. Not in good shape, but not dying either. Damian narrowed his eyes. They were both wounded… but not enough to justify an ergency evacuation.
There was sothing else going on here.
Then—crash. The door burst open.
Fae soldiers stord in—three of them, fast, armor gleaming with enchantnt, movents precise and practiced. Too fast. Too clean. Not random scouts. These weren't responders. These were waiting for a cue.
Cedric reacted instantly, lifting his hand and flaring with mana, protective wards blooming around the scroll in his grip. He stepped in front of Alric, shielding him. But one of the soldiers stepped forward, lifted a hand—Spoke.
Damian couldn't hear the words. The echo was visual only. But he saw the shift in Cedric's eyes. The hesitation. A flicker of recognition, or doubt.
The scroll vanished, sealed away in a burst of fae magic. Cedric turned back to Alric. Then, the soldier activated sothing—a bright magic formation, etched on the floor, pulsing like a heartbeat.
White light surged.
The room snapped back to reality. The echoes disappeared, and the mana trail faded into nothing.
Damian stood frozen, jaw clenched, heart pounding.
They weren't evacuated.
They were taken.
And Cedric had been holding sothing. Sothing they didn't want to leave behind. Sothing even he didn't tell Damian about.
Damian turned on his heel and walked out, the door shutting behind him with a quiet click.
"Damn it," he muttered as he leapt back onto the rooftop.
He didn't need more questions.
He needed a damn answer.
And fast.
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