The pitch-dark, thick blackness that had swallowed even one's own fingers vanished, and the forest seemed to plunge into an extreme silence. Even the insects crawling beneath the rotting leaves made no sound.
"Lucian? Evans..." A low, almost gritted voice drifted down from the dark cloud mass and drifting mist overhead, laden with a fury so dense it seemed impossible to dissolve.
For Dracula, Lucian represented a memory that could by no stretch be called pleasant. As a vampire prince who had lived for untold millennia—one of the ten most powerful beings in the entire world, gods included—he had been deceived and outmaneuvered by a mere insect who had only just ascended to the Sixth Circle. He had suffered the most lopsided defeat imaginable. He could have crushed the man with nothing but his oppressive aura and killing intent alone, yet he had been forced to watch helplessly as Lucian summoned the Progenitor and took a wound from a single sword stroke.
Every time this incident crossed his mind, Dracula felt a searing burn across his face. Humiliation and rage churned within him. He had wanted to hunt Lucian down at the first opportunity, but the wretched man had secluded himself, pouring all his attention into arcanist research. Whenever he did venture out, the Starry Destiny couldn't lock onto his movements. And besides, Dracula was fundamentally a vampire prince who prized his reputation above all else—he could not bring himself to conduct a prolonged stakeout near Allens. Even setting aside pride, such an endeavor would likely not escape the notice of the Grand Archanists guarding the city. And so the matter had been postponed again and again, until today.
Of course, for vampires with their vast lifespans, this could hardly be called procrastination. A legendary-peak powerhouse like Prince Dracula, who could conjure an entire bustling city within his dreams and whose slumber could last a century, would find a mere decade to be as brief as dinnertime. There was no real delay. Yet who could have imagined that in fewer than ten years, Lucian would have grown from a Sixth Circle mage into a legendary peak existence, standing on the very same level as himself?
This was a miracle he had never encountered before!
Sensing that her "employer" was in foul spirits and emotionally volatile—as he always was upon waking—Fetia sighed helplessly, then spoke in a tone that was courteous yet pointed: "Mr. Evans, Flamestone Valley is the headquarters of our Dark Council, and an important conference is about to convene. Unless one carries an invitation, outsiders may not approach. Do you intend to make an enemy of the entire Dark Council?"
Finding her argument both reasonable and well-phrased, Lucian smiled. "I've simply come to pay a visit to Mr. Rhein. I can wait nearby until he's available."
Truth be told, even if he had been invited, Lucian would have been reluctant to enter Flamestone Valley. Inside lay powerful labyrinth locks, a legendary-peak enemy hostile to him, and the primordial Time Dragon Danisothis, who bore no goodwill toward humans. Entering rashly would be tantamount to walking into the Holy City of Lance itself—placing his life entirely in others' hands.
Suddenly, Dubonal rose to his feet, his rough voice booming: "And what if Mr. Evans were to receive an invitation? The Werewolf Clan invites him to observe the conference and bear witness to its fairness and impartiality."
Nasdell was stunned. How could His Highness, who had moments ago been locked in a life-and-death struggle with Lucian Evans, suddenly extend an invitation to this legendary mage of the Magic Council? Had the Silver Moon risen from the west?
In that instant, his mind felt like a lump of paste, utterly unable to sort out its tangled threads. He couldn't help but lament that, clever as he was, he was still a mere clown compared to the profound wisdom of His Highness—quite incapable of comprehending his unfathomable designs!
"Dubonal, do you have any idea what you're doing? You ugly creature with nothing but wolf hair growing inside that skull of yours." Dracula's voice, hidden in the darkness high above, was imperious and cutting.
In normal circumstances, Prince Dracula was an exceedingly well-mannered gentleman. But when facing an ugly, reeking werewolf and a treacherous, cunning insect, there was no need for courtesy.
Dubonal threw his head back and laughed heartily. "This is the right of the Werewolf Clan—a right recognized by every member of the Council…"
"I never said I wished to observe the conference." Lucian's voice, unhurried and even-keeled, cut him off.
Crack. The grin froze on Dubonal's face, his expression a mixture of alarm and irritation. "Then what are you here for?"
If not to observe the conference, not to disrupt the schemes of Danisothis and Dracula—then what in the world was he here for?
"I've come to visit Mr. Rhein." Lucian was not well acquainted with this werewolf prince, but the Council's records contained a profile of him: a legendary whose thinking operated in simple, straight lines. Understanding this, he patiently repeated himself.
"Then why didn't you say so earlier?!" Dubonal's bellowing roar startled flocks of grotesquely shaped birds into fleeing through the forest. Such reasons were always just excuses, weren't they? Excuses—didn't the man understand?
"I already said so…" Lucian couldn't help rubbing his forehead. What on earth have you been thinking about this whole time?
Listening to their exchange, Dracula fell silent overhead. Nasdell felt his brain falling ever further behind the pace of the conversation. Fetia's cat-like emerald eyes flickered once, and the corner of her mouth twitched involuntarily.
"Actually, Mr. Evans, you could observe this conference." Fetia simply could not bear to let the dialogue continue as it was. Her voice was soft and gentle. At the same time, she beckoned to the white-pawed black cat that had been drifting toward Dubonal. "Sko, come back."
"Fetia, what are you doing?" Dracula's voice held a note of surprise.
Fetia paid no attention whatsoever to her "employer" and continued of her own accord: "Because the agenda of the conference was leaked in advance, and at the strong insistence of the majority of members, the conference will be held outside Flamestone Valley. This is to prevent certain ambitious individuals from using the labyrinth locks to slaughter dissenters. Observing from the outside would pose no danger whatsoever."
"Fetia!" A thread of anger had crept into Dracula's voice.
The little black cat "Sko" flicked its paw, ignoring its "master's" summons, and padded toward Nasdell. It loved playing with the big dogs!