Chapter 317: Discovering Another Path of Martialist

The eastern district of the Conclave’s central valley was a different world. The air here was less perfumed with the scent of exotic trade goods and more with the clean, sharp smell of polished steel, oiled leather, and the faint, almost imperceptible hum of contained power.

Here, the flamboyant pavilions of the west gave way to the spartan, disciplined encampments of the Celestial Dragon Empire and the Kensei Shogunate. It was a place of warriors, and it carried a different, more dangerous kind of energy.

As Alaric and his procession of beauties walked past the Dragon Empire’s barracks, a low, appreciative whistle cut through the air.

It came from a burly Guard Captain, a man whose muscular frame was barely contained by his ornate, black-and-gold armor. He was lounging against a weapon rack with a group of his subordinates, his face a mask of puffed-up arrogance, his eyes filled with a crude, possessive lust as they roamed brazenly over the magnificent figures of Queen Ondine and Archmage Priscilla.

His gaze lingered on the swell of Ondine’s magnificent breasts, then shamelessly dropped to the sway of Priscilla’s impossibly curvaceous hips. “Look at that,” he murmured to his men, his voice a low, vulgar rumble just loud enough for Alaric’s enhanced hearing to catch. “The women of the west are like overripe peaches. Soft, juicy, and just begging to be squeezed.”

Alaric didn’t react. His face remained a mask of calm, almost bored indifference. He continued walking, his pace unhurried, his expression unchanged.

But Ondine, Priscilla, and Zylle felt it instantly. A sudden, terrifying drop in the ambient temperature. A silent, cold fury that radiated from Alaric, a pressure so immense it was almost a physical force. His women were his property. His most prized possessions. And this… this common guard… had just dared to look upon them as if they were common tavern wenches.

Ondine’s hand, which rested on Alaric’s arm, tightened almost imperceptibly. Zylle’s obsidian eyes, which had been scanning the surroundings with a professional detachment, now fixed on the Guard Captain with the cold, unblinking focus of a viper about to strike.

Alaric gave a nearly imperceptible nod, a flicker of movement so small that only Zylle, who was attuned to his every nuance, would have noticed. The message was clear. ’That one. Bring him to me.’

Later that evening, as the valley was cast in the long shadows of the setting sun, Captain Wei of the Emperor’s Dragon Guard was making his way back to his post. He was in a fine mood, still reliving the delightful memory of the two western beauties, his mind filled with crude, pleasant fantasies.

He was a man of some importance, a captain in the most elite military force in the world. He was strong, respected, and accustomed to taking what he wanted.

As he passed a secluded, dimly lit alleyway between two large supply tents, a soft, musical voice called out to him. “Captain…”

He turned. A woman stood in the shadows, her form a tantalizing silhouette. She was exotically beautiful, her features hinting at a rare, southern heritage, her gown a whisper of silk that clung to her magnificent curves. She was one of Zylle’s most skilled agents, a woman trained by Brita Kuusk in the subtle, deadly arts of seduction and assassination.

“Are you lost, beautiful?” Captain Wei asked, a lecherous grin spreading across his face. He thought it was his lucky day. A beautiful, exotic woman, clearly drawn to his masculine power.

“I was hoping a strong, handsome Captain might… show me the way,” she purred, beckoning him into the alley with a single, slender finger.

Captain Wei chuckled, his ego preening. He followed her into the shadows, his mind already anticipating the pleasures to come.

The moment he stepped past the entrance, the world dissolved into a silent, efficient symphony of violence.

He never even saw them. A shadow moved behind him. A sharp, stinging pain in his neck, like the bite of an insect. A sudden, overwhelming wave of dizziness. His formidable, Qi-tempered body, which could shrug off a sword blow, was helpless against the potent, fast-acting soporific that flooded his veins.

His eyes rolled back in his head, his legs buckled, and he collapsed, unconscious before he could even make a sound.

Zylle herself stepped out of the shadows, a small, needle-tipped syringe in her hand. She looked down at the unconscious captain with a cold, contemptuous expression. ’Arrogant fool,’ she thought.

Her agents worked with a practiced, silent efficiency. They slapped a small, disguised Recall Anchor onto the back of the captain’s armor. There was a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of spatial energy, and Captain Wei vanished, transported instantly from the alleyway to a secure, soundproofed chamber deep within the Jorailian pavilion.

Another agent, his face a perfect, illusionary copy of Captain Wei’s, stepped out of the shadows, straightened his armor, and continued on his way to the Dragon Guard barracks.

The abduction was perfect. Traceless. An act of silent, invisible warfare in the heart of the world’s most powerful encampment.

Captain Wei awoke with a groan, his head pounding, his body feeling strangely heavy. He was chained to a simple, sturdy wooden chair. The chains were thick, forged from a strange, black metal that seemed to hum with a faint, magic-dampening energy.

He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his mind. He was in a small, windowless room, the walls lined with the same black, sound-absorbing stone.

Across from him, sitting in a comfortable, high-backed chair, was the young Duke of the Jorailian Kingdom. Alaric Steele. He was casually sipping a cup of steaming, fragrant tea, his expression one of calm, almost academic, interest.

Behind him, like three beautiful, deadly goddesses of vengeance, stood the very women the captain had been so crudely fantasizing about. The magnificent Queen, the voluptuous blonde Archmage, and the sharp, deadly raven-haired beauty. Their faces were unreadable, their powerful auras a silent, intimidating wall.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Alaric said, his voice a calm, pleasant murmur. “Excellent. I was beginning to get bored.”

The reality of the situation crashed down on Captain Wei. He had been abducted. By this… this western upstart. A wave of pure, incandescent rage washed over him, momentarily eclipsing his fear.

“Do you know who I am?!” he roared, his voice a deep, powerful bellow that should have shaken the very walls. But the sound-dampening stone swallowed his rage, reducing it to a dull, impotent thud. “I am Captain Wei of the Emperor’s Dragon Guard! The Emperor will burn your entire kingdom to the ground for this insult! He will flay you alive!”

Alaric simply smiled, a slow, pitying expression. He took another delicate sip of his tea. “The Emperor,” he said, his voice a soft, almost conversational tone, “won’t even know you’re gone.”

He leaned forward, a conspiratorial glint in his ruby eyes. “You see, Captain Wei, as we speak, a perfect, illusionary copy of you is reporting for duty. It is currently complaining about the quality of the evening meal. Later, it will have a drink with your subordinates, and tell them a slightly embellished story about a beautiful woman who tried to seduce it in an alleyway. Tomorrow, it will write a letter to your lovely wife, telling her how much you miss her.”

Alaric’s smile widened, becoming a cruel, chilling expression. “You, Captain Wei, have simply ceased to exist. You are a ghost. A forgotten memory. And no one… is coming to save you.”

The psychological blow was far more terrifying than any threat of physical torture. The captain’s face went pale, his defiant rage crumbling, replaced by a dawning, visceral terror. To be forgotten… to be replaced… it was a fate worse than death.

“Now,” Alaric said, setting his teacup down with a soft, deliberate click. “Let’s talk.”

But the captain, his mind reeling, his pride a shattered ruin, still had one last card to play. “You think these chains can hold me?” he snarled, a desperate, last-ditch effort to regain some semblance of control. “My body is tempered by Qi! I am a true warrior of the Dragon Empire! I can shatter steel with my bare hands!”

Alaric’s eyebrows rose in feigned curiosity. “Qi?” he said, his voice a soft, intrigued murmur. “I have heard the term, of course. But the texts in our western libraries are… vague. Explain it to me. What separates it from a common Martialist’s Battle Aura?”

The captain, his ego momentarily salvaged by the chance to boast about his superior knowledge, fell for the bait. “Battle Aura is a child’s toy!” he spat, his voice filled with a prideful contempt. “A crude, external projection of will! Qi is internal! It is the very essence of life, cultivated over decades, refined into a pure, potent energy that flows through the meridians, strengthening the body, sharpening the mind, connecting the warrior to the very laws of the world!”

“Fascinating,” Alaric said, his voice a soft, encouraging purr. “Tell me more.”

And so, under the combined, relentless pressure of Alaric’s terrifying mental aura, which felt like a mountain pressing down on his soul, Zylle’s occasional, feather-light touches on key nerve clusters that sent waves of agonizing, white-hot pain through his body, and Priscilla’s subtle, truth-seeking spells that made every lie feel like swallowing broken glass, Captain Wei broke.

He spilled everything.

He spoke of the cultivation of Qi, of the painstaking process of drawing in the world’s energy, refining it, and circulating it through the body’s hidden pathways. He spoke of the different levels of mastery, from the hardening of the skin to be stronger than steel, to the ability to move faster than the eye can see, to the channeling of elemental energies through the body itself.

He spoke of the great clans and factions within the Empire. The traditionalist faction, led by the stoic High Minister Chen Bo, who sought to preserve the Empire’s ancient traditions. The aggressive, expansionist faction, led by the powerful, ambitious General Bao, who believed the Empire should conquer the entire continent.

He spoke of the Emperor’s children, the princes and princesses, each with their own ambitions, their own web of alliances, their own hidden schemes to win their father’s favor and secure their place in the line of succession. He spoke of the Empress and the other consorts, of the quiet, deadly power they wielded in the inner court, a world of silken whispers and poisoned tea.

And then, his voice dropping to a hushed, reverent whisper, he spoke of the ultimate secret. The Domain.

“It… it is the pinnacle of Qi mastery,” he stammered, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe. “A technique known only to the absolute peak masters. A Domain is… it is a warrior’s will made manifest. A personal slice of reality where they are a god. Where their laws… are the only laws.”

“And the Emperor?” Alaric asked softly, his voice a hypnotic whisper. “What of his Domain?”

The captain trembled, a wave of pure, primal terror washing over him. “I… I have never seen it,” he whispered, his voice a ragged, terrified gasp. “No one has. But the legends… they say that when the Emperor unleashes his Domain, his will imposes the law of the ’True Dragon’ upon the world. He becomes a god. Unstoppable. Unbeatable. It is the true foundation of our Empire’s invincibility.”

The room was silent for a long moment, the weight of this revelation a palpable thing. Alaric now understood. The true power of the eastern empires was not in their armies, but in these god-like beings who could rewrite reality with a single thought.

The captain, now a broken, sobbing mess, had revealed all he knew. But Alaric was not finished. He had one final, cruel twist of the knife.

“You mentioned you have a wife, Captain Wei,” Alaric said, his voice a soft, almost gentle murmur.

The captain looked up, a flicker of desperate hope in his eyes. “Yes! My Lian! She is a good woman! Please… whatever you want, I will do it! Just… just leave her out of this!”

Alaric simply smiled, a slow, predatory expression. “Zylle,” he said, his gaze still fixed on the captain. “What do your sources say of this… Lian?”

Zylle stepped forward, her face a mask of cold, beautiful cruelty. “She is considered a treasured pearl of a small clan from a secluded town in the southern provinces, Master. A true beauty. They are said to be a very… loving couple.”

Alaric’s smile widened. He leaned forward, his voice a low, intimate whisper that was filled with a chilling, absolute threat. “Your wife, Captain Wei… I wonder if she is as beautiful as they say. If she is… well, you need not worry. I will take very good care of her while you are… indisposed. I will make sure she does not want for anything. Especially… a man’s touch.”

The captain’s face crumbled, his last vestiges of hope, of pride, of defiance, utterly shattered. A low, animalistic sound of pure, unadulterated despair escaped his lips. He was no longer a proud warrior of the Dragon Empire. He was a broken toy. A puppet whose strings were now held firmly in Alaric Steele’s hands.

Alaric rose from his chair, his expression one of calm, satisfied triumph. He had what he wanted. A living, breathing source of intelligence from inside the Dragon Empire’s own delegation. And a new, vital goal. A new, more powerful path for his martialist women.

He turned to Zylle. “He is yours now,” he said, his voice a dismissive wave of his hand. “Keep him… useful.”

He then walked out of the chamber, leaving the broken, sobbing captain to his new, terrifying reality. The game had just become infinitely more complex, and infinitely more dangerous. And Alaric Steele was ready to play.