Level Up Legacy-Chapter 1198 Seeking Sier
Yalenia trembled. Not with an earthquake, but the dying throes of its greatest monument. The Tower of Yearning, a pillar of legend, crumbled. Stone and dust exploded outwards, a choking cloud engulfing the streets.
Panic. Screams pierced the air. People ran, desperate, as the tower rained destruction upon the city. Whispers of magic, of curses, ignited alongside the fear. Even the King's guard, hardened veterans all, faltered. Their discipline offered no answer to a crumbling symbol.
From his balcony, the Yalen King watched, fury twisting his usually stoic features. His control, his carefully crafted image, was shattered like the tower itself. The Agard execution, a tool meant to strike fear into rebellious hearts, was forgotten amidst the chaos. His city was on the brink, and he needed a scapegoat. Fast.
His eyes narrowed. The Agards, already condemned traitors, became even more valuable. He would twist this. He would weave the narrative himself, pinning the blame on them, turning disaster into a brutal show of power.
Meanwhile, Arthur and his companions slipped through the ensuing pandemonium. The collapse of the Tower was both a blessing and a curse. It drew attention away from them, yet the resulting fear was a powder keg for the king to exploit. They needed shelter, fast.
Mister White led them through a labyrinth of back streets, shadows swallowing their hurried footsteps. "Not far now," he rasped, a bead of sweat streaking his weary face.
Mister White led them through a labyrinth of back streets, shadows swallowing their hurried footsteps. "Not far now," he rasped, a bead of sweat streaking his weary face.
The city thrummed with chaotic energy. Cries of despair mingled with shouted orders as the guards attempted to restore some semblance of order within the shattered cityscape. The Agard name was brandished by some, their deaths blamed for this impossible event. Others whispered of old legends, of ancient forces disturbed within the tower's fall.
"The king's going to take advantage of this," Arthur muttered. "We're walking into a storm, and it's about to get worse."
"Aye," Sarohan grunted, his grip tightening on his axe. "But we ain't got much choice, do we?"
They reached a dilapidated rowhouse, its cracked façade blending into the shadows. Mister White motioned them inside, a hidden urgency in his movements. The interior was cramped, smelling of dust and damp, but it offered the barest sense of sanctuary.
Koby muttered in a low voice. "Is this… safe?"
"Safer than the streets," Mister White replied grimly. "For now, at least." He slumped against a dusty table, his weathered face etched with exhaustion. "We need a plan, Lord Arthur. The city's about to explode, and we're caught in the blast zone."
A jolt of energy surged through him, and with a faint shimmer, the illusion dissolved. The mansion, once seemingly shrouded in a veil of mist, became starkly real. Its imposing facade loomed before him, a silent challenge. Arthur steeled himself. He had a seer to find, answers to uncover, and a creeping suspicion that someone within the walls ahead had played a bigger role in Oriole's disappearance than they led him to believe.
With a final push, the heavy door to Mistletoe's mansion groaned open on aged hinges. He expected an ambush, a trap, some resistance from those who might be involved in Oriole's disappearance.
The mansion's interior was grand, yet eerily devoid of life. Dust motes hung in the air, undisturbed, a testament to the lack of recent activity. It was as though the place had been frozen in time, a stage set abandoned midscene. Despite the eerie mansion, Arthur did not feel threatened.
The dining room stretched before him. A long table, laden with untouched silverware and expensive crystal goblets, mocked the illusion of a recent feast. And there, slumped on a luxurious couch, was a figure Arthur recognized all too well.
Vihan. The doctor. Dead drunk.
A surge of anger coursed through Arthur. Was this some kind of trick? He strode closer, the remnants of Ruby's illusion flickering around the form of the drunken man.
Vihan stirred, mumbling in his sleep. As he blinked groggily up at Arthur, a flicker of surprise crossed his bloodshot eyes. Then, a slow, mocking grin spread across his face.
"Arthur," he slurred, raising a goblet in a mocking salute. "Took you…hic…long enough to find us. Thought you might have gotten lost."
"Where is he?" Arthur demanded, his voice dangerously low. The suspicion that had been nagging at him hardened into cold certainty. "Oriole – what have you done with him?"
Vihan chuckled, a wheezy sound that echoed in the stillness. "Patience, my dear boy. Sier is busy. Prophecy, you see…hic…important stuff. Kings, kingdoms…all hanging in the balance. You wouldn't want to disturb him now, would you?"
A wave of nausea swept over Arthur as the implications of Vihan's drunken rambling hit home. Prophecies? Kings? Oriole's abduction was about something far bigger than a simple ransom.
"Take me to him," he commanded, his voice like ice.
Vihan shrugged theatrically, swaying as he stood. "As you wish. Seer awaits…second floor. Master bedroom, I think. He's…hic…got a thing for the finer things in life."
With a disgusted snort, Arthur brushed past the doctor. The second floor held an oppressive silence. As he approached the master bedroom, Arthur anticipated meeting his old friend. Through the grand double doors, he could sense a presence, a simmering power that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. Sier. Just beyond the threshold. And perhaps, finally, some answers.
