The Villain Who Seeks Joy-Chapter 122: The King’s Audience

The Citadel of Crowns did not smell like the mountain. At Valmere, the air was sharp with pine and the electric ozone of a fresh mana-storm. Here, the air was a heavy, suffocating blend of expensive oils, blooming jasmine, and the metallic tang of polished marble. I walked through the Great Hall, my boots—scuffed and caked with the dried blue silt of the Deep-Vein—leaving a trail of grit across the white-and-gold tiles.

Beside me, Cael and Mira looked like they wanted to disappear into the tapestries. Behind us, the Centurion rumbled. I had refused to leave it in the docks. After the "malfunction" in the pumps, I wasn’t letting my primary asset out of my sight. The Royal Inquisitors had tried to block the entrance, but Lady Vesper had cleared the way with a single, sharp look.

"Keep the Friction Loop at a low hum," I whispered to the construct. "If you melt the King’s floor, we’re going to have a very short career in the South."

The Centurion gave a low, obedient thrum. It had been cleaned, but the iron plating still bore the deep, purple scars of the cavitation pulse. It looked like a monster that had been dressed for a ball, its silver ribs glowing faintly beneath the dark crustacean armor.

We reached the inner sanctum. The King’s Council was already seated in a semi-circle of high-backed chairs made of polished obsidian. In the center sat King Aethelred. He didn’t wear a crown; he wore a simple circlet of cold iron and robes that looked more like a commander’s gambeson than a monarch’s finery. He was older than I expected, his face a map of deep lines and weary intelligence.

"Lady Vesper," the King said, his voice a gravelly baritone that filled the hall. "I am told the Deep-Vein is flowing. I am also told the primary station nearly became a tomb for my Hydro-Mages."

"The pumps are clear, Sire," Vesper said, bowing her head. "But the ’malfunction’ was a deliberate act of sabotage. This is Armand Valcrey, the Chief Artisan of the Valmere Protectorate. He has the evidence."

I stepped forward. I didn’t bow—my ribs wouldn’t allow it, and my pride wouldn’t suggest it. I held out the magnifying lens and a small scrap of iron I had pried from the intake valve.

"Your Hydro-Mages aren’t looking at the mechanics, Sire," I said, my voice steady despite the weight of a dozen Noble eyes on me. "They’re looking at the magic. But the magic is just the fuel. The engine is being sabotaged from the inside."

I pointed to the iron scrap. "The Rust-Walkers. They used a micro-weld technique to etch a constraint sequence into the pipes. It’s designed to create a harmonic collapse over months. If we hadn’t cleared it today, the Great Aqueduct would have shattered by dawn."

A murmur went through the council. A man to the King’s left—a Noble with a chest full of medals and a face like a slapped ham—stood up. "Absurd! The Rust-Walkers are a myth, a bedtime story for frightened miners. You expect us to believe that a common mechanic from the North has discovered a conspiracy that our own Archmages missed?"

"I expect you to look at the math," I countered. "Magic is subjective. Physics isn’t. The vibration frequency of that pipe was exactly 440 hertz—the resonant frequency of the primary granite arches. That’s not a myth. That’s a target."

"Enough," the King said, raising a hand. He looked at me, his gaze lingering on the Centurion standing silently behind me. "You speak with the confidence of a man who knows his tools, Valcrey. But Lady Vesper tells me you ’screamed’ into the pipes to open the doors. You risked the city’s reservoirs."

"I used the water as a conductor to trigger a fail-safe," I said. "It was a system-wide override. If I hadn’t, the saboteurs would have finished their work while we were suffocating in the dark. The fact that the override worked proves that the Central Hub’s security is already compromised."

The Archmage Kaelen, who had been standing in the shadows, stepped forward. "The boy is right, Sire. The feedback signal he sent didn’t just open the doors; it exposed a hidden sub-routine in the Hub’s primary clockwork. Someone has been ’shaving’ the mana-output for years. The clogs weren’t just for destruction; they were for profit. They’ve been stealing the Kingdom’s energy."

The King’s eyes darkened. He looked at the Council, then back at me. "The Rust-Walkers are no longer a myth. If they can touch the Aqueduct, they can touch the Palace. Valcrey, you are a mechanic. Tell me: how do we find them?"

"You don’t find them by looking in the streets," I said. "You find them by looking at the Load-Bearing Logs. Every theft of energy leaves a footprint. If they’re stealing mana, they’re storing it somewhere. And a Tier 6 storage unit leaves a heat signature that you can’t hide, not even in a city this big."

"Then you shall lead the search," the King decreed. "But you will not go alone. You will be paired with the Royal Inquisitors. And Valcrey..." The King leaned forward, his eyes boring into mine. "If this search leads to the Council itself, do not hesitate. I would rather have a dry city than a poisoned one."

As we left the hall, the weight of the King’s command felt heavier than the Centurion’s armor. We were no longer fixing pipes; we were hunting ghosts.

"Armand," Mira whispered as we reached the courtyard. "If we’re looking for a Tier 6 heat signature... there’s only one place in the city that can hide that much energy."

"The Cathedral of the Sun," I said, looking up at the massive, glowing dome that dominated the city’s skyline. "The only place where ’divine’ heat is expected."

I looked at the Centurion. The construct’s eyes flared red. The "Active Offensive" had just found its next target.

"Boring," I whispered.

But as a group of gray-cloaked figures watched us from the high balconies, I knew the Rust-Walkers were already aware of the mechanic in their city. And they weren’t going to let me check the logs without a fight