novelraw Chapter 116: Solomon
Chapter 116: Solomon
Chapter 116: Solomon
A distorted voice broke through the dark void.
[Did you feel any change?]
Raven gasped sharply as his eyes flew open.
He was back in his room—
back on the same wooden chair—
back under the dim light that mocked him with its stillness.
“Damn it…” he whispered, running a trembling hand through his hair. “I didn’t know the instructor was the traitor. I shouldn’t have met Chris earlier…”
Zera’s worried tone cut through his spiraling thoughts.
[Are you okay, kid?]
Raven didn’t answer immediately.
He forced himself to breathe—slow, steady.
Then he told Zera everything.
The instructor’s killing strike.
The speed.
The scars.
The cold eyes that looked at him like he was an insect.
Silence followed.
Then—
[If the instructor is already on the enemy’s side, even if you didn’t invite him, he’d come for you anyway.]
[You killed the lady assassin. He’d definitely check why she failed.]
Raven clenched his jaw.
‘If he’s already on the enemy’s side, shouldn’t he have killed everyone from the inside by now? If he handled the Patriarch, Count Magnus’s household would’ve fallen instantly.’
Zera exhaled through the link.
[Killing the Patriarch isn’t easy, even in an injured state. That’s why the enemy sent a powerful assassin.]
Raven nodded slowly.
“So even if I kill the woman, he’ll just walk in and kill me after…”
That was the truth.
A brutal, simple, hopeless truth.
The only reason he killed the woman was luck.
Aether weapon.
A perfect shadow shift spell.
A frontal-lobe injury that crippled her thinking.
Without those factors?
She would have slaughtered both him and Jacob easily.
Raven shut his eyes tightly.
“Killing two Mystic Walkers is impossible. Even if I die a thousand times…”
Couldn’t trust nobles—one was a traitor.
Couldn’t trust his friends—their tutor was the traitor.
Couldn’t trust the city guards—they would be the first to fall.
Even if he killed the Assassin Lady alone, the instructor would eventually come.
He wasn’t even a Rank-3 Walker.
His breath grew shallow.
Then Zera’s voice flicked through his mind, sharp and steady.
[It’s not like you have no chance.]
Raven opened his eyes.
“…What do you mean?”
[There’s still one helper you can ask.]
He frowned, mind racing.
A group of Expert Walkers?
Impossible. They would die after some struggle.
A sudden realization struck him, freezing every thought.
“The Patriarch of Ironford House…”
He was the head of Count Magnus’s family with four hundred years of history.
Not a legendary ancient family like the Sterlinghart—but still a true power.
The founder, Solomon Ironford, had been a Mystic Walker.
The only Mystic Walker in their lineage.
And now…
He himself was seriously injured.
“If I could meet him… I might learn the cause of the injury. Maybe heal him.”
That was the only hope.
But—
“It’s impossible to meet him without the approval of the Count. But even during the banquet, I couldn’t get close to Count Magnus.”
Zera scoffed softly.
[Why are you looking for official routes at a time like this?]
[Just sneak in. Find the Patriarch’s room.]
Raven blinked.
“…Right.”
He didn’t have time for etiquette or politics.
He steeled himself.
‘If I meet him as “Thomas Holmes,” it will cause too much trouble.’
So—
Raven reached for his face.
His features shifted, muscles rearranged, and bones reshaped.
Black hair grew long and straight, his face sharpened into its true form, and the faint vertical eyelid mark appeared on his forehead once more.
His real identity.
He placed the bowler hat over his head.
Then, his body dissolved into shadow.
…
Moments later
Raven appeared under the tall tree in the courtyard.
Moonlight filtered through the branches, painting silver patterns on the ground.
He stared at the sprawling mansion beyond.
Guards patrolled in tight formation—
sharp, alert, moving in disciplined rhythm.
But Raven wasn’t worried.
“Solis.”
At his whisper—
A crystalline owl bloomed into existence beside him, silent as moonlight.
She spread her wings and glided toward the mansion.
She slipped through a balcony gap like flowing mist.
Inside, her vision sharpened—
Hallways, guards, candles, shadows.
Raven watched through her eyes.
…
A few minutes passed as Solis drifted silently through the grand mansion, her crystalline feathers glinting like faint moonlight. Raven watched through her eyes, noting every guard, every corridor, every hidden alcove.
What surprised him was simple—
No one reacted.
Not the servants, or the patrolling knights, or even the sensitive guard dogs resting near the courtyard.
They didn’t even glance up.
Zera answered before Raven could ask.
[Only you—as her master—can perceive her. Maybe Jovie, with those spirit eyes of hers. Or someone at Pseudo-Legendary or higher.]
Raven nodded quietly. That explained why even trained guards didn’t sense her.
Within moments, Solis found the Patriarch’s room.
It was located on the second floor, directly facing the staircase—an easily defensible position.
Solis phased through the wooden door without resistance.
Inside, a grey-haired man in his fifties lay on the bed. His chest and abdomen were wrapped in thick bandages soaked with pus. Inflammation spread down his arms and legs, and a burned scar marred half his face.
Pain clung to him like a shadow.
His eyelids fluttered as if he sensed something—but there was no alarm, no reaction.
He simply closed them again.
Solis withdrew silently and returned to Raven, her body fading into an amulet that landed softly in his hand.
Raven put it on.
“Meeting him right now… is risky,” he muttered.
Even severely injured, a Mystic Walker could kill him with a thought.
One mistake, one uncontrolled reaction from the Patriarch, and he would die before finishing a sentence.
He needed an escape plan.
The shadow teleport spell was too short-range.
It was too obvious and too easy to detect.
He needed something better.
Raven left the mansion yard, moved through the noble district, and slipped into a deserted alley along the main road. He touched his ring.
A strange ripple of power spread outward, engraving a spatial mark onto the cobblestone.
Zera hummed approvingly.
[Not bad.]
Raven didn’t acknowledge it.
He hurried back toward the nobles’ street—toward Count Magnus’s grand mansion.
Soon, he stood beneath the large courtyard tree once more. His shadow stretched across the ground like a long, reaching hand.
He wrote something quickly on a small slip of paper.
Then—
“Shadow Teleport.”
The world bent.
A heartbeat later, Raven materialized inside the Patriarch’s room.
Two people sensed him instantly.
One was the Patriarch himself.
The other was the instructor.
A chilling, cold voice echoed from the bed.
“Who are you?”
Raven stiffened.
The Patriarch’s silver eyes radiated killing intent. Invisible pressure crashed into him like a tidal wave—his body freezing, breath locking in his chest.
He barely managed to lift his arm.
“I came to help, Mr. Solomon,” Raven forced out, placing the silver armor on the floor before him.
Solomon’s gaze sharpened, but another presence was already rushing toward the room.
The instructor.
Raven felt his lungs tighten. He didn’t have even a second.
He threw the small slip onto the Patriarch’s bed and spoke quickly:
“Read this—and do not trust the instructor.”
Then he pressed his ring.
“Astral Displacement.”
Spatial energy swallowed him whole.
In the next instant, Raven vanished—
—and appeared in the dark alley he had marked earlier.
He adjusted his bowler hat, steadied his breathing, and began walking toward the main road as if nothing had happened.
…
Inside the Mansion
‘He disappeared?’ Solomon could sense the spatial fluctuation in the air and clicked his tongue.
Then, he took out a silver bracelet and put it on his wrist before muttering a strange word.
A moment later, an invisible force field structure appeared out of nowhere and enveloped his room.
Around this time, he also heard heavy running footsteps from the outside corridor.
‘That arrogant instructor is here, huh?’
Solomon lifted a trembling hand and stored both the armor and the slip into his spatial ring.
Just as he finished, the door exploded open.
A scarred middle-aged man—Instructor Jace—stormed inside, eyes darting sharply.
“What are you doing awake at this hour, Jace?” Solomon asked, pushing himself upright with visible effort. “Did something happen?”
Jace frowned. “Was someone here?”
Solomon blinked mildly.
“Oh? You mean the elemental fluctuation earlier?”
He touched the bracelet on his wrist.
“I was checking if my defensive artifact still works.”
Jace stared at him, suspicion thick in his eyes…
But he said nothing and left the room.
Solomon exhaled, glancing at the broken door.
“No apology, huh?” he muttered.
He drew the small slip from his ring and opened it.
The handwriting was elegant, sharp, unmistakably noble.
…
Greetings, Mr. Solomon.
I am Raven Sillalus Jorvot—known to some as the Rebel Prince.
Forgive my intrusion at this late hour, but the situation is urgent.
There will be a large-scale assassination tonight at 1:30.
There are traitors among the nobles.
Thus, I had no choice but to meet you in secret.
Instructor Jace is one of them.
You need not trust me. Simply go to the Knight Quarters at 1:30.
You will see the truth yourself.
The armor contains a healing spell.
Chant the phrase:
“Burktā d’Ḥayē.”
…
‘Rebel Prince… just how deep does this mess go?’ In truth, he didn’t have a good opinion of this unknown Rebel Prince.
‘Jace is a traitor? Assassination?’ Though he had expected an assassination attempt, he never thought the skilled instructor sent by the Royal House would be a traitor.
‘And not a healing potion but a healing spell?’ It was the first time he heard there was a magic spell that could heal someone.
Solomon retrieved the silver armor and inspected every inch with the caution of a veteran Mystic.
He was a Rune Master himself, so he could easily tell it wasn’t tampered with any curse spells.
Finding no traps, he placed it over his body and infused it with his spirit imprint.
Then—
“Burktā d’Ḥayē.”
Life energy surged outward in a dense wave.
It flooded his limbs, poured into his chest, cleansed the infected, rotting tissue, and even replaced dead flesh with new.
Burn marks faded.
Inflammation shrank visibly.
Within a minute, 25% of his wounds were healed.
He could breathe without agony.
He could sit up without trembling.
And, most importantly—
He could walk.
Solomon’s eyes sharpened.
…
Raven slipped back into his room a little after midnight, the faintest echo of footsteps trailing behind him. The walls felt tighter tonight. The shadows, heavier.
His knights gathered within minutes—Roland, Fiona, Sam, Jacob, and others—each wearing the same tense determination. Raven placed several vials on the desk, the liquids inside shimmering faintly.
“Backup only,” he said, distributing them one by one. “Use them if you’re cornered.”
Sam handed him the Starflare-3R Rifle without a word. Raven checked the safety, then extended it toward Jacob.
“This goes to you. You’ll need it more than I do.”
Jacob accepted the weapon with a steady grip.
Raven’s gaze swept across the group. “Just as I instructed—split up. Different mansions. Alert them at exactly one-thirty. You can shout or fire the rifle. Either way, they must know.”
No one lingered. The moment he finished speaking, the knights melted into the corridor, their boots whispering over the wooden floor as they dispersed into the night under Roland’s lead.
Only Jacob remained.
Raven turned toward him. “Take the rifle, Mr. Jacob. I’ll be away for a while.”
Jacob’s brows pulled together, but he didn’t speak.
Raven continued, voice low. “Someone else will be here in my place—someone who’ll face the assassins. Don’t panic when you see him. He’ll tell you to follow him to the main hall and aim this rifle at his head. You must do exactly that. A single hesitation will kill you.”
Jacob swallowed hard. “Understood.”
Raven thought for a second, took out the bow and arrow he had given to Fiona, and then added.
“Also, when I appear, pretend you are leaving with me, but stay hidden. Wait for the right moment to aid ‘him’ using this.”
After giving him instructions, Raven slipped out, returning to the room on the right. The door closed with a soft click.
Raven stepped into the corridor. Darkness had swallowed it whole. Lamps that usually burned through the night flickered weakly now, casting shadows that stretched like claws against the walls.
His knights’ movements were faint silhouettes gliding through the gloom, vanishing one by one into different streets.
Raven exhaled through his nose.
‘Jacob and Solomon must never connect Thomas Holmes to Raven.’
He headed for the location where Jacob’s previous battle had taken place—barely ten meters from Jacob’s room. The memory of shattered illusions and falling bodies lingered like a cloud of smoke.
Too cramped. Too many blind spots.
He pivoted and made for the main hall instead—five rooms down, with enough open space to maneuver.
The hall was empty when he entered. Chairs and small tables cluttered the space in awkward clusters.
“They’ll get in the way,” he muttered.
He moved them aside quietly, stacking furniture against the far corner until nothing remained in the center but open space and the faint moonlight filtering through the narrow windows.
When he finished, the clock on the wall read 1:00 a.m.
Raven glanced around—nobody watching, no shadows stirring beyond the ones he controlled.
He sat in a single chair beside the receptionist’s desk—if knights’ quarters even needed one—and took a breath.
Then he stood abruptly, clapped once, and said into the empty room, “That was an excellent kill, Jacob.”
His tone was cold and controlled.
He shifted his gaze to the entrance. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Solomon.”
Then he angled his head slightly, addressing the air beside him. “Good to see you again, Senior.”
Silence.
Raven didn’t move for nearly half a minute. The air felt thick enough to choke on.
He sat again. Rose. Sat. Rose.
Different greetings and sentences spilled from his lips—polite, respectful, indifferent, commanding. He tried variations of tone, posture, and breath.
If anyone had walked in, they would have seen a madman rehearsing nonsense to empty air.
But Raven wasn’t practicing words.
He was practicing timelines.
Patterns.
Entries.
Pauses.
Angles of conversation.
Because he needed to act without hesitation—no matter who walked into that hall first.
For fifteen long minutes, he repeated the cycle.
Sit.
Rise.
Greet.
Pause.
Repeat.
By the end, sweat rolled down his spine, despite the cold.
When he finally stopped, the hall felt different—like the walls themselves had memorized his lines.
Raven took a slow breath and drifted back to his room.