Chapter 137

The sky of Deep Abyss Plane 1872 is forever bathed in twilight—no night, no day—just as Gisk’s mood never changes much.

But today, this jackal-man commander seemed unusually agitated, pacing incessantly above Hawkbeak Cliff.

He picked up a stone at his feet and hurled it at a nameless bird-demon shrieking far out at sea, then seemed to make up his mind, turning to the human black-robed mage beside him:

“Karava, tell the Duke: the terrain of Spinehold is labyrinthine, and the demons entrenched here are extremely powerful. If we cannot eradicate them utterly and seize control in one strike, our supply lines across the Mu River Plain will suffer severely.”

“Do you see the Shattered Star Strait ahead? If we build a mage tower here, no naval force can escape the Ash Sea.”

Karava said: “Leave Spinehold to Verna. Her drow are better suited to hunt down these rats hiding in corners. You should return and rest properly—Kaelong guards Crystalhorn Bay; nothing will happen there.”

“Y-yes, my lord.” Gisk reluctantly accepted the reality, his fury boiling inside—he knew the dragon-beast before him, though only a Master-tier, possessed the ability to challenge higher ranks, and with the legendary weapon “Withering Staff,” he had no chance of victory.

“Then set out soon. Kaelong’s fleet will escort you back.” Seeing Gisk had no intention of fighting, Karava exhaled in relief.

“Uh… but Kaelong’s fleet isn’t combat-ready yet. The sea is perilous—it’s too dangerous to leave now.” Gisk still hesitated, trying to delay further.

Karava said: “I and my twenty dragon-beasts will escort you back. I doubt anyone would be foolish enough to cause trouble here.”

“O-okay!”

…

Verna leaned against the edge of a stone table, one leg casually draped over the stool’s corner, lounging like a cat basking in the sun. Her fingers idly toyed with the black scout badge on the table.

Its edges were worn smooth by countless scratches. When the mirror reflected the guest’s silhouette, she didn’t turn immediately—instead, she let out a soft laugh.

The laugh was light, like the chime of porcelain colliding, perfectly filling the cavern’s silence.

“Hey, old friend, it’s been a while,” she finally turned, her dark red eyes narrowed into crescents, her lips curved upward with precision as if measured by a ruler.

“How is the Duke faring? I haven’t heard word of him in ages.”

The guest stood at the entrance of the meeting chamber, his black cloak enveloping him from head to toe, the hood pulled low, revealing only a pale jawline etched with fine scars.

He had no attendants. At his waist hung a strange short sword, its hilt carved with runes that glowed faintly red in the dim light, like a half-open eye.

Karava. The Black Dragon Duke’s “messenger.” Verna had known him for decades, yet each meeting prompted her to reassess internally: how much humanity remained in this man.

“The Duke is well,” Karava replied, his voice flat as a cold stone scraping stone, “but busy. He sent me to handle matters here.”

Verna’s smile didn’t flicker, but her fingers paused for an instant as they played with the badge. The pause was fleeting—too brief for anyone else to notice—but Karava was not “anyone else.” His hood tilted slightly, as if watching her fingers.

Verna gave him no second glance. Her fingers moved again, sliding the badge into her sleeve, then crossed her hands over her chest, tilting her head with a tone bordering on coquettish: “Oh come now, Karava, you’re still so stern. When will you smile for me?”

She took two steps forward, the heel of her boot tapping the stone in a light, casual rhythm—as if this were merely an old friend’s reunion.

“Tell me,” her tone remained unchanged, even softer now, “what orders did that man who abandoned us bring?”

The phrase “abandoned us” slipped from her lips as if a casual jest—but her eyes did not smile.

In one fleeting instant, her dark red pupils contracted—like a feline’s instinctive focus on prey in darkness. Then she blinked, and the smile returned, sealing that cold moment away completely.

Karava seemed not to notice—or perhaps he simply didn’t care.

A withered hand emerged from beneath his cloak, its knuckles pale as if translucent, black grime caked beneath the nails. In his grip was a parchment, its edges curled and stained with an old, dried blood-red hue.

“Take your drow to Crystalhorn Bay,” Karava said, his voice like a verdict beyond dispute, “seize Spinehold as quickly as possible, establish trade there, and bring back supplies. Here is the list.”

Verna took the parchment.

Her fingers paused for an instant upon contact—not from surprise, but from habit.

The drow matriarch always instinctively checked for poison before touching anything. This pause was muscle memory forged over decades—too swift to be seen. Then she lowered her gaze, scanning the parchment.

The script was neat and rigid, as if written by some emotionless creature stroke by stroke. She read line by line, her eyebrows unmoved, her lips still curved in that same smile.

Then her eyes stopped on a line near the middle.

“This… is the material list for crafting dragon-blood flesh puppets?”

She lifted her head, staring at Karava. For the first time, her smile cracked—barely visible—not with anger or fear, but with a cold, icy curiosity, as if offended.

Her right index finger tapped twice against the parchment’s edge, producing a faint “tap-tap.”

“Alright,” she said, her tone light again, as if merely verifying an ingredient, “since you’ve already planned it, I won’t interfere.”

Her left hand hung at her side, fingers curling slightly, then relaxing. It was the drow matriarch’s habitual gesture when suppressing emotion—clench, release, clench, release. But this time, she did it only once.

She paused, as if thinking. Then she raised her head again, looking at Karava—her smile softened.

That softness made the guard captain Verris instinctively stiffen his back—he knew: when Verna wore this expression, she was calculating.

“Then,” Verna’s voice dropped to a whisper, as if afraid to disturb something, “should I leave you some troops as assistants? After all, this is the Deep Abyss.”

She asked as naturally as a gracious host offering a guest an extra cloak.

But her eyes never left the edge of Karava’s hood, searching the shadows for any trace of meaning.

Her left hand had stilled completely—this was her state of full focus: body motionless, breath slowed, all excess energy channeled into those dark red eyes.

Karava fell silent for three breaths.

“Kaimon and his jackal-men stay,” he said, voice still icy. “The rest may withdraw.”

Verna’s smile froze for less than half a second.

That freeze wasn’t shock—it was a lightning-fast recalibration. Her eyes blinked once, then twice, and the smile returned, brighter than before—so radiant that even Verris, standing far away, felt a chill run down his spine.

“Of course,” Verna said, her tone as light as agreeing to a trivial favor, “Kaimon is a good helper. You’ll like him.”

She didn’t ask why Kaimon. Didn’t ask why jackal-men. Didn’t ask what Karava intended to do with these beasts—expert in tracking, ambush, and rear sabotage—in this swamp.

She only smiled.

But her right hand slid the scout badge back into her palm, her thumb pressing firmly against a tiny, nearly invisible dent on its reverse—the bullet hole left by the only thing she’d taken from the Combat Tower.

Karava turned, the edge of his cloak brushing the stone floor without sound. He walked toward the chamber’s exit, his black form dissolving into the cavern’s deep shadows.

Verna stood still, watching him go, her smile slowly fading like tide receding to reveal cold, hard, sharp rocks beneath.

Meanwhile, a spider climbed silently up the rock wall. It was tiny—so small even the most alert drow sentry hadn’t noticed.

Its eight legs carried a peculiar scent—like burning incense, faint and elusive, as if drifting from another world.

Verna sat by the stone table, idly playing with the black scout badge. Its owner, Captain Keno of the Fifth Scout Unit, had been confirmed dead.

She bowed her head, her dark red eyes holding no sorrow—only a cold, calculating silence.

No one noticed the spider climbing onto her chairback.

No one noticed its mouthparts opening and closing slightly, as if transmitting silent information.

Only Verna’s right index finger tapped twice against the table’s edge—then stopped.

She lifted her head, looking at Captain Verris, her lips curving back into a smile: “Send Kaimon to me. Before Karava sees him.”

Verris didn’t ask why. Only bowed and left.

The spider vanished from the chairback—as if it had never existed. Only beneath Verna’s lowered eyelids did something slowly, silently shift within her dark red pupils—like spider silk, weaving thread by thread in the dark.

“It seems this swamp,” she murmured, voice devoid of emotion, as if stating a fact long known, “never escaped his gaze. Even when he never comes himself, the game still plays.”

She spoke so softly only she could hear. But her finger pressed once more against the scout badge, her knuckles whitening slightly.

She did not look toward the direction Karava had vanished.

She never trusted the Black Dragon Duke. Nor did he ever trust her. That was the only truth between them.

Now, Karava’s arrival had shattered a delicate balance—leaving the jackal-men, taking the drow, and that list of dragon-blood puppet materials…

Verna tucked the badge into the deepest inner pocket of her sleeve and walked toward her chamber. As she passed the door hung with Grul’s hide, she didn’t even glance at it.

“Conspiracy and betrayal are the theme,” she whispered, as if reciting an old lesson to herself, “and I never reveal my hand at the start.”

The door closed behind her. Deep in the cavern, the tide of the Ash Sea pounded the rock walls, a low, ceaseless roar.