Chapter 147

"My lord, I truly don't know what that guy did." The man looked up in terror at the iron-clad man storming into his house with a squad of soldiers, utterly baffled as to how he'd gotten tangled in such a mess.

The city guard who had always called him brother now hid behind two soldiers, eyes glued to the floor, showing not the slightest intention to speak up for him despite the silver coins he'd received monthly—indeed, he even shrank back further, terrified of being dragged into even a fraction of the blame.

He normally ran shady businesses, employing a motley crew involved in everything from petty cash transfers and fixed-stall protection fees to specialized lead-cast dice manufacturing—his operations and turnover had earned minor renown in the trade. But he'd always kept his position clear and his bribes well-placed; why would they make such a grand show arresting him?

Yet here it was: one moment someone warned him the streets felt off and he should lay low, the next his door was kicked in—by a gleaming silver boot armored with shin guards and foot greaves—that sent his curse straight back down his throat.

These men beat him upon entry, then launched into baffling interrogations about a victim of lead-cast dice.

Heaven help him—he'd only sent his men to collect twice, thinking the fellow had a legitimate servant job and could pay back at least part of it. He hadn't even done anything yet, and now he was pinned to the ground, exposed.

"Did you force him to do this?"

What the hell had he done? The man lying on the ground only wanted to know that—but the other side seemed to assume his guilt, offering no explanation whatsoever.

"I really don't know! My lord, why not check the accounts? Beneath the floor in the corner!" A sword rested against his throat; every inch of him ached.

Now he truly wanted to cry but had no tears left—he couldn't even fabricate an answer. Fortunately, he had one notable skill: literacy and bookkeeping were basic professional requirements for debt collection.

"Maybe a different place will help you remember better. Go to the dungeon and think." The man's groveling only deepened Diego's irritation; he waved his hand impatiently, and soldiers immediately dragged away another unlucky soul.

He could tell this leader of the neighborhood's vibrant social group genuinely knew nothing about the matter.

But who cared? This man was just one among many caught up in the incident, essentially no different from him—the Chief of Security at Rivers University.

Rivers University, roughly half the duke's backyard, had seen a guest vanish mid-banquet—the suspect had likewise vanished into thin air.

In effect, someone had broken into the duke's backyard and taken his guest. Considering the duke's lack of patience, Diego had best produce results before the Thunder's wrath fell—otherwise, his fate might not be much better than the "result" just dragged away.

This was no easy task; most banquet attendees held hereditary statuses and spared no effort to protect their own safety.

Now the city's armed forces were like hounds let loose, biting anyone they touched—nearly everyone even remotely connected to that damned servant had been arrested: neighbors, relatives, close friends.

【The slow update pace of new chapters has finally been resolved on apps that support source switching—download HuanyuanApp here to switch sources and view the latest chapters across multiple sites.】

But this didn't stump him. Anyone who'd secured this idle post as university security chief couldn't be stupid. Diego slapped his thigh, switched to reverse thinking: why not look for people with terrible relationships—the negative associations?

The evidence proved this constructive angle held weight: given the social group leader's notorious reputation, it was easy to uncover his men had come to collect gambling debts.

"Ah, finally caught one." Diego the knight removed his helmet, still frowning, and idly flipped through the ledger his squire had found in the corner.

Catching just one wasn't enough—he'd throw in his men too, just to prove he hadn't done nothing. To make up for his failure, he needed real, meaningful results.

From rumors leaked by colleagues still under direct ducal command, the case was starting to show some leads. He didn't expect to play any key role—otherwise, why hadn't he chosen to stay in Westminster like Martin had?

Thinking of this, Diego sighed again, feeling his future was bleak. He dismissed his squire and soldiers, who kept glancing at the scattered coins on the table. "They're yours. Hurry up—we're leaving soon."

The men cheered, praising the knight's generosity, clustering around the table as Diego's squire began distributing the coins. Diego wasn't interested—he took the ledger to the doorway and flipped through it, giving his subordinates space.

As a man of quick wits, Diego had performed averagely in knightly training, but his grades in literacy and basic accounting—courses he'd taken as electives—were genuinely good. These were meant to prepare them to manage their own fiefs later, though they didn't count toward official evaluations.

But perhaps because he'd spent so long at Rivers University, he'd always believed reading and writing were vital skills—skills that proved useful right now.

The ledger's owner had received poor education: his vocabulary was sparse, and he'd used many self-invented shorthand symbols. Still, his writing attitude was earnest—reading it was beneath Diego's skill level.

He flipped through several pages; the content was dull, the narration unclear—enough to convict, but not enough to clarify what had actually happened.

Diego didn't need clarity—he wanted to find transaction records, to see if anything could be twisted into a link to the current case. If not, he'd arrest someone and force an explanation anyway—none of them were good people.

This gang controlled a street's pickpockets, extorted protection money, ran illegal gambling dens, rigged dice games to trap victims in massive debts, then lent at exorbitant rates to drain them dry.

When debtors couldn't pay, they accepted any form of collateral: metal, property—even people.

"Damn bastards." Diego cursed, kicking the bound ringleader hard—the pointed toe of his greave struck like a cone, sending the man rolling in agony.

Diego had heard such scandals tarnished the duke's reputation, but he hadn't imagined they'd grown so brazen. In just the past year, they'd seized eight or nine people; with that deceptively high interest rate, redemption was impossible.

But he saw none of those people here—not one.

That made sense: the gang wouldn't keep useless people long, and they had no use for them internally. The most logical move was to sell them off for real profit.

The clinking of coins inside the room faded. Diego lost patience, flipped pages faster, hunting for the buyers.

Clearly, such business was rare in Westminster—the first two victims from last year only changed hands several pages later. This puzzled Diego: at that pace, the rest should still be here.

On the final recorded pages—roughly this year—he found the reason: one single buyer had taken away at least six people, one after another.

For such large transactions, the buyer was recorded with only a simple single letter—or rather, a symbol.

【A circle】

"Who is this?" Diego flung the ledger open before the leader, pointing at the crude circle—his next target. Personally, he felt this buyer would fit perfectly on his list of "results."

……

……

Searching for rats and ants hiding in dark corners inevitably meant venturing into places beneath a knight's dignity. Diego had prepared himself—but he'd never imagined so close to the city, just beyond its edge, lay a place utterly devoid of any human trace.

According to his captive, they sought a hidden ferry here, controlled by the buyer known only by the circle, used to handle illicit business and evade taxes that couldn't pass through official ports.

Leaving the main road, they turned onto a twisted path choked with wild grass, nearly invisible underfoot. The bound man led them forward, his rope taut in the squire's grip, winding around for several turns.

By instinct, they'd reached a dense, riverside woodland. Far from any town or village, on land too barren to ever be cultivated, trees nourished by the river had grown wild and rampant, retaining their natural, chaotic lushness.

Unlike the straight, towering oaks cultivated at the university, these trees were repulsive in species and form—branches twisted, tangled, and jumbled overhead, casting dense shadows that crushed the soft, crooked trunks beneath into a state resembling fallen weeds.

In truth, it was exactly that: their path was repeatedly blocked by fallen logs. The once-canopied branches had rotted into the soil, feeding waist-high grass, while damp crevices in the wood burst with colorful fungi.

Diego carefully stepped over these grass-hidden logs, unavoidably drawn to the fungi.

Locals who'd grown up here had certainly seen these edible fungi before—but their growth here was astonishingly rampant, like some nobleman's flamboyant floral arrangements, except with vividly colored mushrooms replacing flowers, clustered tightly together.

Vivid, almost unreal caps, layered tiles, and spherical varieties sprouted from cracks and hollows in fallen trunks, their damp, lake-like masses enveloping vast stretches of blackish bark.

The lush vitality thriving on dead wood was opulent, bordering on decay—like a moldy cheese crossed with jewels.

One squire stepped on a rotting log. A faint rustling collapse echoed as his foot sank entirely into it, discovering the interior had long been hollowed out and fully colonized by fungi.

The crunch of broken caps and the slippery, slimy texture of wall-clinging mycelium made him yank his foot back as if he'd stepped into a still-living corpse.

As they pressed deeper into the woods, nearing the hidden ferry, the phenomenon grew more pronounced—even standing trees occasionally yielded damp, slimy caps under their hands, and every step made them wonder if they'd crushed something soft and fibrous.

The tangled vegetation still obscured their view, forcing the guide to stop frequently to identify the path. The squire holding the rope pinched his nose, stifling a sneeze, uncertainly whispering, "Did you smell something like dust?"

Diego took a deep breath and raised a hushing hand. "No. Quiet…"

"Clang!"

A shrill clang of metal scraping rang between them; the vibration across the knight's waist and abdomen shattered the rest of his words. He hesitated for half a breath, watching a wooden shaft with a pointed tip and fletching spring away and fall into the grass.

If he wasn't suffering a hallucination from too long a life of ease, the thing that had flashed through his vision seemed to be… an arrow?

"Ambush!"