Chapter 566: Victoria Harbor
In the northwestern reaches of Silvermoon Bay, Victoria Harbor lay nestled at the mouth of the Zele River. The sky was still faintly tinged with dawn, a few pale rays of sunlight piercing through the clouds and casting long shadows across the bustling docks. Fishing boats of all sizes bobbed gently at anchor, their hulls weathered by salt and time. Bare-chested dockworkers moved with practiced ease, their skin darkened by years under the sun. Along the shore, merchants bickered fiercely over prices, voices rising and falling in a chaotic symphony.
Seagulls hovered in the air, their sharp caws mingling with the occasional distant toot of a ship’s horn. Some fishermen murmured quiet prayers toward the sea, begging the “Sea Queen” An to quell her wrath and still the waves, so that monsters like the Sha Hua Fishmen would not rise from the deep.
This was Victoria Harbor—once a legendary port built by a hero of the past, now a sprawling, chaotic city-state and the largest, most prosperous trade hub in the entire Silvermoon Bay region. Its name was a tribute to Victoria, a famed Gray Harbor Adventurer from centuries past, who had led her fleet across the vast Western Sea, amassing untold treasures and ultimately founding this grand harbor. Yet not all stories agreed. Some whispered she was merely a pirate queen, her so-called city nothing more than a hidden lair for stolen wealth. And so, among skeptics, she was mockingly called the “Pirate Queen.”
Centuries had passed. Now, the city was ruled by a four-member council of Noble Dukes, with one elder statesman serving as Chief Regent. Here, nobles, commoners, thieves, and even infamous pirates dwelled side by side. Dozens of faiths coexisted—worshippers of gods both ancient and forgotten—while in the shadows, secret cults and hidden regiments plotted in silence.
Victoria Harbor was a den of intrigue, a haven for conspiracies, earning its nickname among adventurers as the “Warm Bed of Conspiracy.” And lately, a new mystery had stirred the air: the sudden appearance of the undead. The city’s atmosphere grew heavier, more uncertain.
On the weathered stone walls of the harbor, a ripple in space unfolded. A man in a long gray robe, holding a bronze scepter, materialized from thin air. He appeared to be in his fifties, with faint lines at the corners of his eyes, his pale green eyes deep and unnervingly intense.
He brushed a hand over his beard, then looked down upon the streets below—churning with life, bustling with merchants, and just as the caravan was beginning to depart.
“Hmm,” he murmured, voice soft. “I arrived a little early. The Silver Family’s caravan has just begun its journey. According to the original timeline, the kidnapping should happen five days from now. That’s when I’m supposed to step in. Tsk tsk. Since the Coronation Proclamation of Emperor, I’ve let my followers handle all the petty affairs. It’s been far too long since I personally… manipulated a figure.”
He paused, stroking his chin. “But what name should I give this persona?”
Suddenly, his gaze caught a glimpse of a fortune-teller’s stand along the street. The man drew a Tarot card from the deck—The Hermit. On the card, a cloaked old man held a lantern, standing alone on a hill, his presence solemn and mysterious.
A slow smile curled at the corner of his lips. “Ah. ‘The Hermit.’ Perfect. The Hermit Albert—sounds suitably imposing, doesn’t it?”
This man—this Albert—was none other than Kai Xiusu’s Dragon’s Simulacrum, the avatar carrying the true essence of his willpower. Now, Kai Xiusu himself had arrived at Victoria Harbor. The preparations for his grand plan were underway. He would stir the already murky waters even further.
Far to the north, in the Faruk Wastes, a caravan wound its way southward. Its destination: Victoria Harbor, dozens of miles away. The procession was massive—fifty horses, hundreds of guards, and a dozen heavy wagons laden with cargo. Each crate bore a delicate golden quince emblem—symbol of the Silver Clan, one of the four great families of Victoria Harbor.
Yet beneath the elegant floral design lay a brutal truth: the Silver Clan was the most militarily powerful faction in the city, commanding the largest mercenary force—Mithril Hand.
In the middle of the caravan, within a lavish wagon, sat a golden-haired woman in a flowing gown. She looked no older than twenty, her face serene, her eyes sharp. She wore the same golden quince emblem. Her name was Heloviz Silver—only daughter of Duke Aiden, the beloved favorite of the clan, and the heir apparent.
She lifted the curtain and peered out into the silent wilderness. Turning to the captain of the guard beside her, she said, “Marvin, this silence… it’s unnatural. Ever since we left Gray Harbor, we’ve traveled ten kilometers south and seen not a single caravan. That’s suspicious.”
Marvin—a grizzled man in his forties with a thick beard and a long scar across his cheek—was the veteran guard commander, having protected Silver Clan caravans for decades. But now, he seemed distracted, his attention half elsewhere.
After all, Heloviz was still young, barely out of her father’s shadow, only recently thrust into clan affairs. “The Faruk Wastes have been overrun with bandits lately,” Marvin said, puffing his chest. “Many caravans have been raided and forced to detour east. But—” he grinned, “don’t worry, Lady. We’re the Silver Clan. The masters of Victoria Harbor. No outlaw gang would dare touch us. If they try, we’ll blast their hands off with firearms.”
He tapped his rifle with a confident smirk, as if stating a trivial fact.
Heloviz frowned slightly but said nothing. Instead, she gave a quiet order: “Be alert. Watch the surroundings.”
She knew the strength of the Silver Family well. This caravan boasted 574 trained clan guards, backed by the most advanced firearms acquired from the mysterious Empire of Ashen in the north. Even the regular armies of nearby city-states couldn’t match them. And the cargo they carried was of vital importance.
Inside the crates—each marked with the golden quince—were thousands of brand-new rifles, vast supplies of ammunition, even light cannons. Over three thousand rifles alone.
In the aftermath of the brutal Tri-Emperor Confrontation, military equipment from the Empire of Ashen had surged onto the market, promoted aggressively by the Wogin Guild. Duke Aiden’s purchase of such weapons was no accident—it was a clear move to strengthen the Silver Clan’s military might.
Heloviz turned her gaze back to the wasteland. It remained eerily still—only the faint chirping of insects broke the silence.
Then, she spotted it: wreckage ahead. A shattered wagon, broken wheels, a severed arm, and a head crushed into a pulp of meat.
Her breath caught.
This wasn’t the work of common bandits.
She was no ordinary noblewoman. Trained in both warfare and arcane studies—half-wizard apprentice—she understood the scale of supernatural power. The scene was too horrific, too precise. This was no random raid.
Her eyes narrowed. She reached out and ordered, “Marvin—stop!”
“Lady, we must hurry. Duke Aiden wants the goods delivered before nightfall.”
“I said—stop.” Her voice was cold, unwavering. “As commander of this caravan, I give you an order.”
Her violet eyes, sharp as glass, held the same unyielding gaze that defined the Silver bloodline. Even Marvin felt a chill.
“Yes, Lady,” he muttered, reluctantly signaling the halt. The entire caravan froze.
To the veteran guard, it felt like overreaction—too cautious, too nervous. This is Victoria Harbor, he thought. Who dares defy the Silver Clan?
Ahead lay the narrow Kar Valley—just wide enough for a single wagon. The caravan had stopped at its mouth.
Marvin tried again. “Lady, I’ve passed through this valley a hundred times. I know every stone. This is safe.”
But Heloviz cut him off coldly, pointing toward the wreckage. “Stay alert. Send a squad of elites to investigate. If there’s anything wrong, we’ll reroute east.”
“But—” Marvin began.
Then he met her eyes. The unflinching stare silenced him. He knew who she was—future Duchess, heir to a dynasty. He bowed. “Yes, Lady.”
As he prepared to send the patrol, a blood-curdling scream echoed from the front.
“Aaaah! Enemy ambush! Protect the lady!”
Marvin’s body tensed. He slammed a round into his rifle, shouting, “Fire!”
The guards, trained to precision, instantly snapped into formation, rifles raised, surrounding the wagon.
Marvin leapt onto his horse, scanning the hills. There, a young horseman lay pierced by an arrow, blood pooling beneath him.
Then—silhouettes emerged from the rubble. Figures in black robes, moving like shadows beneath the moonlight.
“Praise the God of Dominion.”
“You are the only true Lord. We shall offer you sweet blood.”
Their voices were hoarse, chanting like a prayer, punctuated by eerie laughter. Even Marvin, hardened by war, felt a shiver crawl up his spine.
He dismounted, drawing his longsword. “Damned cultists! Do you know who you’re facing? This is the Silver Clan! You’ll pay with fire and fury!”
“Hahahaha!” The laughter rang out again. From the hilltop stepped a tall, gaunt figure in a hooded cloak, wielding a bone staff. His voice was like cracked stone. “The Silver Clan… yes. Capture Heloviz Silver. She will be the perfect sacrifice for the God of Dominion!”
Marvin paled. They came for her. For the heir.
“Damned—move! Charge!”
“Bor! Take the lady and flee! Do not let her be harmed!”
Heloviz, calm despite the chaos, mounted her horse. She turned toward the north—toward Gray Harbor.
“Fight! Turn these damned cultists into sieves!”
Marvin fired. The caravan guards opened fire. Bang! Bang! Bang! Hundreds of rifles roared in unison. Bullets tore through the air like a storm, felling several cloaked figures.
“Keep shooting! No mercy!”
But the cultists laughed. They didn’t care. The leader raised his staff, and a wave of black mist surged forward—thick, suffocating, devouring everything in its path.
“Damn—spellcaster!” Marvin cursed.
A mage from the caravan chanted, firing luminous bolts from his staff. But the light shattered against the darkness. It was useless.
Then, ahead—more enemies. Goblins, dire wolves, wolfmen—all emerging from the wilderness. Thousands of them. Their faces were cracked with black veins, their eyes hollow and black, their mouths moving in silent prayers to the God of Dominion.
This was no ambush. This was war.
Heloviz turned to Bor, her voice steady. “Stop. They were prepared for this.”
Bor stammered, “L-Lady… what do we do?”
“Return to Marvin. That’s our only hope. We must hold out until Father’s relief forces arrive.”
A falcon, trained by the Silver Clan, soared into the sky, carrying a brief distress letter. It let out a piercing cry before vanishing into the clouds.
Heloviz and her group turned back toward the caravan.
Now, the black mist in the Kar Valley thickened, like smoke from a dying fire. Soldiers fired blindly into the darkness—but arrows still found their marks. Men were dragged into the air, screaming, their blood drained in seconds. Rifles were ripped from hands and twisted into scrap.
“The gods are liars!” the cultist leader roared. “Only the God of Dominion is real!”
Blood rained down. The cultist spread his arms, drinking in the massacre like a feast.
Heloviz looked up. The vortex above the caravan pulsed with unnatural power—sucking trees, stones, even men into its maw.
“Psionic energy…” she whispered.
She had seen this before—during a visit from a monk invited by her father. But this… this was darker. More twisted.
One move. One technique. And hundreds of guards were paralyzed, helpless.
The cultists advanced. The goblin and wolfman horde closed in.
This was no raid. It was a declaration of war.
Who will save us? she thought, despair creeping into her voice.
Even she, the calm heir of Victoria Harbor, felt the weight of doom.
Then—like a whisper from the wind, a voice reached her ears.
“Hmph. I only slept for a few centuries… and already these insects have grown so bold?”
(End of Chapter)
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