Chapter Fourteen: The Murder Case on Yizi Street

“Honorable Sir Morley Stevenson,

On behalf of the great Alliance of Sorcerers, we hereby issue, for the third and final time, a solemn warning: for the peace of Saline Well Town, hand over Mr. Carlos Stevenson to the Linxi River Sorcerers’ Village in Eastern Cyprus. We guarantee his safety.”

Carlos’s expression darkened. He stuffed the letter back into its leather envelope and returned it to its place.

When Dericht returned from the dungeons, he saw Carlos in the parlor, chin resting on his hand, lost in thought.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Carlos looked dispirited. “Is the Sorcerers’ Alliance strong?”

Dericht opened his mouth, then sighed wordlessly. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of crossing another sorcerer? You’ve only just privately detained a Sword Hall devotee; the other Blackhats will soon be on guard against you. You ought to keep a low profile for a while.”

“What if they’re the ones causing trouble for me?”

Dericht paused, then replied coolly, “Sorcerers have never been concerned with their reputation. If they dare to offend you, don’t hold back—strike without mercy.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. If those who lurked in dark corners were so easily dealt with, they wouldn’t have slipped from public scrutiny and grown strong enough to force the entire Dominion to treat them seriously.

“I mean, what if the entire Sorcerers’ Alliance comes after me?”

Dericht stared at his younger brother in surprise, then burst out laughing. “The whole Alliance? Don’t flatter yourself. The Sorcerers’ Alliance is just a loose association, not a true guild—no one can speak for all sorcerers, and it’s nonsense to claim the Alliance would target you as a whole, unless you did something so outrageous as to offend every sorcerer and turn them all against you.”

Carlos fell silent.

Seeing the confusion on his brother’s face, Dericht chuckled. “From what I know, the Alliance is just a group of people rebelling against the old order—they refuse to be shackled by the Church and despise the rule of nobles. Their ultimate goal is to build a new order. As for the work in the underground, that’s mostly the labor of commoners, meant to cleanse some of the rot from the Dominion—a cause championed only by a small portion of the sorcerers.”

Carlos’s eyes brightened. “So that’s what it is.”

He felt relieved, a faint smile on his lips. Indeed, if even a small faction among the sorcerers could achieve consensus within the Alliance, and win over the majority, it would be enough to provoke the Dominion into a full-scale purge.

Perhaps, without the intervention of entrenched noble families like the Stevensons, they would be torn apart by titans like the Sword Hall or the Watchers.

No wonder his father seemed unconcerned.

Yet, those sorcerers had sent three threatening letters in succession—they likely wouldn’t give up so easily. Hatred often starts with a single bad impression and grows over time. Ever since learning of the sordid dealings between sorcerers and demons, Carlos had always viewed sorcerers with the greatest suspicion. If before he merely despised their methods, now his feelings had grown into outright hostility.

Carlos was not alone in this; the alchemist Dubui shared his enmity, especially after Carlos let it be rumored that the previous theft at the alchemy workshop might be linked to sorcerers.

Today was the day two like-minded souls would meet. Their relationship would be that of teacher and student.

Carlos was ushered into the carriage by the Stevenson family’s old coachman, Grant, who bowed and said humbly, “Young master, please step aboard.”

Once Carlos settled into the iron-plated carriage, he waved his fair hand in farewell to the assembled servants and house staff. Grant’s face reverted to its usual wooden mask as he slowly drove the horses out the gate.

Traveling from the northeast to the south of town did not take long. The carriage only needed to pass along the main street—familiar beyond measure—then enter a small grove of poplars at the edge of town.

At the heart of that grove stood Dubui’s alchemy workshop.

Today, however, the journey was anything but smooth.

Carlos lifted the sunshade on the carriage window to find the main street thronged with people, his face full of surprise.

Bounty hunters milled everywhere in twos and threes, each dressed differently, but all with rough pistols and short-barreled guns slung at their hips. Some shouted down the street, recruiting for teams, and soon solitary wanderers would drift over to join, forming ad-hoc squads that rode out of town in great numbers.

At the same time, other hunter teams, weary and travel-stained, or lone bounty hunters, squeezed into the street from outside the town, merging into the swelling crowd. Hunters were everywhere.

The taverns were packed; even the benches at the door were crowded with strangers clutching bottles of liquor.

“What’s happened?” Carlos couldn’t help but ask when the carriage was forced to stop by a drunken lout blocking the way.

He’d only been confined at home a short while, but in that time, the once quiet border town had become so rowdy.

Grant shouted at the drunk to clear the way, then turned back with a smile to explain. “A few days back, herds of low-tier mutated beasts appeared at the foot of the Rodney Mountains nearby. All these people have come for them—our town is the closest on the western side of the mountains, so they’re here to rest up. Today is actually quieter; most of the bounty hunters have already formed teams and gone into the hills.”

The pelts of mutated beasts fetched good prices in Cyprus City, and rare materials, vital for spells or weapon forging, were coveted by nobles and warriors alike.

“What about the first wave—the Blackhats and bounty hunters who came to hunt demons?”

“Young master may not know—after the Watchers’ airship incident outside town, most of them went to the ruined city of Thinwood. Nearly everyone here now is after the Rodney Mountains.”

Carlos nodded thoughtfully. These bounty hunters were very much like nomads—where there was profit, they followed. Suddenly, an exclamation came from the front of the carriage.

A thunderous crack echoed down the street.

Someone had fired a gun. Carlos started in alarm.

He saw Uncle Grant cursing as he jumped from the carriage. “Stop! Damn you! Who gave you the nerve to kill in broad daylight here?”

Hearing Grant’s rebuke, Carlos frowned. Someone had committed murder in the open.

A scream rose from the crowd—a chilling, piercing sound.

Carlos waited a while, then opened the carriage and stepped down.

Two Stevenson family watchmen hurried to his side, pushing back the surrounding onlookers.

In the center of the street, on the muddy road, lay the stiff corpse of a middle-aged man.

Beside him, a wiry young man had collapsed, bright blood seeping from his mouth. He gripped a short-barreled hunter’s gun, the muzzle still wreathed in curling smoke.