All in Charisma (A LitRPG/Isekai Adventure)

Dragomir Valdrik sat astride his majestic black destrier, which snorted restlessly beneath him. The Baron's grip tightened on the reins as they descended further into the tunnel's depths, frustration simmering beneath his carefully maintained facade.

Behind him, Gareth and his retinue kept a cautious distance, sensing their master's foul mood. The undead members of the party, their faces concealed by dark hoods, moved with chilling silence.

A few paces behind rode Rothian Nightflame, his smooth, bald head gleaming in the torchlight. The Pyromancer's plump frame was draped in crimson robes, and his pudgy fingers gripped a black staff topped with an ever-burning flame.

His eyes, calculating despite his obsequious manner, darted constantly between the Baron and the path ahead.

"My lord," Rothian called out, perhaps a bit too eagerly, "shall I illuminate our path further? The darkness grows...oppressive." As if to emphasize his point, the flame atop his staff flared momentarily brighter.

Valdrik let out a sharp breath. "Silence, Rothian. Your light will only announce our presence from a mile away."

"Of course, my lord. Most wise," Rothian replied, immediately dimming his staff's flame and bowing his head. "I merely thought—"

"That's your problem, isn't it? You think too much about how to impress me and too little about what actually serves my needs."

Despite the rebuke, Valdrik made a mental note of the Pyromancer's usefulness. For all his irritating mannerisms, Rothian's flames had proven effective against enemies in the past. And unlike most of the others, he was at least not undead, which allowed him to move through society more easily.

He could hardly say that about the others following behind. Normally, Valdrik wouldn't risk being so close to his foul minions—though they served him well, their very presence was a constant reminder of the precarious balance he maintained.

Even here, in the relative safety of Thalgar's Tunnel, a Level 36 Lexicant could never be too careful. The odds of encountering a Paladin or Priest who could detect Death Magic were slim, but Valdrik's paranoia had served him well in the past, and he wasn't about to let his guard down now. His options were thinning.

He kept a steady pace—not too fast, not too slow. The last thing he wanted was to trip the damnable Ranger's class boon. If Eldrin sensed him coming, all his careful planning might be for nothing.

As they walked, all he could think was how it had come to this.

He, Dragomir Valdrik, a high-level Lexicant with two decades of experience manipulating the powerful and subduing the weak, had been bested by a low-level Socialite. The upstart had no business challenging him, yet somehow, he had outmaneuvered Valdrik at his own game, knowing full well he wouldn't throw everything away with everyone watching.

And worse, Justin had walked away alive and unscathed, mocking him with every step while damaging his reputation almost beyond repair. The rumors he had sown would escape Windfall; the Baron was sure of it.

Oh, it had been hard to let him go. Incredibly difficult. But every time he was tempted to snuff out a life, Valdrik had only to think about his journey, his past mistakes, to know that patience was the key.

It had been a mistake to reveal himself so soon, but the risk had been calculated. What he hadn't counted on was Justin becoming so intermeshed with the agents of this world. In hindsight, he should have expected it.

Valdrik had long since divorced his own feelings from these agents. They were nothing more than pieces in a game. But he had made the novice mistake of assuming others would see them the same way. While Justin had been lucky enough to experience kindness early on in his journey, Valdrik had the opposite experience.

That might have been the simple difference between the two of them, despite their similar Earth origins.

The memory of Justin's words still burned in his mind. The audacity of the young man to make demands of him, to call his bluff in front of the crowd of nobles. To even suggest he was some recluse, tapping into dark powers for personal gain! He'd been perilously close to losing everything. Valdrik had thought himself untouchable, the master of every situation.

Yet Justin had shown no fear. That was what rankled most—the fact that a young upstart with so little power had stood up to him with such quiet determination.

Valdrik knew not to underestimate that. After all, he had once been that young upstart.

And that blasted immunity to mind control! He wasn't certain what piece of gear afforded it, but it had to be the hat; typically, that's where those enchantments were placed. The gall to walk away from an offer of power, of protection, of knowledge—it grated on Valdrik's pride.

Recruiting Bohemond had been a clever move. The foolish noble was no real threat, but his father's influence could complicate things if he were killed openly. Keeping Bohemond alive, for now, was the best course of action.

The Baron allowed himself a small, tight smile. He had not risen to power by being easily thwarted. Justin had won this round, yes, but the game was far from over.

He could afford to keep chasing him a while longer. He had a system in place to keep things running smoothly in Silverton, at least for a few weeks.

Patience, he reminded himself. This setback was merely temporary. There would be another opportunity, and when it came, Justin would not be so lucky. The Mark of Death could be replaced.

That was another thing. How had Justin figured that part out? Had he merely bluffed?

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No, Valdrik decided. He'd known the truth. But how? Some rare skill, perhaps, that could detect a lie. That was the most probable answer.

The answer would have to wait. For now, there were more immediate concerns.

The tunnel stretched on as they came to a stop at an inn built directly into the rock. Gareth quickly dismounted and went inside to check for any sign of their quarry. When he emerged, he shook his head, and they were on the move again.

Rothian edged his mount closer to the Baron, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "My lord, if I may be so bold...my fire can do more than illuminate. I have been perfecting a tracking spell that traces the heat signatures left by footsteps. Perhaps—"

"If I wanted your counsel, Rothian, I would ask for it," Valdrik cut him off, his voice cold with disdain. "You forget yourself. You are of the Sorcerer class, one who has bargained for power rather than earned it through careful study. Your 'perfected' spells are mere parlor tricks compared to true mastery."

The Pyromancer immediately backed his mount away, head bowed in apology, though Valdrik noted the slight tremor in the man's pudgy hands—eagerness, not fear. Despite the rebuke, Rothian's ambition remained undimmed.

The next place Justin and his companions could have gone was Drakendir. Valdrik knew the risks of pursuing them down there; it was the main reason he'd waited for Gareth and his retinue. The ancient dwarven city was beyond perilous, filled with forgotten horrors and creatures that had survived centuries in the dark. It would be a desperate maneuver, but Valdrik wouldn't put it past the Ranger to take such a risk in order to lose him.

As the passage to Drakendir materialized in the distance, breaking off from the main tunnel, Valdrik's eyes narrowed. He kicked his destrier into a trot, and within a couple of minutes, the massive iron gate loomed. The Baron had never been here personally, but he had read enough about it to never want to delve into its depths.

A Highcliff Watchman stood outside the gate, his eyes weary as the Baron approached. Seeing the Baron's countenance and the retinue at his back caused him to straighten up quickly.

"Did anyone go through the gate recently?" Valdrik asked, his voice cold and commanding.

The man licked his lips nervously. "Might be I remember that."

"Might be? Did they or did they not? Speak, worm!"

Valdrik's words shattered whatever price the guard had been about to ask. "Yes, m'lord. Five people—three men, an orc, and a young woman—passed through a few hours ago."

Valdrik turned to Gareth, who had approached his side. "Can Wolfram track them?"

From the shadows behind Gareth, a figure emerged—a tall, gaunt man with pale skin, greasy hair, and gray eyes. Just as Justin had a Ranger, so did Valdrik. Once a feared hunter in life, Wolfram Gravesong was now a silent stalker of the night. A large black Blood Bat perched on his shoulder, its red eyes shining with intelligence. Valdrik tried to ignore the subtle, sickly-sweet scent emanating from the man. Even for an undead, he was particularly rank.

Wolfram inclined his head slightly, his voice carrying a characteristic undead rattle. "They will not escape us. Even if the Ranger leaves not a trace, Nighthollow need not see a speck of light to find his way in the darkness."

The bat gave a hideous screech, as if in confirmation.

"The darkness does not concern me," Rothian interjected as he moved forward to stand beside Wolfram. The contrast between the portly, clean-shaven Pyromancer and the gaunt, deathly Ranger could not have been greater. "My flames can reveal what hides in shadow and burn through any resistance we encounter."

He raised his staff, and the flame atop it shaped itself into a miniature dragon that coiled around the black wood, its ember eyes seeming to search the darkness beyond the gate. He gave a sick smile. "Fire finds everything, eventually."

Valdrik, without a word, raised his hand and snuffed out the dragon with a simple gesture. Rothian gasped, his confidence visibly deflating.

"Fire may find everything," Valdrik said, "but dies without fuel. Remember your place, Pyromancer. You are the torch I wield, not the hand that guides it."

As Rothian fell into silence, Valdrik's gaze turned toward the steps leading downward into darkness. "Let us proceed. I have no intention of letting them slip through my fingers again." He turned to the guard. "Open the gate."

The guard moved quickly to comply, the grinding of gears and chains echoing as the ancient iron gate slowly creaked open.

"The horses, my lord?" Gareth asked, glancing back at the steeds.

Valdrik considered for a moment. At first, he hadn't been sure if the Ranger intended to lead them to the Everwood or Drakendir. He'd brought the horses just in case it was the former.

The Baron answered, "Have a couple of men take them back to Silverton. Stable them there and wait for further orders. There is no need to waste perfectly good mounts."

Gareth gestured to two of the human soldiers, both among the living, who quickly stepped forward to take the reins of the horses. "Make haste."

The soldiers nodded and led the horses away, relief clear in their eyes. Unlike their comrades, they were getting off easy. They gathered the reins, expertly looping them through a thick lead rope. With practiced skill, one of them clicked his tongue, guiding the horses forward as they moved in a line, one after another, like obedient shadows trailing behind him.

Once this was done, Valdrik's eyes peered into the yawning darkness of the passage ahead. "Head in first," he ordered. "There's one last thing I need to take care of."

Without question, Gareth and the rest of the retinue moved forward, disappearing into the gloom of the tunnel. Wolfram whispered something to his bat companion. Nighthollow launched itself from the Ranger's shoulder, screeching and flapping into the darkness below.

Rothian lingered a moment longer than the others, the flame of his staff momentarily brightening as if in anticipation. "My lord—"

At a warning look, the words died on his lips. He scurried into the darkness after the others.

The Baron turned back to the guard, who stood frozen with fear in his wide eyes.

"Don't be afraid," Valdrik said smoothly, his voice laced with an unsettling calm as he raised his hand: "Thalvesh Vorritha."

The Cant of Amnesia settled over the guard like a veil, his eyes glazing over as his memories of the past hour unraveled and dissolved into nothingness. The fear drained from his face, replaced by a blank, passive expression. He blinked, as if waking from a dream, completely unaware of what had transpired.

Valdrik watched for a moment, satisfied, then turned and descended into the depths after his men. The darkness welcomed him, and a stiff smile played on his lips. He was certain of one thing: he was far more equipped to navigate Drakendir's dangers than his quarry.

With the resources at his disposal, it was absolutely inevitable that they would catch up. In the deep places of Eyrth, things were utterly silent—until they weren't. The Drakendir Cavern was the largest in Serenthel, and sounds echoed for miles.

If one of them so much as kicked a rock, the blood bat would pick it up. And if they faced any sort of interruption, it would just speed up their demise all the more.

Ahead, Rothian's flame cast just enough light without revealing their position too far ahead. For all his irritating eagerness, the man's mastery of fire would prove useful in the dangers to come.

Valdrik watched the bobbing flame with calculated appraisal. Rothian was a tool, like any other—valuable when wielded correctly, dangerous if given too much freedom. The Baron had seen many ambitious underlings rise and fall during his time on Eyrth. A tight leash of doubt and occasional praise kept them hungry, desperate to prove themselves, yet never confident enough to challenge their master. It was a delicate balance that Valdrik had perfected over time.

And if all went well, within days—perhaps even sooner—the Prismatic Core was as good as his. It was a fitting consolation prize since Justin was so set on being enemies.

And this time, nothing—not even the shadows of Drakendir—would stop him from claiming what was his.