Ascension of the Primalist [A Tamer Class, LitRPG]

"Where the hell did the king find that bastard?"

Leonard flinched as Marshal Vancaws' voice reverberated through the room. The man's wrinkled face twisted in rage as he grabbed one piece of parchment after another in front of him, his eyes skimming through them under the dim light of the lamp hanging above the large, round table.

Around it sat ten figures—officers, high nobles, and influential leaders—each cloaked in shadows that seemed to grow darker with every passing moment. Four chairs remained empty, grim reminders of their fallen comrades.

Slamming down the last page of the pile, Marshal Vancaws grunted and turned toward the narrow-shouldered old man sitting two seats to Leonard's right. "Did your scouts find out anything about him?"

Aldric Ryehill, the head of the Ryehill House gave the man a solemn nod. "Very little, marshal. Most of them were killed while following him after the battle. Only a handful survived, and they didn't bring back much."

"Go on," the marshal spat, staring at the noble. "What did they find?"

"Well," the old patriarch began, his shaking hands resting on the table, "according to a business partner in Arthuri, the man moved to Kastal only a few months ago. And since then he founded a village near the Wicked Forest. "

Marshal Vancaws rubbed his dimpled chin. "So, the king is giving him a hand to build a town and in exchange—"

"S-sorry to interrupt, Marshal, but it's not a town," Ryehill House's head stammered, his voice catching in his throat. "It's barely a cluster of houses. He's been building everything by himself… with oaks and rocks."

"Then what did the king give him?" the marshal asked, frowning.

The old man scratched his face with a trembling hand. "That's the problem, marshal. My business partner is quite sure he has no connection with the crown. No known allegiance—"

Marshal Vancaws rammed down his fist into the table before the head of the Ryehill House could finish, making the parchments jump and Leonard jolted a little. "Don't feed me that nonsense, Aldric! He just killed three thousand of our men! Three thousand Silvers of our household troops, for Gaia's sake! You think a man like that just shows up out of nowhere? A damn Platinium just randomly strolling into that Rift on the very day we decide to gather an army in there?"

"No, he was there for the king," General Grabous interjected as she leaned forward from Leonard's right, her thin gray hair hanging on the sides of her aged face. "The information you got is incorrect, Aldric. My scouts saw him at the palace last week. The king obviously asked for his help—but we have no clues on how he convinced him. Or why that man is in Kastal in the first place."

"Could he be also planning to take over Kastal?" the head of Ryehill House asked, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the marshal.

"Of course not," the general retorted. "He would have waited for us to overthrow the king and then struck while we were weak and vulnerable."

The old woman then pressed her wrinkled lips together, as if reluctant to say the next thing on her mind. "And the fact that he was there also confirms the king knew about the army. He might not know it was us, at least not yet, but the questions will soon start. Each of our Houses has lost hundreds of Wielders. How do we explain that?"

"We lie," Vancaws retorted, his knuckles white where he gripped the table's edge. "We'll say there was also a rogue operation. An unauthorized raid into the Bridan territory led by some reckless commander who got our men annihilated. We will deny knowing anything about an army gathering in the Silver Sky Rift. The arcane beasts had probably already taken care of the bodies; there will be no proof that it was our men who were in there. As for the individual losses of your Houses… stay as vague as possible. A failed expedition. Deserters. Find a lie and stick to it."

Leonard glanced at each of the nine other individuals around the table. All of them had put their life on the line for this coup, and now, after tonight's massacre, they would have to wait years before giving it another attempt… if they survive until then.

One mistake—a forgotten crest on a piece of armor, a sentence spoken too loudly near a window, a parchment that should have been burned—and they could all be dead. The king's men were always on the lookout for that one slip-up, tracking them down like vermin.

And now, a powerful predator had joined the manhunt. But how did he convince him? Leonard thought.

As one of the five dukes of the kingdom, Leonard knew all too well that the previous conflict with the Bridan Empire had depleted the treasury. There was no way the king could have paid for his services—he must have offered that powerful man something else other than coins in exchange. But what?

"He certainly has a good reason to be here," the marshal said while looking around, his hand crumpling the last page of the report. "Why would someone that strong settle in Kastal and build a small town?"

"To hide, of course," came a voice from Leonard's right.

All eyes turned to the hooded man leaning against the wall in the corner of the room. Dressed in dark leather armor and a gray cloak, the man blended seamlessly into the shadows. From what Leonard could see of his face, he couldn't place the man. And from the reactions around him, neither could the other nobles and top-ranked officers. Except one.

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Marshall Vancaws closed his eyes for a brief moment and sighed. "Good evening, Black Reaper."

Leonard's heart skipped a beat, then immediately started hammering his ribcage. The Black Reapers were a group of assassins from the Bridan Empire that had earned notoriety for their deadly efficiency—taking out targets with ease no matter their status. A high noble? Consider it already done. A lieutenant or a general? Two days and they would be six feet under. The marshal of a kingdom? A week and their head would roll on the ground.

Why is he here?

"Good evening, Marshal Vancaws," the man said, pushing himself away from the wall and stepping toward them. The lamp flickering above the table lit up the man's face, revealing two large scars that ran from his eyebrows down to his chin, crossing at his nose. "I saw tonight's fight. It was quite ugly… for your men."

The marshal pressed his lips together and forced a smile—the kind of smile made by men and women compelled to bow in front of someone stronger. "It was indeed."

Leonard had trouble sitting still, fighting the intense urge to flee coursing through his veins and filling every inch of his body. The muscles of his legs were cramping and twitching, as if they were begging him to run—this was more than natural fear.

He glanced at the others around the table and saw the same look of terror reflected in each of their faces, foreheads slick with sweat, nostrils flaring with each shallow breath they took. They—no, their bodies—were all terrified.

An artifact or spell that induces fear, Leonard thought.

"Do you know the man that slaughtered them?" the marshal asked, his voice steady, clearly handling the artificial fear far better than the others.

"I couldn't get close enough to see his face," the man answered with a shrug.

The marshal's brow creased together, slight annoyance flashing across his face. "Why? Were you too frightened?"

"His beast was roaming around," the Black Reaper replied before pulling an apple from under his cloak and taking a loud bite. "I can't say if it was a summon or a contracted beast, but either way, had I taken one step closer that thing would have killed me."

A contracted beast? Leornard thought. The words twisted uncomfortably in his mind as he swallowed hard, picturing a creature that could make a Black Reaper fear for his life.

"Why wasn't this beast mentioned in my men's report?" the marshal asked, glancing at the pile of parchment in front of him.

The hooded man swallowed his mouthful. "Because it didn't take part in the fight."

The voice of the Ryehill's patriarch quivered as he spoke up, "W-why didn't he use su-such a powerful be-beast?"

"Because he didn't need it."

Leonard had already guessed that answer. But could he blame the old man for asking? The thought of their enemy crushing their army without the help of his beast was hard to swallow.

General Grabous swept a strand of gray hair from her soaked face, her gaze drifting over the maps and parchment scattered across the table. "How can we figure out who he's hiding from if none of us even know the man?"

"According to this report, he wore a simple linen shirt and brown leather pants, with no crest or any other distinguishing marker," Marshal Vancaws said with a sigh, despair starting to leak into his tone. "Nothing special about his appearance either."

A devilish grin split the Black Reaper's face, yellow teeth gleaming in the lamplight. "What about his golden eyes? I heard a few survivors talking about them. That's quite special."

The marshal looked at the man and frowned. "Wasn't it just a spell… wait, Draeria!"

Leonard's stomach churned. Draeria. The word alone was enough to send a chill down his spine. That place was a breeding ground for monsters—both human and otherwise. If that man truly hailed from there, it made perfect sense how he could butcher their entire army single-handedly.

"Exactly," the Black Reaper replied, chuckling. "But I doubt any of you have the means to get there. Nor would you survive the trip. That nation isn't really known for its… hospitality. Finding who's after him won't be easy. I must admit, I don't envy your position."

Marshal Vancaw's face hardened. "What's your price?"

"Why be so rude, marshal? I just want to help," the man said with a broad smile, strolling around the table. "But both you and I know that even for me it won't be without danger. Those golden-eyed bastards are no laughing matter—a little compensation seems fair, don't you think?"

"I assume you aren't seeking coins," the marshal said in a gruff tone. "What do you want?"

"Two small services," the assassin answered, his intense gaze locking on one person after another. "The first one is simple: I just want you to help me with a killing order. "

"Who?"

"Jaeda, the head of Kastal's Adventurers Guild."

Leonard clenched his jaw to prevent himself from shifting in his chair. Any coup demanded sacrifices, but this one felt like an immense loss. The woman had been one of the few beacons of hope Kastal had seen in years of corruption.

The bitterness that swept over Marshal Vancaw's face was impossible to miss as his grip tightened on the armrest of his chair. "Agreed," he said through gritted teeth. "And the second one?"

"Well, the second one is a little more… complicated," the Black Reaper said, his gaze lingering on the lamp hanging from the ceiling. "Let's just say I will need your assistance at some point in the future in a Temporary Rift… to kill a beast."

"When?"

"A few days before the next double lunar eclipse passes at the east of Bridan and Kastal."

Marshal Vancaws let out a nervous laugh, his eyes darting between the cloaked man and the other officers and the nobles. "That's nearly in a decade."

"Indeed, Marshal," the Black Reaper answered with a smirk. "That's why you and everyone here will sign a soul-contract with me."

A sudden and absolute silence fell over the room, and time itself seemed to hold its breath. No one dared to move; no one dared to say a word. The air turned thick and suffocating.

A soul-contract, Leonard repeated in his mind, his stomach tightening into a tiny ball. Does he really believe that we will si—

"I know what you're all thinking. Why would you sign such a thing?" the assassin chuckled, his broad smile digging deeper in his scarred cheeks. "Because you'd rather sign this honest contract with me than have your king find out who are the traitors that tried to backstab him."

Leonard glanced at the others seated at the table—they all wore the same nervous expression, their faces drained of all color. Their backs were against the wall.

"Threatening your future allies. That's quite shameful, even for you," the marshal retorted with a sigh, pausing for a moment before continuing, "We shall vote to decide if we accept your offer."

"You can proceed, I will wait." The Black Reaper then pointed at the empty seat next to Leonard. "Is that seat taken? Oh, I forgot—decapitated in the king's courtyard for treason."

The marshal's eyes narrowed into slits. "All in favor of signing the soul contract and assisting with the killing order, raise your hand."

Arms moved up one by one, everyone looking at their laps, already regretting their decisions. They would likely live for ten more years, but at what price?

We are selling ourselves to the devil, Leonard thought as his gaze drifted to the assassin next to him, who juggled with his half-eaten apple and whistled a tune.

"Black Reaper," Marshal Vancaws said, glancing at every person at the table—each of them had a hand in the air. "We accept your offer."

The hooded man caught the falling fruit and sprung back to his feet, the grin on his face growing even wider than before. "It will be a pleasure to work with all of you."