Hollow Crown: SSS-Ranked Godslayer’s Rise

The looming walls of the city finally came into view, and Veyron let out a long, ragged breath.

"Haahhh… damned wall… finally visible," he muttered, his voice carrying both relief and irritation. His boots dragged through the dirt road, dust clinging to his trousers. Every muscle in his body ached from the non-stop trek, but his pride wouldn't allow him to slow down.

Behind him trailed his entourage—eight servants, all armored in dented gear, their faces pale with exhaustion. One man was half-conscious, slung over another's back. His jaw clenched tight in pain, while a long, ugly gash stretched across his back, blood long since dried and crusted into the fabric of his clothes.

The smell of sweat and iron hung heavy around them. Birds squawked and scattered from the treeline as the group emerged fully from the forest's shadow. For hours upon hours they had hacked and carved their way through the monster-ridden wilds. Mana crystals glittered in their pouches, though more often than not Veyron had waved dismissively and left weaker ones behind. Money wasn't his concern.

Veyron was born to it—coin and privilege flowed through his life as easily as the breath in his lungs. He hadn't chosen adventuring for survival. To him, this was entertainment. A game. Something that let him flex the gift of his awakening. He stood comfortably in the middle range of B-rank adventurers, and his entourage—each servant ranging somewhere in C-rank—was proof enough of his family's wealth and his personal strength.

But even privilege had its limits. Their potions were gone. Not a single vial remained to patch wounds or replenish stamina. Their healer had long since perished in another expedition, and none among them bore the skill of an enchanter to bolster failing bodies. Now, they were little more than a battered procession limping toward safety.

The gates loomed higher with every step—stone towers rising like giants, the city wall dwarfing the treeline behind. The murmur of crowds ahead carried faintly on the wind: the shuffle of boots, the creak of carts, the restless snorts of pack beasts. As they joined the long line of merchants and adventurers seeking entry, curious eyes turned toward their sorry state.

When their turn finally came, a guard in polished chainmail stepped forward, squinting at the group. His gaze lingered on the half-dead man being carried.

"Hm?" the guard grunted. "You lot also came from Velkarth Village?"

Veyron arched a brow but remained silent, letting the guard speak further.

The soldier's eyes narrowed, sweeping over their torn clothing, scuffed armor, and the empty look in their hands. "Exhausted, injured, ragged… tch. You're the second group." He muttered almost to himself, "Though at least you look believable."

That piqued Veyron's interest. "Second?" he asked smoothly, though his mind was already turning. The first must've been them.

The guard leaned lazily on his spear. "Yeah… a merchant escort party came through yesterday evening. Cart was fully loaded with monster parts too. Quite the haul, I'd say." His voice trailed off, perhaps realizing he was sharing too much. He gave them another once-over and scoffed. "Though… you lot look empty-handed."

Veyron smirked faintly, raising his right hand. On his index finger gleamed a silver band, etched with runes that pulsed faintly with mana. With a flick of his wrist, the storage ring caught the sunlight.

The guard's brows rose. "Hoh… so that's where you're keeping your spoils."

The flicker of recognition in the guard's tone told Veyron enough. He already knew who had passed through before him, but now he needed to be certain. He let his voice slip into an easy, practiced charm.

"Ahh, the merchant escort. Of course!" he laughed lightly, as though remembering old friends. "Those are my companions. Tell me—did they, by chance, have a maid with them? Blue hair?"

The guard blinked, surprised at the familiarity. "You know them?"

"Of course I do. That's why I'm asking," Veyron replied, his tone smooth but laced with subtle authority. "She has… peculiar habits. Still insists on wearing that uniform no matter the circumstances. Embarrassing, really, but—" he shrugged lightly—"quirks, you know?"

The guard chuckled, scratching the back of his helmet. "Heh. Strange girl, that one. But yes… she was there."

A satisfied glint crossed Veyron's eyes. So it was her after all.

Feigning a casual tone, he pressed further. "Do you happen to know where they went? I still carry something they left behind at the village. I'd rather return it before I forget."

The guard hesitated but then shrugged. "Can't say I know exactly. But they were escorting a Kettlemore merchant family caravan. You might find them if you track that name." His gaze hardened again as he tapped his spear. "Now… pay your entry fee. There's a long line behind you."

Veyron didn't bother arguing. With a languid flick of his fingers, a pouch of coin appeared from his ring and landed with a dull clink in the guard's palm.

"Keep the change," he said lazily, sweeping past as the gates groaned open before them.

The crowd swallowed them as they entered, but Veyron's mind was far from at rest. A smirk tugged at the edge of his lips. So… they're here already. This city just got a lot more interesting.

---

The moment Veyron and his men passed through the gates, the oppressive weight of the wilds seemed to lift. Yet the air inside the city didn't feel like safety. No, it buzzed with a tension of its own.

The wide cobblestone street was thick with movement—merchants shouting, wheels creaking, animals neighing. But what caught Veyron's attention was not the noise of commerce, but the strange, orderly panic.

All around, people were loading carts. Families carried bundles of clothing and food. Merchants tied down crates and barrels hastily with ropes. Even adventurers with battered armor were seen hauling sacks over their shoulders, their expressions grim. Horses stamped impatiently as reins were pulled taut, ready to depart at a moment's notice.

Veyron slowed, his sharp eyes narrowing. He gestured with his chin toward the activity. "What's this? Why are they packing as though the city's about to fall?"

One of his servants, a younger man with tired eyes and sweat clinging to his brow, leaned in slightly. His voice was low, cautious, as though saying it too loud would invite bad luck.

"Lord… they say a beast tide is coming. Soon."

The words hung in the air like a curse.

Veyron's lips twitched into a thin line. "A beast tide…?" He swept his gaze across the street again, watching a mother ushering two frightened children into a wagon. The younger boy clutched a wooden toy, while the older one looked back at the walls as though monsters would burst through any second.

His eyes narrowed further. "So that's the reason…"

Another servant, limping as he walked, added in a shaky tone, "The city hasn't declared it officially yet… but rumors spread fast. No one wants to be caught inside if the tide truly hits."

"Tch." Veyron clicked his tongue in irritation, his hand flexing at his side. "Will they stay here and fight, or scatter to another city?" His voice was sharp, each word like a blade. "Too many gaps in the story. I don't like missing information."

He turned, his boots striking firmly against the cobbles as he walked past a wagon where a merchant was strapping down crates of dried meat. The man's wife tugged at his sleeve urgently, whispering about leaving before sundown.

Veyron's expression darkened. "Cowards. One word of danger and the rats flee."

But even as he scoffed, his mind raced. A beast tide was no trivial rumor. It meant chaos. It meant opportunities. It meant that whoever stayed behind would either carve their names into glory—or be buried beneath the waves of fur and fangs.

His servants exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared speak against him. They followed silently, weaving through the bustling exodus, the noise of fear all around.