NOVEL NEXT Chapter 485: Shadows at the Gate
Lyla shot to her feet, a frantic energy driving her straight for the door.
"Get ready, we're leaving. Now!"
"Wait—shouldn't we call Ninth Granduncle back?" Lars shouted after her.
"How?" Lyla didn't slow. "He doesn't carry a phone, you know that. And besides, they're in the shadows and we're out in the open. All we have is speculation. What if he really did go to the Hidden Territory?"
Her words tumbled out as she bounded down the stairs without a glance behind her. Lars hesitated, but she was right. Donovan had never touched high-tech gadgets, let alone a phone. He appeared and disappeared on his own terms, like smoke slipping through your fingers. To try and find him was pointless; he only came to you if he wanted to.
Within minutes, Lyla's car screeched to a stop at the villa entrance. Lars emerged carrying Ambrose Silverwood across his back, sweat dripping from the effort. Lyla hurried to help, lowering Ambrose carefully into the backseat before sliding behind the wheel.
"Where are we going?" Lars asked as he climbed into the passenger seat.
"To pick up my mom. Then straight to the Ashhorn Mountains," Lyla answered. Her voice was grim. It was the safest place she could think of.
As the road unspooled beneath them, regret clawed at her chest. She should have listened to Ethan, should have moved when he urged her. He had warned her of retaliation from the Dissenters faction within the Ninth Division, and worse—after hearing what LongerThanLuffy had said, he feared Celeste herself might move against anyone close to him.
But Lyla had argued then. The Ninth Division's headquarters sat in Ashwick, and word was that everyone inside belonged to the Originalist faction. The Dissenters had never managed to infiltrate the headquarters, not once. They wouldn't dare attack ordinary citizens in Ashwick, not under the Originalists' watch.
And besides, she had told herself, as the daughter of the Silverwood patriarch, she was untouchable. If the Dissenters dared to lay a hand on her, the Noble Eight Lineages would unite and burn them to the ground. Even the Ninth Division, for all its power, couldn't stand against the Eight united.
There had always been rivalries and infighting among the Lineages, yes, but that was only because no outside force threatened them. The moment there was, they closed ranks. It had happened before across centuries, and every would-be conqueror who thought they could break the Eight had ended up the same way: dust in history.
As Lyla's car disappeared into the distance, a thousand meters away a man lowered a pair of binoculars. A crooked smile tugged at his lips.
If Lyla had seen him, she would have been struck speechless.
It was the Silverwood family's former head steward—and contemporary powerhouse—Liam Silverwood himself.
Dressed in plain clothes, he stood on the rooftop of a tall building, a backpack at his feet. Watching the taillights vanish, he bent, slung the pack over his shoulder, and made his way downstairs.
As he descended, he slipped a small leather pouch from his pocket. A hurricane emblem gleamed on its surface. He weighed it in his palm, a low chuckle escaping him.
"They've set off," he muttered. "This is going to be fun."
For a Silverwood to own a spatial pouch was nothing unusual. But that embroidered symbol... If Ethan had been there, he would have been stunned. Why would a Silverwood on Earth possess a pouch marked with the seal of Hurricane City?
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Second Universe, Spirit Realm.
"Think the boss will be back soon?" Blackie lay sprawled on the grass, gazing up at the blazing sky.
"Shouldn't be long," Julian answered from beside him. "Look at the sun—it's shrunk down to the size of a fist now."
"They've been gone over a year," Micah murmured, staring off into the distance.
Julian arched an eyebrow. "What's with you? Didn't you say you'd never go along with that person even if he asked?"
Micah glanced at Blackie, then spoke in a lower voice. "I was just thinking… the outside world is vast. And Red Snow—she's out there raising all those little Blazing Qilins on her own. Must be tough. What if, because of the pressure, she decides to find a father for her children?"
Julian froze.
Blackie shot up, fury sparking in his eyes. "What did you just say?"
"Nothing!" Micah held up his hands. "I just remembered a story. Some man, one night, got… 'taken advantage of' by a rich woman. Her purpose was to 'borrow' his—ah!"
He didn't finish. His scream tore the air as arcs of electricity seared across his body and flung him upward like a ragdoll.
"Julian, you saw that!" Micah yelled, smoke curling from him as he whipped runic scrolls from his robes. They spun around him, whirling into formation. "I didn't start this, he did! If someone complains, you'll have to back me up!"
Julian sighed. Same nonsense, different day.
But Ethan, had he been present, would have noticed something unusual. Micah's scrolls weren't made of ordinary paper. They gleamed faintly red, as if carved from fiery jade.
Back on Earth, Ethan once heard Ryan explain the stages of rune weaving. Drawing on paper was the beginner's course, something every student learned. Beyond that came inscribing on wood, creating rune plates that could be used again and again—mark of a true master.
The next level was jade. Jade runes eliminated the constant problem of supply. A jade inscriber's skill was perfected, their techniques honed. They were grandmasters in truth.
And then, of course, there were the legends. The impossible tales of weaving runes out of thin air itself—summoning storms, raising armies from beans, wielding the power of gods. Ryan had scoffed at those stories. Such rune weavers didn't exist.
Yet here was Micah, dueling Blackie with jade runes after barely a year. His progress was staggering.
And the reason was clear: Morzan.
No one knew why Morzan favored Micah, but one day he had placed an old, yellowed book in his hands. A handwritten copy, brittle with age. Micah had cradled it like treasure. The moment he opened it, his eyes glazed and he slipped into meditation, enlightenment striking him like a hammer.
Morzan, watching, only smiled faintly. Hidden in his sleeve, he held the original. A blue-bound volume with four words inscribed across the cover: Aurelius's Runic Arts Journal.
His gaze lingered on Micah, who sat rapt in the throes of learning, and in the privacy of his thoughts Morzan whispered to someone long gone.
"Old friend, I've found your successor. I pray one day this disciple will be strong enough to pull you from that place."
"Though thirteen centuries divide us, I still admire you more than anyone. No one knows what you sacrificed. You threw away your chance at life itself to push me clear of that death trap. I will never forget."
"And to my comrades—those who followed me through blood and fire—hold on. Wait for me, and for him. We'll bring you out. For those who've already passed... perhaps you were the lucky ones. Free of suffering at last."
Morzan's grip tightened on the journal.
"Enjoy your time in the underworld, brothers. We'll meet again."