NOVEL NEXT Chapter 47: Deluos (1)
Vencian reached the mansion before nightfall. He entered through the gates and greeted the head maid. The servants saw him at dinner as planned. Afterward he retired to his room, creating the impression that he would remain there for the night.
He prepared his cover carefully. The lamp continued burning while his coat hung across the chair. A book lay open on the desk. He wedged a thin strip of metal into the door's latch so he could work it loose upon his return.
The setup was simple but effective. He could use this method whenever he needed to slip out undetected.
When the halls grew quiet, he left through a service passage. The route led him past where Lucian's face would normally be displayed. He moved with practiced silence through the corridors.
The streets of Ralan pulsed with their own rhythm. Lamps along the main paths cast dim but consistent light. The sound of chatter and bargaining filled the air around him. Vendors called out prices while couples walked arm in arm. Children followed behind them carrying treats.
The night remained alive here. This was different from the southern towns where doors closed before sunset. Vencian walked through the crowd wearing Lucian's face. The olive skin and brown hair drew no attention from passersby.
He had chosen this appearance deliberately. The face blended into the local population without drawing attention. He had reshaped Luke Marlowe's features to match someone from this kingdom. He wore the disguise with ease born from practice. Still, he never forgot that everything could collapse the moment he pushed his power too far.
Quenya hovered beside him, invisible to everyone else. Her voice reached him clearly through the surrounding noise. "This place differs so much from the cities in the south."
He glanced sideways though others would see nothing there. "Different culture. Away from the wilderness of the south."
She tilted her head while watching the crowd. "The people look more comfortable here. So few weapons in sight."
Lucian allowed a small smile. "What do you expect from a city which is most famous for its academy?"
"I guess, you're more accustomed to this setting than."
"I am not, to be honest. It feels strange walking among them. Like I'm the one out of place." He paused before adding, "And maybe I am."
As always.
They passed a circle of street performers juggling torches. The flames illuminated the stones while shadows stretched across nearby walls. Quenya leaned closer, studying his expression. "You're more relaxed when you wear this face. Or at least that is what it looks like to me."
He shook his head slightly. "Just a mask with less responsibility than the one I wear as Vencian Vicorra. A mask with better stitching, nothing more."
These powers served him well. They gave him advantages most lacked for survival. More importantly, they let him become someone else. The illusions had limits though. They could never truly replace a person. He could neither control them remotely nor give them voices.
The market noise faded as he moved away from the main thoroughfare. He turned into a narrow lane walls appeared grimier and lamps were scarcer. The chatter dulled, replaced by mutters from drunks leaning against doorframes and the scrape of rats in gutters.
Quenya's voice became quieter. "You're walking into a different kind of city now."
"That's where I want to be."
He reached a corner where an old building sagged under its own weight. Plaster peeled from the walls while the wood frame warped with age. Behind it, an opening led underground. Two men lounged near the entrance with hunched shoulders and stained clothes.
They watched him without speaking. Their eyes narrowed before flicking away when he gave no acknowledgment. Lucian recognized the look - suspicion mixed with calculation. These were people who measured every stranger as either prey or rival.
He stepped inside and followed the path downward. The air thickened as he descended, heavy with the smell of damp earth and smoke. Murmurs rolled through the stone corridor, growing louder with each step. By the time he reached the bottom, the murmur had become a roar.
The underground chamber opened wide before him. Lanterns hung from chains fixed to the walls, their flames guttering in the thick smoke. Wooden benches and stone ledges circled an open pit at the center. Rows rose higher toward the back of the space.
The place held more people than it should accommodate. Bodies pressed close while voices clashed in waves. Men and women shouted names, wagers, and curses. The air reeked of sweat, liquor, and mud.
Lucian surveyed the scene, absorbing every detail. The pit contained wet, churning mud rather than packed earth. Two fighters staggered through it, their bodies caked in filth. Their footing remained treacherous throughout the match.
Each strike landed with dull thuds against slick skin. The mud swallowed their movements, slowing them down while dragging out the struggle. The crowd roared at every slip and fall. The humiliation seemed to matter more than any display of skill.
He moved closer, slipping between clusters of onlookers. Quenya trailed him, her small form weaving past where bodies pressed together. She studied the fighters before examining the crowd. "These aren't soldiers."
"No," Lucian agreed. "They're brawlers. Some fight for coin. Some fight because they have nothing else. And some because they enjoy watching others break."
A nearby man shouted over the din while waving coins. "Three to one odds on the taller one! He'll crush him in minutes!" Another voice argued back as wagers changed hands in frantic exchanges.
Lucian could see the patterns forming — men who came for gambling, others who came to vent boredom, and a few who watched with the quiet intensity of hunters.
The shorter fighter slipped and crashed face-first into the mud. The taller one lunged forward, pressing his knee into the other's back while hammering down with his fists. The crowd erupted as voices split between cheers and jeers.
Mud splattered outward, streaking across the pit's edge. Some spectators leaned forward, hungry for the spray. Others pulled back in disgust.
Lucian remained in position with his gaze fixed on the action. He had seen worse in the war memories Vencian left him. But the difference was clear - those fights had purpose while this was pure spectacle. Yet it drew the same kind of people. The desperate, the cruel, and those with nothing to lose.
Lucian leaned closer to the pit, his grin faint but certain. "Deluos," he said, his voice carrying only for Quenya. "That's what this place is called. Old Airan for honorary mud fight. People come here because it's one of the few corners in the city where their coins and names stay untouched."
Quenya tilted her head, watching the crowd trade wagers. "So it's trusted, even here."
"Trusted enough," he answered. "No bad business. All the filth stays in the pit."
The fight ended with the taller man's fist smashing down one final time. The smaller fighter slumped into the mud, motionless. Two attendants rushed into the pit, dragging the body aside while the victor raised his arms, dripping filth.
The crowd howled approval as coins exchanged hands in rapid trades. Lucian watched the loser being dragged to the side. He couldn't tell if the man was unconscious or dead. No one else seemed to care either way.