The Legendary Fool

126:

Tom picked up an ordinary rock from the ground, much to Aleph and Zirel’s puzzlement. Then, before they could ask him anything, he threw it at a slanted angle, making the stone bounce off the grassy terrain.

Aleph and Zirel watched as the rock bounced off the terrain, once, twice and what should’ve been a third time. Instead, the stone made contact with an ordinary patch of grass and vanished.

“There we go,” Tom whispered, his expression wary as he waited for any response from the other side.

No response came.

“An underground tunnel?” Zirel asked, keeping his tone soft as he drew his blade in preparation.

“More like a lair,” Tom replied. “Multiple branching tunnels lead to a large cavern where the Shadow Guild has set up its headquarters. I do not know the location of all the tunnels, but I do know the safe route through this one.”

“Safe route?” Aleph asked, raising an eyebrow.

“They’ve trapped the branching tunnels that lead to dead-ends. All their members have the correct routes memorized,” Tom explained.

“You know, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re on my side,” Zirel replied, as he wryly shook his head.

“It appears that assassins do not take kindly to unannounced visitors in their lair,” Aleph chimed in. “Shouldn’t this place be better guarded though?” She asked, her rare artifact in hand.

“It should’ve been,” Tom agreed. “Thankfully a large part of the Shadow Guild is away laying down an ambush for us.”

A minute had passed and there was still no response from the tunnel entrance.

Tom turned to face Zirel, before saying, “From here on out, I have no guarantees. Do you mind scoping it out for us?”

Zirel nodded, before adding, “If I’m not back within two minutes, assume I’m under attack.”

Then, his silhouette blurred into his surroundings, making him nigh indistinguishable from a blade of grass, the trunk of a tree or a vibrant thicket.

Tom’s proprioception just barely allowed him to see the ripples he left in his wake when he moved slowly and he observed as they stilled before the entrance to the tunnel.

Seconds ticked by into a minute and Tom’s expression tightened.

But they waited and their patience was rewarded.

“It’s empty,” A whisper from Aleph’s left said.

“Did you see a rope ladder?” Tom asked.

“Yes,” Zirel answered, not dropping the camouflage.

“Did you go down?” Aleph asked.

“No,” Zirel replied. “But I managed to get a good look. There might be guards past the bend in the tunnel. I’m sure that the entrance itself isn’t guarded though.”

“Good enough,” Tom replied. “I’ll take the lead. Aleph, you’re behind me. Zirel, stay in camouflage for as long as you can. You’ll be our scout and well, if you see the opportunity, our assassin.”

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“Noted,” Zirel replied.

“Fine by me,” Aleph nodded.

“Well, for the record,” Tom began, his words intended more for himself than his companions. “They started it.”

Then, he began walking towards the tunnel entrance.

Zirel Covan Nottrakon, estranged fourth prince of the Nottrakon Family, was not used to taking orders.

The man that went by the name Synrak Veralis, was without a doubt, the oddest person he had ever met. If that was even his real name.

The odd man was fearless when every instinct that Zirel had honed across years told him to exercise the utmost caution. When not a single Noble Scion would’ve been willing to take on the Nether Lich in a frontal clash, Synrak had willingly thrown himself into a melee with the terrifying nether beast when there were still other avenues of attack they could’ve considered.

And he had won.

That should’ve made Synrak a reckless fool. Fool he may be, reckless, as it turned out, he was not.

True to his word, Synrak had taken the lead as they made their way down the tunnel that they knew to lead deeper into the Shadow Guild’s headquarters.

He had stopped though, a little distance before the bend. His expression had been one of focus, as he tried to hear for any sounds of movement.

There were none that made themselves audible, as Zirel could confirm.

Then he had nodded to him, directing Zirel to use his cloaking and scout the area ahead of them.

Zirel had been around enough killers to tell that Synrak did not enjoy killing in the slightest, a deed most dungeoneers had either become accustomed to or had been forced to learn their lessons the hard way.

Synrak did not fall into either category in Zirel’s eyes. There was still optimism in his gaze, an emotion that he doggedly clung onto.

The odd man’s speech was rough and his vocabulary stilted, his manners were out of tune and his gaze betrayed a novelty from time to time that seemed like it should’ve belonged to a stranger in foreign lands and not a dungeoneer who had traveled to the dirt poor nameless district and had witnessed many of life’s myriad cruelties.

Zirel had been taught how to read people, how to see through their tells and distinguish truth from lies, a friend from an enemy, a lover from a spy. But he could read Synrak no more than he could read the future.

He wondered, for the umpteenth time, what kind of card it was that led Synrak to visions so realistic that he could navigate them through a place he had never been to.

It was terrifying and Zirel’s upbringing only allowed himself two options when it came to the odd man— to either kill him or find leverage to subordinate him.

But Zirel was more than his teachings. He saw a third pathway where his father and siblings would have already committed to one of two. To try and challenge the odd man, who possessed such unfathomable depths, would be to bring forth his own demise.

To try and obtain leverage over a man that had ways to sift through both the past and the possible futures, would end in a similar result.

Perhaps he could eventually find a way. But there was one thing above all that gave Zirel pause.

He had never sensed malice from the odd man. Not after he had gotten his valuable Rare Card, a card that would even cause his own father’s eyes to go wide with greed.

A Rare Card that Zirel would never have managed to get on his own.

Few people as powerful as Synrak were as agreeable as him.

His Uncommon card was ranked mezzanine, but Zirel was willing to bet everything he had on the assertion that it was not the phantom blade ability that had given his card that exceptional rank.

No, it was the ability to sense malice— an ability that had kept Zirel alive time and time again.

If Synrak Veralis, the odd man who had done nothing to wrong him since their alliance was forged, wished for them to work together, then that is what Zirel Covan Nottrakon would do.

His father would’ve been horrified by the prospect, Zirel was sure. But for all the interesting people his status as a noble had allowed him to meet, from snake-tongued minor nobles that saw him as nothing but a stepping stone to greater status to distant relatives that would see his head roll in their efforts to make him fight for the throne— Zirel had never had a friend before.

He was sure that it would make for an interesting experience.

Zirel crept forward slowly, making his way around the bend with his Blade of Necrosis in hand. After hitting level 5, his Rare Card’s second ability, a passive, had allowed his cloaking to extend to one weapon artifact as long as he remained in physical contact with it. The drain on his SP doubled, but it was worth it for the sheer advantage it offered.

For the two black robed assassins that were blocking the way to a hardwood door positioned behind them, that was not good news.