In the corridor, candle flames flickered.
Callum had just exited the lively council chamber, still clutching the heavy command token in his hand.
His steps were lighter than when he had arrived, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
That smile was subtle, but it could not hide the ambition stirring deep within his eyes.
Rapid footsteps echoed behind him.
“My lord! My lord!”
Callum stopped and turned around.
The tall, thin man jogged up to him, his face brimming with a smile that looked somewhat ingratiating in the candlelight.
A thin sheen of sweat had formed on the tip of his nose, clearly from running all the way here.
Callum looked him over and raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Oh, it’s you.”
His tone was more languid and casual than before, and there was also a hint of the nonchalance unique to those in power, as if the man before him were already his subordinate.
“What do you want from me?”
The tall, thin man stepped closer and rubbed his hands together. His bright eyes sparkled with a fawning light.
“My lord, congratulations on accepting this mission! If you can complete it, perhaps…”
Before he could finish, Callum raised a hand and waved impatiently, clearly annoyed at being interrupted.
“Alright, alright. If you’re here to flatter me, then go stand aside. I’m busy right now, I don’t have time for you.”
Having said that, he turned around as if to leave, but the tall, thin man hurried after him and blocked his path, saying urgently:
“Hey, my lord! My lord! I’m not here to flatter you—I’m here to give you a warning!”
Callum stopped and looked him up and down.
“Speak.”
The tall, thin man leaned in and lowered his voice.
“My lord, when you deploy the Imperial Army later, you must take more troops.”
Callum frowned slightly.
“More?”
The tall, thin man nodded earnestly.
“Otherwise, if the mission fails, the Commander is likely to be furious.”
Callum fell silent and gradually calmed down.
Once the excitement had passed, he realized the man was right.
Earlier, he had only focused on the outcome of a successful mission and had forgotten the possibility of failure.
And if he failed, given Buloke’s temperament, he would most likely be executed.
At that thought, a sudden chill surged from the depths of his heart, and even the token in his hand began to feel scorching hot.
“Hmm, you’re right. So how many Imperial troops should I take?”
His tone grew serious.
The tall, thin man stepped closer, bringing his mouth near Callum’s ear, and said in a voice that only the two of them could hear:
“In my opinion, leaving a fifth of the troops at the Third Fortress will be enough.”
Callum’s eyes widened slightly. “That many?”
A confident smile appeared on the tall, thin man’s face.
He raised a hand and held up one finger.
“My lord, think about it. The only threat facing the Third Fortress is the Rebel Army. Now the Rebel Army is in chaos—dead, wounded, and even Duke Vennar, that old fool, is lying in bed unable to get up.”
“Since the only danger is gone, why leave so many troops at the Third Fortress? Besides, if your mission fails, given the Commander’s temperament—”
He paused and made a throat-slashing gesture, not continuing, but Callum understood his meaning.
“So, taking that many troops is completely reasonable. Don’t you agree, my lord?”
Callum’s pupils contracted slightly, then he nodded.
“That’s true.”
He tucked the token into his robe, raised his head, and looked at the tall, thin man.
A glint of satisfaction and appreciation flickered in his eyes.
“Not bad. If I can return, I will certainly not forget you.”
The tall, thin man’s eyes instantly lit up.
He immediately bent over, his posture so respectful he almost knelt, and said in a voice barely concealing his excitement:
“Thank you, Lord Callum!”
Callum looked at him, the smile at the corner of his lips deepening.
He knew full well that this man’s rank was actually about the same as his own, but that “my lord” sounded exceptionally pleasing to his ears.
It gave him a feeling of satisfaction, of being looked up to and admired.
“Hahaha…”
He laughed loudly, turned around, and strode away.
Behind him, the tall, thin man remained bent over, watching his figure disappear into the shadows at the end of the corridor.
Only then did he slowly straighten up.
At the same time, the ingratiating expression on his face receded like the tide, replaced by a cold sneer.
—
Two days after Callum led the Imperial Army away from the Third Fortress, the hall of the Third Fortress exuded a strange emptiness.
The corners that had once been packed with people were now deserted.
The Empire’s banners on the walls swayed slightly in the night breeze, casting wavering shadows.
The long table was covered with leftover food, silver goblets lay scattered and tipped over, and several had rolled onto the carpet.
Dried wine stains glowed dark red in the candlelight.
Buloke sat in the main seat, holding a wine cup, his body leaning slightly.
He was drunk.
Or rather, he had let himself get drunk.
To celebrate the Imperial Army’s great victory over the Rebel Army, the victory banquet had gone on for four or five days.
Only today had the guests quietly departed.
Buloke’s eyes were half-closed, his gaze hazy, a faint smile hanging at the corner of his lips.
A maid stood beside him, her eyes cast down.
The wine bottle in her hand tilted slightly, and the red liquid slowly poured into the cup in front of him.
Buloke did not move.
He just silently stared at that wine cup, then suddenly raised his hand and grabbed the maid’s wrist.
His grip was heavy—so heavy that the maid’s hand trembled slightly, and the bottle almost slipped from her grasp.
“This cup of wine…”
Buloke’s voice carried a hint of drunkenness but also an undeniable pressure.
“You drink it for me.”
He lifted his head, his slightly drunken eyes flashing with a sharp light.
The maid lowered her head, her expression unreadable.
“No, General, this is your wine.”
Buloke smiled and ordered:
“Is that so? Then I’m ordering you to drink it now.”
He held her hand and slowly brought the cup to her face.
The maid did not move.
“What’s wrong? Afraid to drink? Did you poison it?”
The air in the hall froze the moment those words left his mouth.
The maid finally raised her head and gently slapped away Buloke’s hand.
“I didn’t expect you to notice.”
Her attitude made Buloke raise an eyebrow, and his tone became teasing:
“Oh? You don’t seem afraid at all.”
The maid covered her mouth and laughed.
“Afraid? Why should I be afraid? In my eyes, you’re just a man about to die.”
As her words fell, the hall door was pushed open at that moment.
A gale rushed in from outside, causing the candle flames to flicker violently.
Several silhouettes stood at the entrance, sunlight streaming in from behind them, gilding their outlines with a golden glow.
The maid instantly moved to their side, revealing her true form—the Witch Councilor, the Magic Mirror.
Beside her stood a man with a dignified appearance, clad in battle armor, but his face was pale, clearly showing he was seriously injured.
This man was none other than Duke Vennar.
On the other side were Harris’s subordinate, Parker, and the current Empress of the Witch Council, Nightingale Celeste.
Buloke swept his gaze over them.
When he saw Duke Vennar, his pupils suddenly contracted.
“Vennar? You… weren’t you mortally wounded? Didn’t the Imperial Army…”
He stopped mid-sentence.
Because he had figured it out.
Luring the tiger out of the mountains.
He didn’t know how these people had appeared here, but if there had been a large Imperial Army presence in the Third Fortress, escaping would have been impossible for them.
So they had secretly used their means to bring Callum to his side, using the pretext of pressing the advantage to take the troops away.
What remained in this fortress now were probably just the old, weak, and wounded.
“I see. You really went through a lot of trouble to kill me.”
Buloke was not angry at being tricked.
He smiled, slowly stood up, pushed aside the wine cup in front of him, and shed the drunkenness from his body.
“If I’m not mistaken, this plan was probably your doing, wasn’t it?”
As he spoke, he fixed his gaze on Celeste.
He didn’t know either the Magic Mirror or Nightingale, but their respective ranks had been clear the moment they appeared.
This younger witch was clearly the mastermind.
As for why he didn’t think Duke Vennar was behind it…
Someone who could fall for Callum’s trick—how could they come up with such a scheme?
“Very impressive. I really didn’t expect the Rebel Army, who were like beaten dogs, to sneak into the Third Fortress to assassinate me at a time like this. But…”
He let out a cold laugh, and an overwhelmingly domineering surge of magical power swept through the entire hall.
“Do you really think the few of you can kill me?”
This magical power had clearly reached the peak of Gold Rank, and it even vaguely touched the threshold of the next stage.
Among the group, the Magic Mirror, who was in front, couldn’t help but change expression.
Once magical power crossed from Silver Grade to Gold Rank, the traditional star-based ranking system no longer applied.
The difference between different Gold Rank levels was almost entirely a matter of capacity.
But the next stage after Gold Rank was the legendary Sage level.
At that level, not only did magical power undergo a qualitative change, the power of magic also multiplied exponentially.
It could be said that a powerhouse of that level could easily kill a Gold Rank magic holder.
However, those who had reached that level were few and far between in history, and every single one had been a great person worthy of the title of Sage.
As for Buloke, although his magical power had not yet undergone a qualitative change, it had already touched the edge of Sage level.
That was why the Magic Mirror had changed expression.
If it were just an ordinary Gold Rank, killing him would have been easy.
But against a powerhouse of this level… they might be able to defeat him, but killing him was essentially impossible.
Buloke naturally knew this as well.
He looked down on them from his position of superiority, his face full of mockery, completely unafraid of them making a move.
But before their standoff could last long, a cold female voice came from outside the door.
“What if I join in too?”
Everyone’s eyes turned toward the door at the same time.
A slender figure slowly emerged from the light.
The newcomer was not wearing her usual white-gold dress, but a set of silver-white battle armor.
Not only that, but on her back grew a pair of broken wings that swayed gently in the wind.
Mephia.
Buloke’s expression turned extremely ugly in an instant.
He clenched his fist and said coldly:
“Your Highness, the Princess, are you sure you want to help them? This is treason.”
“Treason?”
Mephia let out a soft sigh, and a golden long spear appeared in her hand.
“Buloke, do you really still have this Empire in your heart?”