Kingdom’s Bloodline
chapter-598

ARC: Curse of the Royal Tribulation

“Wait, wait... Is everyone here... part of the Brotherhood?

They rounded a street corner, and Kohen looked at both sides of the street with bewilderment.

“Seriously? The whole street?”

Morris just grinned without saying a word.

“Of course not.” Thales quickened his steps and joined them, his voice cold as he said, “If that were true, the Brotherhood would’ve been wiped out ages ago.”

At that moment, Thales and Morris’ gazes met in the air—Thales’ icy, Morris’ playful—and it was like they started a game only they both knew the rules to.

“Yet,” Thales’ tone quickly changed, stating, “there’s no doubt that the Brotherhood had their eyes on us the moment we set foot in their territory.”

Kohen furrowed his brow, and Glover instinctively placed his hand on his weapon, keeping a sharp eye on everyone passing by on the street.

“You bet,” Morris chuckled heartily, “since the first brick you guys stepped on in the Lower City, every shop owner, peddler, beggar, and passing traders have been watching you closely.” Kohen looked up, spitting bitterly,

“Pff, like we didn’t know. All these shops on the street pay protection money to the Brotherhood, all because they’re all under your threat...”

However, Thales interjected right then.

“So, he’s got a point,” the Prince said, eyeing a shopfront where a few workers were drenched in sweat, toiling away while unloading heavy cargo. “These people are all, for sure, members of the Brotherhood.”

Kohen was thoroughly puzzled.

One minute they weren’t, and the next they were...

‘So, seriously, are they or ain’t they part of the Brotherhood?’ Morris seemed to be pondering something,

“Oh, Your Highness, so you know about it?”

“Not at all,” Thales replied nonchalantly,

“All I know is you’re itching to flaunt the Brotherhood’s strength.” Caught with his thoughts exposed, Morris sheepishly looked away.

“Mr. Officer and this... gentleman, both of you come from impressive backgrounds, so I’m sure you’ve had run-ins with the Blood Bottle Gang before.”

Morris collected himself, chuckling lightly with contempt and disdain.

“They’ve been around for ages, the ‘nobles of the gangsters’, with a long and tangled history. They have deep and solid chains of interests, and most of their members are a bunch of two-faced scumbags, dancing around in the grey areas.”

Glover’s gaze bore into him.

“But hey...” Morris changed his tune with a meaningful smirk,

“Sure, to y’all, it might look like we’re all in the same ‘business’, but let me tell ya, the Blood Bottle Gang and us are different as night and day.”

Right then, Thales caught sight of a store up ahead, and he couldn’t help but squint his eyes, slowing down his pace.

“Different?” Kohen sneered and shook his head.

“So, you’re saying while you’re all lowlifes, they’re the granddaddy of all lowlifes, and you’re just a bunch of small fry?”

Layork, who was trailing behind, let out a cold snort.

“Is this your pub?”

Everyone turned around, eyes locked on the place.

Thales stood rooted to the spot, staring at the pub on the opposite side of the street. Its storefront was worn and uninviting, and behind the counter, a rugged-looking man scowled while absentmindedly jabbing at the tabletop with a knife.¹

Kohen and Glove lifted their heads, eyeing the rusty, weathered iron sign hanging above the pub: ‘May the Sunset bless you.’

It looked like it was taken straight out of some countryside church in the Sunset Temple.

Thales gazed pensively at the familiar tables and chairs in front of him, lost in memories of the countless times he had walked through those doors,

“That bartender there, he looks quite tough.”

Morris whistled from a distance, catching the attention of the rugged bartender, who immediately perked up, holding his knife like he was ready for a showdown, but Morris immediately gestured for him to calm down.

Layork strolled into the bar, patting the grumpy bartender on the shoulder and striking up a conversation. Eventually, with a look of disappointment on one of their faces, Layork managed to soothe him.

“That’s the Sunset Pub,” Morris said.

“Kerensky’s been runnin’ the pub for just a few months now—his predecessor got his head cracked open in a bar brawl,” he added.

Morris looked at Kerensky’s ‘stay-away-from-me’ face and scanned the empty scene in the Sunset Pub. He exhaled heavily and said, “You can tell: he’s not exactly cut out for this job.” Thales nodded gently, a touch of wistfulness in his words that only he could grasp, “Being a bartender here is probably no walk in the park.” The times had changed.

The familiar face behind the bar was no more.

Shaking his head, Thales turned and walked away.

“This pub used to be run by an old friend,” Morris kept up with the Prince, his voice tinged with a hint of resignation.

“I gotta admit, since they left, there ain’t many folks left in the Brotherhood who know how to run a bar and keep things in check.”

“Your old friend must have been quite something,” Thales said genuinely.

At this, Morris responded with a complicated hum, his emotions stirred,

“Yeah, at least when they were around, no one dared to throw down in here.”

“Yeah, everyone knows this place is the Brotherhood’s ‘Green Zone’,” Kohen grumbled with simmering anger.²

“Who would have the guts to start a brawl here?”

Morris gave him a look.

“Mr. Officer, since you claim this area is under your watch, do you really get what’s happening here?” he asked, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

Kohen was about to retort, but Morris raised a finger, cutting him off.

“Or maybe you just focus on catching petty thieves, busting peddlers, and keeping an eye on the lawbreakers without ever really getting into their community, their families, or their day-to-day struggles. Have you ever seen what kind of life they lead when they aren’t out there scraping by on the streets?”³

Kohen’s words stuttered to a halt.

But Kohen quickly fired back, not willing to let it go,

“I get it; the Lower City’s like a hub for outsiders and the poor, and it’s a really impoverished pla—”

“Impoverished?” Morris suddenly raised his voice, looking like he found it hilariously absurd. “Impoverished!”

All of a sudden, a different look crossed the fat man’s face.

“But tell me, Mr. Officer, what’s poverty in your eyes?”

“Is it the fancy nobles’ idea of not having meat in a meal and no new clothes during special occasions? Or is it the kind of extreme misery they write about in storybooks, where people are on the verge of starving to death every single day? The kind that the rich and powerful love to exploit for charity and donations, making it look all pitiful, but it’s got nothing to do with real life.” Kohen’s eyebrows twitched as he pondered over the Brotherhood leader’s words.

“No, cop,” Morris didn’t mince his words, forgetting to tone down that particular street slang even in front of the Prince,

“Real poverty falls somewhere in between those two extremes. It’s not as predictable and cliched, nor is it as painfully tragic as they paint it.”

Thales’ thoughts were stirred up by their conversation.

“Yeah, it’s not just ‘no meat in a fancy meal’ or those dramatic ‘starving tomorrow’ stories,” Morris said,

“It’s numbness, just putting up with whatever life throws at you, having no prospects, being dirt poor but still barely scraping by. It’s a bizarre predicament of suffering without a damn good reason to end it all.”

Morris sighed with a hint of emotion, “That kind of poverty is the real plague that can drive people crazy. It’s like a poison that spreads, lingering around, seemingly gentle but lethal in its own way.” Kohen struggled to see it from that perspective but ultimately came up empty-handed,

“I don’t get it.”

Morris let out a sarcastic chuckle.

“Well, you come from a posh background and now work as an officer. Living a life of luxury, it’s probably hard for you to wrap your head around...”⁴

“But there are some poor souls who work their asses off all day, putting in everything they’ve got, just to earn twenty measly copper coins.”

His tone shifted,

“But in the half-day after work, just to fill their bellies and make ends meet, they’ve gotta blow every single one of those coins, leaving none or maybe just one or two behind...”⁵

“So the next day, they’re back at it, busting their backs for another twenty coins that are gonna vanish again in no time.”

Glover and Kohen both furrowed their brows in response.

“Yeah, they won’t starve to death,” Morris said, his face grim as he walked down a rickety, low set of stairs.

“But they’re stuck in a never-ending loop just to make sure they ‘won’t starve to death.’” “Take that broke carter who lost money in a bet, for example.”

“Why d’ya think he had to borrow cash to gamble? And d’ya really believe that by keeping him away from some loan scam, he’s all fine and dandy?”

Kohen blinked, and he looked up abruptly.

“Poverty ain’t no swift, clean-cut guillotine, officer.”

“Nah, it’s like a slowly tightening noose, a grinding mill that just keeps on going.”

Thales listened and let out a silent sigh.

And there stood Morris, calmly delivering his words like a storyteller weaving a profound tale, “It’s like giving you a tiny hope to cling on to life but robbing you of the joy that comes with it, all just to keep milking your existence.”

“It pushes you to the edge of death yet never lets you take that final plunge, making you squeeze out every bit of yourself in a mind-numbing routine day after day.”

Morris breathed deeply, as if relishing the taste of the air,

“It’s called survival—a prolonged form of death.”

Morris lingered there, hands clasped behind his back, unknowingly taking the lead among the group. He gazed at the distant, stench-ridden tannery and the busy workers inside.

“You see, in towns and the countryside, there are always those at the darkest and lowest end of the ladder, barely scraping by, the ones the Kingdom conveniently forgets,” Morris began.

“You got the out-of-towners trying to find work in the city, the farmers who lost their land, the merchants drowning in debt, the disabled left without a way to earn a living, the skilled craftsmen left out in the cold by the market, the broke-ass folks with nothing to their name, the beggars stripped of their dignity, the elderly with no one to care for them, the widowed and unsupported, the ex-soldiers left only knowing how to throw punches, and the poor souls forced to sacrifice their morals and pride just to survive and yet still face discrimination and abuse...”

“All of ‘em—they’re the hosts of poverty, scattered across the borders far more than you’d think. The Lower City’s just the tip of the iceberg, and that’s saying something.”

Kohen tried to ease his grip on his clenched fist.

“I get it, but still...”

Morris brushed him off.

“See, they often can’t speak up, and even if they do, nobody gives a damn, not even a hardworking and kind-hearted officer like yourself,” Morris said.

“In all those official reports of a peaceful and prosperous era, in those grand tales of heroic history, and in the eyes of most well-fed and content people, these folks barely even exist—or if they do, it’s just to make others feel good about their compassion and morals, giving ‘em a cheap and fake sense of self-satisfaction.”

Morris’ tone turned icy; no warmth was to be found.

“They’re shut out from the conversation, struggling to understand, and ain’t got the energy to grasp the meaning of pursuing desires, dreams, dignity, and responsibilities—stuff you can only see in poems and theatre plays...”

His expression took on a fierce edge,

“When stuck in such a mess, if they don’t seek change, they’ll slowly wither away, becoming no better than objects or animals.”

“Faced with a tough life, a crappy environment, a hopeless future, an unfair reality, a tyrannical authority, and the dire need to survive, they gotta figure somethin’ out; they gotta find a way to cling to somethin’, gotta hold onto that last glimmer of hope...”

Morris’ gaze drifted skyward, piercing through the thick blanket of clouds before settling back down on the chaotic Underground market,⁶

“So, one day, outta nowhere, or maybe it was just the perfect timing or some unexpected twist of fate, they ended up being thrown together, watching out for each other, tackling life’s struggles as a team, and searching for a sense of belonging and worth.”

“Maybe it was just neighbours looking out for each other on those streets, or some poor bastards from the same line of work gathering ‘round for a meal, or even a bunch of tough nuts from rough backgrounds forming a tight crew—even if, yeah, sometimes their moves weren’t exactly by the book.”

At a street corner, Thales’ eyes caught the sight of a heated fight between a dozen or so ruffians. But this time, Kohen just stayed where he was, staring at them blankly without any intention of getting involved.

“At first, they huddled together to keep warm and make life less miserable.”

“All that stuff you can’t stand, those so-called ‘crimes’ or actions that go against the norm, well, they’re just the side effect that comes with the territory.”

Morris stood steadfast, a passive observer of the street-corner scuffle, and when Layork glanced at him with questioning eyes, he simply shook his head.

“So, there we were—the Black Street Brotherhood, part of all those bottom-level gangs.”

His gaze turned distant and profound,

“I dunno when or how it happened, but from the get-go, we planted ourselves deep in the underprivileged community, born outta chaos and thrivin’ in it.”

Just then, out of nowhere, a stone whizzed through the air, landing a harsh blow on the forehead of the leader of the thugs, sending him crashing down in a small pool of blood.

Startled by the unexpected turn of events, the brawlers involuntarily paused their scuffle.

All eyes turned to Thales as he rose to his feet, dusting off his hands.

“You may have been born in chaos,” Thales said icily,

“Yet now, you’re just fuelling it.”

The thugs snapped back to their senses, shouting as they rushed towards them.

Morris let out a resigned exhale and gestured with his hand. Layork stepped forward with a serious look on his face.

“Actually, Your Highness, most of the ordinary people in the Black Street, the Underground market, and in the three districts of the Lower City do not directly participate in our ‘grey’ activities,” Morris said with a shrug.

Thales smirked.

“You mean criminal activities,” he said.

Morris gave a nod,

“Yeah, but they’re always ready to lend a hand to the Brotherhood without hesitation in their free time. Whether it’s passing messages, keeping watch, running errands, or supporting us in our ‘big business’ ventures to make some extra cash for themselves,”

“Their lives are connected to what we do.”

On the other side, as Layork took down the third person, the thugs finally recognised him. Terrified, they quickly dispersed without even daring to glance back.

Kohen remained quietly in the same spot, watching the thugs disappear into the nearby streets. “As time went on, things just kinda fell into place, and what was repeated turned into the norm. The Black Street Brotherhood ain’t just some helpin’ hands anymore, and they’re definitely more than just a bunch of tough guys,” Morris remarked, clicking his tongue in appreciation. He spread his arms wide, as if embracing the rundown neighbourhood right in front of him.⁷

“They’ve become the backbone of these communities, deeply rooted and intertwined with the folks on the lower rungs. They’re like a lifeline, keepin’ everything in balance, makin’ sure these underprivileged neighbourhoods keep on runnin’ smoothly.”

He gave Kohen a quick glance, as if by accident,

“Compared to those rare visits from the police station every now and then, or the patrol teams that come to scare the hell outta people, the lazy bottom-level officials who couldn’t care less, the ‘concerned authorities’ that only show up for show-offs and city inspections, and the King’s decrees that are as useful as those bills for treating the great pox on the bulletin board, and let’s

not forget those self-righteous do-gooders who talk a big game but never really get their hands dirty—they’re way more effective and practical.”⁸

“They’ve got their own set of rules, their own ecosystem down here.”

“Copper coins louder than the King, and a drinking glass heavier than any high-ranking official,” Morris glanced at Thales, shaking his head.

“No offence, but that’s the kind of old crap those Blade Fangs Camp scumbags always spout,” Thales did not answer, while Kohen slowly raised his head. His gaze was dazed.

Glover had to give him a slight prod, making sure the police officer didn’t lose focus and stumble. “I’ve been in battles in the Western Desert,” Zombie looked at Kohen’s vacant expression, snorting in annoyance. “How come I’ve never heard of such a nonsense ‘old crap’ before?” Morris just shrugged and waved it off with a light chuckle.

“Either you're still a youngin'...” he paused, then added with a cold smirk, “...or you've got way too much earwax.”

Glover was momentarily at a loss for words.

“So yeah, most folks around here might be poor, sneaky, or downright annoying, but truth is, most of ‘em ain’t been out there collecting debts, smuggling goods, stealing, fighting, killing, or doing shady stuff for the Black Street Brotherhood.”

“But, in one way or another, they’ve all lent a hand to the Brotherhood, and yeah, they’ve gained somethin' from its existence—though I get that these ‘perks’ might disgust you.” Morris chuckled coldly,

“These ‘Brotherhood folks’, they ain’t directly on the payroll of our core six Powerhouses, not the most legit members of the gang, and maybe they haven’t done any of those ‘business deals’, not even on the side. But honestly, most of the time, whether it’s them or outsiders, there ain’t really a need to tell ‘em apart anymore.”

“’Cause we’re practically cut from the same cloth, and they’re naturally drawn to us.”

“We can slip into their shoes anytime, and they can just as easily step into ours.”

In that second. Morris clenched his teeth tightly, standing tall in that street he could call his and balling his fist gently,

“They ain’t officially a Black Band, but they’re practically living like one.”

“Hey, Mr. Officer, tell me, how are we supposed to 'go down’?”

“Do you want to toss every soul in this neighbourhood, from the strong and young to the old and feeble, straight into jail, treatin’ ’em the same as Brotherhood members?”

Kohen’s body shook as if he had been dealt a heavy blow.

Morris turned his gaze to the contemplative Thales, flashing a grin.

“This is the real starting point, the foundation, and the heart of the Black Street Brotherhood, Your Highness.” Morris said.

“All those with black bands,” he added with a glint in his eyes, “are brothers.”

Layork grinned and casually crossed his arms, letting the black silk ribbon on his left arm dance in the breeze.

all those with black bands are brothers

This wasn’t the first time Thales had heard this Brotherhood saying, but his brow furrowed even tighter.

“Hah!” Glover scoffed, not looking particularly impressed.

“Y’all are just a bunch of randoms, worth nothing.”⁹

“Even the sloppiest suzerain’s recruits could easily chase you away with your tails between your legs.”¹⁰

Morris looked at Glover’s sturdy figure—clearly someone with a military background.

“Yeah, maybe many think we’re just a bunch of oddballs, weak compared to the Kingdom’s army and tough men, not even worth a second thought. They might believe we’re a bunch of weaklings, ready to vanish at a noble’s whim.”

Morris looked at the scene on the Underground market with a hint of ruthlessness in his eyes, “But remember this...” he went on, “Unlike the organised officials and armies, we—yeah, even those regular people tied to us—we might be a bunch of scaredy-cats, but we’ve got that street smarts and slyness in us. We may not stand out much, but we know how to avoid direct fights and break apart if needed.”

“Even the local police and patrol teams who know this area well often struggle to deal with us, let alone the troops that have been prepared for the enormous battlefield. It’s like sweeping with a massive broom; there are always those corners they can’t reach, ya know?”

“This is what truly gives the Brotherhood confidence.”

“And this is what makes us tick—bom in nothingness, weak, all alone, scattered all over the place. When we go up against formidable foes like the Blood Bottle Gang or even the Kingdom’s authorities, sure, we might get knocked down and beaten up. But we never stay down for long; we bounce back, rise from the dead, and come back again and again, every single time.”¹¹

“So, Mr. Officer and... my tough friend who’ve been in the trenches over there, do you get it?” At that moment, Kohen’s expression wavered, and Glover still seemed unwilling to agree.

But neither of them could find the words to speak.

As for Thales, he just walked down the street calmly and peacefully.

“By the way,” the young man drew in a breath, breaking the silence suddenly, “do you guys know Arracca Murkh?”

Morris furrowed his brow.

“The Kingdom’s Wrath has a fearsome reputation, Your Highness,” the fat man shook his head, “but even as powerful as he is, he can’t pull off what we can do for you.”

‘That sounds oddly familiar...’

Thales smiled.

‘Oh, yeah. Stake from Shadow Shield. He also said something similar, didn't he?’

“I remember,” Glover chimed in, admiration evident in his voice,

“In the Battle of the Altar, Baron Murkh was the vanguard. His Fury Guards fought bravely against the elite orcs from the Three Great Tribes, despite many casualties. But they, even so, broke through the enemy’s formation, creating an opportunity for the Legendary Wing's cavaliers and Your Majesty’s main forces to strike a decisive blow.”¹²

“It amazed all the allied forces present—mercenaries, drafted troops, and the regular soldiers of the royal family.”

“And it secured the final victory in the Desert War.”

Morris and Layork both had their faces tensed in response.

Thales drifted back to the memories of the Broken Dragon Fortress six years ago, and he could not help but sigh.

“Arracca Murkh, he’s not like your regular man,” Kohen said softly, “he’s more like a broken soul, missing a piece, no longer whole.”

As everyone turned their gaze towards him, Kohen came back to the present and shook his head.

“Not me; it was something my old man said.”

Thales nodded, recalling how the Kingdom’s Wrath carried him on his back and charged through the Black Sand Army’s formation six years ago.

But he wanted to talk about something else, not the other side’s bravery.

“Murkh told me that he wasn't the Kingdom’s Wrath,” Thales said with emotion.

“But the guards by his side were.”

“All of them.”

The others were taken aback

“Same goes for the indestructible and mysterious Black Sword,” Thales turned his head, “he might be the leader and the soul of the Brotherhood.”

Morris’ expression changed.

“But he is not the Brotherhood itself.”

Thales gestured at the view of the Underground market with his chin, affirming with certainty, “All these people and all they stand for—their lives, backgrounds, and what they’ve been through—when taken together, they are the real Black Street Brotherhood.”

“The Brotherhood is their way of rebelling in the face of numbness and poverty.”

Thales gave a knowing nod and mused,

“More than that, it’s the weapon of the powerless.”

Morris was somewhat surprised but quickly gathered himself, offering a wry smile,

“You got it, Your Highness! You’re a sharp one!”

“So, Mr. Officer, in this part of the city, you and the whole police station and even the entire Kingdom...,” Morris said to Kohen but kept his eyes on the Prince, as if waiting for his response, “...y’all ain’t up against just some gangsters, criminals, or even the evil,” the fat man smirked, “but it’s the poverty, the unfairness, that cold-heartedness towards ‘em, the feelin’ of hopelessness— the consequences of this messed-up situation where one group’s got it all while others have nothing but complaints. It’s that big shadow behind the glaring light; you're fighting.”

“You embody the authority of this nation, standing tall as the strong, facing the resistance of the ones who ain’t got much power.”

Kohen raised his head and stared at him blankly,

“Wait, you mean, in the Lower City, by doing my duty, I’m going against... the weak?”

“Don't let him fool you,” The young man’s voice broke through, pulling Kohen back from his reverie.

Thales spoke with assurance,

“That’s right, the Black Street Brotherhood might be the weapon the less fortunate end up using.” “But, on the contrary, Kohen, it’s not the weak that you’re fighting against.”

Fuelled by his past trust in the Prince, Kohen seemed to grasp at a lifeline in troubled waters, his eyes bright with hope, looking towards Thales.

Yet Thales’ words carried a heavier burden than Morris’,

“But something deeper, darker, and even scarier.”

As soon as those words were spoken, even Morris couldn't help but furrow his brow.

Thales took a deep breath and said, “You’re standing up against the powerful, the ones you were born into, the ones who have long oppressed the weak.” Kohen was left speechless.

Even Glover had this thoughtful look in his face.

“The crimes you punish on the streets, the chaos and disorder you experience every day, the darkness and pain you witness, are just some of the results of that oppression and injustice— whether we like it or not.”

“You draw your own sword,” Thales whispered.

“To fight against the wounds it causes.”

“In this world, there’s nothing harder to bear, but it’s also more valuable to stand up against.”

Kohen gazed at Thales, his mind swirling with confusion.

“Hmm,” Morris rolled his eyes.

“Your Highness has a way with words,” he remarked.

“But lemme put it in the Tower of Eradication’s words,” he said with a clever grin.

“How do you use power to fight power? You can only embrace it.”¹³

Everyone stayed quiet for a while, and even Thales furrowed his brow without saying anything.

“I don’t... get it,” Kohen said.

After enduring a painful bout of reflection, Kohen gritted his teeth and shook his head, “There are no such words in the Tower of Eradication.”

Morris scoffed lightly and added,

“Yeah,” the stout man’s words lingered with hidden meaning, ‘‘There aren’t such words inside the

Tower.”

At this very moment, Thales posed a sudden question, “Who are you, Morris?”

The fatty leader of the Brotherhood beamed with affability, “Oh, Your Highness, forgetful much, ain’t we? I’m Morris, just a little thug from the Brotherhood.”

Thales snorted in response,

“No,” he asserted, his eyes ablaze like lightning, coldly fixated on Morris, “I’m asking, who are you, really?”

Morris’ smile froze for a second.

“A mere thug would never speak like that.”

“You’ve already shown off and flexed your muscles,” Thales’ voice deepened, “Why not reveal your true colours, too?”

Morris' smile vanished entirely.

Thales looked at him intently without showing any emotion.

Sensing the ominous shift in the atmosphere, Glover and Layork, as if it were the most natural response, reached for their weapons and exchanged hostile glances.

Yet Morris merely paused briefly before letting out a soft chuckle.

His breath came out as a sigh, and he looked up at the sky.

“Morris Ishka,” he said.

The fat man’s voice dripped with self-mockery and loathing.

Tshka?’ Thales furrowed his brow, the name unfamiliar during his princely education.

“I thought you said you didn’t have a last name.”

Morris shrugged, nodded, and then shook his head with a wry smile.

“Well, not anymore,” he said.

“I’m from Dragon-Kissed Land, born in Long Chant City.” Morris’ gaze turned distant.

“Starting with my great-grandfather, for generations my family served as the personal financial officers to the Archduke of Long Chant City.”

from Dragon-Kissed Land, born in Long Chant City

Thales’ expression changed.

“I see,” he remarked.

“You are from Anlenzo Dukedom, and your background isn’t humble either.”¹⁴ ‘And...

True to his roots, a numbers guy.’

But Thales wasted no time in pressing further,

“Then how did you end up in—”

Without waiting for him to finish, Morris cut in with a sharp retort, “Decades ago, the Anlenzo Dukedom went through a ‘territorial rebellion’.”¹⁵ Morris chuckled wryly, “That’s just a fancy way for the upper class to play their political games— to put it simply, a big tangled mess.”

“In the end, the inept Archduke Xeede threw our family under the cart, using us as scapegoats to pacify the wrath of his vassals.”

Assessing Morris’ emotions, Thales decided not to push the conversation any further.

Glover and Kohen exchanged a look between themselves, and even Layork seemed surprised.

Morris sighed heavily,

“You know, back when they put that noose around my neck, I was just a kid.”

He touched his swollen, shapeless neck,

“Mom was hanging right there on my left, and I can still remember her rope swaying for what felt like forever...”

Thales frowned.

“Outside the gallows, the executioner was stone-faced, like some cold statue, and the crowd was goin’ wild like a never-ending wave in the sea.”

“I didn’t get it much back then, but while hangin’ there, all I could think was,” Morris gazed absentmindedly at the street,

“How bad it felt.”

• ¹⁵1 think this was 22 years ago, it is mentioned a 'continuous rebellion' at Long Chant City in chapter 250, official translation.

“I wished for the Sunset and Moonlight to hear me that once, to grant me this one wish—to let me take a breath of fresh air.”

He softly said,

“One breath, just one breath, that’s all I wanted—to feel less pain, to not want to die so much...” The air was thick with solemnity, and everyone kept their lips sealed.

Only Morris’ voice filled the void as he recounted his past,

“For that gulp of air, I’d do anything.”

Morris’ eyes looked distant, lost in emptiness,

“Do any things

The silence lingered for a while until Morris emerged from his memories.

“So, when I found myself wake’n up in a heap of bodies, it hit me.”

The leader of the Brotherhood took a deep breath, cherishing the freedom of breathing,

“This world ain’t fair, Your Highness. Not one bit.”

Morris’ hand left his neck, revealing a fierce expression only a leader could possess,

“Even the air that we breathe,”

“We’ve gotta fight tooth and nail for it.”

“Even if we’ve gotta snatch it... from those who take it for granted.”

Thales didn’t say a word.

“I’ve got other things to attend to, Your Highness,” Morris’ expression changed as he turned his head. “Please excuse me; Layork will take care of the rest of your sightseeing.”

With those words, before anyone could react in surprise, the chubby man briskly turned and disappeared around another street corner.

Leaving Thales and the others standing there quietly.

“So, that’s our boss,” Layork snapped out of his thoughts about Morris’ past and got back to his gloomy self.

“Where to next?” Glover and Kohen exchanged glances.

“Well, you see,” Thales glared at where Morris vanished and grumbled,

“I almost had my wallet snatched by a little beggar girl, and then some guy tried to extort me... I’m quite annoyed right now.” Layork was stunned.

Glover and Kohen looked just as surprised.

Thales turned his head and asked in a serious tone,

“So, in the Lower City, where do these begging kids usually stay?”

On the other side of the street, Morris hastily turned a street corner to meet another cloaked figure, the look in his face far from cheerful.

If Thales were here, he might recognise him as the Brotherhood member who had whispered in Morris’ ear during their last meeting.

“Lance,” Morris wasted no time, his tone direct. “How’d it go?”

The cloaked figure—the Brotherhood’s Chief of Intelligence, the ‘Sleepless Eye’ Lance Kobryant—lowered his hood, his face worn with fatigue.¹⁶

“Last night, Prince Thales was attacked at a banquet,” Lance stated in a nonchalant tone. “The streets are abuzz with rumours, and given that the assassin was from the Western Desert, all fingers point to the nobles from there, suggesting they might be up to no good.”

Morris frowned, seeking confirmation, “For real?”

Lance said sharply, “Well, that’s how the Secret Department is spreading the information.”

“What else?” Morris probed.

“Mindis Hall, the Prince’s residence, was just sealed off by the Royal Guards, who are now teaming up with the City Hall to hunt down any clues about the assassin.”

“So, he isn’t on the same team as your boss?” Morris probed.

“Old, old boss, alright! Can’t say for sure, but I know that a friend who used to be in charge of the Western Desert branch is back at the Secret Department’s Headquarters—a sign that something big might be brewing there.”

Morris fell into silence, deep in thought.

Finally, Lance broke the silence. “So, how’s this new Jadestar compared to the last one?”

“I dunno,” Morris shrugged, looking a bit puzzled. “Kinda similar, but not quite—let’s see how

Black Sword reacts.”

Lance didn’t seem so thrilled. “You talked to him for ages, and that’s all you got?”

“Well, why don’t you go and have a little chit-chat with him yourself?” Morris fired back.

Morris scoffed in frustration, “Ya know that kid is slick as they come; every word he says has some shady motive hidden behind it!”

“Yeah, that’s why I want you to go,” Lance replied unabashedly. “You’re cut from the same cloth; nobody would know his tricks better than you.”

Morris’ eyelid twitched for a second, but then all of his face changed. He said, “I remember, a few years back, you asked me for someone, didn’t you?”

Lancer squinted his eyes and asked, “Who?”

“Six years ago,” Morris scratched his chin thoughtfully, “on the day of the One Night War.” Lance’s eyes sparkled as he recalled, “Ah, yes, the guy who used to manage Abandoned Houses. He was good at his job and had big ambitions, so much so that he ended up killing his boss, that useless Quide...”¹⁷

“Anyway, I sent him away from the capital. Isn’t it like Roda would be in full smiles while his son’s killer lurks around here—”

Morris cut in,

“Just drop him a letter to dig up the list of past beggars.”

Lance frowned, asking, “What’s wrong?”

Morris took a deep breath, kicking the decrepit wall at the entrance of the alley, sending a shower of stones cascading down.

“Hey, Lance, remember when we first landed in this part of the city? We went through a hell of a time on these messed-up streets. Anton couldn’t cover fifty metres without getting lost; he wouldn’t find his way back to Black Street even if his life depended on it.” Lance didn’t say anything, knowing Morris had more to say.

Morris squinted his eyes and asked, “Do you still recall who we hired as our trusty guides to help us find our way around the Lower City quickly?”

“Beggars,” Lance answered without hesitation, “we paid the beggars to guide us.”

“They don’t draw a lot of attention; they’ve been wandering these streets since they were kids, so they know every route here like the back of their hand.”

Morris’ eyes were fixed on the base of the wall.

“Yup,” the fat man echoed, his thoughts clearly wandering elsewhere.

“They don’t draw a lot of attention, wandering these streets since they are knee-high.”

• ¹⁷ They are talking about Nayer Rick.

“They know every route here.”

Lance came to a realisation, and his eyes widened.

“So, I’ve got a tiny hunch,” he said.

Morris raised his head, staring straight at the complex streets of the Lower City District.

“And I wanna see if it holds water.”