Chapter 484

Raukor picked the hammer back up, turning it in his hand as if weighing the memory as much as the tool.

“Not normal cotton,” he said. “Not plants.”

He glanced at Ludger, then back to the anvil, and began speaking the way someone did when they were describing something they’d rather forget.

“The monsters in that labyrinth grow it inside their bodies. Dense. Layered. Refined by mana instead of sun and water.” He grunted. “Looks soft. It isn’t.”

He set the hammer down again and spread his fingers, mimicking strands being pulled taut.

“They use it as threads. Launch it. Whip it. Wrap it.” His hand snapped sharply. “Each strand is thin, but sharp enough to cut leather and bite into steel if you’re careless. Durable too. You cut one, they make three more.”

Ludger’s frown deepened slightly as Raukor continued.

“They don’t just attack with it,” Raukor said. “They weave it around themselves. Armor. Shields. Cocoon layers. Blades slide instead of cutting. Blunt force gets eaten by tension.”

He exhaled through his nose.

“That’s why they’re hard to kill. You don’t fight flesh first—you fight fabric.”

The forge crackled quietly.

“And the monsters?” Ludger asked, already suspecting the answer.

Raukor’s ears flattened a fraction.

“Spiders,” he said.

Not small ones.

Labyrinth spiders, large, mana-saturated things with bodies built to produce and manipulate that spiderweb endlessly. Some anchored themselves in cavern ceilings, raining threads like nets. Others skittered across walls, weaving defenses faster than fighters could break them. The worst ones layered cotton so densely around vital areas that killing blows bounced or slid aside unless someone knew exactly where to strike.

“They don’t bleed easily,” Raukor added. “Threads close wounds. Reinforce joints. Bind damaged limbs back together.”

He shook his head once. “Beastmen avoid it because we don’t use the material well. Too fine. Too delicate to process without tools and techniques most of us don’t have.”

And then there was the danger.

Sticky threads. Razor threads. Invisible strands stretched across passages. One mistake, and someone lost a weapon, or a limb, or got pulled apart slowly while the others watched.

Raukor looked at Ludger again.

“But the the threads itself,” he said, “is valuable. Light. Strong. Holds enchantments better than most cloth or leather. Useful if someone knows what they’re doing.”

The implication hung in the air. A dangerous labyrinth. A resource no one wanted badly enough to master. And a guild that had already started building skills in processing, crafting, and enchantment.

Ludger didn’t say anything right away. But the frown on his face wasn’t confusion anymore. It was calculation.

Ludger didn’t answer right away.

His mind had latched onto the word

cotton

, and it refused to let go.

Cotton and spiderwebs weren’t the same thing, not even close. One was cellulose-based, grown from plants, layered in long chains designed for flexibility and breathability. The other was protein-based, spun from specialized glands, engineered by nature for tensile strength and elasticity far beyond its apparent weight.

Spider silk could stop blades. Cotton couldn’t.

Which meant one of two things.

Either Raukor was using the wrong word out of habit.

Or the labyrinth spiders weren’t producing silk at all.

They were producing something

else

, a mana-altered hybrid. A cellulose-like structure grown inside a living creature, reinforced by protein matrices, shaped by instinct and magic rather than biology alone.

That was… unsettling. And interesting.

If it behaved like cotton in processing but like silk in performance, it explained everything Raukor had said. Why beastmen avoided it. Why fighters struggled to kill the monsters. Why the material was valuable but unused.

It wasn’t a combat resource. It was a

civilian

one. Raukor kept talking, unaware, or unconcerned, that Ludger hadn’t replied.

“Those threads would make fine clothes,” he said, tone practical. “Light. Warm. Durable. Good for people who don’t fight at close range.”

He snorted softly. “Like the Velis League. Most of them aren’t warriors. Scholars. Artisans. Merchants.”

Ludger’s attention sharpened.

“And Argarthia,” Raukor continued. “Same. Big cities. Not everyone carries steel.”

Ludger flinched. Just slightly. Argarthia.

The name hit like a dull echo, dragging something half-buried up with it. A drunken martial artist in an arena. Glowing tattoos. Slurred warnings that hadn’t sounded important at the time. Hroth.

Right,

Ludger thought.

He was from there.

The pieces shifted. A rare material. Mages demand. Ocean access. A land with little love for the Empire and even less for the Rodericks’ style of quiet exploitation. A possible bridge that didn’t involve treaties or declarations, just trade.

He could use this. Not loudly. Not immediately. But as a thread. Literally and figuratively.

If Lionsguard became the source of a material Argarthian cities wanted, something useful, non-military, hard to replace, then contact would follow naturally. Conversations. Requests. Opportunities to feel each other out without committing to anything.

And through that…

Hroth.

An ally, maybe. Or at least a lever. Someone inside Argarthia who already knew Ludger’s name and had chosen to warn him instead of staying silent. All while Ludger waited.

While the sealed labyrinths stayed untouched. While Verk and the Rodericks grew complacent, thinking the pressure had eased. Ludger finally looked back at Raukor, expression composed again.

Cotton,

he thought.

Sometimes the most dangerous threads weren’t the ones meant to cut. They were the ones that connected.

Ludger broke the silence.

“Do the three of them know where this labyrinth is?” he asked.

Raukor didn’t even hesitate. He shook his head once.

“No,” he said. “Only the older generation knows the location. Those who grew up under the elders. People who won’t talk.”

That matched what Ludger expected. Secrets like that didn’t survive long unless they were guarded by loyalty instead of force.

Raukor went quiet after that, staring into the forge fire as if weighing something heavier than metal. The crackle of heat filled the space while Ludger waited without pressing.

Finally, Raukor spoke again.

“I can take you there.”

Ludger looked at him.

“That would save you time,” Raukor continued. “No need to negotiate with the elders. No negotiations. No politics.”

The offer wasn’t casual. It carried weight, risk, even.

Ludger narrowed his eyes slightly. “Is that fine?” he asked. “As far as I understand, only beastmen use that labyrinth. Or even know it exists.”

Raukor snorted.

“When it comes to beastmen,” he said, “it’s first come, first served.”

He picked the hammer back up and gave it a single, solid strike, sparks jumping.

“We don’t clear it,” Raukor went on. “Can’t. Too dangerous. Too many losses for too little return. If you can’t clear a labyrinth, you can’t truly claim it.”

He glanced at Ludger again, eyes steady.

“It’s not ownership if you can’t hold it.”

The words settled into place with uncomfortable logic.

A dangerous ocean labyrinth. Known, but unused. Claimed in theory, abandoned in practice. A resource no one could exploit, and therefore no one truly possessed.

Ludger considered that carefully. No treaties broken. No borders crossed. No rights violated, at least not by any standard that mattered.

“Alright,” Ludger said at last.

Not agreement yet. But interest.

If Raukor was willing to guide him past elder politics, then this wasn’t just an opportunity, it was a shortcut. One that bypassed the exact kind of negotiations Ludger had decided to stop relying on.

And shortcuts, when chosen carefully, were sometimes worth the risk.

Ludger studied Raukor for a moment, then asked the obvious question.

“By the way, why would you get on a ship?” he said. “You could stay here. Keep forging. You don’t need to involve yourself in this.”

Raukor didn’t answer immediately.

He set the hammer down and rolled his shoulder once, as if loosening old tension. Then he looked at Ludger, expression flat but certain.

“We won’t stop forging,” he said. “There’s time along the way.”

Ludger frowned slightly. “On a ship?”

Raukor grunted. “I’ve forged in worse places.”

Then he added, more pointedly, “And my success rate is higher when you’re nearby.”

That gave Ludger pause.

Raukor continued, voice steady. “Your presence make things easier. Less waste. Fewer failures.”

He didn’t dress it up as praise. Just a statement of observed fact.

“I want that,” Raukor said. “If I’m going to work with unfamiliar materials, threads from spiders, things no one processes properly, I want the best conditions possible.”

He picked the hammer back up, tapping it once against the anvil.

“And,” he added, “if I’m going to guide you to that labyrinth, I might as well make myself useful the whole time.”

Ludger considered it.

A forge at sea wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t impossible either. And Raukor wasn’t wrong. Whenever they worked together, outcomes skewed sharply upward. Fewer cracks. Cleaner enchantments. Better yields.

“Alright,” Ludger said finally. “But we plan it properly.”

Raukor nodded once, satisfied. He turned back to the metal, hammer rising and falling again in steady rhythm. It wasn’t a dramatic decision. Just another piece locking into place.

Ludger finished the bracers as the forge fire burned low.

The final runes settled cleanly, mana flowing where it should without resistance. He inspected the work once more, nodded in quiet approval, and set them aside for Raukor to cool properly. The task was done, for now.

With that handled, Ludger left the forge and headed home.

His thoughts immediately shifted into planning mode. Routes to the coast. Personnel he could spare. Training schedules that wouldn’t cripple the guild while still producing specialists. A forge at sea. Healing enchantments tuned for beastmen physiology. Too many variables, but manageable ones.

He was halfway through reorganizing priorities in his head when everything went quiet. Not the street. His thoughts. A carriage stood in front of his home.

Polished wood. Reinforced wheels. The silver-and-red bull crest worked into the side panel.

Torvares.

Ludger slowed. They never came here.

Torvares’ people always went to the guild. Public space. Neutral ground. A place where conversations were framed, witnessed, controlled.

Not his home.

Which meant this wasn’t routine. It wasn’t courtesy. And it definitely wasn’t good news.

Ludger stopped a few steps short of the door, eyes steady on the carriage.

So that’s how today ends,

he thought.

Whatever was waiting inside, he already knew one thing for certain.

Trouble had arrived early, and this time, it hadn’t bothered knocking first.

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