Chapter 407 The Situation

Michael soon learned the identities of the others trapped in this strange space.

For one, they were all nobles—proof enough that this attack was likely targeted.

But if that was the case...why was he also implicated?

Aside from Duke Evermoon, he could see only two other faces that stood out sharply. The man who had revealed Michael’s name was a marquis, and the middle-aged man—whose presence felt heavier than anyone else’s—turned out to be none other than the second prince of the Lionheart Kingdom.

Michael’s instincts told him this prince was on the same level as Duke Evermoon, perhaps even slightly stronger.

The remaining figures were still powerful, but less so. To Michael’s perception, they were all approaching the peak of Rank 1—a realm of strength that would be considered strong in this corner of the Land of Origin.

The lowest noble rank among them was a count, followed by a marquis, then a duke, and finally a prince. All of them were, in one way or another, figures of considerable wealth and influence.

This only made Michael more certain—this attack wasn’t random.

But the part he couldn’t quite understand was why he’d been included at all.

Was it purely because of his strength?

Thinking back to the voice he’d heard just before he was pulled under—commenting on his strong mind—it started to make sense.

This spell must have been crafted to ensnare both specifically targeted individuals and anyone in the vicinity whose power surpassed a certain threshold.

Put like that... then among the six nobles here, some likely weren’t on the list of intended victims either.

Michael exhaled slowly, his mind still turning over the implications. Then, as the thought settled deeper, he raised his voice just enough for all of them to hear.

"Before I was dragged here," he said, "I saw other people falling under the illusion. But they’re not here with us. Why?"

At that, the second prince’s eyes sharpened, their depths glinting with curiosity. He studied Michael a moment longer before answering.

"Interesting." His voice was thoughtful, almost absent-minded. "I had wondered why you resisted as long as you did. Your mental defenses are unusually high for your age."

He tapped a finger lightly against his chin. "As for your question—yes. I can sense it now that I’ve settled my own perception. This spell has multiple layers."

"Layers?" Michael echoed.

The prince inclined his head. "Correct. I suspect everyone within range was affected. But they were...sorted."

He swept his gaze over the others—each one watching him intently.

"Sorted?" a marquis repeated, his voice clipped.

"Based on strength," the prince confirmed. "Mental resistance, cultivation level, soul resilience—some combination of all three."

His expression was grave but faintly impressed as he looked back to Michael. "Most people fell into the outermost layer. A simpler illusion, less dangerous, easier to maintain in large numbers. But this..." He gestured around at the cold, dimly lit hall and its seven yawning tunnels. "This is the inner layer. The deepest. Reserved for the true threats and the prime targets."

Michael’s mouth tightened. So his instincts had been right all along.

"So," he said slowly, "anyone who made it into this space—"

"—either was marked beforehand," the prince finished for him, "or possessed enough power that the spell treated them as a priority."

He tilted his head again, studying Michael’s face as if memorizing it.

"In your case," he went on, "it was likely both. Most likely the latter."

Michael’s jaw clenched.

It made sense.

However, there was something that also bothered him.

And coincidentally, someone else just happened to share his worries.

A voice, trying to stay calm, cut across the gloom.

"Then explain this," the lone count said, his tone tight with frustration. "If this was about mental resistance...why didn’t my defenses work?"

Michael’s eyes shifted to the man. He was tall, with a neatly trimmed beard and pale blue eyes that tried—and failed—to hide unease. Even now, one hand rested at his temple.

The question mirrored what Michael himself had been wondering.

The enchanted earrings on his were supposed to guard against mental tampering. Yet they’d done nothing.

The count’s voice grew harder. "I wear a mind-ward necklace. It has resisted illusions before. So why—"

"You misunderstand," the second prince interrupted gently. He didn’t sound mocking, only weary—like a teacher forced to repeat a lesson too many times.

He lifted his hand and gestured vaguely in the air, as though tracing unseen runes.

"Most mental artifacts are designed to counter direct, aggressive attacks on the mind. Forcible intrusions. Shock illusions. Spirit shattering."

He glanced around the group, voice deepening. "But this... this is not that."

"What is it, then?" someone snapped.

"A parasitic field," the prince said simply. "Slow. Patient. It does not strike in a single moment. It seeps. Creeps along the edges of your awareness until your mind accepts it as part of the environment. It also doesn’t matter if you realise later if the spell duration is enough."

Michael felt the chill of realization slide through him.

The prince continued, almost contemplative. "You all noticed it, didn’t you? We did not arrive here at once. Some of us were taken earlier. Some, like this young man"—he nodded at Michael—"almost slipped free. That is why this illusion is so effective. It is not a hammer striking the door of your mind. It is mist. It seeps in under the frame, through the cracks. By the time you realize you are breathing it, it is too late."

He let that sink in.

"And when you think of it this way," he concluded, his voice low, "you understand something else, too. Whoever planned this did so with knowledge of precautions against mind magic. What I don’t know is if this is an assassin attempt or a robbery attempt. Either way, they’re quite good."

Michael exhaled slowly, feeling the knot in his chest tighten.

He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but the prince was right.

If this was the work of opportunists...

...it was the most methodical improvisation he’d ever seen.

If it wasn’t...

Then this was a conspiracy planned with painstaking detail.

The count looked down at his trembling hand, then clenched it into a fist.