Chapter 416 Regret

Michael turned, nodding to the undead who held the leader upright.

"Hold him," he ordered.

Two blank helmets inclined in unison, gauntlets tightening just enough to pin the man’s shoulders without crushing them further.

He paused to glance over the row of bodies, all limp in death.

It was an odd thing, how little revulsion he felt now. Perhaps he’d simply grown accustomed to the sight.

And as for why Spartan was absent?

Spartan remained behind in the vault, because of the ritual array.

Michael knew when he was ready—when he had hopefully wrung some secret he could from this wretch—he would give the final order. The array would be smashed. The spell would hopefully collapse. And everyone affected would wake.

But not yet.

Michael stepped closer, lowering his voice to something almost intimate.

"Who sent you?"

The man’s throat bobbed. His eyes flickered sideways, as if searching for a means of escape that didn’t exist.

Michael sighed.

"I can wait," he murmured. "But I assure you, it will be worse for you if I have to."

The man shivered. A strangled sound crawled up his throat—half a whimper, half a word.

Michael’s hand fell to the man’s cheek, almost gently.

"Try again," he said, his tone colder than the wind around him.

The man’s cracked lips moved again, and this time, words scraped out, hoarse and ragged.

"...theft..."

Michael’s brows rose a fraction.

The man swallowed, a tremor running through his body. His voice was little more than a whisper.

"...and assassination."

Michael tilted his head slightly. "Assassination? Of whom?"

The robed man only closed his eyes, as if the effort of speaking had drained the last of his strength.

Michael studied him in silence. His gaze drifted over the man’s bloodless hands, the torn fabric at his shoulders, the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

"Who hired you?" he pressed, his voice low but urgent.

Nothing.

The man’s jaw clenched weakly, but no further sound came.

Michael sighed through his nose, and without warning, drove his thumb into the dislocated joint of the man’s shoulder.

The body lurched against the undead’s grip, a strangled groan tearing free.

"Answer me."

Still, the man’s eyes remained shut. His breathing turned shallow, each ragged inhale more labored than the last.

It didn’t soften Michael’s expression.

He leaned closer.

"Speak," he demanded again, his voice softer, colder.

The man’s eyelids fluttered, just enough that Michael saw the glimmer of regret behind them.

A memory flashed through the man’s mind in that instant.

A conversation, quiet and tense. One voice saying the payout would be worth it. Another said it was too risky.

And the man’s own doubts. His own reluctance.

I should never have come,

he thought.

I knew it was too dangerous. Too many variables...

His breathing hitched.

Too many unknowns...like...him.

And then—

Nothing.

No words. No plea.

Michael had killed him.

He didn’t need to press more to know it was futile.

The last word dissolved in a ragged exhale.

The man’s head lolled forward, chin touching his chest, and did not rise again.

Michael watched for a long, silent moment.

In that stillness, he felt the faint, sour taste of disappointment.

So close.

So many answers—just out of reach.

He drew back his hand, flexing his stiff fingers.

"I suppose that’s all you had left," he murmured quietly.

He reached up, brushing the blood from his knuckles on the man’s robe.

Then he straightened, his voice taking a calm, hollow timbre as he addressed the undead holding the corpse upright.

"Lay him down."

They obeyed, lowering the body gently to the floor.

If you won’t tell me who sent you,

he thought,

then you’ll serve me another way.

Of course, it wasn’t now.

Michael had other things to do.

With a wave of his hand, Michael stored the six corpses in his storage space.

After that he also dismissed the five undead around him back to the Netherworld.

Michael then reached back through the thin thread of Telepathy still anchored in the vault below, sinking into Spartan’s cold, steady awareness.

The armored undead stood exactly where Michael had left him, motionless among the rows of crates and the flickering ritual lines that still pulsed faintly across the stone floor.

Spartan,

Michael projected, his voice a calm whisper in the undead’s mind.

Destroy the circle.

There was no hesitation.

Spartan moved, iron boots scraping softly as he stepped forward. He lifted his gauntleted foot and brought it down hard in the center of the array.

A brittle crack split the air—then another. The intricate runes fractured under the impact, spreading jagged fissures across the entire design.

Mana sputtered like a dying flame.

A moment later, the glow winked out entirely, leaving only the cold dark of the basement.

Michael felt the last traces of the spell sever like taut strings snapping all at once.

He drew in a slow breath.

It’s done.

He released the link, dismissing Spartan into the Netherworld with a flick of thought.

The armored shape dissolved into darkness, leaving behind only empty stone and the quiet stink of copper and burned oils.

For a moment, Michael wondered if it had worked—if all those frozen in place above had returned to themselves as he considered the risk that some other failsafe or hidden ritual still lingered unseen. But there was no more time to linger.

He turned, glancing at the two unconscious figures slumped a few paces away. The Duke’s daughter, her face pale against her hair, and the dark elf woman, her breathing steady but shallow.

Michael exhaled and stepped closer.

He bent, scooping the first woman carefully into his arms, then shifted the second across his shoulder. Neither stirred.

Satisfied they were secure, he straightened and began to walk.

His boots clicked steadily.

******

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