Chapter 448 A Soft Introduction

Roran spoke up from behind. "Shall we continue, my lord?"

"Yes."

The party approached the town gate slowly, hooves clopping against the uneven road.

Thornvale’s entrance loomed ahead—two sagging wooden gates flanked by crooked stone walls. A faded banner fluttered above, torn and bleached by sun and wind.

Michael rode at the front. His people followed in a loose but disciplined formation.

From afar, they might’ve looked like a noble merchant convoy. Just enough prestige to draw attention, but not enough to signal power.

As they neared the gate, the guards finally stirred.

Two of them straightened up hastily, pushing away dice and empty mugs. The third guard, older and broader than the rest, shoved a smaller one toward the road and barked, "Stop them."

The guard trotted forward with a grin that wasn’t quite friendly. He raised a hand, blocking the road with the butt of his spear.

"Oi there, travelers," he called out. "Town’s under heavy levy laws. Anyone entering pays the gate toll. Three silver coins per person, and five for each mount."

Michael stared at the man, unblinking.

"Three per person?" Knight-Captain Roran muttered behind him. "That’s robbery."

The guard didn’t seem to notice the armored knights or the elite nature of the mounts. Or perhaps he did, but simply didn’t care.

Michael tilted his head. "Heavy levy laws?"

"Aye," the guard said with mock solemnity. "Emergency tax enforcement due to unrest. Bandits and monsters, y’know? Dangerous times."

"Very dangerous," added the second guard, now swaggering up behind the first. "Your safety must be paid for."

Michael let a slow breath escape his nose. The other guards had begun to gather behind the gate now, arms folded, expressions indifferent. Not a single one recognized who he was.

He could’ve pulled rank. He could’ve had Roran knock them flat and storm the gate with his elite unit. But instead, Michael reached into a pouch by his side, drew out a small coin pouch, and tossed it lightly to the first guard.

Ever since he started to have more company around him, not wanting to expose his storage space, he compromised and got himself a money bag.

The pouch jingled as it landed.

The guard caught it, eyes widening slightly at the unexpected compliance. He opened it—then blinked.

"...This is gold."

Michael’s tone was mild. "It should cover everyone. Even the horses."

The guards stared, stunned.

"Y-Yes, of course, m’lord," one of them stammered, bowing slightly though still not recognizing who he was. "You may proceed."

Michael nodded once and urged his mount forward. The others followed.

As they passed through the gates, the guards stood to the side, uncertain. One of them whispered, "Who the hell pays in gold for a made-up tax?"

Another replied, "Don’t know, but I think we just got lucky."

Michael heard it all through [Telepathy]. He said nothing.

Once they were inside the town, Roran rode up beside him, his jaw clenched. "Why did you let them extort you, my lord?"

Michael’s reply was quiet. "Because I wanted to see how far the rot has spread. And now I know—"

He glanced around. The town streets were muddy, unkempt. Children watched them from alley shadows. Women eyed them with guarded hope. Shops looked faded, with half their stalls empty.

"—it’s everywhere."

He pulled Wisdom slightly tighter against his shoulder. The owl gave a soft hoot.

Wisdom had just asked him if those guards’ shiny helmets were shiny food.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

"I’m not here to shout about my title," Michael responded to Roran.

Roran said nothing for a while.

"Understood."

They rode on.

The deeper they rode into Thornvale, the worse it became.

The roads were cracked and sunken in places, filled with brown puddles that stank of rot. The smell of mildew and waste clung to the air like an invisible fog.

Rubble lined the corners of the streets where broken carts and crumbling crates had been left to decay. Children, barefoot and gaunt, watched from under collapsed awnings. One boy chewed on a strip of bark. Another held a wooden sword so worn it looked more like a stick.

Michael’s gaze swept over all of it, unflinching.

Even the animals were listless. Goats wandered near gutter drains. A donkey stared blankly at the wall as if it had forgotten how to move.

No one greeted them.

Not a soul bowed. People just... stared. And then looked away after a while or after he left their sight.

"By the gods," Roran muttered, his voice low and angry now. "What in the Duke’s name is this mess?"

Michael said nothing.

"This isn’t just rot. No order. Look—" Roran pointed to a dilapidated building with a half-collapsed sign. "That’s the town watch’s office. It should be the heart of enforcement, and it’s being used as a drying shack for laundry."

A child was, indeed, hanging wet clothes from a broken sword rack.

Michael still said nothing.

They passed a group of rich looking people—or what passed for them here—lounging outside a wine shop that seemed far too pristine for the rest of the district. Gold trim on their tunics. Laughs that rang just a bit too loudly. One of them noticed Michael’s group and squinted, then turned away with a cautious sneer.

Michael’s temples throbbed.

A dull ache began to build in his skull—not from physical strain, but from the sheer scope of what he was seeing.

Where the hell was he supposed to start?

He cursed silently, jaw tight.

Whoever had been managing this place deserved far worse than dismissal.

It had to be the steward. According to the Duke’s notes, a man named Helmric had been left in charge as interim manager after the last lord’s dismissal. And if this was the result of two years under his "care," then Helmric wasn’t just negligent—he was either criminally lazy or deliberately corrupt.

Of course, there was also the possibility that Helmric was innocent and this was caused due to other entities.

Michael didn’t know which was worse.

He rubbed his temples, thoughts spinning faster now. If the steward was behind this decay, then he’d need to be dealt with immediately. But if Helmric was only a puppet—someone else pulling the strings from the shadows—then this went deeper than he thought.

Either way, the moment he reached the manor, things would have to change.

And fast.

Not for the sake of appearances.

But because this was now his territory. His responsibility.

And if Thornvale fell, so did everything he was planning to build.

He looked up toward the distant manor gates, just barely visible over the rooftops. The ride would only take a few more minutes now.

Roran leaned in again, his expression tight. "We’re close."

Michael gave a small nod, but didn’t reply immediately.

Michael’s fingers tightened slightly on the reins.

"Send someone ahead," he said quietly, still staring at the path. "Let them know I’m here."

Roran’s brows rose, a glint of surprise in his eyes. "Changed your mind, my lord?"

Michael shrugged.

Roran’s smirk returned, sly and knowing. "Very well." He turned in his saddle, scanning the escort line. "You."

A knight—young, lean, but alert—snapped his head up and trotted over. "Captain?"

"Ride ahead to the manor. Tell them the new lord has arrived and is on his way up the path. Just say he’s coming."

The knight blinked, then nodded quickly. "Yes, sir." With a tug of the reins, he turned and galloped down the cobbled side path leading toward the manor’s entrance.

Michael watched him go, his expression unreadable.

Michael turned his head slightly, eyes landing on the dark figure riding silently beside him.

Lyra.

The dark elf assassin felt like a shadow.

Can you hear me?

Michael’s voice slipped into her mind through [Telepathy].

She stiffened—just for a second.

Her gaze snapped toward him, startled. She didn’t reply immediately, but he felt the ripple of surprise through the mental link.

Impressive,

he added, tone dry.

So even assassins can be caught off guard.

A beat passed before her cool voice echoed back in his mind.

You’re using Telepathy on me?

Michael gave a faint smile and continued,

As an assassin, you’re good at going unnoticed, right?

Another pause. She seemed to weigh his words before answering.

It’s what I do best.

Good,

he said.

I want you to slip into the manor ahead of us. Don’t alert anyone. Just... find something. Anything.

Something?

Important documents. Ledgers. Seals. Orders. I don’t care what—just bring me something they wouldn’t want me to see on day one.

Lyra narrowed her eyes slightly.

You want me to rob your own manor?

Yes,

Michael admitted.

. Consider it a... soft introduction. Don’t get caught.

I never do.,

was what Lyra wanted to say before she shut up.

With that, Lyra urged her horse to fall back behind the escort line.

******

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