Chapter 34

  The absolute silence that fell over the towering gates of Muntinlupa was heavy enough to crush solid mythril.

  Wraith, the third Holy Knight, stood completely relaxed in the morning sun, her thick dreadlocks shifting slightly in the breeze. She had just stepped directly out of a two-dimensional shadow, entirely bypassing the magical Truth Stones, and dropped a bombshell accusation squarely at the feet of the High Council.

  For a fraction of a second, the courtyard held its collective breath. Kukla, the towering Russian operative, instantly shifted her stance, her icy blue eyes locking onto High Councillor Nero. Utsukushii, who was still sharing the saddle with Homer, immediately tightened her tactical grapple. Her matte-gray gauntlets pressed hard against Homer’s ribs, her forearms locking his torso in a vice grip capable of snapping his spine before he could blink.

  Deep within Homer’s biology, the fragile, god-like equilibrium violently shattered.

  “Critical threat threshold breached!” Pollux screamed in the neural link, the executioner protocol flooding Homer’s nervous system with cold, absolute lethal intent. “The phantom entity bypassed all localized radar! Cover is entirely blown! Initiating catastrophic defensive measures! I will boil the ocular fluid of the operative on your back and telekinetically crush the Dark Elf’s windpipe! Releasing limiters!”

  “Hold the line!” Castor’s golden code roared, throwing massive, heavily encrypted biological firewalls against Pollux’s advancing weapon algorithms. “If you kill three Holy Knights in front of the entire Imperial army, we are declaring global war! Homer, lock it down! Let the phantom speak! She doesn't know everything!”

  Homer clamped his jaw shut, his silver eyes flashing with internal exertion as he threw the absolute, crushing weight of his biological willpower against Pollux, violently forcing the dark AI back into its digital cage. He kept his hands perfectly still, resting them in plain sight on the pommel of his saddle.

  High Councillor Tamara did not shout in paranoid triumph. She did not immediately order an execution. The ancient, calculating politician merely blinked, clearly surprised by the sudden emergence of her shadow-operative.

  Tamara’s cold, obsidian face remained entirely composed. She looked at Homer, then slowly turned her gaze to Wraith, raising a single, elegant silver eyebrow.

  "Explain, Knight Wraith," Tamara commanded, her melodic voice echoing smoothly off the fortress walls. "What exactly are they lying about?"

  Wraith did not point her matte-gray gauntlet at the heavy wooden carriage housing the counterfeit apocalyptic artifact. She did not point at Nero, nor Commander Elara.

  She pointed a single, long finger directly at Homer’s chest.

  "I dwelt within his shadow for the entire night and the ensuing march," Wraith declared, her resonant voice completely devoid of panic. "I listened to his breathing. I analyzed his micro-callouses, his scent, and his biological rhythms. The Vanguard claims this human is a hardened warrior from the coastal village of Cupang—a survivor of the deep waters and armored river fish. But his physiology paints an entirely different picture."

  Tamara’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Go on."

  "He possesses none of the biological markers of a deep-water fisherman or a coastal sailor," Wraith stated with lethal absolute certainty. "His hands do not bear the scars of heavy, salt-soaked fishing nets. He smells of turned earth, purple carrots, and compost. He is playing a fabricated role. He is an infiltrator."

  The tension in the courtyard spiked. Utsukushii pressed her chin firmly against Homer’s shoulder, her dark eyes narrowing as she prepared to execute the human she was holding.

  Homer’s mind raced at the speed of light. Castor was absolutely right. Wraith hadn’t detected his Omni-elemental casting, his healing, the digital rootkit, or his true ancient identity. She had simply over-analyzed his fake backstory.

  He needed to defuse the situation, and he needed to do it by completely destroying his own dignity.

  “Play the fool, partner,” Castor supplied instantly. “Play the absolute, embarrassing, mud-covered fool.”

  Homer immediately forced his shoulders to slump. He ordered Castor to rapidly increase the blood flow to his cheeks and artificially spike his heart rate, perfectly simulating the flushed, sweating physiological response of deep, sudden embarrassment.

  He let out a heavy, incredibly awkward sigh, completely shattering the imposing, stoic aura he had maintained all morning.

  "Wait! Wait, I'm not an infiltrator!" Homer stammered, his voice cracking slightly. He looked down at his boots like a child caught stealing pastries, his face burning a bright, perfectly simulated crimson. "I swear on the Light! I didn't lie to the Guild!"

  Utsukushii squeezed his ribs. "Then explain the discrepancy, human."

  "I never actually said I was a deep-water fisherman!" Homer blurted out, looking sheepishly at the High Councillor. "Everyone just assumed it! Yes, I am from Cupang. But I lived just outside the village limits, on the agricultural ring. I... I was a turnip farmer."

  The entire courtyard fell dead silent.

  Tamara lowered her hand slightly, her brow furrowing in profound confusion. "A turnip farmer?"

  "I spent my whole life digging in the mud," Homer confessed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "When I got my Titanium plate, no one asked what my former job was. They just assumed I was a badass coastal warrior because I survived a dragon. And I didn't correct them, because I didn't want the legendary High Elf Commander and the greatest Dwarven warrior in the realm to laugh at a root-vegetable clerk! I just wanted to sound cool!"

  Wraith stared at the flushed, stammering human. The ancient, lethal phantom blinked, her perfectly honed espionage instincts hitting a massive, confusing wall of absolute mundane stupidity.

  To perfectly sell the lie, Mira the Silver Lioness stepped forward. The beastkin let out a highly dramatic, exaggerated groan of vindication, throwing her hands in the air.

  "I literally knew it!" Mira yelled, crossing her arms and glaring at Homer. "I am actually from Cupang! I kept looking at him thinking, 'Is that the kid who was always covered in mud by the south road?' I told him weeks ago his coastal accent was absolute garbage! The idiot didn't even know what bait to use for broadsword-teeth fish! He's just a farm boy playing dress-up!"

  From the middle of the Vanguard, Ramel of Sucat let out a booming, highly exasperated groan.

  "By the deep earth!" Ramel roared, slapping a heavy, iron-plated hand against his own face. "I have been sharing my legendary dwarven ale and recounting my greatest battles to a turnip farmer?!"

  Commander Elara, catching the brilliant tactical pivot, immediately dropped her rigid posture. The High Elf let out a long, aristocratic sigh of pure disdain, pinching the bridge of her nose as if Homer were a deeply disappointing, hopelessly pathetic subordinate.

  "I cannot believe I am forced to associate with this level of peasantry," Elara muttered loudly. Zord simply shook his head, offering a grandfatherly look of mild, disappointed disapproval.

  The terrifying, apocalyptic tension that had threatened to tear the capital apart completely evaporated. It was instantly replaced by the heavy, collective exasperation of the Imperial military. The Holy Knights, who were ancient, legendary apex predators, looked at Homer with pure, unadulterated disgust. They thought they had uncovered a mastermind assassin; instead, they caught a pathetic peasant committing "stolen valor" to look tough in front of his friends.

  Utsukushii’s flawless porcelain face contorted into a grimace. She was currently locked in an incredibly intimate, full-body tactical grapple with a sweaty root-vegetable farmer. Her ancient pride demanded she let him go immediately, but her strict military discipline forced her to maintain the hold. She kept her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, though she subtly shifted her weight backward to minimize physical contact, glaring at the back of his head in sheer annoyance.

  High Councillor Tamara’s expression flattened into a look of pure, bureaucratic boredom. She looked at Homer, then looked at Wraith. The idea that this bumbling, insecure human was a secret god or an Iron Remnant spy was utterly laughable.

  "A peasant seeking unearned glory," Tamara sighed, her voice dripping with aristocratic disdain. She waved a dismissive hand, entirely unbothered. "Irrelevant. He is still the one who rescued the Highest Priestess from a True Dragon. I do not have the time or the patience to conduct a military tribunal over a farm boy's bruised ego."

  Tamara turned her attention away from Homer completely, her calculating eyes locking onto the heavy wooden carriage guarded by Ramel and Zord.

  "Open the gates," Tamara commanded the guards. "We have an apocalyptic weapon to secure."

  The massive iron portcullis of Muntinlupa slowly ground upward with a heavy, metallic screech, revealing the pulverized, smoke-filled streets of the capital’s lower rings.

  Highest Priestess Erida Silvercross, who had been startled into silence by the sudden appearance of the shadow-stepping assassin, finally let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Seeing that Homer was not an enemy spy and was no longer in mortal danger, her brilliant, holy smile briefly threatened to return.

  But then, Erida’s eyes flicked back to Homer’s saddle.

  Utsukushii was still there. Despite her obvious disgust at Homer's turnip-farming origins, the Japanese operative was still pressed against his back, her arms wrapped securely around his waist in what looked to the entire world like a deeply romantic embrace.

  Erida’s smile vanished instantly. The holy, divine vessel of the Elven Empire crossed her arms over her pristine white vestments, her delicate features contorting right back into the homicidal, territorial "angry Haribon" glare. She shot daggers at the Holy Knight and the Architect alike.

  Nero caught Homer’s eye as the column began to move forward. The immortal Sovereign offered a barely perceptible, singular nod of profound respect. The Architect had just defused a guaranteed execution order by willingly destroying his own dignity in front of an entire army.

  "Move out," Nero commanded the Vanguard.

  The dark red matriarch Haribon let out a smug, clicking hiss, clearly enjoying the fact that its rider had just been publicly humiliated.

  “I must admit, Administrator,” Pollux whispered in the neural link, its executioner protocols slowly powering down and returning to standby mode. “That was a statistically improbable, highly effective tactical defusion. I would have simply burned the city to the ground. Your methodology requires significantly less cleanup, though it drastically degrades your social standing among the biologicals.”

  “That’s why he’s the Architect, and you’re just the angry subroutine,” Castor chimed in cheerfully. “Welcome back to Muntinlupa, partner. Try not to let the turnips go to your head.”

  Homer offered a silent sigh of relief, gripping the leather reins as the dark red Haribon carried him and his lethal passenger through the massive iron gates. They had survived the badlands, they had beaten the Holy Knights' polygraphs, and they had successfully smuggled the greatest lie in history past the most dangerous phantoms in the Empire.

  Now, they just had to walk into the heart of the High Elf Central Headquarters and hand an empty box to the politician who had burned the world.

  The massive iron portcullis of Muntinlupa ground upward with a heavy, metallic screech, echoing like a thunderclap across the sun-baked stones. As the heavy wooden doors swung inward, the punishing, dusty heat of the badlands was instantly replaced by the cool, magically circulated air and the overwhelming sensory overload of the Elven capital.

  Muntinlupa, the City of Spires, was a monument to both immortal arrogance and baseline resilience. Despite the apocalyptic siege orchestrated by Eliot Durand and the Iron Remnant just a few days prior, the sprawling metropolis was already rapidly stitching itself back together. The massive, jagged chunks of shattered marble and pulverized stone that had choked the main thoroughfares had been entirely cleared away. Sweating teams of massive, green-skinned Orcs and grumbling Goblin laborers operated complex, pulley-driven wooden cranes, hoisting fresh slabs of masonry to repair the scorched storefronts.

  The resilient pulse of the commercial tier had already returned. Vibrantly colored canvas awnings were stretched over newly erected market stalls. The air was thick with the scent of roasted root vegetables, sweet star-melons, and the sharp tang of forged iron. Merchants were aggressively haggling, and shoppers filled the wide cobblestone streets, eager to forget the terrifying reality that a rogue legend had nearly dropped a world-ending weapon on their heads.

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  But the chaotic hum of the city marketplace ground to an absolute, stunned halt the moment the Imperial battalion marched through the gates.

  The bustling crowds instantly parted, pressing themselves flat against the stone walls and market stalls to create a massive, wide avenue for the returning Vanguard.

  Leading the procession were High Councillor Tamara and Highest Priestess Erida Silvercross. They were not riding the standard, sun-bleached yellow Haribons of the cavalry, nor the dark red matriarchs bred for deep badlands survival. The two highest authorities of the Elven Empire were mounted upon Imperial Crest-Haribons.

  They were breathtaking, terrifying avian mutations that closely resembled giant, predatory peacocks. Their plumage was an impossible, iridescent cascade of shifting emeralds, deep sapphires, and polished golds. Massive, heavily jeweled fan-tails trailed behind them, catching the morning sunlight and fracturing it into a dazzling spectrum of colors. Yet, despite their overwhelming beauty, they possessed the same thick, hyper-dense muscular legs and razor-sharp, armor-crushing beaks as the rest of their species. They moved with a proud, high-stepping gait, perfectly matching the aristocratic arrogance of their riders.

  Dozens of elite Imperial spearmen marched in a tight phalanx ahead of them, loudly demanding the citizens make way for the Sovereign and the Holy Knights.

  As the massive wooden carriage housing the counterfeit containment artifact rolled into view, heavily guarded by the Titanium Vanguard, a ripple of awe swept through the civilian populace. The citizens of Muntinlupa—Humans, Dwarves, Elves, and Beastkin alike—began to scramble for a better view. People climbed onto the roofs of the market stalls, hung from the ornate iron lampposts, and even scaled the wooden scaffolding of the half-repaired buildings just to catch a glimpse of the legendary heroes who had saved their world.

  Suddenly, a young Avian Beastkin child, perched precariously on his father’s shoulders near a fruit stand, let out a sharp, piercing whistle of pure, unadulterated joy.

  "They brought it back!" the child cheered, waving a handful of bright blue feathers. "The artifact is safe! The Titanium heroes saved us!"

  That single, solitary cheer was the spark that ignited the powder keg.

  The entire commercial tier erupted into a deafening, overwhelming roar of triumphant applause. Thousands of voices converged into a massive wave of adulation, echoing off the towering white spires of the capital.

  Ramel of Sucat, riding his sturdy yellow mount beside the carriage, absolutely drank in the glory. The dwarven warrior was a veteran of a thousand battles, completely in his element amidst the adoring public. He puffed out his massive chest, his thick braided beard bouncing as he waved his gargantuan, double-bitted battleaxe enthusiastically toward the cheering citizens, roaring with laughter.

  Beside him, Zord the shadow wizard merely raised a single, wrinkled hand. He offered the crowds a serene, grandfatherly wave, projecting the perfect image of a wise, ancient protector, though his eyes twinkled with a quiet, knowing amusement.

  In front of Homer, High Councillor Nero and Commander Elara offered strict, regal nods to the surrounding populace. Nero maintained the flawless, untouchable facade of the immortal Sovereign securing his Empire. Elara, however, was fighting a silent, agonizing internal battle. The religious zealot kept her chin high, but her grip on her reins was white-knuckled. She was listening to the citizens praise the Light and the divine mandate, knowing full well that her entire existence was a corporate lie and that the "apocalyptic weapon" the crowd was cheering for was completely empty.

  Directly behind Elara, Kukla and Wraith marched with terrifying, mechanical indifference. The towering Russian operative and the shadow-stepping phantom barely acknowledged the roaring masses. To the ancient assassins of the old world, the cheering civilians were just acceptable background noise, irrelevant biological entities incapable of understanding true warfare.

  Mira the Silver Lioness, riding to Homer's left, tried desperately to maintain her characteristic, defensive tsundere scowl. But as a human merchant tossed a beautiful, glowing Moon-Bloom flower from a balcony, the feline beastkin instinctively reached out and caught it with lightning-fast reflexes. She held the luminescent blue flower, a tiny, genuine smile briefly cracking her hardened mercenary exterior before she quickly tucked it behind her ear and pretended to look annoyed by the noise.

  Homer rode through the center of the roaring parade, a polite, entirely awkward smile plastered across his face. He waved sheepishly at the crowds, perfectly playing the role of the humble turnip farmer who had simply gotten lucky.

  But behind his silver eyes, the internal network was buzzing with clinical irony.

  “Fascinating,” Pollux noted, its dark code analyzing the decibel levels of the cheering masses. “These biologicals are experiencing a massive, collective spike in dopamine and serotonin. They are weeping tears of joy and throwing floral offerings at a completely hollow wooden box crafted from replicated atoms. The level of mass delusion is statistically remarkable.”

  “Let them have their parade, you miserable spreadsheet,” Castor fired back smoothly, projecting a digital overlay to monitor the crowd for hidden threats. “A parade for a fake box is vastly superior to an orbital bombardment. Besides, it’s good for Homer's cover. No one suspects the awkward peasant waving like a rusty weather vane.”

  If only they knew, Homer thought to himself, offering a polite nod to a group of cheering dwarven masons. They are praising the High Council for saving them from the very weapon the High Council built.

  Because Muntinlupa was a sprawling, massive metropolis, the triumphant parade felt incredibly long. It took them nearly an hour to slowly navigate through the winding, cobblestone avenues of the commercial rings and begin the steep ascent toward the administrative tier.

  Finally, the grand plaza of the High Elf Central Headquarters came into view.

  The towering, blindingly white fortress was the absolute heart of Elven governance. It was also heavily scarred. The grand entrance was still scorched black from Eliot Durand’s massive, supersonic sword strike, and the terrifying, perfectly circular crater blasted through the polished floor into the deepest subterranean vaults was currently cordoned off by heavy iron beams and shimmering magical wards.

  As the Vanguard and the carriage crossed the threshold into the heavily secured military courtyard, the roaring cheers of the civilian crowds were abruptly cut off as the heavy iron gates of the inner sanctum slammed shut behind them.

  The parade was over. It was time for business.

  Kukla stepped forward, her towering mythril frame casting a long shadow across the courtyard. She raised a matte-gray gauntlet, signaling her elite spearmen to surround the wooden carriage.

  "We will take it from here," the Russian operative commanded, her heavy voice brokering absolutely no argument. "The payload must be secured in the deepest subterranean containment vault immediately."

  Tamara nodded greedily, her obsidian face practically glowing with anticipation. "See it done, Knight Kukla. Knight Wraith, accompany her. Do not let the artifact out of your sight."

  Nero gracefully dismounted his red Haribon. He offered Homer a final, fleeting glance of solidarity before falling into step beside Tamara. The Sovereign, the High Councillor, and the two ancient Holy Knights flanked the heavy wooden carriage, escorting the perfectly crafted, utterly empty counterfeit box into the dark, scorched depths of the Elven headquarters.

  Homer remained seated atop his dark red Haribon, the massive bird finally resting its thick legs after the long march.

  Behind him, Utsukushii finally loosened her tactical grapple.

  The Japanese Holy Knight, who had spent the entire morning pressing her armored chest against his back, waiting for an excuse to snap his spine, moved with breathtaking, effortless grace. She didn't simply dismount; she slid backward off the custom leather saddle, her lean, coiled physique moving with a liquid elegance that completely defied the heavy mythril plating she wore.

  Her boots touched the cobblestones without making a single sound.

  But before she stepped away, Utsukushii paused. She leaned forward, pressing her face intimately close to the side of Homer’s neck. The heavy, intoxicating perfume of night-blooming jasmine and deep aquatic lotus flooded his senses.

  Utsukushii turned her head slightly, ensuring that her dark, intense eyes perfectly caught the gaze of both Commander Elara and Mira, who were watching her from their own mounts just a few paces away. She deliberately held their eyes, her flawless porcelain face flashing a terrifying, dominant smirk designed specifically to provoke them.

  Then, she pressed her soft lips just a fraction of an inch from the shell of Homer’s ear.

  "This is not the end, turnip farmer," Utsukushii whispered, her voice a lethal, silken purr that sent a cold shiver down Homer's spine despite Castor's biological regulations. "My instincts never lie. You are hiding something in the mud. And I will meet you again, much sooner than you think."

  A few yards away, Ramel of Sucat had completely ignored the military handoff. The dwarf had cornered Highest Priestess Erida Silvercross the moment she dismounted her peacock-Haribon, eagerly launching into yet another highly embellished tale about his double-bitted battleaxe.

  Erida, trapped by her own polite, holy demeanor, was nodding along to the dwarf's booming story with a strained smile.

  But as Utsukushii leaned into Homer’s neck, Erida’s eyes darted past the dwarf's thick braids.

  The Highest Priestess froze entirely. She stopped nodding. She stopped listening to Ramel describe the exact aerodynamic properties of dwarven steel. Her pristine, divine features instantly darkened, and the terrifying, homicidal "angry Haribon" glare returned with a vengeance. She gripped her silver corporate staff so tightly her knuckles popped, staring daggers at the Japanese operative.

  "—AND THAT IS WHY YOU MUST ALWAYS OIL THE HAFT WITH BASILISK FAT!" Ramel roared cheerfully, completely and utterly oblivious to the fact that the highest religious authority in the realm was currently visualizing the violent, graphic murder of a Holy Knight right in front of him.

  Utsukushii pulled away from Homer’s neck. She took a few steps backward, her dark eyes sparkling with a highly dangerous, mocking amusement.

  She looked at Homer, then at the glaring Elara, the furious Mira, and finally the seething Highest Priestess. Knowing she had successfully riled up every single dangerous woman in the courtyard, the ancient, lethal assassin raised her matte-gray gauntlet.

  She offered Homer a sweet, exaggerated, and entirely sarcastic little wave, acting exactly like a smitten teenage girl playfully saying goodbye after a romantic date.

  Then, Utsukushii turned on her heel and strutted casually into the Elven fortress, leaving Homer completely surrounded by a heavily armed, furiously jealous squad of adventurers.

  The heavy, iron-banded gates of the inner courtyard slammed completely shut, sealing the Titanium Vanguard inside the most heavily fortified military installation on the continent.

  Homer remained seated atop his dark red Haribon, staring at the arched doorway where Utsukushii had just vanished. The heavy, intoxicating perfume of jasmine and lotus still clung aggressively to his linen shirt.

  He slowly turned his head to look at his squad.

  The atmosphere had not improved. He was completely surrounded by a circle of incredibly dangerous, highly irritated women. Ramel of Sucat was still entirely oblivious, currently inspecting a minor scratch on his battleaxe, while Zord the shadow wizard simply leaned on his wooden staff, watching the unfolding social disaster with profound, grandfatherly amusement.

  Mira the Silver Lioness marched right up to the side of Homer’s mount. She crossed her arms tightly over her leather armor, her feline tail lashing the air like a whip.

  "Enjoying your date?" Mira hissed, her golden eyes narrowed into aggressive slits.

  Homer let out a long, exhausted sigh. He leaned down over the saddle, keeping his voice incredibly low, acutely aware that the headquarters of the Elven Empire was likely saturated with microscopic magical surveillance bugs.

  "Listen to me very carefully," Homer whispered, his tone completely dropping the bumbling 'turnip farmer' persona for just a fraction of a second. "That was absolutely not a romantic embrace. She was executing a sustained, full-body tactical grapple the entire ride. Her forearms were locked under my ribs. If I had twitched, sneezed, or cast a single spell, she was positioned to completely sever my spinal cord before I could blink. She was running a physical polygraph on me for twenty miles."

  Mira stared at him, her ears twitching.

  Commander Elara scoffed loudly, stepping forward. The Elven knight crossed her pristine mythril gauntlets over her chest, looking up at Homer with pure aristocratic disbelief.

  "Oh, please," Elara muttered sarcastically, completely rejecting his explanation. "The mighty, insecure turnip farmer thinks an ancient Imperial assassin was mesmerized by his root vegetables. You were practically swooning."

  Highest Priestess Erida Silvercross, standing just a few paces away, actually let out a loud, highly un-priestess-like snort. She clutched her silver corporate staff, her pristine face contorted into a look of absolute, jealous mockery. She clearly didn't buy the 'tactical grapple' excuse either.

  Before Homer could attempt to defend his life-threatening ordeal any further, a heavily armored Imperial Guard—adorned in the ceremonial gold and white of the Church—jogged across the courtyard and bowed deeply before Erida.

  "Highest Priestess," the Guard announced, keeping his eyes respectfully on the cobblestones. "The High Council requests your immediate presence in the upper sanctum. We must resume preparations for your holy state visit and the continuation of your pilgrimage."

  Zord the shadow wizard raised a bushy white eyebrow, stepping forward. "I was under the strict impression that all state visits and public ceremonies were postponed indefinitely due to the siege on the capital."

  "They were, Titanium wizard," the Guard replied dutifully. "But the lockdown is being lifted. The primary rebel spy—the infiltrator who bypassed the perimeter wards and allowed the rogue legend to attack the city—has finally been caught. They are being interrogated in the lower levels right now. The Empire is secure."

  Homer’s blood ran cold. The infiltrator. During the invasion, a rebel spy disguised as a paladin had breached the walls. If the Inquisition had another spy in custody, the brutal methods they used to extract information were legendary.

  Suddenly, a new voice cut through the courtyard.

  "Which is exactly why we need you, Homer of Cupang."

  The voice was incredibly deep, vibrating with a heavy, baritone resonance that seemed to rattle the cobblestones. But what made it truly terrifying was that it came from directly behind Homer's Haribon.

  “CRITICAL SENSORY FAILURE!” Castor’s golden code shrieked in absolute panic within the neural link, his digital overlays flashing a blinding red.

  “How?!” Pollux demanded, the dark AI completely bewildered by the sudden proximity alert. “There was absolutely zero thermodynamic displacement! No kinetic vibration! He did not cast a shadow-step! He simply appeared!”

  Homer spun around in the saddle.

  Standing just inches from the tail feathers of the dark red bird was a fourth Holy Knight.

  He was an absolute giant of a male Elf, matching Kukla perfectly in height at a staggering seven feet tall. He was not wearing the pristine white mythril armor of his peers. Instead, he was dressed in impeccably tailored, highly formal aristocratic clothing—a dark velvet waistcoat, a crisp white shirt, and a sharply cut cravat.

  But the elegant clothing could not hide his terrifying physique. The dark velvet stretched tightly over a frame of hyper-dense, mutated muscle that would put the greatest bodybuilders of Homer’s ancient era to absolute shame. He possessed the flawlessly handsome, sharp features typical of High Elves, but his dark, dead eyes radiated the cold, unfeeling void of an executioner. Hanging at his hip was a sleek, unadorned mythril longsword.

  What truly drew the eye, however, was his crisp white shirt. The cuffs and the lapels were heavily stained with fresh, bright crimson blood. It was clearly not his own.

  The giant Elf offered a perfectly polite, disarming smile that did not reach his dead eyes.

  "My deepest apologies. Did I startle you?" the giant asked smoothly, his deep voice contrasting violently with his blood-soaked cuffs. In the old world, his intelligence callsign had simply been 'Rod'—a blunt, brutal moniker for a man utilized as a literal bludgeoning instrument by the state.

  Rod stepped forward, his massive frame looming over the entire Vanguard. He gestured with a bloodstained hand toward the dark, arched doorway leading down into the subterranean holding cells.

  "I am Knight Rod," the giant Elf introduced himself, his tone sickeningly cordial. He locked his dead eyes directly onto Homer. "Please, follow me to the interrogation room, turnip farmer. We require your specific expertise."

  It was phrased as a polite request, but the sheer, crushing weight of the giant's aura made it an absolute, undeniable death threat.

  First off, thank you so much for the comment! I am absolutely thrilled that you enjoyed Ramel rambling about getting demon blood out of his beard. He is easily one of my favorite characters to write.

  Regarding your critique on the physical polygraph—you are actually 100% correct!

  Castor completely overcompensated during that test by forcing Homer's heart rate down to a resting 60 BPM. That unnatural calmness is exactly why Utsukushii didn't fully clear him in her own mind. She literally told him, "your heart beats like a sleeping child" and that her instincts told her he was a "ghost." She knew his reaction was deeply abnormal for a human, but because it didn't match the specific, erratic adrenaline spikes of a traitor caught in a massive lie, she didn't have the biological proof to execute him on the spot. She knew he was weird, but couldn't prove he was guilty.

  This is also exactly why Castor shifts tactics in this chapter! When Homer drops the "turnip farmer" lie to Wraith, Castor realizes that showing zero reaction is too suspicious. So, the AI actively pumps blood to Homer's cheeks and artificially spikes his heart rate to perfectly simulate natural, sweaty embarrassment. Having a supercomputer manually pilot your nervous system definitely requires a little trial and error!

  Thanks again for the great feedback and for reading! Things are only going to get crazier down in the interrogation rooms with Knight Rod...