Chapter 44: The Price of Illusion

This… what was happening?

Baroque’s mind had become a muddled mess.

Why was this happening?

Hadn’t he clearly overfulfilled his mission?

Weren’t that girl and that old man already within his grasp?

Shouldn’t they be cheering for their victory, ecstatic over the secrets about to be revealed?

Why did each of them appear choked by an unseen hand, their very breaths suspended?

“Lord Marcus?”

Baroque ventured a call, his voice imbued with a frailty and tremor he himself failed to perceive.

Marcus offered him no response.

This man, whose disposition had been hardened by years of navigating both the underworld and the establishment of the Royal Capital, whose will was tougher than enchanted steel, was now exerting every ounce of his willpower simply to prevent himself from sliding off his chair onto the floor.

Horace von Eisenberg.

Vice-President of the Theoretical Council.

Grand Archmage of the Ninth Ring.

A living legend of the Kingdom.

This name, ordinary mages might never have the fortune to hear in their lifetime.

Yet, for those like them, seven-ring mages skirting the edges of power, the name itself was a forbidden decree, a firmament, an unassailable law carved into the very cornerstone of the world.

How could he be here?

Why was he wearing a six-ring badge?

Why was he walking alongside Klein’s apprentice?

Innumerable lethal questions detonated within Marcus’s mind, each one filling his very marrow with ice shards.

He finally understood.

He finally understood why this idiot named Baroque could return here, lively and unscathed.

From the very beginning, Baroque had been living within an illusion meticulously woven for him by a Grand Archmage of the Ninth Ring.

Like a painted clown, he had directed and starred in his own farcical conquest of the world on a stage of his own making.

And they, were the villains in this farce, soon to be liquidated.

By the doorway, Horace’s smile remained as genial as ever.

He seemed utterly oblivious to the atmosphere within the private room, which had solidified to the point of almost dripping, as he stepped in, walking at a leisurely pace.

His gaze swept over Marcus, Green, and Old Hal one by one.

“Young people are often thoughtless, disrupting your refined pleasure.”

His voice was as gentle as a grandfather from next door, yet to Marcus and the other two, it was sharper than a knife slicing across their eardrums.

“We wouldn’t dare! We wouldn’t dare! It was our ignorance that offended you, Lord Eisenberg!”

Marcus sprang from his chair as if scalded by fire, moving with such speed that the chair behind him toppled to the floor with a loud clatter.

He bowed deeply to Horace, his entire upper body parallel to the ground, a posture of humility so profound it was akin to dust.

Green and Old Hal, as if awakening from a profound dream, also scrambled to their feet, following with a ninety-degree bow, their breathing so deliberately suppressed it was almost inaudible.

This scene utterly shattered the last shred of illusion in Baroque’s mind.

He stared dumbfounded at the three lofty seniors of the club.

Yet now, they were cringing before the very man he had disdained as an ‘old six-ring good-for-nothing,’ much like three apprentices who had erred before their dean.

Extreme absurdity and icy fear finally breached the dam of his reason.

“Ma… Marcus… what is this…?”

“Shut your mouth!”

Marcus snarled a low, murderous growl through gritted teeth, not even turning his head.

That sound sent a violent tremor through Baroque, all his words lodging firmly in his throat.

Horace waved a hand, his posture so relaxed he truly seemed like an old friend simply dropping by.

“Don’t be so tense, Chairman Marcus.”

He walked over to the card table, picked up a card, and leisurely examined the magic patterns etched upon it under the light.

“It sounded as though you were just discussing some rather interesting matters?”

Cold sweat instantly soaked Marcus’s back.

He knew that from the moment the other party laid eyes on them, all their schemes had been laid bare in the sunlight.

“Lord Eisenberg, this… this is all a misunderstanding!” Marcus’s voice was hoarse and dry. “We, too, were deceived by this fool!”

He pointed sharply at Baroque behind him, decisively pushing him forward.

In the presence of such a being, the only path to survival was to immediately sever ties and offer sufficient sacrifices to appease the wrath of a god.

“Oh? A misunderstanding?”

Horace smiled, then turned to look at Lia, who was still standing by the doorway, and benevolently waved her over.

“Little Lia, come here.”

Lia blinked, still chewing on a sweet puff-puff fruit, and only after receiving Klein’s silent assent did she take small steps towards them.

“Do you think this is a misunderstanding?” Horace asked gently.

Lia glanced at the three seven-ring mages, who were sweating profusely, then at the ashen-faced Baroque, and shook her head honestly.

“I don’t think so,” she said seriously, swallowing her snack. “He just tried to kidnap me.”

Horace’s smile broadened.

He turned back to Marcus, and in his seemingly cloudy old eyes, a piercing light flashed that made Marcus’s heart skip a beat.

“You see, my young friend was *frightened*.”

He articulated the word ‘frightened’ with deliberate clarity.

Marcus’s heart clenched tightly.

He knew the other party was making his demands.

“It is our fault!” He declared without a shred of hesitation.

“To atone to Miss Lia, our Violet Club is willing to offer three pounds of ‘Tears of Stars,’ twenty ingots of ‘Deep Sea Mithril,’ and… our club’s treasured ancient magic manuscript, the Compendium of Planetary Forcefield Structures!”

At these words, Green and Old Hal both visibly trembled, their faces etched with profound anguish.

Lia’s eyes instantly lit up.

Tears of Stars? Deep Sea Mithril?

Weren’t those legendary materials only ever mentioned in top-tier magic treatises?

She instinctively looked at Klein, inquiring with her eyes.

Klein remained expressionless, merely offering Horace an almost imperceptible nod.

Horace understood immediately.

“Hmm, your attitude seems sincere enough.”

He settled leisurely into the seat Marcus had just vacated, picked up the deck of magic cards, and shuffled them idly, creating a soft rustling sound.

“However, my young friend also mentioned that she is quite interested in alchemy.”

His gaze drifted lightly to Old Hal.

Old Hal’s body stiffened abruptly, his old face instantly crumpling, his features squeezed together in an expression uglier than crying.

Trembling, he fumbled in his spatial ring and pulled out a thick, dragonhide-bound notebook.

His fingers caressed the cover for a long time, as if stroking his own flesh and blood, before he finally, and with immense reluctance, handed it over.

“This is… my lifelong research insights on ‘active metals’… I offer it to Miss Lia as an apology.”

His voice was laced with a rending pain.

Horace then looked at Green.

Green’s mouth twitched violently, and with a grit of his teeth, he, too, retrieved a crystal vial, sealed with a ghostly blue flame, from his ring.

“This is a seed of the ‘Undying Flame’ I obtained in my early years; it has a miraculous effect on studying the essence of elements…”

Lia watched from the side, her small mouth slightly agape, even forgetting to eat the puff-puff fruit in her hand.

This… this was getting rich?

This wasn’t an apology; this was outright robbery!

And the other party was practically crying and begging her to rob them!

“And you.”

Horace’s gaze finally fell upon Baroque, the only one still standing in the entire room.

Baroque’s legs gave way, and he slumped directly to the ground like a puddle of mud.

He finally understood.

What genius, what merit, what future.

All of it was false.

He was nothing but a jumping clown, tirelessly performing a clumsy solo act on a stage he couldn’t even fathom, all the while deluding himself into believing he was the protagonist.

“I… I…” Baroque’s lips trembled, unable to utter a single word.

What could he possibly offer?

His most valuable possessions were his own life and his influential family in the South.

“Nevermind.”

Horace seemed too lazy to even look at him further, rising to his feet and addressing Marcus.

“As for the items, deliver them to Klein’s Mage Tower; Klein himself will verify the count.”

“And this young man…”

He glanced at Baroque, who was slumped on the floor.

“Leave him to your club to handle as you see fit.”

“Thank you, Lord! Thank you for your great generosity!” Marcus, as if granted a grand pardon, bowed deeply once more.

The two words, ‘to handle,’ had already sealed Baroque’s fate.

Horace said no more, turning to leave with a satisfied Lia and Klein, who had remained a mere background figure throughout.

As they reached the doorway, Lia looked back at the dejected young man and suddenly found the puff-puff fruit in her hand no longer quite as sweet.

‘Mages in this world are truly dangerous,’ she thought.

“Oh, young men, one more thing.”

Horace, who had already reached the doorway, suddenly stopped and turned his head.

“Is the public order in the Royal Capital perhaps not as good as it used to be? I seem to feel that one can simply walk down the street and spot someone trying to accost a little girl.”

His tone remained gentle, as if engaging in casual conversation.

“You possess considerable power in the shadows, and I hope you can keep your subordinates in check, ensuring that incidents like today’s do not recur, alright?”

He smiled, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth.

“I am old, and my memory is not as sharp as it once was. However, the Theoretical Council’s archives meticulously record the names of every high-ring mage and their respective families.”

“I would not wish to personally stamp an ‘expulsion’ seal upon the archives of certain families during our next meeting.”

“Just like Silent Shadow.”

The heavy door of the private room was gently pulled shut by Klein, isolating the two worlds within and without.

Inside the room, a deathly silence reigned.

Marcus slowly straightened his posture, the humility and fear on his face receding like a tide, replaced instead by an extreme suppression and ferocity akin to a volcano before eruption.

Green and Old Hal’s gazes also turned cold and vicious.

The eyes of the three men, like three blades dipped in potent poison, collectively nailed Baroque, who lay slumped on the ground.

Baroque felt a bone-chilling cold surge from the soles of his feet straight to the crown of his head.

He scrambled backward in terror, uttering incoherent pleas.

“No… Lord Marcus… I was wrong… I…”

Marcus said nothing.

He merely bent down, picked up the extinguished cigar from the floor, relit it, and took a deep drag.

Thick white smoke billowed from his mouth and nostrils, obscuring the madness simmering in his eyes.

“Baroque Vincent.”

He spit out the name, his voice terrifyingly calm.

“Didn’t you say the one you brought back was an old six-ring good-for-nothing?”