Chapter 105: Chapter: 105 Declare war!

"My lord, there hasn’t been any news from young master Kafrik. It seems he has disappeared," said the head butler of the Tramplin family.

In front of him sat Ravan Tramplin on his throne, his face dark with irritation.

Two days had passed, yet there was still no news about the mission.

The butler stood nervously and continued.

"There has been no word on whether Number 9862 and young master Kafrik managed to kill that cripple."

"Even our spies were caught by the dean just yesterday. We have no new information."

Ravan leaned back, his eyes cold and sharp.

He clicked his tongue again and again, the sound echoing through the hall.

His patience was wearing thin.

The silence in the room grew heavier as the butler waited for his next command.

There was complete silence in the hall.

Neither the butler nor Ravan spoke.

Ravan sat with a deep frown, lost in thought, but no clear answer came to his mind.

If Kafrik and Number 9862 had suddenly disappeared, then the chances of that cripple still being alive were high.

Yet that didn’t make sense.

Number 9862, though the weakest among the swordmasters, was still far stronger than that cripple.

There was no way the fight should have gone wrong.

"So how?" Ravan muttered under his breath.

"How did they both disappear without any word?"

"Did the plan get exposed?" He shook his head right away.

That was impossible.

No one knew about the plan except him, Kafrik, and Number 9862.

"Was it an accident?" he whispered, his voice low with frustration.

He leaned back and let out a tired sigh.

No matter how hard he thought, nothing made sense.

As Ravan sat lost in thought, a sudden gust of wind swept through the hall.

His eyes widened instantly, and cold sweat formed on his forehead.

But within moments, he forced himself to calm down.

"You may leave," he said in a steady voice.

"Yes, my lord," the butler replied, bowing deeply before leaving the hall.

Once the door closed, Ravan’s expression darkened.

His frown deepened as he spoke quietly, "You can come out now."

Whoosh.

The air in the hall rippled, and in the blink of an eye, a figure appeared where the butler had just stood.

Unlike the butler, this person’s posture was lazy and careless.

He stood casually, one hand picking his ear, the other resting at his side.

A clown mask covered his face, the wide grin painted on it adding to the eerie feeling.

He blew lightly through the small hole in the mask’s mouth, as if mocking the heavy silence that filled the hall.

"Clown... what are you doing here?"

Ravan asked, his tone steady, but a faint trace of dread hid beneath his calm voice, something even he couldn’t fully mask.

The clown didn’t answer right away.

He kept picking his ear, letting out small, pleased hums as if he were enjoying it far too much.

A twisted grin spread across his face, the painted smile on his mask making it look even more unsettling.

After a long, quiet moment, he finally spoke, blowing gently on his finger as he said,

"The curse... it’s been cured."

The words struck Ravan like a blade.

His eyes went wide, his body stiffening in shock.

For a few seconds, he could barely breathe.

"What...?" he finally managed to say, his voice trembling.

"What did you just say?"

The clown didn’t repeat his words.

Instead, he said in a slow, almost playful tone,

"He even reached the realm of Swordmaster."

The room turned cold.

The same feeling of dread that Ravan had when the Clown first appeared now filled the air again, heavy and sharp.

"I think that answers your questions, doesn’t it?"

The Clown said with a grin that could almost be heard through his mask.

Ravan said nothing.

His mind went blank, and his throat tightened.

The curse being cured was already shocking enough, but reaching Swordmaster?

That was something even he couldn’t believe.

The last report he received clearly said the cripple was at Four-Star.

That report came only two weeks ago.

Kafrik himself had written that the man was still struggling with the curse, barely able to use his strength.

So how could he break through to Swordmaster in such a short time?

Was it even possible?

His heart beat faster as he tried to make sense of it, but nothing came.

Everything about this sounded wrong, impossible.

Seeing Ravan’s frozen expression, the clown gave a light laugh.

"You don’t have to think too much about it," he said, his voice sounding almost cheerful.

"The moment he entered the dungeon, he was already at the pseudo-Swordmaster stage."

He continued, "so it’s not strange that he reached Swordmaster soon after. He had already crossed most of the path."

He paused and tilted his head.

"But that’s not the real problem, is it?" he added softly.

"The real problem is... if he’s a Swordmaster now, then what happened to Kafrik and Number 9862?"

The question lingered in the air like poison, and Ravan felt a chill crawl down his spine.

"Are they alive?"

Ravan asked at last, his voice unsteady, a rare trace of uncertainty in his tone as he looked at the clown.

The clown tilted his head, a smile curling beneath the mask, a smile that wasn’t really a smile.

"What do you think?" he said softly.

"If he returned from the dungeon, then that means they’re both dead... or as good as dead."

He continued, "I don’t think he’d leave anyone alive after they tried to kill him."

Ravan’s eyes narrowed slightly, his face calm and unreadable.

He looked as if he were thinking deeply rather than mourning.

If anyone had seen his expression at that moment, they might have believed Kafrik wasn’t his son at all.

Perhaps he was even adopted.

There wasn’t a hint of sadness on his face.

"So why did he hide his strength?" Ravan finally asked, his voice low.

"Did he already know about the ambush?"

The clown slowly shook his head.

"I don’t know about that..." he began, but his words trailed off.

Something his lord had once mentioned flashed through his mind, the third cycle. What did that mean?

Then, like lightning, it struck him.

The way Vivian had suddenly changed, the calm, the confidence, the way he seemed to know everything, was unsettling.

He had even managed to lure both Number 9862 and Kafrik into the dungeon.

The phrase third cycle echoed in his mind again.

’Could it be... he knows the future?’ the Clown thought, a wild idea forming.

The more he considered it, the more it made sense, even if it sounded impossible.

Seeing the future was something only myths spoke of, but then again, his lord himself was proof that some things defied all logic.

His lord had lived for who knows how long, his true power and origins hidden beyond reach.

If anyone could see future, it would be someone like him.

Though these thoughts flashed through his mind, only a brief moment passed in the real world.

He finally looked back at Ravan and said, his tone serious,

"Vivian D. Zenithara has called for a conference... in the royal palace."

The hall fell silent once more, the weight of that name hanging in the air like a storm about to break.

The clown stared at Ravan through the holes of his mask.

After that wild thought, everything seemed to connect in his mind.

His tone grew heavy as he said, "If my guess is right, then Vivian D. Zenithara already knows who was behind it... and it’s highly likely he knows you were the one pulling the strings."

Ravan didn’t flinch.

His eyes remained calm, his face cold and unreadable, as if he had expected this outcome all along.

But deep inside, his thoughts were in chaos.

If Vivian truly knew, then this wasn’t just trouble, it was the spark of a war.

And the conference... he hadn’t been invited.

That alone spoke volumes.

Being one of the three ducal houses of the Empire, his absence meant something was being prepared behind closed doors.

His mind spun rapidly, weighing possibilities and outcomes.

After a few long seconds, he finally asked, his voice steady, "So, what should we do?"

The clown met his gaze, falling silent for a moment.

Then he said, "In this conference, it’s almost certain Vivian D. Zenithara will bring this matter to light."

He continued, "If he’s calling every official, it means he has proof, or something close to it. Either way..."

He paused, tilting his head slightly, "...the most likely outcome is war."

The word war echoed in the quiet hall, heavy and cold.

Even Ravan, who had seen countless battles, felt a chill run through him.

"War against the Empire?" Ravan said, voice low.

The idea felt like a tiny boat facing a storm.

If Ravan wanted a fight with the whole Empire, it would be impossibly large.

The thought sent cold shivers across his skin.

"So what would be the best thing to do?" he asked.

"Declare war," the Clown replied with steady surety.

His voice did not tremble.

"The Empire may have ten times your strength, but you have the land and you can make them pay for every step."

He continued, "the north is a hard place to fight. The cold breaks men’s wills and slows armies. You know the ground. They do not."

Ravan thought for a moment.

Surrender was not an option, if he gave in, his head would roll.

He rubbed his temple and asked, "What about the powerhouses?"

By that he meant the fighters above Swordmaster, those who could turn the tide with a single blow.

"We only have three Swordmasters," he counted out loud, "and you, which makes one Grandmaster. How can we win?"

The clown smiled, the expression strange behind the painted mouth.

He held Ravan’s eye and leaned closer, as if sharing a secret.

"Do not worry about lacking powerhouses," he said.

"I have prepared them."

Ravan’s brow rose.

The clown did not shout or make big promises.

He spoke calmly and clearly.

"Announce the war against the Empire. If you win, everything will be yours."

A cold silence followed.

Ravan felt the weight of the words.

Outside the palace walls, the north wind kept blowing.

Inside, a plan was being born, one that could change everything, for better or for worse.