Hacking the Game Didn't Go as Intended [Part Two]

CHAPTER 206: Tensions - Leopold's Stern Vow

Zephyr had been occupied with sticking his tongue out at Lyndoria, but the sudden brilliance of the spellbook drew his attention. He tilted his head, his fluffy tail wagging in curiosity.

Daisuke squinted against the radiance, his pulse quickening with excitement. His lips stretched into an eager smile as he anticipated the moment of enlightenment—until reality struck.

DING!

[It is not possible for a Divine Beast to learn from a conventional spellbook.]

The glow from the tome instantly waned, its vibrant energy draining away. The pages ceased their frantic movement, and with an anticlimactic thud, the book dropped back into Daisuke's waiting hand.

A heavy silence followed.

Daisuke's shoulders slumped. Lumielle's expression darkened with disappointment while Lyndoria's lips pressed into a thin line. The magic, the wonder—gone in an instant, leaving behind nothing but an ordinary book.

Zephyr let out a small, disheartened whine and lowered his head in dejection. Daisuke sighed, shaking off his own frustration and gently stroked the canine's head. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he murmured. "That was a letdown."

Zephyr nuzzled into his touch, his tail flicking half-heartedly.

I might just be grasping at straws here, Daisuke mused, his eyes narrowing. But the notification prompt specifically said that a Divine Beast couldn't learn from a "conventional" spellbook. That wording feels deliberate—maybe there are skill or spellbooks out there designed specifically for them.

He exhaled slowly, glancing at Zephyr. I guess only time will tell.

***

The late morning sun cast a golden veil over a familiar church, its impressive stone walls glowing radiantly beneath the star's blessing. Atop the building, an angelic statue stood, its wings outstretched gracefully.

Within the shadow of one such wing, a jet-black feline sat, his sleek black tail flicking idly as he observed the scene below with keen olive-green eyes.

A horse-drawn wagon rumbled to a stop at the back of the church. The coachman and his assistant disembarked, their boots scuffing against the cobbled path as they began unloading heavy sacks of flour. They carried their burden inside with blasé expressions, unaware of the silent watcher above.

Midnight's ears twitched. With innate stealth, he slipped from his lofty perch, moving as little more than a whisper in the breeze. His lithe form flitted from shadow to shadow, a specter in the daylight as he followed the men unnoticed into the church.

Inside, the scent of old wood, parchment, and candle wax mingled with the fresh aroma of grain. The workers made their way into the pantry and placed the sacks in neat rows. The Djinn trailed them briefly before his attention shifted to a priest who hoisted one of the sacks onto his shoulder, heading toward the kitchen.

Midnight followed.

The kitchen was a flurry of motion, filled with the rhythmic clatter of utensils and the low murmur of nuns garbed in black tunics, their hands working with mechanical precision. An assembly line of efficiency, they prepared bread methodically—measuring ingredients, kneading dough, shaping loaves, all for the sacred morsel served on Friday's sermons.

Midnight remained unseen, melding into the shadows cast by the bustling room. His gaze darted between the nuns, sharp and discerning, until his attention fixed on a woman mixing the batter.

For a time, her movements were unremarkable—flour sifted, water poured, dough formed with steady hands. But then, with a deft and almost imperceptible motion, she retrieved a small vial and tipped its contents into one of the batches. A fine, shimmering powder mixed into the batter, vanishing within moments.

Midnight's eyes narrowed, and his tail stilled.

***

CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.

Leopold's boots echoed against the marble floor as he walked the palace corridor, his head lowered, his mind a battlefield of memories. Lord Alaric's laughter, his wife's warm smile, the innocent giggles of their young son—haunting images that refused to fade. He had put them to rest, but the injustice of their deaths burned in his soul like an unhealed wound.

Then, as if the gods themselves wished to stoke the fire of his fury, Lord Ignatius Pembroke strode toward him from the opposite direction.

Leopold halted, his gauntleted hands clenching into fists at his sides. His breath came slow and deep, the effort to leash his rage evident in the rigid lines of his posture. But his restraint only lasted a moment before he stepped into the nobleman's path.

"Ignatius," he greeted without a title, his voice deceptively calm, though the steel beneath it was unmistakable.

Lord Pembroke arched a brow, feigning surprise as if noticing the man for the first time. "Ah, Commander—oh, pardon me. Former Commander. My, how times change." He offered a lazy, condescending smile.

Leopold's lip curled. "Times do change, but justice has a way of catching up, even after the years have passed."

Ignatius tilted his head, amusement glinting in his eyes. "Justice? Now, whatever could you mean by that?"

Leopold took a step closer, the muscles in his jaw twitching. "Only that some men believe their coin can wash away their sins. But no amount of gold can cleanse the blood from their hands."

Ignatius gave a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "Ah, I see now. You're still obsessing over that tragic incident. You have my condolences, of course. It must be difficult—losing your lord, his wife, their sweet boy. To live with the knowledge that you, their sworn protector, failed them utterly."

Leopold stiffened, his fingers twitching toward the hilt of his sword. "Careful with your words, Pembroke."

"Oh, but I am careful, dear Leopold," Ignatius said, his smirk widening. "It is you who seem careless—throwing around baseless accusations like a desperate man grasping at ghosts. Perhaps it is easier for you to blame a villain in the shadows rather than admit that you, the great knight of Alaric's house, were simply... not enough."

Leopold's entire body tensed, every fiber of his being demanding he cut the bastard down where he stood. But he wasn't vested with the authority to deliver judgment. Not yet. Not without proof.

Instead, he leaned in, his voice a low growl. "You may smirk now, but one day, the truth will surface. And when it does, no shadow, no title, no bribe will save you from the reckoning."

Ignatius chuckled, utterly unfazed. "Then I suppose I'll sleep soundly until that day comes." With a lazy shrug, he stepped around Leopold, his boots tapping against the marble with an unhurried swagger.