Chapter 342: An Organization Where Nobody Shows Their Real Face!

**18th day of Fructus, Year 50,001.**

Night had already settled over the underground city, although there was no moon or open sky here to mark its arrival, and the only difference between day and night came from the hundreds of hanging lamps burning along the streets and the pale crystals embedded across the cavern ceiling far above, whose usual glow had been dimmed until only muted blue-white light spread between the stone buildings.

Among the people moving through one of the broader streets was a man completely covered by a long brown robe, with the hood pulled low enough to conceal most of his face, yet the quality of the cloth, his clean leather boots, and the well-maintained gloves visible beneath his sleeves made it clear that he was considerably wealthier than the average person walking around him.

He moved at an unhurried pace through the crowd while wagons and caravans passed on either side, some pulled by ordinary horses and others by muscular beasts fitted with iron harnesses, their wheels repeatedly striking the uneven stone road with dull **CLACK—CLACK—CLACK** sounds as workers shouted at people to clear the way.

"Move aside! If you lose a foot under these wheels, don’t expect me to pay for it!"

"Then learn how to control your damn beast!"

"Say that again."

The second man immediately placed his hand on the sword hanging from his waist, while the caravan driver reached beneath his seat and pulled out a short iron club.

Several nearby people glanced toward them, though instead of becoming alarmed, most merely shifted a little farther away so they would not accidentally become involved.

"Go fight somewhere else," a scar-faced vendor shouted from behind his stall. "You’re blocking customers."

"Shut your mouth!"

The argument quickly escalated until the swordsman’s fist slammed into the caravan driver’s face with a heavy **THUD**, sending him stumbling against the side of the wagon, while the frightened draft beast jerked against its harness and released a rough snort.

The brown-robed man simply stepped around them without slowing.

His gaze barely remained on the fight for more than an instant, because scenes like this were hardly unusual here, and the crowd itself treated the violence with the same indifference, with some continuing their conversations while others briefly watched in case the fight became entertaining enough to justify stopping.

The deeper he walked, the more obvious the nature of the underground city became.

Almost every uncovered face carried something that separated its owner from an ordinary citizen above ground, whether it was an old sword scar crossing a cheek, a burn mark near the jaw, a missing ear, a crooked nose that had clearly been broken more than once, or the rough expression of someone accustomed to solving disputes with steel rather than law. Many others wore cloaks and robes similar to his own, keeping their appearances hidden while moving between dim taverns, weapon shops, gambling houses, medicine stalls, and narrow buildings whose true businesses were rarely advertised openly.

"Three bottles of Nightroot Poison, same strength as last time."

"Six gold each."

"You charged four yesterday."

"Yesterday, the city guard hadn’t seized one of my suppliers."

A few steps farther away, another pair stood beneath a hanging lamp while exchanging a small wrapped package without even looking directly at one another, and nearby, two armored men dragged an unconscious fellow through an alley while a woman leaning against the wall watched them disappear before returning to the drink in her hand.

The brown-robed man ignored all of it.

He had walked these streets enough times that the shouting, occasional clash of steel, muffled conversations, rattling caravans, and suspicious figures had already become part of the city’s background noise, while the dim lighting from the lamps and overhead crystals only made the shadows between the buildings deeper.

After passing through several crowded streets, he eventually left the noisier market lanes and entered a quieter section where fewer stalls occupied the roadside and most businesses operated behind closed doors.

His pace remained unchanged until a familiar three-story building appeared ahead.

Its lower floor had been constructed from dark stone, while the upper two floors used reinforced timber that had long since lost whatever color it originally possessed, and the narrow shuttered windows made the building appear more like an old record house than the headquarters of an information organization. A faded wooden sign hung above the entrance advertising ordinary copying and record services, while nothing on the exterior carried the name by which certain people knew the place.

**The Prime Archive.**

The man’s expression did not change as he approached.

This was far from his first visit.

Two bulky men stood beside the entrance wearing simple shirts, dark trousers, and leather boots, making them look more like hired guards than members of a secret organization, although the swords resting openly in their hands made it clear that nobody was expected to enter without permission.

Both guards looked toward the brown-robed visitor.

Neither stopped him.

One merely shifted his sword slightly aside, allowing the man to pass through the doorway without a word.

The atmosphere changed immediately once he entered.

Compared with the streets outside, the first floor was almost unnaturally quiet, despite several people coming and going through the building. Five wide rooms occupied the floor around a central passage, and visitors were quietly separated depending on what they had come to buy, sell, or investigate, with ordinary requests handled in the rooms below while anything requiring greater secrecy was taken upstairs.

A hooded woman emerged from one room holding a folded document against her chest and left without speaking to anyone, while an older man waiting beside another doorway was called inside moments later.

"Room three."

The older man nodded and entered without asking questions.

At the far end of the corridor, another customer was being led toward the stairs, suggesting that whatever information he sought was considered important enough for the second floor.

The brown-robed man had barely stopped when a plainly dressed male member approached him.

"Please follow me, sir."

The visitor gave a small nod and followed him upstairs.

No unnecessary conversation occurred during the climb, and even upon reaching the second floor, the same restrained atmosphere remained, with footsteps kept quiet and voices coming through the closed doors reduced to indistinct murmurs.

The man guiding him stopped before one of the five rooms, opened the door, and gestured for him to enter.

Inside sat a woman behind a broad wooden desk.

Her loose gray-brown clothing concealed the shape of her body almost completely, while her face belonged to what appeared to be an ordinary middle-aged woman, with slightly weathered skin, plain brown hair, and features so average that most people would struggle to remember them after leaving the room.

Of course, that face was not real.

Neither were most of the faces belonging to the Prime Archive’s members.

They rarely wore obvious masks because obvious masks invited attention; instead, their special disguises imitated human skin closely enough that casual observers would believe they were simply looking at another ordinary person, and only a small number of regular customers had discovered that the faces greeting them inside the Prime Archive could change.

The woman seated behind the desk was **Ada Dale**, although the visitor knew neither that name nor what her true appearance looked like.

Beside the closed door stood another male member wearing equally simple clothing, his presence quiet enough that someone entering carelessly might forget he was there, while a darker corner beside one of the shelves concealed another figure whose outline blended almost completely with the shadows.

Ada looked toward the brown-robed visitor and spoke in an even voice.

"Welcome back, sir. Please take a seat."

The man paused only briefly before sitting opposite her.

He showed no surprise that she had recognized him despite the robe concealing his appearance, because this organization dealt in information for a living, and if they could not recognize regular clients through disguises, he would never have trusted them with matters this sensitive in the first place.

He had long suspected that the Prime Archive possessed some kind of identification skill or method, though he had never bothered asking exactly how it worked.

After settling into the chair, he went directly to the reason for his visit.

"I’m looking for an adventurer named **Harlan Reed**, an Early D-Rank man somewhere in his middle years."

Ada remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

"Several days ago, he was hired as part of an escort party traveling through the western road outside Arvelon. The entire group was later found dead, but Reed’s body wasn’t among them, and nobody has seen him since."

The man stopped there.

He did not explain why Harlan Reed mattered, nor did he mention that the escort had been transporting something valuable that belonged to the people behind him, because the Prime Archive had never demanded reasons when information alone was enough to complete a request.

Ada considered the details for several moments before answering.

"If you only require his current whereabouts, the price will be one hundred gold."

The brown-robed man showed no reaction to the amount.

He reached beneath his robe, removed a prepared pouch, and placed it on the table with a soft **THUMP**.

"Fifty."

Ada glanced at the pouch before returning her attention to him.

"The remaining half after confirmation?"

"Same arrangement as before."

"Understood."

She raised one hand and gave a small motion toward the darker side of the room.

The figure hidden there immediately stepped forward.

The visitor’s gaze followed him, though no tension entered his posture, because he had seen the Prime Archive use hidden guards and assistants during his previous visits.

The man crossed toward one of the shelves lining the rear wall, where books, sealed ledgers, bundled papers, and scroll containers had been arranged according to a system known only to the organization’s members.

For the next several minutes, he checked one section after another, occasionally removing a ledger, scanning several entries, and returning it before moving farther along.

Nobody spoke while he searched.

The only sounds inside the room came from pages turning, the faint movement of footsteps outside, and the distant murmur of another conversation behind one of the neighboring walls.

Around five minutes later, the assistant finally pulled a narrow scroll from between two thicker records and brought it to Ada.

She opened it, read several lines, and then looked toward the visitor.

"Harlan Reed survived the attack."

The man beneath the brown hood remained still.

Ada continued.

"Two nights after the escort party was killed, someone matching his description purchased food and wound medicine from a traveling trader east of **Willowbrook Village**. Yesterday afternoon, one of our contacts confirmed that he was still there, staying inside an abandoned grain store near the northern edge of the village."

"Willowbrook Village," the man repeated, committing the name to memory.

"Approximately sixty kilometers southeast of Arvelon’s western trade road," Ada added. "Unless he moved sometime after yesterday evening, that should still be his location."

The visitor remained silent for a moment before reaching beneath his robe again and placing a second pouch beside the first.

Another soft *THUMP* sounded against the table.

"The remaining fifty."

Ada pulled both pouches toward her without counting them immediately.

"If the information proves outdated because he moved after our last confirmation, bring this transaction token on your next visit and we will check again without charging for the same search."

She slid a small plain token across the table.

The man picked it up and tucked it beneath his robe.

"That’s all I needed."

He rose from the chair, gave neither Ada nor the silent guards any unnecessary farewell, and left the room before descending through the same quiet building.

Nobody stopped him on the way out.

Within a short time, the brown-robed figure had returned to the underground street, where the city’s dim lamps, ceiling crystals, rough voices, and occasional clashes swallowed him back into the crowd until there was nothing separating him from the dozens of other cloaked figures moving beneath the night.

High above, on the third floor of the Prime Archive, someone stood beside a shuttered window and watched the familiar brown robe disappear between the buildings.

His appearance was completely ordinary, with nothing about his face or clothing suggesting that the entire organization below ultimately answered to him.

It was Zevan Crest.

Or, more precisely, one of Luke’s clones.

He watched until the customer vanished beyond the next street before calmly turning away from the window.