Chapter 145| A Name Without a Face

The Veton family estate had never, in Allen’s memory, hosted this many WHRIB investigators at once, their considerable, methodical presence transforming the tower’s usually quiet corridors into something closer to a crime scene than a family residence, and Allen found himself, three days after the tournament’s devastating conclusion, standing in the doorway of what had once been Reginald Cross’s private quarters, watching Farrow’s team catalog the space with careful, professional thoroughness.

"He’s gone," Farrow reported, meeting Allen and Michael Veton near the room’s entrance, her own expression carrying the particular frustration of someone who’d expected exactly this outcome and still found it considerably galling regardless. "Cleared out within hours of the final’s conclusion. No forwarding information, no trace of his considerable, decades-long employment history beyond what your family’s own records happen to document."

"Decades-long employment that apparently included forged credentials," Michael said, his own composed exterior carrying, for the first time since Allen could remember, genuine and visible strain. "We’ve begun cross-referencing his original hiring documentation against Association records. Preliminary findings suggest considerable fabrication."

"How considerable?" Allen asked.

"Complete," Farrow said grimly. "Reginald Cross doesn’t appear to exist prior to his employment with your family, thirty-one years ago. No birth record, no prior work history, nothing beyond the documentation he presumably fabricated himself in order to secure the position."

The revelation settled heavily over the small group, and Allen found himself turning over exactly what that implied — a man who had raised him, in many quiet, meaningful ways, alongside his own often-absent parents, who had taught him proper sword grip and quietly, patiently mediated countless family disputes, who had existed, apparently, as an elaborate, decades-long fabrication built around some purpose none of them had ever properly glimpsed.

"Why?" Allen asked, unable to fully articulate the question’s considerable weight. "Thirty-one years. That’s not a quick infiltration. That’s an entire, patient lifetime invested in getting close to this family."

"That’s precisely what concerns me most," Farrow admitted. "Organizations capable of that kind of patience, that kind of long-term, invested planning, tend to be pursuing something considerably larger than a single family’s internal politics."

Susan arrived partway through the conversation, her own composed exterior carrying visible, unfamiliar tension as she absorbed the investigation’s mounting findings, and Allen watched her carefully, remembering Edward’s earlier, unsettling mention of her renewed interest in his own considerable growth.

"You suspected something," Allen said quietly, once Farrow had stepped away to continue directing her team. "About him. Didn’t you?"

Susan’s composed expression flickered, something guarded and uncomfortable surfacing before she finally, reluctantly answered. "I’d noticed his attention toward you had grown unusual, in recent months," she admitted. "More than his standard duties reasonably required. I intended to investigate quietly, before—" She stopped, something almost like genuine regret crossing her features. "Before this happened."

"You should have said something," Allen said, old frustration flaring despite the considerable circumstances.

"I should have," Susan agreed, and the admission, simple and uncharacteristically without deflection, caught Allen more off guard than any of her usual careful maneuvering ever had. "I underestimated exactly how dangerous my own suspicion might prove. That failure sits with me now, alongside everything else this family has lost."

Allen studied her a long moment, uncertain what to make of genuine remorse from someone he’d spent years learning to view primarily as a calculating threat, before Farrow’s return interrupted whatever uneasy reconciliation might have followed.

"We’ve found something," Farrow said, holding up a data drive recovered from a hidden compartment within Reginald’s quarters. "Encrypted, considerably sophisticated encryption at that. Our technical team is working on it now, but preliminary scans suggest references to an organization we’ve encountered before, in fragmentary form, during our investigation into the Zurich summit attack."

"Umbra Black," Michael said grimly.

"We can’t confirm that yet," Farrow cautioned. "But the pattern’s consistent. Long-term infiltration, dangerous experimental technology, careful patience extending across decades. If Reginald Cross was operating as one of their agents, embedded this deeply within a family holding an Arcane Lord seat—"

"Then this was never really about Edward and me," Allen said slowly, understanding settling with cold, considerable weight. "We were just the mechanism. Whatever he actually wanted, our rivalry was simply the tool he used to get it."

"That would be my working assumption," Farrow confirmed. "Though I want to be clear, Hunter Veton — that doesn’t diminish your brother’s own culpability in choosing to use the device. Manipulation isn’t the same as coercion. He made his own choice, however thoroughly Reginald engineered the circumstances surrounding it."

Allen absorbed that with quiet, complicated understanding, old resentment and genuine grief tangling together into something he still hadn’t fully processed, and found himself, standing amid the considerable wreckage of his family’s shattered trust, turning his attention toward the empty room where Reginald’s presence had once, for thirty-one patient years, gone entirely unquestioned.

"Find him," Allen said quietly. "Whatever he’s actually working toward, whatever this Umbra Black organization actually wants — I need to know. Haruki deserves that much, at the very least."

"We’re doing everything we can," Farrow assured him. "This investigation isn’t closing anytime soon, Hunter Veton. Not until we understand exactly what we’re actually facing."

Allen found Myria waiting for him near the tower’s entrance, having stepped away during his private conversation with Susan to review Farrow’s preliminary findings herself, and her expression carried the same focused, calculating concern that had defined so much of her own considerable, protective vigilance across their entire marriage.

"You look exhausted," she said, drawing him close.

"I am," Allen admitted. "Thirty-one years, Myria. He was there for every family dinner I can actually remember. Taught me how to hold a sword before I ever awakened my system. And the entire time, apparently, he was just—" He shook his head, unable to properly finish the thought.

"Waiting," Myria said quietly. "For exactly this kind of opportunity."

"What kind of person has that much patience?" Allen asked. "That much willingness to wait decades for a single, considerable moment?"

"The kind that genuinely frightens me," Myria admitted. "Whatever this organization actually wants, Allen, they’re clearly willing to invest considerably more than any threat we’ve faced so far. I don’t think this ends with finding him."

She let the observation settle a moment before continuing, her own composed exterior carrying a rare, visible weight. "I keep thinking about Jenunl Island. About the Emperor’s brief appearance, about Zurich, about everything we’ve assumed were isolated, unconnected threats. I’m no longer certain that assumption holds."

The team continued their thorough, methodical search long after Allen finally departed, leaving the tower’s once-familiar corridors behind him with a hollow, unsettled awareness that the family he’d grown up resenting had, apparently, been hiding a considerably more dangerous secret than simple dysfunction all along.