Chapter 1560: The Ellusive Man

Lucas departed that night with Fredhardt and Fargo in Harland’s Royal Air Force aircraft, the Arcem. Their destination was a city all too familiar to them: Rodant City. Honestly, the revelation that their target was in Rodant City wasn’t a surprise; on the contrary, it was quite disappointing.

Rodant was exactly the kind of place where power, wealth, and corruption intertwined beneath glittering lights.

By the time Arcem landed, it was already midnight. The airport lights glowed faintly beneath the vast darkness, their sterile brilliance doing little to soften the sharp chill that swept across the tarmac as the aircraft doors opened. The night air greeted them like an unwelcome sentinel, cold, heavy, and threaded with the distant hum of a city that refused to sleep. ℯ

Waiting beside the plane was not a luxurious limousine nor an eye-catching executive car, but a modest dark sedan, clean, unremarkable, and easily forgotten among the countless service vehicles that moved through the airport each night.

Its windows were lightly tinted, enough for privacy but not enough to draw suspicion. The vehicle looked deliberately ordinary, the kind that passed through traffic without earning a second glance.

Without exchanging unnecessary words, the trio stepped inside. The doors shut with a quiet, practical thud, sealing them away from the biting wind.

Moments later, the sedan rolled forward, merging seamlessly into the late-night traffic. The airport lights gradually faded behind them as Rodant City unfolded ahead, its skyline pulsing with neon veins and restless movement.

Buildings shimmered beneath layers of advertisements and floating holographic displays. The streets remained bustling with vehicles, pedestrians, and silhouettes evolving under the artificial starlight. It seemed the darker the night, the livelier the atmosphere become.

Nearly an hour later, the car gradually slowed, its engine softening as it approached a modest-looking hotel—neither particularly large nor notably small. From the outside, Calla Noir appeared to be nothing more than a respectable three-star establishment. Its architecture was clean and presentable, but far from extravagant, simply...ordinary.

Inside, the lobby was neat and comfortable, furnished with polished but inexpensive marble tiles and standard reception counters staffed by courteous employees in tidy uniforms. The seating area consisted of modest sofas arranged around low glass tables stacked with travel brochures and city guides, clearly catering to visiting tourists rather than elite clientele.

Everything about the establishment suggested practicality over indulgence. It was the kind of hotel travelers might choose for affordability and convenience, pleasant, reliable, and entirely unremarkable.

Clean hallways, functional elevators, and softly lit corridors completed the illusion of an ordinary lodging designed for budget-conscious visitors passing through Rodant City. There was nothing particularly memorable about Calla Noir, and that precisely was the point.

Fredhardt and Fargo entered the lobby first, their strides steady and unhurried, with Lucas following a few steps behind. All three wore ordinary salaryman-style suits, well-tailored yet deliberately unremarkable.

They had altered their appearances using Versipell potions, transforming themselves into plain, forgettable men meant to blend seamlessly among the workers and travelers passing through Rodant City’s restless streets.

As they entered, Fredhardt and Fargo walked directly toward the front desk. It was attended by a single receptionist—an elderly man who appeared to be around seventy years old. He had sleek white hair neatly combed back and wore a hotel uniform pressed to immaculate perfection.

Despite his age, his posture remained straight and dignified. His expression carried the easy warmth of someone long accustomed to welcoming guests, his gentle smile polished through decades of quiet, professional service.

"Would you like to reserve a room, gentlemen?" the old man asked pleasantly, offering them a wide, welcoming smile, his voice smooth and practiced, carrying the effortless hospitality of someone who had greeted countless travelers over the years.

Fargo did not answer immediately. Instead, he slipped a dark purple card across the counter. Embossed upon it was a silver insignia belonging to the Lucient family, its surface gleaming faintly beneath the lobby lights.

"We want to speak with the manager," Fargo said, his voice calm yet edged with unmistakable authority. It was not a request, nor even a suggestion, simply a statement delivered with the quiet certainty of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

For a fleeting moment, the old man’s smile faltered, just barely, like a hairline crack spreading across polished glass. The shift lasted less than a heartbeat before his professional composure returned.

"Please wait a moment," he said politely.

He picked up the card with careful fingers, then turned and walked through the staff-only door behind the reception desk, his measured steps echoing softly against the tiled floor. Moments later, he vanished from sight.

A faint shift settled over the lobby. It was subtle, barely noticeable to ordinary guests, but for those accustomed to reading danger, the atmosphere seemed to grow heavier, like the stillness that descended before a storm.

A handful of individuals scattered among the tourists and business travelers cast fleeting glances toward the three men. Their curiosity was thinly veiled, edged with unmistakable wariness.

Among certain circles, it was common knowledge that the old receptionist never abandoned his post. Not for disputes. Not for emergencies. Rumor even claimed he would remain behind that counter even if the entire lobby collapsed around him.

Yet he had left... and looked quite in a hurry as well. Which raised only one question: Who exactly were they?

Fredhardt leaned casually against the reception desk, his posture relaxed as he casually scrolled through his phone. To those around him, he appeared to be a casual guest distracted by messages. But in reality, he was letting out a glimmer of awareness to gauge the thoughts of those around him.

He sifted through them effortlessly, separating harmless guests from assassins, bounty hunters, and those whose minds were carefully trained to hide darker purposes.

Beside him, Fargo tapped his fingers lazily against the marble counter, his expression faintly bored. Beneath that relaxed exterior, however, his senses sharpened like a hunting predator.

Every now and then, his gaze would glance at Lucas, discreetly making sure no potential threats were approaching the King. Meanwhile, Lucas stood slightly behind them, acting very relaxed, because he was very relaxed.

He flipped through a few travel brochures with mild curiosity, occasionally tilting his head as though genuinely weighing his sightseeing options based on the glossy promotions printed across the pages. He looked completely like any other tourist, very unremarkable, but somehow, that was precisely what made everyone uneasy.

It didn’t take long before the receptionist returned. He still wore his warm, welcoming smile, though it had grown slightly stiff around the edges. Behind him stood another man dressed in an immaculate black suit and tie, his appearance sharp and refined like a seasoned businessman.

He looked to be in his early fifties, with short dark hair streaked faintly with silver and deep bronze skin. His tall, slender frame carried a quiet sturdiness that hinted at strength hidden beneath polished manners.

"I am the manager here. My name is Jasper. Please, follow me, gentlemen." He inclined his head politely, raising one hand in a smooth, courteous gesture, inviting them to proceed.

Fredhardt and Fargo instinctively glanced at Lucas, a silent request for approval. Lucas met their gaze briefly, offering nothing more than a subtle look, and that’s enough.

Jasper led them past the kitchen, where staff members paused mid-task, their curious glances trailing after the group. The scent of simmering sauces and roasted meat lingered heavily in the air before fading as Jasper pushed open the door to a refrigerated storage room. Rows of hanging meats swayed slightly in the chilled air, their hooks creaking faintly overhead.

At the far end of the room, Jasper pressed his palm against the tiled wall. A sleek electronic panel flickered into existence, glowing softly. He placed his hand on the scanner. A brief mechanical hum followed. ⅇ

Beep.

A moment later, the wall opened silently, and he turned, looking at Fargo and the others. "Come in," Jasper said softly.

They were escorted past the dazzling gaming floor through a restricted corridor lined with crimson velvet walls and gold-trimmed sconces that bathed the hallway in warm, decadent light.

The muffled pulse of music and distant laughter faded gradually, replaced by a quieter, heavier stillness as they approached a pair of towering double doors carved with intricate ornamental patterns.

Jasper pushed the doors open. "Please," he said smoothly, his voice carrying a quiet reverence, "the master has been waiting."

They stepped into a massive office that radiated excessive luxury.

Gold dominated nearly every surface. The ceiling was inlaid with elaborate gilded carvings that spiraled outward from a crystal chandelier dripping with ruby-red pendants.

The walls were upholstered in deep crimson panels framed with heavy gold filigree. Even the marble flooring was streaked with veins of dark red stone, polished until it reflected the room like still water.

The furniture followed the same extravagant theme. Velvet lounge chairs, the color of aged wine, were arranged with calculated symmetry, paired with low glass tables supported by sculpted golden lion claws.

At the center of the room stood a colossal desk crafted from dark mahogany and trimmed heavily with gold plating. The leather chair behind it was oversized and imposing, upholstered in deep scarlet hide that gleamed beneath the chandelier’s glow.

Yet the true centerpiece of the office was not the desk. But the stretched a towering wall of reinforced glass that overlooked the casino floor below.

From this height, the entire gambling hall unfolded like a glittering empire of temptation, chandeliers blazing overhead, gaming tables stretching in endless rows, elegant servers weaving between patrons, and dancers swaying gracefully inside gilded cages suspended above the revelry.

’It’s the underground casino’

Fredhardt’s gaze swept across the room, flat and unreadable. Fargo’s expression mirrored the same quiet indifference. Neither man showed the slightest flicker of admiration toward the extravagant display. Without a word, they stepped slightly aside, allowing Lucas to walk ahead of them.

Jasper moved toward the figure seated behind the desk.

The man was in the middle of a phone conversation, his voice low and measured as he spoke into a sleek black device. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he lifted his eyes. The moment he noticed Lucas, followed by Fredhardt and Fargo, a faint pause touched his expression.

Without haste, he ended the call and lowered the phone onto the desk. Silence settled into the lavish room, heavy and expectant, as the man leaned back into his scarlet chair, his gaze studying his guests with calm, calculating interest.