Chapter 130: Viscount Mysar

Deep within the fortified stone walls of Stone Myraid Castle, the grand administrative heartbeat of the Asherian Viscounty, the morning light filtered gray and cold through tall, arched stained-glass windows.

Inside a private, sprawling office room cluttered with towering stacks of state ledgers and parchment scrolls, a middle-aged man sat rigidly at his desk.

He was Viscount Mysar Kartrina, the sovereign lord of the Asherian Viscounty.

Dressed in a simple white linen shirt and dark black trousers—stripping away the usual ornate gold-trimmed regalia he wore for court—he looked every bit the part of a broken man.

His brown hair was unkempt, his brown mustache drooped heavily over his lips, and his complexion was ashen.

Spread across his massive mahogany desk was a relentless mountain of government files, tax reports, and territorial petitions that required his urgent signature and review if his viscounty was to avoid economic stagnation.

Yet, despite the critical administrative backlog, Mysar’s eyes were entirely void of life.

They were hollow, bloodshot, and perpetually clouded over by a heavy, suffocating fog of profound sadness, raw grief, and lingering confusion.

He was a father who had recently suffered the ultimate cruelty—having his eldest son, Vickor Kartrina, viciously murdered in his own bedchamber just a week prior.

Viscount Mysar slowly picked up a security clearance document, his trembling fingers tracing the edge of the parchment as he attempted to read the text.

But the words blurred together.

Before he could focus, a sharp, polite knock echoed against the heavy oak door of his office.

Viscount Mysar paused, his shoulders tensing.

He lifted his head sluggishly, turning his hollow gaze toward the entrance.

"Who is it?" Mysar rasped, his voice rough and drained of its usual authority.

"It is I, My Lord," a familiar, calm, and impeccably steady voice filtered through the wood.

"Butler Mari. I bring urgent intelligence reports for the Viscount’s review."

Mysar exhaled a long, shuddering sigh, pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose to ward off a throbbing migraine.

"Enter."

Seconds later, the heavy door clicked open, and an elderly man stepped gracefully into the room.

He appeared to be in his early seventies, yet his posture remained as straight as an iron rod.

He was impeccably dressed in a tailored, jet-black butler suit, his silver hair neatly combed back.

This was Butler Mari—Viscount Mysar’s most trusted confidant, primary advisor, and the unofficial second-in-command who kept the administrative gears of the viscounty turning behind the scenes.

Mysar did not wait for formal pleasantries. He dropped the document back onto the desk and leaned forward. "What is it, Mari? Have you found anything?"

Butler Mari offered a respectful, sympathetic bow before stepping closer to the mahogany desk. "Reports came in late last night regarding anomalous intelligence, My Lord. Our rural informants detected sudden, covert movements of Black Winter operatives gathering near the peripheral settlements of the Opark Mountain range."

At the mere mention of that accursed name—Black Winter—Viscount Mysar’s expression instantly twisted.

The hollow, lifeless void in his eyes vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced by a sudden, volatile flash of dark, murderous hatred.

His knuckles gripped the edge of the desk so hard the wood groaned in protest.

"Where are they?" Mysar demanded, his voice rising sharply as he started to push himself up from his chair. "Give me their exact coordinates! I will mobilize the personal guard brigade this instant and burn their rat holes to the ground—!"

"My Lord, please, I beg of you, calm yourself," Butler Mari interrupted smoothly, though his voice held an unyielding firmness that forced the grieving lord to pause. Mari stepped closer, lowering his tone.

"Knowing that you would likely lose your composure and rush out headfirst—thereby exposing our movements and allowing those ghosts to scatter into the wind—I preemptively launched a discreet, highly controlled investigation into the rumors behind your back."

Viscount Mysar’s brow furrowed heavily, a flicker of irritation mixing with his grief. He glared up at his oldest aide. "You investigated without my direct order? What did you find, Mari? Speak."

Butler Mari maintained his calm demeanor, folding his hands neatly in front of his black suit. "It appears our intelligence was partially accurate, My Lord. Operatives belonging to a local cell of Black Winter mercenaries were indeed tracked down to the upper trails of the Opark Mountain pass."

Mysar narrowed his eyes, a grim, humorless smile touching his lips. "Good. Did our garrison intercept them? Did we capture a high-ranking assassin to interrogate about Vickor’s murder?"

"No, My Lord," Mari replied quietly. "Our garrison did not touch them. In fact... when our scouts reached the mountain pass, they discovered that the Black Winter operatives were already dead. And not merely dead—they were all torn to pieces."

Viscount Mysar’s eyebrows shot upward in genuine shock.

He froze, staring at his butler as if he had misheard. "In pieces? What do you mean, they were all in pieces?"

"Exactly as I stated," Mari elaborated, his eyes reflecting a deep sense of analytical caution.

"From what our field investigators pieced together from the bloodbath, it appears the Black Winter cell received a tip from a local village informant.

They learned that a small, heavily armed traveling party was crossing from neighboring viscounties and approaching our outer territorial routes.

Operating under the suspicion that the travelers might be high-value targets or covert nobles, the Black Winter syndicate deployed an elite hit squad to ambush them."

Mari paused, letting the weight of the next sentence settle. "However, the syndicate disastrously underestimated their prey. Whoever those travelers were, they completely obliterated the Black Winter mercenaries.

They slaughtered the entire ambush unit down to the last man, leaving their mangled corpses and shattered armor to decay out in the open wilderness of the Opark mountain."

A heavy, stunned silence settled over the private office.

Viscount Mysar slowly sank back down into his leather chair.

The initial fury that had gripped his chest began to subside, replaced by a strange, dark wave of cathartic satisfaction.

He couldn’t personally hunt down or execute the syndicate members who had butchered his son—the Black Winter’s ghosts remained too elusive for a direct military purge.

But hearing that an entire elite cell of their assassins had been brutally hacked to pieces and left rotting in the mud like common trash brought a grim, twisted peace to his grieving heart.

"They were dismantled..." Mysar muttered, a dark, melancholic breath escaping his lips.

"Good. Even if I could not swing the blade myself, knowing those arrogant butchers died in the dirt brings me a measure of solace."

As the momentary relief washed over him, Mysar’s eyes quickly darkened once more, shifting back to the ruthless pragmatism required of a ruling lord.

He lifted his gaze to his butler. "What of the village, Mari? The settlement whose officials leaked our travel routes or collided with the syndicate? We cannot allow local corruption or unauthorized leaks to compromise our borders."

Butler Mari’s face hardened, a dark, cold grin touching the corners of his mouth. "Rest assured, My Lord, I handled that matter swiftly.

The village officials and local magistrates suspected of collaborating or whispering to the underworld brokers have already been thoroughly investigated, rounded up, and placed in chains.

They are currently being transported to Makari Town to stand trial for treason and receive their public judgment."

Viscount Mysar nodded slowly, his expression devoid of pity. "Good. Order the enforcers to subject them to rigorous interrogation and torture before their public execution.

Though, frankly, I doubt such lousy, spineless village rats possess any truly valuable intelligence regarding the upper hierarchy of Black Winter. If they did, they would have been silenced or murdered long before now."

"As you command, My Lord. I shall oversee the interrogations personally," Mari bowed his head slightly.

Viscount Mysar inhaled deeply, dragging his weary eyes back down to the stack of administrative documents waiting on his desk.

He picked up his silver quill, preparing to sign off on a territorial defense budget.

"One final directive, Mari," Mysar instructed without looking up. "Dispatch our intelligence assets to quietly investigate the mysterious travelers who eradicated the Black Winter cell. However... ensure our men do not treat them as hostile enemies.

After all, an enemy of Black Winter is, at least for the moment, a party worthy of our curiosity. I need to know their true identities and what business they have passing through our lands."

Just as Viscount Mysar finished his sentence, a sudden, bright glint of realization sparked in Butler Mari’s eyes.

The elderly butler raised a finger, his posture snapping straight.

"Ah, speaking of traveling parties arriving at our borders this very morning, My Lord," Mari reported smoothly, a knowing smile crossing his face.

"Just a few hours ago, at dawn, a wealthy independent merchant group and their private security detail cleared our outer gates.

They registered their passage and stated they are journeying straight through our capital on a commercial venture leading toward the Northern Continent."