Chapter 131: Second Successor’s Scheme

"Is that so?" Viscount Mysar raised a single, skeptical eyebrow as he paused his quill inches away from the parchment. He cast an inquiring glance toward his senior aide.

Butler Mari offered a crisp, affirmative nod, his hands clasped neatly in front of his jet-black suit. "Indeed, My Lord. The timing, though curious, aligns with the usual flow of independent merchant caravans utilizing our mountain passes during this season."

Viscount Mysar let out a soft, weary sigh, leaning back into the leather cushions of his chair as he rubbed his aching temples.

"Tell me, Mari... who exactly is this traveler? What details did the border guards and entry logs record?"

"According to the official migration documents stamped at the outer gatehouse, the young man leading the delegation goes by the name Sebastian Ford," Butler Mari reported smoothly, reciting the registry details from memory.

"He is accompanied by two younger siblings—a cousin or brother registered as Christian Ford, and a sister listed under the name Stella Ford. They claim affiliation with an independent, mid-tier mercantile house operating out of the distant Eastern Continent."

Viscount Mysar muttered the surname under his breath, his brow furrowing as he mentally cross-referenced the registry against his extensive knowledge of regional trade houses.

"Ford, huh?"

He shook his head, a faint, humorless smile touching his lips. "I cannot recall ever hearing that specific family name associated with any major eastern trading conglomerates.

But then again, the Eastern Continent is vast and choked with countless minor family enterprises; it is not as though every emerging merchant house feels a desperate need to make its presence known in our western courts."

Mysar shifted slightly in his seat, his pragmatic instincts returning to the surface. "Where is this Sebastian now? Did our men track his movements after they cleared the gates?"

"From our recent intelligence reports, Sebastian and his retinue should be arriving at one of the reputable inns near the western trade district by now," Mari answered promptly.

"Naturally, they require a temporary place to rest. More importantly, if they intend to secure legitimate access to the high-security maritime port at the edge of Makari Town, they cannot simply walk onto a vessel. They require the explicit, tacit approval of both the Migration Department and the Internal Security Service."

The butler ticked the requirements off on his fingers. "Furthermore, purchasing a maritime passage ticket for an outbound merchant ship necessitates a mandatory background inspection and cargo verification authorized directly by the Governor’s office.

At minimum, it will take a newcomer a few solid days of bureaucratic navigating before he and his people can successfully board a ship."

As Butler Mari laid out the standard administrative hurdles, Viscount Mysar nodded slowly in understanding.

He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the edge of the mahogany desk.

"Very well," Mysar instructed, his voice dropping into a measured, authoritative register. "Instruct our intelligence assets to keep a discreet, watchful eye on this Sebastian Ford and his party. Given the heightened paranoia surrounding the city right now, we cannot afford blind spots.

However, do not treat them as active threats—they purged a cell of Black Winter mercenaries, which conveniently saved our garrison some trouble.

Let the Internal Security Service and the Migration Department process them normally; let the young man and his people proceed to the seaport according to standard law."

"It shall be done precisely as you command, My Lord," Butler Mari bowed his head low, turning gracefully on his heel to make his exit toward the office door.

Just as the butler’s hand touched the polished brass doorknob, the low, gravelly voice of the Viscount rang out across the silent room, halting him in his tracks.

"Mari."

The butler paused, turning his body back toward the desk with a respectful inclination of his head.

"Yes, Lord Viscount?"

Viscount Mysar stared blankly down at his hands, gently fingers tracing through his unkempt brown hair as a heavy, suffocating weight settled back onto his shoulders.

For a long moment, the lord of the viscounty looked less like a sovereign and more like a broken old man carrying the sins of the continent.

"Ulsan von Darkstar..." Mysar whispered, the name tasting like bitter poison on his tongue.

"The second successor of the Darkstar Ducal Family... the Count of Bretford County."

Butler Mari’s expression tightened into grave professionalism.

He stepped a few paces back toward the desk.

"Did another dispatch arrive from the Count’s faction, My Lord?"

"It arrived late last night, encrypted with ducal seals," Mysar sighed heavily, sliding a hidden drawer open and pulling out a dark, wax-sealed parchment.

He tossed it onto the desk. "Ulsan von Darkstar has issued a direct, unyielding mandate to our administration. He wants us to launch an immediate, aggressive intelligence probe into the Myrain Viscounty—the impoverished frontier territory recently inherited by the seventh successor, Craig von Darkstar."

Mari’s eyes flickered with cautious realization.

"The rumors regarding the seventh successor... are they true, then?"

"They are," Mysar confirmed bitterly. "The news of that young bastard successfully claiming the ancient Dragon’s Pit and dragging three apex dragons back to garrison within the Myrain Viscounty has already spread like wildfire through the Rynchester Duchy. All seven rival successors are beginning to panic, probing the borders to test his strength."

The Viscount clenched his fist against the wood. "From what Ulsan’s message implies, the second successor is fully prepared to employ tyrannical means—including covert terrorism, sabotage, and economic warfare—to completely destabilize and shatter the Myrain Viscounty before the seventh successor can cement his rule. Ulsan expects us to lay the groundwork for that destabilization."

Viscount Mysar looked up, locking his weary, bloodshot eyes onto his butler. "He wants us to conduct a comprehensive espionage campaign so the second successor’s faction can accurately picture what kind of monster they are truly dealing with in the frontier."

A tense, suffocating silence filled the office as the heavy implications of the ducal order settled over the room.

Viscount Mysar exhaled a long, exhausted breath, rubbing his eyes. "Tell me, Mari... as my most trusted advisor, what is your unvarnished opinion on this mandate?"

Butler Mari did not hesitate for even a fraction of a second.

He replied with cold, pragmatic political realism. "My advice, My Lord, is that we must officially follow the will of Ulsan von Darkstar.

We are a recognized vassal state allied with the second successor’s faction; openly defying a ducal directive from Count Bretford would invite immediate retaliation and isolate us politically when we are already bleeding from within."

Mari paused, offering a crucial caveat.

"However... any large-scale intelligence probe or military posturing directed toward the Myrain Viscounty must be strictly postponed.

Our primary, absolute priority right now is hunting down and exterminating the Black Winter syndicate.

Until the bastards who butchered young Master Vickor are lying in their graves, Ulsan von Darkstar’s political games must take a secondary backseat."

Viscount Mysar’s expression softened into a grim, dark affirmation. A slow, approving nod escaped him.

"You speak my exact mind, Mari," Mysar murmured, a fierce, cold gleam returning to his eyes. "The second successor can wait. My son’s blood cries out from the earth, and until the ones responsible for his assassination have fallen, no other decree matters. Let Ulsan wait."

Miles away from the oppressive, grief-stricken halls of Stone Myraid Castle, the vibrant, bustling streets of Makari Town were alive with midday commerce.

After securely establishing their quarters at the Golden Anchor Inn and ensuring Annie and Damian were settled, Craig von Darkstar wasted no time initiating the next phase of his operational timeline.

The very first administrative body he needed to visit personally was the Migration Department—the critical governmental bureau tasked with supervising all incoming travelers, processing residency permits, and issuing exit clearances for those departing the Asherian Viscounty.

As a sovereign lord who ruled his own burgeoning fiefdom back in Myrain, Craig understood the immense strategic value of controlling and understanding migration paperwork.

He knew precisely which bureaucratic levers to pull and how to present himself to avoid raising red flags.

For this public-facing excursion, Craig had deliberately modified his appearance to fit the profile of an eccentric, well-traveled eastern merchant.

He wore a sleek, high-collared black trench coat tailored from fine, weather-resistant fabric, and perched atop his transfigured silver-white hair was a wide-brimised, pointy black traveler’s hat he had casually purchased from a street vendor while riding through the marketplace.

Walking with a relaxed, confident stride, Craig pushed open the heavy oak doors of the Migration Department’s administrative building.

The interior was a maze of tall wooden counters, ticking clocks, and harried clerks shuffling massive stacks of parchment ledgers.

Ignoring the minor clerks, Craig walked straight toward the primary reception desk located at the center of the hall.

Behind the polished brown mahogany desk sat a young female receptionist with neatly tied brown hair, frantically stamping travel manifests and muttering complaints under her breath as a long queue of restless merchants waited in front of her.

As Craig stepped smoothly to the front of the line, bypassing a grumbling merchant, the receptionist looked up with an exhausted frown, ready to scold the newcomer for breaking protocol.

However, the moment she locked eyes with him, the scolding froze in her throat.

Craig offered a disarming, dazzling smile. With a slow, fluid motion of his gloved hand, he reached up and gently swept the wide brim of his pointy black hat downward, dipping his head in a polite, theatrical bow.

"Good day, charming lady," Craig greeted smoothly, his voice carrying a warm, melodic cadence that instantly melted the receptionist’s defensive posture.

"My apologies for cutting through the queue, but I am pressed for time on a vital commercial schedule."

He placed both hands casually on the counter, his deep emerald-green eyes sparkling with engaging charm.

"Allow me to introduce myself," Craig continued, flashing an easygoing grin.

"My name is Sebastian Ford. I am the head of the Ford Merchant Group delegation currently visiting your magnificent capital."

Craig tilted his head slightly toward the inner offices, his tone dripping with polished, cooperative innocence.

"I am formally here to process our mandatory background clearance, inspect our registry status, and secure the necessary paperwork to obtain an official maritime traveling permit for our upcoming passage through the Makari Town seaport."