Chapter 140: Spirit Mage [1]

"Greetings, gentlemen," a smooth, casual voice cut sharply across the sea breeze, interrupting Craig and Ser Hughway mid-conversation.

Both men abruptly halted their thoughts and turned their heads toward the approaching figure.

Striding across the wooden deck with an easy, unbothered gait was the black-skinned man they had been quietly discussing moments prior—Andres Mogulis.

The sudden, brazen approach of the mysterious surveillance operative caught Craig slightly off guard, though his decades of tactical experience allowed him to mask his surprise instantly, schooling his expression into a mask of calm curiosity.

Beside him, Ser Hughway’s posture snapped rigid in an instant.

The veteran knight’s dark brow knitted sharply, and his hand moved with instinctive military precision to rest firmly upon the hilt of his shealthed broadsword, ready to draw steel and cleave the intruder down at the slightest aggressive twitch.

Sensing the suffocating, lethal pressure radiating from the towering knight, Andres let out a low, amused chuckle.

He stopped a few paces away, fully aware that he was being meticulously scrutinized by a veteran warrior who could end him in seconds.

Instead of backing away or reaching for a weapon, Andres did something entirely unexpected.

He slowly raised both of his hands into the air, palms facing outward in a universal gesture of surrender, while a disarming chuckle rumbled in his chest.

"Easy, my friend. There is no need to look at me as if I am carrying a venomous viper," Andres said, his voice laced with mock-defensiveness.

"I assure you, I am not here as a threat."

Craig raised a single, skeptical eyebrow, studying the man’s relaxed posture and open hands.

He allowed a faint, humorless smile to touch his lips. "Not a threat, you say? Then who in the world are you, and why are you walking right into our space?"

"My name is Andres Mogulis," the man answered smoothly, his dark eyes meeting Craig’s emerald gaze without flinching.

"I am a mercenary who recently made his way up from the Southern Continent."

Andres tilted his head slightly toward Ser Hughway’s hovering hand on the sword hilt, offering a polite request. "Might I take a half-step closer? I promise you, I have no hostility in my heart. I merely wish to speak."

Craig cast a subtle, assessing sideways glance at his Lord Commander.

He gave a microscopic nod, signaling Ser Hughway to stand down.

Taking the cue, the veteran knight slowly relaxed his grip on his pommel, though his eyes remained hard and vigilant, continuing to track Andres’s every micro-movement.

Seeing the blade stay in its scabbard, Andres let out a visible, genuine sigh of relief.

He slowly lowered his raised hands, letting his arms hang comfortably at his sides.

The sudden interaction between the wealthy young merchant, his intimidating bodyguard, and the stranger had inevitably begun to draw sideways glances from nearby passengers and loitering ship enforcers.

Several private security contractors stationed near the central deck shifted their weight, their hands hovering over their weapons as they kept a close, watchful eye on the cluster of men.

However, because no weapons had been drawn and no blows exchanged, the enforcers maintained their discipline, simply observing to ensure the peace of the vessel was not disrupted before they had even cleared the harbor.

Craig inhaled deeply of the salty air, deciding to play along with the man’s game for a moment.

He offered a polished, affable smile, using his fabricated alias.

"I am Sebastian Ford," Craig introduced smoothly, leaning casually against the railing.

"And as I am sure you can gather, Andres, my party and I are simply trying to enjoy the sea air and complete our journey in peace. You approached us out of nowhere.

What could you possibly want to talk about? There is no obvious reason for our paths to cross."

Andres shrugged casually, his lips curving into an enigmatic smile. "No grand reason, Master Ford. It is simply that out on the open sea, people tend to notice those who stand out from the crowd. And frankly, I found you and your little traveling party quite... fascinating."

Craig’s expression remained neutral, but inwardly, his guard spiked.

"Fascinating?" Craig echoed dryly.

"Indeed," Andres nodded, his tone carrying an unsettlingly sharp perceptiveness. "It is not every day you see a merchant delegation structured quite like yours.

A Sword Runner class merchant protected by a seasoned Sword Master, a skilled and conditioned Sword Runner class ranker protecting the flanks, and a quiet teenage Mana Apprentice tucked safely in the rear... to an experienced pair of eyes, your group looks far less like a peaceful caravan of linen merchants and far more like a high-tier mercenary strike team."

The moment Andres casually reeled off those precise combat classifications, the atmosphere around them plummeted in temperature.

Craig’s gaze darkened into absolute, glacial ice.

The easygoing merchant persona instantly vanished, replaced by the crushing, predatory aura of a sovereign lord.

"Who are you," Craig demanded, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register that made the hairs on the back of Moguilis’s neck stand up, "and how on earth did you discern our exact combat classes with a single glance?"

Despite being pinned beneath the terrifying, concentrated wrath of the seventh successor, Andres did not flinch, nor did he break his casual posture.

He merely offered a light, unbothered shrug, leaning back slightly against the open air.

"Ah, do not look at me with such murder in your eyes, Master Ford," Andres chuckled smoothly, spinning a plausible half-truth to cover his tracks.

"I told you the truth—I am a retired mercenary who has spent decades surviving the brutal battlefields of the Southern Continent. Just because I have stepped away from that dirty, blood-soaked line of work doesn’t mean my combat instincts have rusted or my spiritual senses have diluted."

Andres tapped the side of his head lightly with two fingers. "As for how I know your classes? It is quite simple. I happen to be a Second Layer Mage.

When you live long enough navigating high-risk territories, reading the subtle mana fluctuations and the spirituality of passing rankers becomes second nature.

I merely glanced at the way your guards carry their weight and how the young lady channels her mana pathways. It isn’t magic; it is just experience."

Beside Craig, Ser Hughway visibly exhaled, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as the explanation appeared to check out.

A Second Layer Mage possessing heightened sensory perception was rare, but entirely plausible for a veteran mercenary survivor.

However, deep down inside his mind, Craig’s internal calculations screamed the exact opposite.

’He is lying,’ Craig noted coldly to himself. Andres Mogulis is no mere Second Layer Mage.

’The depth and stability of the spiritual resonance I sensed earlier place him firmly at the level of an Intermediate Mage... and very likely pushing toward the absolute Peak stage of his class.’

Craig kept his suspicions entirely concealed behind a mask of calm silence, giving away none of his internal deductions.

Seeing that Craig remained quiet, Andres smoothly pivoted the conversation, seeking to normalize the interaction.

He glanced around the bustling deck and asked, "If I may ask... since you are ostensibly operating as a merchant, why are you heading north toward the Kotyr Sea?"

Craig mirrored his shrug with effortless grace.

"It is simple business, no need to pry, Andres. We are heading toward the lawless city of Oman to finalize a lucrative trade acquisition. Essential commerce waits for no man."

Andres nodded slowly, accepting the superficial answer with a faint smile. "Ah, Oman City. A lawless sinkhole of opportunity. I suppose our destinations align more than we think."

Just as Andres finished speaking, a deep, mechanical shudder rippled violently through the entire iron skeleton of the colossal warship.

CLANK-BOOM-HUMMM!

The massive vessel groaned as its twin steam-driven propulsion engines ignited deep within the hull.

A thick, billowing plume of dark gray smoke erupted from the towering central smokestacks, venting a steady, rhythmic hiss of pressurized steam into the salty air.

The deck vibrated beneath their boots.

The massive black warship was finally beginning to pull away from the wooden pilings of the deep-sea port.

Almost simultaneously, a sharp, electronic feedback squeal echoed across the deck as a powerful amplification microphone crackled to life.

The booming, authoritative voice of the Chief Ship Enforcer echoed effortlessly over the entire vessel, washing over the thousands of passengers onboard.

"Attention, all passengers!" the enforcer’s voice resonated crisply. "This is the Captain of the Ship Security Command. I am formally announcing that our vessel has officially cast off its moorings, cleared the deep-sea port authorities, and is now actively sailing out across the open waters of the Northern Ire Sea!

Be advised that while you are onboard, our private enforcers and maritime security details will spare no effort to protect everyone and ensure a safe, unimpeded voyage. Secure your cabins and prepare for transit!"

As the announcement reverberated through the sea air, Craig, Ser Hughway, and Andres all abruptly stopped talking.

Simultaneously, their heads snapped around, turning their gazes toward the towering central command bridge rising above the mid-deck.

They felt it.

A sudden, breathtaking wave of intense, razor-sharp spirituality violently rippled across the deck, cascading outward like a shockwave from the doorway of the ship’s primary navigation and control room.

A figure slowly emerged from the shadows of the command bridge.

It was a middle-aged woman carrying an aura of absolute, unyielding authority.

She wore dark, polarized sunglasses that completely obscured her eyes, while a thick cascade of sleek, ink-black hair flowed down past her waist, whipping wildly in the sea wind.

Her attire was stark and utilitarian—a tailored black trench coat pulled tightly over a matching black linen shirt and reinforced dark trousers.

Even before she spoke, every single practitioner on the deck felt the crushing weight of her presence.

She was a Spirit Mage.

And not just any ordinary practitioner—she radiated the terrifying, dense spiritual pressure of a Peak-stage First Layer Mage.

Standing silently at the edge of the elevated command platform, she watched with cold, clinical detachment as the massive wooden brow of the gangway was finally pulled up and secured, and the deep-sea port slowly shrank away into the horizon as the warship gained momentum across the Northern Ire Sea.

Slowly, deliberately, the middle-aged woman raised her gloved hand, reaching up to her face.

With a smooth, elegant motion, she slid off her dark sunglasses, revealing sharp, unblinking eyes that burned with raw arcane focus.

She opened her mouth, and with a single, commanding utterance that cut through the roaring gale, she issued her decree:

"Ship Concealment!"

The moment those two words left her lips, the invisible, atmospheric fabric of the world violently ruptured.

An immense, suffocating torrent of raw spirituality was unleashed into the open air, detonating outward in a swirling vortex of arcane energy that enveloped the entire thousand person black ship in a fraction of a second.

The concealment process was a masterclass in high-tier spatial-spiritual engineering.

First, the invisible wave of spirituality slammed against the outer iron hull of the black warship, causing the dark metal to ripple and shimmer like oil on water.

Millions of microscopic, translucent runes—glowing with a pale, ethereal blue light—instantly materialized along the entire length of the vessel’s exterior, stitching themselves seamlessly across the massive decks, the smokestacks, and the soaring masts.

As the spiritual current cascaded upward, it formed an impenetrable, dome-like refractive barrier over the entire ship.

The ambient light striking the vessel began to bend, refract, and scatter violently.

Within seconds, the colossal, thousand-foot-long black ship didn’t just become masked—it visually dissolved into the surrounding seascape, blending seamlessly with the horizon and making the vessel entirely invisible to both the naked human eye and standard scrying mirrors operating across the Northern Ire Sea.

Only a faint, shimmering distortion in the air remained, marking the phantom passage of the ghost ship cutting silently through the waves toward the distant Creptun Ocean.