Chapter 650: Inside the Lair

Suddenly, a group of powerful strangers stepped into existence as though the world had torn open and spat them out.

One second there was nothing but empty space, and the next there were six of them standing in a loose arc, solid and undeniable, like they had always been there and the world had just been slow to catch up.

Each one possessed an aura that matched Benjamin’s own in depth and density, the kind of force that could reshape a battlefield or shatter a mountain if nobody stopped it.

But still, even as that pressure settled over the area, a small certainty stayed rooted deep in the chest, steady and unshaken: Benjamin would hold them.

He would match their strength long enough for my work to begin. The lairs of evil still stood, and those lairs needed to be torn down to their foundations before the day was over.

Somehow the locations of those lairs were already there in the mind, mapped as clearly as if they had been walked a hundred times before.

Every corridor, hidden entrance, weak point in the wards felt familiar and intimate, the way a childhood home feels familiar even in complete darkness.

The only explanation that made sense was that Benjamin had already reached out in some subtle, unseen way and planted the knowledge there.

When the first of those magic lairs finally came into view—a heavy structure of dark stone and twisted iron that seemed to drink the light around it—the steps slowed on their own.

The skills of an assassin settled over the body like a second skin: my breathing controlled until it barely stirred the air, eyes sweeping every shadow for the smallest movement, every flicker of light for the faintest sign of danger.

Two men stood guard in front of the heavy double doors. They were fairly strong—broad-shouldered, hands calloused from years of gripping weapons, magical signatures steady and competent—but they were distracted.

One leaned against the wall with his arms folded, staring at nothing in particular, eyes glazed with the dull emptiness of a man who had long since stopped paying attention.

The other kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, muttering under his breath about the heat and the boredom, fingers drumming idly against the hilt of his spear.

It was the posture of men who hadn’t been challenged in a very long time, men for whom standing watch had become nothing more than a dull, repetitive chore instead of a duty that required vigilance.

Too bad for them.

They had become lambs waiting for the slaughter, and my katana was already in motion.

***

Inside the tall, cavernous lair, the setting itself felt heavier, thick with the scent of old blood and scorched metal.

Rows of equipment and strange contraptions filled the space, each one built for a different and carefully considered purpose.

Some were racks of iron and leather that held bodies suspended from the ceiling by chains and hooks, the victims hanging limply like discarded coats, arms dangling and heads bowed as if in sleep.

Others were tall cylindrical glasses filled with cloudy liquid, pale figures floating inside with their mouths open in silent, endless screams, eyes wide and unseeing.

Still others were plain wooden tables fitted with thick leather straps and metal clamps, the wood stained dark, surfaces worn smooth by countless struggling bodies.

Glass was rare and expensive even in a world where magic could reshape stone and metal.

For it to appear in this kind of quantity, lining walls and forming entire containment vessels, spoke of wealth far beyond what ordinary mages could control.

These people most certainly enjoyed the discreet protection of a powerful merchant house or a great noble family, the kind of backing that could bury inconvenient questions and supply whatever materials the experiments demanded.

From a shadowed alcove near the entrance, the scene at the far end of the chamber came into my clear view.

A hunched, dried-out man with a long, sharp nose and skin the color of old parchment leaned close to a small boy strapped upright against a wooden wall.

The man’s voice had that wet, snickering quality of someone who took real pleasure in the suffering of others.

"Rejoice, boy," he said, the words sliding out between yellowed teeth, "today you might finally finish paying the debt that you and your mother still owe. Every last coin of it... If this next procedure succeeds, that is. You understand what that means, don’t you? Freedom. Or at least the closest thing to it that creatures like you are ever allowed to taste."

The boy’s voice, when it came, was weak and thin, as if he had already given most of his strength away.

But a small, cracked smile still managed to form on his parched lips. His skin had the dry, stretched look of parchment left too long in the sun, and his hair hung in brittle clumps.

"Truly?" he asked, the single word clinging to a fragile hope that refused to die. "That is... that is good news. Did you hear him, Mother? We’ll be free to leave soon. We can walk out of this place together and never come back. I’ll take care of everything, I promise."

My eyes watching the exchange narrowed until only thin slits remained, the muscles around them tightening with a rage that burned cold.

The boy had turned his head upward and to the left, addressing a woman who had once been whole.

Now only fragments of her remained. Most of her torso had been carefully, methodically removed, leaving a ragged cavity held together by crude metal clamps and strips of treated leather.

One hand and one leg were missing entirely; the stumps had been sealed with thick metal plates that looked more like the work of a blacksmith.

Somehow she was still alive. Her chest rose and fell in slow, shallow gasps. Her eyes were wide and staring, fixed on nothing, while saliva and mucus ran freely down her ruined face in long, glistening strands.