Chapter : 765
The carriage slowed, the sound of its wheels changing from the rough cobblestones of the city to the smooth, crushed gravel of the Qadir driveway. Lloyd’s focus snapped back to the present. The performance was about to begin.
“Courage, Doctor,” Sumaiya whispered, giving his arm a final, encouraging squeeze.
He gave her a small, grateful, and utterly fake smile. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the quiet, dignified air of the great estate. He was ready.
The grand, carved wooden doors of the manor swung open as they approached, pulled by two liveried servants who moved with a silent, somber efficiency. The grim-faced steward was waiting for them in the magnificent, cavernous entrance hall. The air inside was cool and smelled of beeswax, old money, and a faint, almost imperceptible trace of antiseptic herbs—the scent of a house locked in a battle with sickness.
“Lord Qadir will see you now,” the steward said, his voice as cold and hard as the marble floor beneath their feet. He gave Lloyd a look of profound, undisguised contempt. “Follow me.”
As they were led through the opulent, silent halls, Lloyd’s mind was a dual-processor, operating on two distinct levels. The humble Doctor Zayn was taking in the magnificent surroundings with a wide-eyed, cowed awe. He stared at the priceless tapestries depicting heroic battles, the suits of ancestral armor that stood like silent, steel sentinels in every alcove, the vaulted ceilings painted with elaborate celestial maps. He was a peasant in a king’s palace, and he played the part to perfection.
But the Major General was conducting a ruthless, cold-blooded reconnaissance. His eyes, under the guise of timid wonder, were scanning everything. He noted the thickness of the walls, the strategic placement of the guards, the lines of sight from the high, arched windows. He absorbed the layout of the house, building a perfect, three-dimensional map in his mind. He was not just a guest; he was an infiltrator, and this was his first look at the enemy’s fortress from the inside.
At the same moment, on the outer perimeter of the estate, another, more literal infiltration was taking place. Ken Park, cloaked in a gray that made him almost invisible against the high stone walls of the estate, moved with the grace of a hunting cat. He had watched the carriage arrive, had seen the main gate’s guard detail focus their attention on the arrival of the strange, slum doctor and his palace-sanctioned escort.
The distraction was all he needed. While all eyes were on the front, he was at the back, where a section of the wall bordered a dense, unkempt patch of public woodland. He leaped, his powerful legs propelling him upwards in a single, explosive movement. His fingers, hard as iron, found purchase in the tiny crevices between the stone blocks. He flowed up the twenty-foot wall as if it were a ladder, his movements silent and impossibly fluid. He reached the top, balanced for a fraction of a second on the sharpened stone coping, and then dropped into the gardens on the other side, landing in a soft bed of ornamental flowers without a sound.
He was in. The ghost had breached the fortress. He melted into the deep shadows of a manicured hedgerow, his aura pulled in so completely that he was spiritually invisible. His own reconnaissance had begun. He was the silent, unseen counterpart to Lloyd’s very public performance, the hidden blade to Lloyd’s outstretched, healing hand. The two-pronged assault on House Qadir was now fully underway.
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The steward led them deeper into the heart of the magnificent, somber estate. The grandeur of the main halls gave way to the more intimate, private corridors of the family’s living quarters. Here, the air grew heavier, the silence more profound. The scent of antiseptic herbs was stronger now, a constant, cloying reminder of the sickness that held the house in its grip. The servants they passed moved with a hushed, almost reverential quiet, their faces drawn and somber. It was like walking through a cathedral dedicated to grief.
Lloyd, his face a perfect mask of nervous humility, continued his covert analysis. He noted the placement of family portraits—potential hiding places for safes or hidden switches. He observed the quality of the locks on the doors, the patterns of wear on the Persian rugs that might indicate frequently used secret passages. Every detail was a piece of the puzzle, a potential clue to the location of the house’s true treasures.
Chapter : 766
Finally, the steward stopped before a set of tall, imposing doors made of a dark, polished wood that seemed to absorb the light. Two of Lord Qadir’s personal honor guards stood at attention on either side, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords. They were not just ceremonial; they were elite, powerful warriors, and their eyes, cold and hard as steel, tracked Lloyd’s every movement with a predatory focus.
“The Young Master’s chambers,” the steward announced, his voice a low, emotionless murmur. “Lord and Lady Qadir are within. They are… expecting you.” The way he said the words made them sound less like a welcome and more like a threat.
He knocked once, a soft, formal rap. A faint, muffled voice from within gave a command to enter. The steward pushed the heavy doors open, revealing the sickroom. He then stepped aside, his expression making it clear that his duty was done, and that he would be waiting right outside to escort the fraudulent slum doctor to the dungeons when this farce was inevitably over.
Sumaiya gave Lloyd’s arm a final, reassuring squeeze. “Courage,” she whispered again, a silent prayer and a command.
Lloyd took a deep breath and stepped across the threshold, Sumaiya a half-step behind him, his silent, steadfast shield. The humble doctor from the Lower Coil had arrived at the heart of the kingdom’s power, ready to face the broken, desperate lion in his den.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the estate, Ken Park was a ghost in the machine. He moved through the manicured gardens with an impossible silence and grace, his large frame melting into the shadows of ornate statues and exotic trees. He was a creature of pure, disciplined purpose, his mind a cold, analytical engine processing the data of his surroundings.
He had already mapped the outer guard patrols, their routes predictable, their vigilance compromised by the oppressive gloom that had settled over the estate. He had identified three potential weak points in the physical security—a loose grate in the cellar, a service entrance with a lazy guard, and an un-barbed section of the eastern wall.
Now, his objective was the main house itself. He needed to find a point of entry, a way to access the administrative heart of the estate—the study, the library, the records room. That was where he would find the truth of the Lilith Stone mine.
He found his opportunity in the form of a small, discreet service door at the rear of the manor, leading to the kitchens. A young, pimply-faced guard stood duty there, his posture slumped, his expression one of profound, soul-crushing boredom. He was more interested in swatting at a persistent fly than in watching his post.
Ken did not use violence. Violence was loud, messy, and left evidence. He used the environment. From the shadows of a nearby rose bush, he picked up a small, smooth stone. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it skipping across the gravel path fifty yards to the left of the guard.
The sound was a sharp, sudden clatter in the quiet afternoon, an anomaly that could not be ignored. The young guard jumped, his hand instinctively going to his sword. He peered into the distance, his brow furrowed with a mixture of alarm and confusion. After a moment of hesitation, his duty warred with his boredom, and duty won. He began a slow, cautious walk to investigate the source of the noise, his back now completely turned to the door he was supposed to be guarding.
The window was open for no more than ten seconds. It was all Ken needed. He flowed from the shadows, a blur of silent, gray motion. He reached the door, his fingers moving with a surgeon’s precision as he picked the simple lock with two thin, steel wires he produced from his sleeve. The lock clicked open with a barely audible snick. He slipped inside, closing the door soundlessly behind him, just as the guard was concluding that the noise had probably been a squirrel.
Ken was now inside the fortress. He found himself in a narrow, dark service corridor, the air thick with the smell of cooking food. He paused, his enhanced senses extending, mapping the sounds and smells of the house, building a mental picture of its inner life. He could hear the distant clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen, the faint murmur of servants’ gossip, the slow, heavy tread of a guard patrol in a nearby hallway.