Footsteps returned. Luther guided two black-clad men into the room; both hung between waking and nothingness, heads lolling as though sleep had turned to stone. They had followed Quentin for years, knives hidden under loyalty oaths. Every twitch of his eyebrows lived in their muscle memory.
Jared let his gaze settle on them, then spoke to Luther. “Use your Nether Heart Control incantation. I’ll weave a Chaotic Restriction Seal. Together they’ll obey, and they won’t remember how.”
A cool shimmer crossed Luther’s eyes. He knelt beside the two guards, probing their pulses, then murmured, “Their spirits were wounded by my soul threads and already fragile. With your chaotic force sealing them, they will stay quiet for now…
Their souls are already frayed,” Luther continued. “If I sink the incantation to the core and you look away the memory threads, they’ll hold for a short march. But this will not last. If they face a shock beyond their limit, the seal could loosen, or even backfire.”
“It’s enough for now,” Jared nodded. “We only need them obedient until I return to Jade Immortal Manor and get past the first wave of questions… After we’re inside the inner court, I’ll find a proper chance to send them away, or dispose of them.”
Moments stretched. Then both men jerked upright as if strings had yanked them toward a ceiling hook. Their irises clouded, cleared, and focused on Jared, seeing Quentin. They bent at the waist. “Grand Chamberlain…”
Luther formed a maze of hand seals while chanting harsh Ghost Clan syllables. Strands of gray-black soul power slid like threads into the guards’ brows. At the same time Jared flicked two pinpoints of chaotic gray light into each guard’s energy centers, linking with the earlier seal as double insurance.
A heartbeat later the guards shuddered and slowly opened their eyes. Their gazes were dull, yet on spotting Jared they struggled upright and bowed. “Grand Chamberlain.”
The salute sounded stiff, but nothing seemed amiss. Jared nodded, satisfied. He told Lyza and Luther, “I’m taking them back to Jade Immortal Manor. Wait here in concealment; without my signal, do nothing… Luther, stay on standby, I may need your cover.”
“Yes, sir!” the two answered in unison.
***
The west side of Jade Immortal Manor lay ahead, hidden beneath a tangle of old vines. Jared appeared at the base of that wall, summoned the half-forgotten sigil from Quentin’s memory, and unlatched a mouth in the stone. The three men slipped inside; the ivy fell back, erasing the scar. As the trio’s backs vanished down the passage, Lyza and Luther exchanged a look; shock and worry shone in both pairs of eyes.
“Senior Luther, do you think Mr. Chance can succeed?” Lyza whispered.
Luther stayed silent for a long breath, then said slowly, “Mr. Chance moves as though courting danger, yet every step is measured and far-sighted. Since he dares to go, he must hold some confidence. We will wait for good news, but prepare for the worst and be ready to assist.”
The two men answered in the same dull chorus, “Yes, Grand Chamberlain…”
Jared let his shoulders square, dropped every stealth pretense, and started toward the pavilion at a measured, familiar pace. Flowering avenues and watch posts peeled past. Soldiers and stewards bowed, greeting “Grand Chamberlain” without the faintest ripple of doubt.
Jared reappeared with the two guards, opened the hidden hatch the same way as before, and the three slipped inside; the stone closed behind them without a trace. They avoided the main gate because Quentin had no departure record; marching in openly would have roused the sentries’ suspicion.
Moving through the underground tunnel, Jared slowed his pace, sifting the torrent of Quentin’s memories even as he walked. He inclined his chin without looking back. Behind him the two black-clad guards bowed and answered in perfect unison, “Yes, Grand Chamberlain!”
Their voices were flat, almost hollow, exactly as the spell demanded. The lifeless ring in their words told Jared the mind-locks still held; that small confirmation steadied the pulse in his throat. He released the misty shroud that had masked them, cool daylight settling across his borrowed shoulders. With the two silent shadows at his back, he strode openly toward the Tranquil Heart Pavilion in the inner court’s central sector, every step copied from Quentin’s measured pace.
As the path curved east, tiled roofs surfaced through the bamboo—the Tranquil Heart Pavilion, Quentin’s usual workplace and bedchamber. It appeared serene, but Jared already counted three watch posts and a web of sensing talismans glinting faintly in the morning light. Barely fifty steps in, a squad of mailed sentries rounded the bend, followed by robed stewards reading from jade tablets. More patrols drifted in and out of sight, just as Quentin’s memory had promised.
At the sight of Quentin’s silhouette, soldiers and stewards alike halted, lowered their heads, and saluted. “Grand Chamberlain,” they chorused, armor rustling like dry reeds. Jared offered only the slightest dip of his chin, letting a trace of Quentin’s habitual impatience roughen his voice. When a junior steward lingered, he tossed out two clipped instructions and kept moving, never breaking stride.
The performance worked. The patrols resumed their routes without a backward glance, and no ripple of suspicion followed him down the path. They entered a garden where spirit-fed blossoms glimmered, perfuming the mist. Jared had just marked the pavilion gate when a clear, girlish yet imperious voice sang out from the right.
“Mr. Fay! Where did you go? I’ve been looking for you!”
His next step faltered. A cold ripple threaded his gut before he smoothed his pace. Recognition struck—Rania, Julian’s only daughter, the manor’s fiercely guarded jewel. Schooling Quentin’s usual grave expression, he pivoted toward the side path and let his gaze seek the caller.
Between clumps of fox-glove lilies, a young woman glided into sight, every movement light as drifting silk. She wore a pale-yellow flowing gown, the hem embroidered with silver clouds that caught the sun and scattered it in shifting ripples. Glossy black hair rose in a playful high knot, pinned by a jade step-shake; pearls gleamed at her ears, and tiny gold bells chimed at her wrists. Her skin rivaled new snow, and her eyes—clear, wide, watchful—mirrored every petal around her. A steady fifth-tier immortal aura clasped her like a hush.
Just now she puckered her lips in a small, spoiled pout and hurried toward him, silks whispering across the gravel. Two maids trailed at a respectful distance, heads lowered, hands folded around scent sachets. No mistake, the approaching girl was Rania in the flesh.
Fragments from Quentin’s mind flashed—her knack for arcane scores, her endless questions, Julian’s blind pride. Quick, perceptive, dangerous in silk. She treated Quentin like a favored uncle, forever dragging him to puzzle over dusty diagrams. He, in turn, played the helpful flatterer for Julian’s favor.
“Greetings, Ms. Rania…” Jared bent at the waist, shoulders squared in Quentin’s exact manner, and forced a polite, slightly wooden smile onto the borrowed face. “I was handling a few minor duties, Ms. Rania. I fear I kept you waiting. What may this old servant do for you?”
