Behind him, Julian’s voice cracked through the vaulted hallway like a whip. “An assassin! Protect the envoy! Seal the treasury! Catch that thief!”
Jared risked a backward glance. Torches spilled light over Julian as the Manor Lord marshaled arriving guards, barking orders with full conviction, yet a flicker of something sly flitted through the older man’s eyes before it vanished behind duty.
Jared’s own body cut through archways and side corridors, gliding past rockeries and covered walks, his steps soundless, his pulse drumming fast but steady. He chose every turn, every carved screen, to break Mr. Clive’s line of sight and to force the envoy’s senses to chase echoes instead of facts.
The shroud of chaotic force tucked his presence into a wrinkle of silence. Only the single faint trace Mr. Clive had marked kept the envoy from losing him altogether. Twice a slash of silver lightning carved into empty storerooms or clipped garden walls—damage Jared had lured there on purpose, widening the uproar behind him.
A last dive over a stone bridge brought him into the outer paths of Grace Pavilion just as a fresh burst of sword-charged wind shredded the air where his back had been.
Alert horns blared across the grounds. Lanterns bobbed near the pavilion, guards clustering into nervous ranks as orders snapped between them. Jared slipped through a narrow gap where two sentries’ vision overlapped. His body thinned into shadow, flowed past them, and breezed through the side door.
Inside, he stripped the torn outer robe, loosed his hair, and settled a calm breath—the picture of a scholar emerging from long study. Boot heels thundered on the stairs the moment he smoothed his sleeves, shouts driving closer.
Julian burst onto the landing, fury painted across his face. Mr. Clive followed, jaw tight, one hand at his chest, a wall of armored guards spreading to encircle the pavilion.
“Search it! Every corner!” Julian’s command cracked like ice. “The assassin ran this way!”
The Manor Lord’s gaze slid over the rail, met Jared‘s for a brief, unreadable beat, then moved on as blades and boots flooded the rooms. Cabinets flew open. Cushions scattered. Even Rania’s private chamber rattled beneath armored fists.
Rania strode out of the quiet room, fury flashing. “Father, what is this? This is my space!”
“Rania, an assassin hit the treasury and wounded the envoy. He may have fled here,” Julian answered, softening his tone toward her while never lifting his eyes from the troops. He watched Jared from the edge of his vision, weighing every twitch.
Jared offered the proper shock. “An assassin? The envoy is hurt? Manor Lord, is Mr. Clive all right?”
Mr. Clive’s palm pressed the rent in his inner armor, the gray sting of chaotic force still leaking discomfort across his face. His stare skimmed Jared, then prowled over silken screens and carved pillars, hunting for the invisible thread that felt wrong. To him, Jared looked frail, his aura capped near the peak of the Earthly Immortal stage—nothing like the ruthless shade from the treasury. Yet unease clung to the envoy’s silence, as if a puzzle edge refused to fit.
Half an hour dragged by. Wardrobes lay emptied, floors bare. The guards found nothing. The captain swallowed and reported, “No trace, Manor Lord!”
“Useless!” Julian snapped, sleeves flaring. “Keep searching. Widen the net. Lock down the inner court! Do not let so much as a fly escape!”
Mr. Clive lifted a hand, cutting off the tirade. His glare fixed on Julian. “I was attacked inside your treasury; the assassin vanished beside your daughter’s quarters. You owe me an explanation.”
Hearing this, cold settled over the pavilion like nightfall. No one dared breathe; even Rania felt the weight pressing against her ribs.
Julian drew a long breath, shoulders sinking. “Envoy, my shame is great… Lately, certain restless cultivators resent the celestials and our manor’s cooperation. They sow rumors, steal goods, and now dare strike at a celestial envoy to ruin our standing and brand us traitors.” He pushed blame toward unseen rebels with earnest eyes.
Mr. Clive shook his head. “The force that hit me was strange, unlike any common rebel.” He stepped closer, voice low and sharp. “Your treasury wards are tight. How did he enter? How did he know my route and ambush me?”
Julian‘s mouth opened, stalled. A strained smile surfaced. “The wards are complex. Perhaps he is a formation expert. As for your route… Your arrival was grand; spies may have observed.” He bowed, both hands raised. “The fault is mine… I have sealed every gate, I will scour the city, and when I find him, I will deliver him to you.”
Julian‘s tone stayed humble, his promise thick, as he swore again to chase the phantom that stood a single pace away.
A faint shimmer slid across Mr. Clive’s silver irises. Julian’s smooth excuse rang hollow, and Mr. Clive tasted deceit like iron on the back of his teeth. He didn’t buy a single word. Every trick he had caught Jade Immortal Manor pulling paraded through his head. Compared with those, the tale of some rebel sneaking in for assassination felt laughably thin.
He stood in the very core of the manor, outnumbered and away from open sky. A straight fight with Julian here could turn his delegation into corpses before nightfall. His chest pulsed where that gray sword light had scraped him. The alien power still nipped at his flesh—cold, tireless, whispering that he could bleed again if he misstepped.
A short, sharp breath burst from him.
“Fine,” he growled, letting the echo carry, “I’ll trust you this once. Manor Lord Jade, the Divine Punishment Hall expects a report that won’t insult our ears… Soon. As for the soul crystals,” he added, flicking a hand at the sealed door, “They‘re unfinished. I won’t waste another breath here. The tribute is logged; I return at once to deliver it. See to your own house.”
He held Julian’s gaze for a slow heartbeat, then let it slide to the soft-faced scholar and the furious girl beside him. None of them spoke. Mr. Clive snapped his cloak, turned, and strode out with his celestial guards in tow.
Before the manor gates even shut behind him, he was already plotting the next stops: two more houses, one frozen valley, then straight back to the Divine Punishment Hall. The elders had to hear about that ghost-gray assassin.
Julian stood on the pavilion steps until the last glimmer of Mr. Clive’s carriage winked out against the clouds. The grief and deference on his face drained away like water through sand, leaving a still, unreadable calm.
He flicked two fingers—a silent order. Armor clinked, ranks split and withdrew, until only a handful of his most loyal stood watch beyond the lattice doors.
