Chapter 29: Tiers? The Power System of This World? (1/2)
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SWOOSH!
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He leapt from branch to branch, a shadow dancing through the dappled forest, leaving nothing behind but startled birds and the faint echo of laughter that sounded almost human.
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Finding himself giggling like a child with a new toy, Lucien's movements through the forest caused a chain reaction of disturbances.
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Birds erupted from branches in flurries of panicked wings, their alarmed calls echoing through the canopy.
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A hidden snake, coiled beneath a rotting log, recoiled with a dry rasp of scales against bark as his shadow passed overhead.
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All this happiness lasted until—of course—the daylight faded into afternoon.
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As the sun dipped lower, painting the forest in lengthening strokes of amber and gold, his excitement slowly ebbed like a receding tide.
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The patches of dangerous direct sunlight grew fewer but longer, stretching across the forest floor like accusing fingers.
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He stopped on a particular branch of an enormous oak, the bark rough against his gloved palm, and crouched in a predatory stance that came to him instinctively.
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"A camp?" he murmured to himself, the words barely disturbing the air around him.
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His breath caught in his throat as he realized just how far he'd traveled—perhaps six or seven hours' run from the original manor, a distance that would have taken a normal human days to traverse.
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Before him sprawled a huge encampment, nestled in a natural depression in the forest floor that concealed much of its true size from ground level.
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His red, glinting, slit pupils narrowed to razor-thin lines and his smile faded into a taut line as he took in the wall, formed from living trees and vines that had been carefully trained and woven together, as if trying not to stand out in the forest.
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The clever camouflage blended almost perfectly with the surrounding wilderness, betrayed only by its unnatural uniformity.
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Yet behind that outer layer of living fortification was an iron framework that glinted dully where the setting sun caught exposed metal.
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Not only that, but a tall, narrow tower rose above the canvas tents within—made of glass panels set in brass ribs, with an iron lattice spiraling around it like a skeletal staircase.
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The glass caught the late afternoon light, transforming the structure into a beacon of amber and rose that seemed to watch the forest with cold vigilance.
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Did I play too far? That was Lucien's only conclusion, his fingers unconsciously tightening on the branch until the wood creaked in protest.
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After all, he'd assumed reinforcements would arrive in two days, and from what the villagers said, perhaps only one.
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But now… he'd arrived right in front of their base?
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Just as Lucien was thinking, a sharp pain—like a white-hot needle stabbing directly into his brain—caused him to jolt back.
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His body arched involuntarily, one hand flying to his temple where the veins pulsed visibly beneath his marble-pale skin.
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The agony was sudden and intense, causing his vision to fracture into prismatic shards as if he were looking through the manor's broken stained glass.
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It felt like someone—or something—was scratching against the inside of his skull, searching, probing...
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...
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"Wow, didn't expect you'd finish your training so soon, Ian," said one of the stationed holy knights, speaking to his friend who guarded the door leading into the camp.
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He leaned against a section of the living wall, his polished breastplate reflecting dappled patterns of sunset light that filtered through the canopy above.
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"Hehe… The training's actually not that hard." Ian straightened his posture, shoulders squaring beneath ceremonial pauldrons that seemed too large for his slender frame.
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His gauntleted hand rested on the pommel of his sword with practiced casualness. "The hardest part is making contributions. As a follower of the Goddess Seraphiel, how could I slack off?" Even though he wouldn't admit it, he was bragging, which made his friend snort and roll his eyes.
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"Well then, great. You'll soon become a Templar—officially stepping into tier two. So envious!" The friend glared at him with mock jealousy, his leather glove making a soft slapping sound as he playfully punched Ian's armored shoulder.
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Both of them soon chuckled, the sound of their laughter incongruously light against the growing shadows of evening.
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Yet suddenly…
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THUD!
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The sound cut through the forest's ambient hum like a blade, causing nearby birds to scatter in alarm, their wings flapping frantically against the deepening twilight.
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Both knights tensed simultaneously, hands dropping instinctively to sword hilts with a soft clink of metal against metal.
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"Huh?! Breg, help me check it out." Ian's voice dropped to a tense whisper, his earlier bravado vanishing like morning mist. The silver amulet at his throat pulsed once, brightly, before settling back to its soft glow.
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The noise drew the attention of the nearby guards stationed at the large gate in the wall.
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Ian—the one soon to become a Templar—went to investigate along with his friend Breg, leaving the other guards to take their place with quick, practiced movements.
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Bright blue lamps dangled from riveted pipes overhead, their otherworldly azure glow cutting through the remaining darkness in the afternoon shade as they approached.
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The light seemed almost liquid, pouring down through the branches and illuminating particles of dust and pollen suspended in the still air.
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This unnatural illumination revealed a sight that left them speechless—a perfectly circular depression in the soft earth, as if something heavy had dropped straight down from above.
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"A hole? Why would there be a hole here?" Breg asked, tilting his head as he observed the area.
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Ian, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes and looked up, his gaze tracking through the branches overhead where dappled blue light revealed a pattern of freshly broken twigs and disturbed leaves.
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The damage formed an almost straight line upward, like a ladder of destruction leading into the forest canopy.
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"There's a spy," Ian said, his voice hardening with certainty. "Let me report this to the higher-ups." He turned sharply, giving Breg a quick, nod. "Return to your post. Double the watch."
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As Ian strode away, his footsteps fading into the ambient sounds of the camp, Breg cast one last uneasy glance at the disturbed earth before reluctantly heading back toward the gate, his hand never straying far from his sword hilt.
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...
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Meanwhile, Lucien—who had just fallen from the branches due to that strange, piercing pain in his skull—was now observing them from a different tree above.
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He pressed himself against the rough bark, the texture digging into his back through the leather coat as he fought to control his ragged breathing.
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His face was a mask of concentration, brow furrowed as he watched Ian's retreating back, the knight's armor catching shards of blue lamplight as he disappeared deeper into the camp.
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So smart... Shouldn't they actually play dumb? he thought sarcastically, though no smile touched his lips.
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His normally confident expression had been replaced with tense wariness.
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Instead of amusement, his nose wrinkled and reddened from the first time inhaling the strong scent of salt, which seemed to fill and hang over the entire camp like an invisible fog.
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The smell was acrid and pure, almost burning his sensitive nostrils—not the common table salt humans sprinkled on food, but something more refined, more purposeful.
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For some reason, the salt here, compared to what the villagers had brought to the manor, was... different.
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Besides the salt, he also found their conversation quite interesting, the words playing back in his mind as he shifted his position slightly, the leather of his coat creaking softly against the tree bark.
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Tiers, huh? He vaguely recalled how the butler and Lyra had mentioned him being equal to Tier 4. But is Tier 4 the peak? If so, why would that butler remain just a servant?
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Well, it seems I need more details from Elara about tiers.
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Lucien then watched as the guard, Ian—the one destined to become a Tier 2 Templar—entered the camp through a section of the living wall that parted for him like water, the vines and branches twisting aside with quiet creaks and rustles before sealing seamlessly behind him.
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He was contemplating his next move. Slowly, carefully, he began teleported from one branch to another, his body dissolving into that strange, liquid darkness between each materialization.
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He inched closer to the camp, the leather of his coat collecting small scraps of moss and lichen with each new position, until—
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"Ugh..." The burning, stinging sensation of the salt assaulted him again, making him feel dizzy. It crawled up his nostrils like invisible fire, spread across the roof of his mouth with caustic intensity.
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His vision swam momentarily, the camp below doubling and blurring before solidifying again. He pressed one gloved hand against his nose, the leather creaking softly as he applied pressure.
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Yet, as he blinked away the discomfort... he realized—it was bearable?
