Chapter 62: Let’s make him your puppet

"Is that so?" a cold, smooth voice echoed within the dimly lit chamber.

Inside the dark room, standing before a mahogany desk that held a shimmering communication orb, was Malcolm—the Sixth Successor’s direct confidant and most trusted shadow strategist.

The glowing surface of the orb displayed the pale, tense face of Arya Benova.

After extracting every bit of information she could from the naive Annie Blacksun in the castle gardens, Arya had hurriedly returned to the privacy of her own bedroom, locking the door to report her findings directly to her ruthless handler.

"Good," Malcolm spoke softly as Arya finished her detailed breakdown. A heavy frown creased his forehead.

"To think the Seventh Successor is that meticulous... building a private military company right under our noses and binding rogue Rankers to his personal banner."

He crossed his arms, his dark eyes glittering beneath the dim light.

"That is quite troublesome."

"Give me an order, my Lord! If need be... I will make sure the Seventh Successor is poisoned this time!" Arya blurted out, her voice trembling with a chaotic mix of desperation and hidden venom.

She was thoroughly eager to end Craig von Darkstar’s life once and for all—not out of loyalty to the Sixth Successor, but to finally fulfill her bloody mission and break free from Malcolm’s suffocating shackles.

Malcolm knew her true intentions all too well.

His lips curled into a devilish, mocking grin as he stared down at her frantic expression in the crystal orb.

"That will raise far too many suspicions, my little bird," Malcolm purred, gently stroking his smooth, beardless jaw. "Tell me... what do you think would happen if the Seventh Successor were to suddenly drop dead just a week after the formal Dragon’s Calling Ceremony?"

"I... I... I don’t—"

"Keep quiet," Malcolm commanded coldly, cutting her off instantly.

Arya snapped her mouth shut, her breathing shallow as Malcolm continued his chilling analysis.

"The Lord Duke is a terrifyingly intelligent man. It is virtually impossible to deceive a Sword Demigod," Malcolm sighed, leaning over the mahogany desk.

"And besides... if a Successor is assassinated so blatantly right after taking his fief, the Red Angels will inevitably be unleashed to investigate."

The moment the words Red Angels fell from Malcolm’s lips, Arya’s entire body violently trembled, a sudden chill running down her spine.

There was not a single living being across the entire Western Continent who had not heard of the Red Angels.

They were the most terrifying, ruthless secret intelligence and execution organization in the West—known far and wide as the Duke’s personal Shadow.

The first and most infamous time the Red Angels had made a public appearance was thirty years ago, when a foolish Count had attempted to launch a rebellion against the Duke, joining forces with a massive army of northern barbarians.

Duke Oscar had not even bothered to deploy the Duchy’s grand army.

Instead, he had unleashed the Red Angels alone.

That single secret organization had systematically wiped out every living breathing entity within the traitorous county in a single night.

Commoners, rebel soldiers, livestock, infants, and high-class knights—not a single soul was spared when Duke Oscar unleashed those crimson executioners.

The entire realm remembered that bloody nightmare.

No one in their right mind was ready to face such an apocalyptic calamity ever again.

Malcolm exhaled a deep, heavy sigh, his dark eyes locking onto Arya’s trembling image in the orb. "Do not act foolishly, Arya. If you make a single reckless move that draws the gaze of the Duke’s shadows, your surviving little brother will die an agonizing death before you even have time to blink."

Panicking at the thought of failing her handler, Arya hurriedly pressed her face closer to the orb.

"T-Then... can I at least kill that little bitch Annie and her elder brother? The one who was given command of the private military force? I can easily slip poison into their daily rations!"

"No," Malcolm refused without a second thought. "You will do no such thing. Keep watch, stay in your place, and await my next explicit command."

Malcolm’s gaze hardened into two ice-cold daggers. "The Seventh Successor still trusts you as his castle’s Head Maid. You must not act irrationally and lose your standing, or else you will ruin our grand strategy.

If you fail me again, Arya... both your head and your little brother’s head will be hung from the gates of Lucerion."

Without waiting for her response, Malcolm casually waved his hand over the magical crest, instantly severing the connection and extinguishing the orb’s light.

The room fell into complete silence once more.

"That is the full report, my Lord," Malcolm turned around, bowing his head deeply toward the dark corner of the chamber.

Seated within the dense shadows on an ornate velvet throne was the Sixth Successor himself—Aaron von Darkstar.

Aaron’s sharp, handsome features were partially illuminated by the faint moonlight streaming through the high arched window.

His dark eyebrows narrowed slightly, a faint, intriguing smirk touching his lips.

"That little Craig sure is turning out to be quite interesting," Aaron murmured, his smooth, regal voice echoing softly in the dark.

"He plays the quiet kid in the capital, yet moves like a seasoned predator the moment he steps into his own territory."

Aaron leaned back against the headrest of his throne, crossing his legs casually as his glowing dark golden eyes fixed upon his confidant.

"So... what do you think we should do next, Malcolm?"

Malcolm straightened his posture, a lopsided, sinister grin spreading across his face.

"I believe... we should contact them," Malcolm answered smoothly.

"Them?" Aaron’s eyes narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits. "Why them of all factions?"

"Because they are the absolute perfect choice, my Lord," Malcolm explained, his voice dripping with venomous ambition.

"Since it is far too risky to have the Seventh Successor assassinated this early without provoking the Lord Duke and the Red Angels... why don’t we take a different approach?"

Malcolm stepped closer to Aaron’s throne, his devilish grin widening.

"Instead of turning him into a corpse... let us turn Craig von Darkstar into your puppet!"