Chapter 67: Child’s Rest

I did not want to walk back out through the main dark tunnels.

By now, Duke Voulstridge and his elite assassin would have finished securing the upper tunnels and were likely making their way down toward the stone vault door.

"If I walk out there right now, the Duke is going to look at me like I just stole his favorite horse," I whispered, shaking my head in the dark room. "And that terrifying assassin of his won’t even say a word. He will just stare at my magic pouch until I turn over every single item I picked up."

If they found an eight-year-old boy walking out of the inner laboratory holding strong evidence, it would lead to hours of annoying questions, official holds, and endless paperwork.

I preferred to keep my work quiet.

I scanned the high vaulted ceiling of the laboratory with my Locksmith’s Eye, looking for an alternative exit route.

"Every room that boils chemicals needs an air pipe," I told myself, sweeping my golden vision across the stone arches above. "Unless you want workers fainting, you have to cut a vent near the roof."

Near the upper stone archways on the north wall, I spotted a small, square iron grate embedded into the stone.

It was a secondary air ventilation path designed to pull toxic fumes out of the chamber and vent them through the cliff face near the river.

"Okay. That will do," I said, eyeing the height. "It is a bit high up, but my arms aren’t broken yet."

I picked up a sturdy wooden crate from the floor, dragging it over to the base of the north wall directly beneath the ventilation grate. I stacked a smaller iron box on top of it, creating a makeshift ladder.

"Being eight years old definitely has its drawbacks when everything is built for full grown adults," I grumbled, testing the weight of the stacked iron box with my boot. "Everything is five feet too high, and every table is built like a wall."

I climbed up onto the iron box, reaching my hands toward the iron grate.

"Hold steady now," I cautioned myself as the iron box wobbled slightly beneath my feet. "If I break an ankle after surviving spatial portals and corrupted mages, I am never going to live it down."

The grate was locked from the inside with a simple heavy spring latch, rusted over from years of exposure to damp air and chemical fumes.

"Look at all this rust," I whispered, examining the brown flakes around the iron frame. "No magic traps, no foreign silver alloy, just plain old neglect."

Clink.

I inserted my iron pick into the rusted latch, giving it a quick, firm twist.

"Come on, give me a break," I muttered, applying a steady push against the binding pin. "Do not snap on me."

Click.

The rusted spring disengaged, and the iron grate swung open smoothly on its hinges.

"Simple and reliable," I noted with a slight grin. "Rusted iron never disappoints."

I grabbed the stone edge of the ventilation shaft, pulling my small body up into the narrow, square tunnel. I pulled the iron grate back into place behind me, latching it softly so it looked untouched from below.

Close.

I locked the rusted latch from the inside, ensuring nobody could follow me up the shaft.

"If the Duke’s assassin comes up here looking for footprints, he will just see a locked iron vent," I said softly, feeling the satisfying snap of the latch resetting. "He will assume I vanished into thin air like suit guy."

The ventilation tunnel was tight, dark, and covered in a thick layer of dry dust, but it was wide enough for an eight-year-old boy to crawl through comfortably.

"At least my small size is good for something," I murmured, wiping a dusty cobweb off my forehead. "An adult knight would get stuck in here before his knees even made it past the entrance."

I crawled on my hands and knees through the dark stone shaft for nearly fifteen minutes, following the gentle breeze of fresh night air blowing from the far end.

With every meter I crawled, the heavy smell of stagnant chemicals faded, replaced by the cool, damp scent of the river outside. My knees were sore, and my palms were black with soot, but I kept moving forward without stopping.

"Focus on the breeze," I reminded myself as the narrow space pressed against my shoulders. "Just keep moving toward the draft."

Finally, the tunnel ended at an iron outlet grate overlooking the small river, located about twenty meters above the water level behind the old city docks.

I peeked through the rusty iron bars, looking down at the dark, flowing river water reflecting the moonlight far below.

"That is a long drop," I muttered, taking a quick breath. "Good thing there are drainage steps cut into the rock face."

I pushed the outlet grate open, slipped out onto the rocky cliff ledge, and climbed down the old stone drainage steps that led toward the riverbank.

The stone steps were slippery with moss, forcing me to keep three points of contact on the cliff side with every step I took down the dark wall.

Five minutes later, I was walking along the quiet, cobblestone streets of the Commercial District.

The district was fast asleep. The street mana lamps gave off a soft, warm yellow glow, casting long shadows across the empty wooden storefronts and quiet homes.

A cool night wind blew down the narrow street, fluttering the hem of my dirty shirt and carrying the familiar smell of woodsmoke and bakery flour.

It was hard to believe that less than an hour ago, I was standing in an unknown door dealing with cultists and an unknown man with strange magic.

I walked down our familiar alleyway, reaching the back door of our locksmith guild.

The wooden door frame looked so simple and peaceful compared to the heavy iron vault doors and foreign spatial hinges I had been analyzing all night.

I pulled out my simple brass house key, slid it into the keyhole, and turned it gently.

Click.

The wooden door opened without a sound. I slipped inside, locked the door behind me, and took off my dusty shoes, leaving them near the entrance.

"Home sweet home," I breathed softly, standing in the quiet darkness of the hallway.

I crept up the wooden stairs to my small personal bedroom, taking extra care not to step on the squeaky third step near the landing.

Once inside my room, I closed the door quietly, taking off my dirt-covered clothes and stuffing my leather magic pouch, the trade ledger, and the Vhaltrar core mold beneath the secret loose floorboard under my bed.

I pulled up the square wooden board, placing the heavy trade manifest and the dark silver mold deep into the dry insulation space beneath the floor joists.

"Stay hidden right there," I whispered as I carefully lowered the wooden floorboard back into place. "The Duke will get to see you soon enough, but only when I am ready to hand you over."

I collapsed onto my bed, letting out a long, heavy sigh into my pillow.

My body was exhausted, my core was completely drained of mana, and my muscles were aching from crawling through stone vents and climbing cliff walls.

Despite the physical strain, my mind was clearer than it had been in weeks.

The mystery of the corrupted cores was no longer an invisible shadow hiding in the dark streets. It had a name, a crest, and an origin point.

"Vhaltrar suit guy..." I whispered into the dark room, closing my eyes. "Fuck that man."

The morning sun shone brightly through my bedroom window, casting warm golden light across my wooden desk and floorboards.

"Silvester! Get up! Your breakfast is getting cold!" Victoria’s loud, familiar voice echoed from downstairs, followed by the heavenly smell of fried eggs, crispy bacon, and toasted bread.

I opened my eyes, rubbing the sleep from my face. My muscles were still a bit sore from crawling through the ventilation shaft, but a good six hours of sleep had restored most of my mana.

"I am up!" I called back, my voice still rasping slightly from the lingering soot in my throat.

I got out of bed, put on my standard cotton shirt and brown trousers, and walked downstairs to the kitchen.

Victoria was standing by the stove, holding a wooden spatula and wearing her usual floral apron. Sitting at our front counter was Ignatius, looking as energetic as ever while eating a massive plate of eggs.

"Morning, sleepyhead!" Ignatius laughed, waving his fork at me with a piece of egg still stuck to the end. "You slept like a log today! I have been sitting here for twenty minutes waiting for you to wake up!"

"What the hell are you doing here so early?!" I mumbled, hopping onto my usual wooden stool and grabbing a glass of fresh water. "Don’t you have your own house?"

"I do, but my mother does not cook bacon like Victoria does," Ignatius said with a broad grin, shoveling another huge bite into his mouth. "Besides, today is the day I officially register at the central guild hall. I could not just sit at home staring at the ceiling."

"Eat your eggs, Silvester," Victoria said sternly, turning from the stove and placing a heavy plate full of thick bacon and three fried eggs in front of me. "And stop picking fights before you have even washed your face."

"I am not picking fights," I muttered, taking a bite of the crispy bacon. "I am just asking why he is invading our kitchen at sunrise."

"And stop staying up so late reading those old lock manuals," Victoria added, leaning over to inspect my face with a worried frown. "Look at you. You have dark circles under your eyes, and you look like you spent the night climbing through chimneys."

I looked down at my slightly smudged fingers and offered an innocent smile. "I was just studying a very complex mechanical layout late last night."