Chapter Twenty-Two
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Sabed left the room, the heavy silence lingering behind him.
Ained remained where he stood, his eyes fixed on Vargas. He did not move. He was waiting. Calculating. Analyzing.
Then—calmly—he asked:
"Why?"
Vargas did not lift his head from the map.
"We stopped the operation at the moment we were closer than ever. The soldiers are there, the teams are deployed, the Lord of Threads is somewhere among the trees—wounded and alone. Why?"
He stepped closer to the commander, his voice more insistent:
"I am an investigator, sir. I work with logic. With probabilities. With evidence. Your reading of events has always been better than mine. But this time… I don't understand. Explain it to me."
Vargas slowly raised his head. His blue eyes were less cold than usual. There was something else in them—old fatigue.
"Do you know how long it has been since I last fought?"
An unexpected question. Ained paused.
"No… I don't know, sir."
"Fifteen years."
Vargas looked at his right hand. He clenched it. Opened it. Clenched it again.
"I was about your age. A squad commander. A mission in the mountains. We faced a beast… the details don't matter. What matters is that I came out alive. And I killed it. But since that day… I have not raised a weapon against anyone."
Silence.
"Do not think I forgot. Do not think the instinct died."
He stood abruptly. His massive body moved with unexpected lightness. He walked toward the window and looked into the darkness.
"This man—the Lord of Threads—has proven he is more than a mere hired killer. He is a tactical genius. He killed the Lord of Concealment with a trap that left no trace of battle. He anticipated that we would track him. He prepared for it. And now he disappears into a forest we know like the back of our hands."
He turned to Ained.
"My soldiers are there. Four commoners and a reconnaissance expert in each group. If they face him—while he is in a defensive state—they will all die. Not because they are weak, but because he thinks in ways they cannot predict."
He stepped closer, his voice lowering:
"You ask why I stopped the operation. The answer is simple: because sending them to face him would have been an execution. These reconnaissance teams are not an army. They are my eyes and ears. I do not sacrifice them in a futile chase."
Ained opened his mouth to respond, but Vargas raised his hand.
"But that does not mean I will let him escape."
Silence.
"Fifteen years… I thought I could suppress it. I thought leadership was enough. That planning, analysis, and sitting behind a desk would satisfy that instinct."
He looked again at his fist.
"But the spirit—the spirit of a warrior—does not die. It only… waits."
He raised his head and met Ained's gaze.
"I will go myself."
Ained's eyes widened.
"Sir… this—"
"Do you think I forgot how to fight?"
"Of course not, but—"
"But what? I am not old yet. And my Qaz does not rust."
He walked toward the door, then stopped.
"Prepare my horse. And tell Sabed to recall the teams to the barracks.
They will move again tomorrow morning—but not for combat. For containment only."
He gave Ained one last look.
"I will end this pursuit. Alone."
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Vargas stood in the guard stables, running his hand along the neck of his black horse. The animal waited, ears alert, as if it knew this night was different.
"Sir."
Vargas turned. Ained stood at the entrance of the stable, holding a long bundle wrapped in cloth.
"This… I found it in the old storage. I thought you might need it."
Ained extended the bundle. Vargas opened it slowly. Inside the cloth lay a sword.
Not an ordinary one. Its blade was broader than usual, and its hilt wrapped in worn black leather, yet it still gleamed under the lamplight.
Vargas looked at it for a long moment. Then he said quietly:
"This sword was with me in the mountain battle. Fifteen years ago. I thought it was lost."
"It wasn't. It was in the Vaults of Forgetting. As the saying goes: 'What the living forget, the vaults preserve for the dead.'"
Vargas gave a cold smile.
"I am not dead yet, Ained."
"I didn't mean that, sir."
Vargas fastened the sword to his belt. Then he looked up at the sky. The moon had risen.
"Do you know how many of us remain in the High Council?"
A sudden question. Ained hesitated.
"Seven, as tradition dictates."
"Seven. Yes." Vargas paused. "But when we formed the council, we were twelve. Twelve third-level Qaz Lords.
The strongest in this city. We thought we would rule the world."
Silence.
"Where did the other five go?"
Ained did not answer. He knew the answer, but did not dare say it.
"Three died in battle. One left the city after suffering an incurable disability.
And the last… the last lost his mind. He wanders the desert now, speaking to spirits, believing himself a god."
Vargas looked at his hand again.
"We thought power meant immortality. We thought the third level was the peak. Then we discovered there are levels above us.
That the Seven Great Clans possess fourth-level Lords. That the material cities build endless armies."
He turned to Ained.
"That is why I postponed this pursuit. Not out of fear. But because I realized that every battle we fight takes something from us.
A part of our strength. A part of our minds. A part of our humanity."
He placed his hand over his chest.
"My Qaz is still strong. But my body… my body remembers every blow it has taken. Every wound.
Every night spent bleeding alone in the wilderness."
Silence.
"But now… this man—the Lord of Threads—reminds me of something.
He reminds me that I am still alive. That I can still fight. And that I am still—despite everything—a Qaz Lord."
He mounted his horse and looked down at Ained.
"Wait for me. If I do not return by dawn… tell the council that Vargas died as a warrior should: in battle."
He turned away—and rode off.
Ained stood alone in the stable yard, watching the dust left behind by the horse.
He whispered, barely audible:
"The good ones… do not live long."
He sighed as he watched his mentor and commander—the man who had been like a father to him—fade into the darkness of the night.
"But you are not good, my teacher. So… you will not die."
He glanced to the side. Dozens of meters away, Sabed stood at the entrance of the stable.
"Sabed!"
Sabed approached quickly.
"Inform the Captain of the Guard—Lord Crax—that our lord has entered the forest to pursue a dangerous Qaz Lord."
Sabed nodded, then rushed toward the city center.
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In a dimly lit chamber, a man lay stretched across a couch, his feet resting on the armrest.
He laughed hysterically as he watched the dancing women before him, enjoying a long night.
His loose robe did little to conceal his well-built body.
Suddenly—a knock at the door. The music stopped.
"Sir… there is a report."
The man paused his laughter for a moment. Then he said coldly:
"You've ruined my mood. If this report is not important, I will kill you. Do you understand? Enter, you wretch."
The women—dressed in revealing dance garments—hesitated, tension creeping into their expressions. But the man paid them no mind.
The messenger entered. He knew his commander's nature well, so he began without preamble.
He cast a brief look of disdain at the women gathered around the commander, who had stopped dancing.
His gaze lingered on their revealing attire, and he thought to himself:
"Beautiful faces… rotten depths."
He raised his voice:
"We have received news from the City of Adventurers. It appears they have obtained something unknown—highly confidential. At the same time, an important meeting is being arranged with the elite nobles of the city."
Before he could continue, Crax's expression suddenly changed—irritation flashing across his face.
"What are you doing?! Why did you stop dancing?!"
The women hesitated, then resumed dancing in fear. The music returned, softer than before.
The messenger ignored the interruption and continued:
"This is the most important information regarding the matter you ordered investigated. But… there is another report, more important."
He paused briefly.
"In the City of Adventurers… a new third-level Qaz Lord has appeared."
Crax—who had still been watching the dancers—froze.
He turned sharply.
"What?! What are his abilities? When did he appear? Is he from the city?"
The subordinate replied:
"According to what we've received… he is a Rock Qaz Lord. But the information is not yet confirmed."
"What is his relation to the city? Ally? Enemy? Or just a visitor?"
The subordinate began answering his questions, while Crax had completely adjusted his posture.
He sat upright, his eyes locked onto the man, while the music still played in the background and the women danced behind them as if nothing had happened.
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