Chapter 100: The Wraith Form

Luke had been there for at least an hour, hidden among the trees, silently watching. Ever since he spotted that flicker of torchlight, he’d approached with extreme caution, analyzing every step, every shadow.

After sweeping the perimeter, he finally found it: a small campsite set up deep within the forest. The fire was lit, but the area was surrounded by large pieces of cloth tied between trees, forming a crude circle of visual cover. A simple trick, but effective. Barely any light leaked out, even to eyes as sharp as his.

Luke remained in the shadows, his breathing slow and controlled, eyes scanning every movement.

Soldiers of Bartholomew. Just my luck. Not Marshall’s men.

By their numbers and the way they were set up, it was just an advanced patrol, not anything resembling a Renegade base. Still, he kept watching. Sometimes, valuable information came in the form of a loose comment or a glance not meant to be seen.

“Who would’ve thought we’d be camping in the damn woods because of those bastards? I swear, I’m gonna kill every last Renegade,” one of the soldiers grumbled, flopping down by the fire.

“It’s freezing out here… Just shut up and serve the soup,” another replied.

The first one clicked his tongue and poured the thick stew into a makeshift bowl.

Luke sighed inwardly, one hand resting against the tree trunk.

This will lead to nothing.

But he didn’t move. Still cloaked in the dark, still watching. In this world, luck didn’t always come loud and screaming. Sometimes it came quiet, disguised as carelessness.

He wasn’t going to miss it.

***

An hour later, something changed. From deep within the forest, a man emerged, his steps steady and deliberate. His armor gleamed under the faint firelight, polished, immaculate, the crest of Bastion engraved on the chest: a crown. The kind of armor only Bartholomew’s smiths could produce.

The soldiers around the fire jumped to their feet the moment they saw him, standing at rigid attention.

“Good evening, Commander Derek!” they called out in unison.

But the reply was anything but cordial.

“Evening?” Derek scoffed. “And what if I were a damn Renegade in stolen armor? Would you idiots still stand there like targets, waiting to die?”

Silence fell. No one answered.

“Give me the report. What did the day shift pass on to you?” he snapped.

The exchange was quick and blunt. They discussed rebuilding the wooden barricades, the ones torn down in a coordinated Renegade attack. Nothing unexpected. No useful intel.

But when the commander turned and started walking alone back into the forest, Luke narrowed his eyes.

Someone like him doesn’t walk alone at night unless there’s a camp nearby.

That’s when instinct became resolve. Moving branch to branch like a shadow, Luke followed, no rush, no direct pursuit. He didn’t need to get closer.

With a quiet breath, he activated his skill:

[Assassin’s Mark – Active]

The moment he focused on the commander, the magic took hold. No matter where Derek went, whether it was behind walls, through trees, or beneath stone, Luke would see him, even with his eyes closed. A glowing outline. A marked prey.

You’re not escaping my sight.

And with that, the silent hunt resumed.

***

Over thirty minutes of silent pursuit. The knight moved through the forest like a man at war with the woods themselves, alert to the slightest twitch of a branch, the faintest whisper between the leaves. At the end of the trail, Luke found what appeared to be the destination: a ruined stone mansion, swallowed by the forest. Though the place wore the mask of abandonment, it was anything but deserted.

Bartholomew’s soldiers patrolled the grounds, weapons drawn, alert. Archers and crossbowmen stood at strategic posts, eyes sharp, aim sharper.

“Who’s approaching?” asked one of the sentries, bow already drawn.

Others raised their weapons, aiming toward the path.

“It’s Commander Derek,” came the reply from the shadows. The figure raised a single hand, flashing a subtle gesture, a silent code.

“It’s him,” confirmed the archer, lowering his bow. “Apologies, Commander.”

Luke watched from a distance, hidden in the treeline. Every movement, every exchange, was meticulously observed. He circled the perimeter in silence, assessing the layout. The defenses were tight. Breaking in? Nearly impossible. Attacking? Suicidal.

But then, he saw it. Near the base of the mansion wall, almost invisible under layers of moss, was a small, barred opening. Not a real window. Just a vent. Likely for cellar ventilation.

Luke crept toward it, crouched low. He pressed his face to the grate.

Darkness.

But then… the faint red glow of his marked target. Through the stone and shadow, he could see Derek, a crimson silhouette moving slowly down a set of stairs into the basement. The commander paused at the bottom, then walked forward again, approaching someone.

“Looks like I’m back to finish our little chat,” Derek said, his voice coated in cruel satisfaction.

Luke narrowed his eyes.

In the darkest corner of the cellar, he saw a man chained to the wall. Heavy iron shackles. Drenched in blood. His face was so swollen and broken it barely resembled anything human. The signs were clear: prolonged torture.

“Ever since we caught you wandering yesterday… I’ve started to feel like all the headaches your people gave me might finally be worth it,” Derek continued, grabbing an iron rod from a nearby table.

Without hesitation, he struck.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Crack.

“You’ll tell me everything, you damn Renegade!” the commander growled.

“I-I swear, I already told you everything! I don’t know anything else!” the man cried, voice shaking with despair. “I only knew where our last camp was! Only the top leaders know where Marshall is!”

That didn’t stop the next blow. Luke watched, crouched outside, his eyes fixed on the scene with cold precision. He didn’t blink. He didn’t pity.

Instead… a slow smile crept across his face.

Looks like I finally found my source of information.

***

“Damn, this place just keeps getting colder every damn night,” grumbled one of the crossbowmen, huddled close to the fire.

“It’s almost winter, dumbass. You’ve been stuck in this place for over a year, you should know how this crap works by now,” muttered the archer beside him, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

The dead of night wrapped around them like a noose. Only the wind stirred, whispering through the trees. Every now and then, it carried faint echoes—low, muffled screams. Torture, bleeding through the floorboards of the ruined mansion behind them.

Then something broke the rhythm of that monotony.

“Help!” a male voice shouted.

A figure came stumbling out of the underbrush, panic written all over his face. He tripped, nearly fell flat, and flailed toward the guards like a man fleeing death itself.

“Who the hell are you?!”

“Kill it! Kill it! It’s coming for me!” he screamed, his voice raw with terror.

“Lloyd?” one of the archers squinted, recognizing him.

“A demon!” he panted. “I—I went to take a piss and saw something… something floating! A black thing, like living smoke!”

The others exchanged wary glances. Some laughed nervously.

“You’re seeing shit, man.”

“I swear, dammit! It was real, it looked like a shadow that breathed!”