Chapter Thirty-Two: Now We're Safe (Part Two)

The floor of this secret chamber was covered in twisted, bizarre script. These characters formed a circle along the edge of the room, and in the center, the same writing shaped an inverted pentagram. At the heart of the pentagram, a boy of about seven or eight years old, completely unclothed, was tightly chained with a thick iron chain, his body pale as death, already unconscious.

The name above his head told us that this was young Philip, only son of Prosecutor Faceli. Bringing him back to the Valen Fortress was one of our many tasks on this mission.

The magic circle—composed of the ring and the pentagram—constantly emitted a ghastly crimson glow, suffused with an indescribable sense of evil. This red light pulsed rhythmically, brightening and dimming in a way that, for some unknown reason, seemed linked to the child. Its frequency mimicked the beating of a human heart.

My instincts told me that this sinister circle was draining the child’s blood, seeking to complete some unspeakable conspiracy with it.

Scattered around the boy, we saw five pages written in unfamiliar, strange script, each wrapped in a faint holy radiance, arranged in five directions according to the shape of the circle. These pages imbued with sacred power were also among our objectives—they were the lost chapters of the Holy Codex from the temple of Valen Fortress.

Together with the child, these pages formed the very core of the magic circle. To me, it seemed the circle possessed a peculiar power: it could blend the temple’s sacred magical aura with the boy’s pure life force, altering their magical nature and converting them into a chilling, evil force.

After discovering the chamber, Long Delta did not rush to rescue the child, but first carefully examined the structure of the room.

I was about to dash forward to save the boy when Long Delta suddenly grabbed me and pointed to several slabs by the entrance.

At first glance, these slabs looked unremarkable, but upon closer inspection, they were slightly raised compared to the surrounding floor, their surfaces smoother, less dusty, and free of moss.

“There are traps here,” Long Delta said, pointing to the floor. At his reminder, I noticed a row of gaping steel tubes protruding from the wall opposite the entrance, each ending in the razor-sharp tip of a crossbow bolt.

It took no further explanation to imagine what would happen if I had recklessly rushed in—those bolts would have riddled me with holes.

Long Delta now showed the true worth of a rogue in an adventuring party. He pulled out a large bundle of odd-looking tools from his pack, squatted down, and busied himself with the slabs, probing and tinkering.

After a while, he stood up, full of confidence, put away his toolkit, and nodded at us with a self-satisfied grin. “All done. It’s safe now!” he declared, stamping heavily on the suspicious slabs to demonstrate.

Unexpectedly, as soon as his foot landed, a faint “click” echoed from beneath him. Before he could react, the raised slab suddenly sank, and the row of crossbow bolts shot out from the opposite wall with a piercing shriek.

Fortunately—though it sounds unkind, I must say—fortunately, Long Delta’s portly figure completely blocked the entrance, so every single bolt buried itself in his ample belly, while I, standing behind him, escaped unscathed.

In truth, only the first four bolts in that lethal volley truly struck home, bringing our half-orc rogue to his end—the rest were simply wasted.

Before the force of these deadly darts, Long Delta was like a cat whose tail had been trodden by Death itself: he managed only half a scream before his life was snuffed out.

The tragedy struck so suddenly that the confident look on his face had not yet faded before he was a corpse at our feet. We didn’t even have time to register our shock before we were frozen in place, four dumbstruck statues.

A heavy silence filled the air, tinged with bitter irony.

“I think… he really should have practiced his trap-disarming skills a bit more…” Longbow Sunshot muttered, staring at Long Delta’s stiffened body, an expression wavering between laughter and tears.

“In any case…” I said, stomping hard on the now-harmless slabs, “he did succeed in disarming the trap.”

“…I must have missed the prompt…” With the loving aid of the minotaur shaman, Clado, Long Delta soon groaned and came back to life. His first words, spoken with dejection and embarrassment, were, “The prompt said—the trap was not disarmed…” He was greeted by four pairs of contemptuous eyes—even though Clado didn’t understand his words, the minotaur shaman’s keen observation and insight were enough to grasp what had happened.

Revived and restored to full health, Long Delta immediately threw himself into a thorough inspection of the chamber’s entrance, as if he wanted to pry up every brick and check beneath it. I sensed he wasn’t so much searching for traps as he was wishing he could set one himself, then dismantle it with his own hands, just to redeem his dignity.

But reality is often disappointing. Apart from the lethal trap at the entrance, there was no other hidden threat in the room.

Long Delta had no choice but to admit, with endless regret, that all was safe and relinquish his efforts. With his report in hand, I rushed into the circle, slashed the chain binding young Philip, and quickly carried him out of the chamber.

Though freed from the magic circle’s grip, the boy remained terribly weak, still unconscious. I wasn’t sure whether Longbow Sunshot’s healing magic would be effective on him. As I was trying to revive the boy, a sudden billow of black smoke erupted from the circle, and a shrill, harsh voice screeched through the air: “Who dares to disrupt my summoning? Fools! I swear, you will suffer a fate worse than death!”

It seemed the circle had another function: when destroyed, it instantly alerted the caster and summoned him back at once.

The voice was chilling, and just hearing it made my skin crawl. Yet, it sounded oddly familiar, as if I’d heard it somewhere before.

An uncanny intuition rose within me: I had seen this vampire before—perhaps even knew him well.

The smoke at the center of the circle thickened, slowly coalescing into a vague human silhouette. The figure was tall and gaunt, his entire form concealed beneath a voluminous, high-collared cloak.

As the smoke dissipated, the figure grew clearer, and his name became inevitable.

“Food and vermin! You dare disrupt the grand ceremony that heralds the return of the Lord of the Apocalypse? Tremble! Your regrets come too late!” The vampire lord turned, his venomous, furious crimson eyes stabbing at us.

That ghastly, sinister face belonged to none other than the ruling official of Valen Fortress, the dwarven master smith and trusted patron of “Quencher” Robert Wellanster, and the elder noble whom I once regarded with gratitude—Marquis Menerval…