Chapter 17 – Truth Behind the Bandits
The morning after his advancement was quiet—too quiet.
The Goldbear estate should have been filled with relief, even celebration, after the annihilation of the Crimson Blade Bandits. Merchants once terrorized by raids were already sending envoys of gratitude, caravans creaked once more along the trade roads, and the militia had returned bearing spoils of weapons and gold. Yet in the main hall, Glic sat on his high-backed chair with a shadowed gaze.
Victory had been too clean. Too convenient.
He drummed his fingers against the armrest, the weight of his new mana ring humming faintly in his chest. The breakthrough still burned in his veins, but his mind refused to bask in triumph. Instead, it turned like a whetstone grinding steel.
Dika was a barbarian, a brute with skill, yes… but bandits don't organize ambushes against heavily guarded caravans without inside knowledge. And they certainly don't stockpile enchanted blades without a supplier.
The Steward, old Marreck, cleared his throat beside him. His voice was careful, respectful.
"My lord, the men are calling for celebration. The Crimson Blades have been broken. Many say your name will be sung from one end of the province to the other."
Glic's lips curled faintly, though his eyes remained cold.
"Songs are fleeting. Blood and gold last longer. Tell me, Marreck—do you believe it was only bandits?"
The steward faltered. "They wore the marks of raiders, their camp bore the stink of outlaws. Yet…" He hesitated, then bowed his head lower. "The quality of their steel, the orderliness of their ledgers, and the manner in which they divided spoils… it was not common rabble."
Exactly as Glic thought. He leaned forward.
"Bring the records we seized from their hideout. All of them."
The bandit camp had yielded more than weapons. Buried beneath crates of stolen grain and barrels of wine had been a collection of leather-bound books, too neat, too carefully kept for mere highwaymen. When the militia had delivered them, most assumed they were loot tallies or gambling debts.
Now they lay spread across the long oaken table in the hall. Glic adjusted his spectacles—an affectation from his other life that lent him gravitas here—and flipped one open.
Columns of numbers stared back. Dates, locations, values. Caravans looted, coin tallies, the resale of goods. Yet in the margins, sigils marked with wax were pressed into parchment: the crest of a falcon stooping upon prey.
The mark of House Valebridge.
Glic's brows drew together. Valebridge was no minor house. They were rivals, yes—bordering lands to the east, perpetually resentful of Goldbear tariffs and the prosperity brought by their trade routes. But for a noble house to fund banditry? To stain their hands with such obvious villainy? That was no small thing.
Marreck shifted uncomfortably as he too studied the crest. "My lord… this is treason. If proven, the king himself would have cause to strip their lands."
"Which is why it will not be proven so easily," Glic murmured. His mind turned rapidly. "If the Valebridges are this bold, then they believe themselves protected. Either by coin that runs deeper than ours… or by allies who would rather see Goldbear blood spilled than their own."
He closed the ledger with a snap. "Tell no one of this, Marreck. Not the guards, not the merchants, not even the household retainers. Until I understand the full scope, silence will be our shield."
The steward bowed, lips pressed tight.
That night, Glic donned his alter ego—the hooded robes of the Artificer. His image shimmered faintly with illusion, his face veiled by shadow, voice altered by the System's minor enhancements. Under this guise, he ventured into the lower districts of his town where whispers ran thicker than wine.
The Dark Fae Market might be distant, but every port of call had its shadows. Smugglers, informants, and petty thieves—if one had the coin, they had the tongue.
In a candlelit cellar beneath a cooper's shop, he met with a fixer known only as Crow.
"You bring questions, artificer," Crow rasped, feathered cloak brushing the dirt floor. "Dangerous ones. The Crimson Blades are dead. Why dig in graves?"
"Because the grave still stinks," Glic replied, laying a pouch heavy with silver on the table. "Tell me who supplied them."
Crow's black eyes glimmered as he counted the weight by touch. "Supplies, yes. Blades sharper than peasant iron, potions too potent for cutthroats. Some whispered of arcane sigils smuggled from mage towers. But all trails circle back to one patron."
"Name him."
"House Valebridge," Crow said simply. "But not the lord. His younger brother. Ser Alaric. Too ambitious for his station, too hungry for coin. He feeds the dogs and unleashes them where profit lies."
Glic's jaw tightened. So it was not the entire house, but a faction within it. That made things both easier and more dangerous.
"Is he acting alone?"
Crow shook his head. "No man funds warbands without allies. He has… protection. A hand behind the curtain. Some say a wizard of the Second Ring, exiled from the tower for forbidden practices. Others whisper it is a priest who broke with his order. Truth? Murky."
Glic felt the weight of the revelation settle over him. Bandits were one thing. Nobles another. But wizards… wizards turned everything into peril.
Back within the safety of his manor, Glic paced the study. His mind spun with calculations, possibilities.
If Valebridge seeks to weaken me, they will not stop with bandits. The loss of the Crimson Blades is a blow, but Ser Alaric will regroup, perhaps more subtly. And if a rogue wizard backs him, then my secret becomes more vital than ever.
The System chimed softly.
> [New Quest Detected: Expose the Hand Behind the Crimson Blades.]
Objective: Trace the source of their supplies and uncover Ser Alaric's allies.
Reward: System Upgrade (Spell Fusion Stability +10%).
Glic smirked despite himself. Even his System acknowledged the gravity of the plot.
---
The Family Council
At dawn, he summoned his most trusted kin: his cousin Elira, sharp of wit and keeper of the estate's finances; his uncle Dorn, commander of the household guard; and Marreck, ever faithful steward.
They gathered around the long table as Glic revealed what he had learned.
Elira's eyes widened at the crest burned into the ledgers. "If this is true, then House Valebridge has already crossed into rebellion. Should we not send this directly to the Duke? Let the crown's justice fall upon them?"
"No," Glic said sharply. He tapped the table, every syllable crisp. "If we expose them now, they will burn the evidence and twist the tale. We would be painted as liars, fabricators, perhaps even accused of staging the bandit raids ourselves. No—we need undeniable proof. Proof that survives the court's scrutiny."
Dorn's fist clenched. "Then let us march. Take men and steel and show them the cost of crossing Goldbear blood!"
"Brute force is what they expect," Glic countered. "They want us rash. No, uncle. This game is of coin, ink, and shadow. We will gather allies quietly, strengthen our lands, and when the time is right—crush them in one stroke."
The room fell silent, but slowly, both Elira and Dorn nodded.
Marreck, however, leaned forward, voice low. "Then, my lord… what of the rogue wizard?"
Glic's expression hardened. "Leave him to me."
Later, when the estate had quieted and the stars pricked the velvet sky, Glic returned to his study. He opened the Combat Simulator for the first time, curious to test its new functions.
> [Scenario Loaded: Duel Against 2nd Ring Wizard (Estimated Power Model).]
The world around him shimmered, dissolving into a spectral arena. Across from him stood a faceless figure cloaked in arcane light, mana burning with oppressive force.
The duel began instantly. Bolts of fire and force screamed toward him. Glic barely raised a ward before the impact hurled him backward. His fused frog-beasts leapt to shield him, but spells tore through them like parchment. His counters barely scratched the foe's defenses.
Moments later, he lay broken on the simulated floor, chest heaving, body wracked with phantom pain.
> [Defeat.]
The System's voice was calm.
> [Analysis: Host lacks sufficient power to confront a higher Ring opponent directly.]
[Recommendation: Employ fusion strategy, environmental manipulation, and indirect tactics.]
Glic sat up slowly, sweat soaking his brow, but his lips curled in grim determination.
"Good. Then I will learn. I will break a Second Ring wizard not through raw power, but through science, strategy, and the System's gifts. Just as I broke the Crimson Blades."
His eyes gleamed with cold fire.
"Let the Valebridges scheme. Let their wizard hide in shadow. I will drag them into the light—and when I do, there will be no escape."
Beyond the estate walls, rumors spread like wildfire. Merchants spoke of the Goldbear victory, of a mysterious artificer aiding their cause. In taverns and courts, whispers grew louder: If the Crimson Blades were destroyed so suddenly, who truly stood behind them?
And in the halls of House Valebridge, Ser Alaric clenched his goblet until wine spilled over his hand, rage boiling in his veins. His bandits slain, his plans disrupted, his pride wounded.
But his lips curved into a cruel smile.
"So, the little viscount thinks himself clever. Let him bask in his triumph. Soon, he will learn what it means to make an enemy of Valebridge… and of powers darker still."
The game had only just begun.