Chapter 30: Tiers? The Power System of This World? (2/2)
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The initial shock of the sensation was fading to something less overwhelming. He slowly dropped his hand from his nose, testing the air cautiously like a wounded animal.
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For some reason, the sensation had diminished; although there was still a tingling, a persistent irritation at the back of his throat, it was manageable—like being poked with a small needle rather than stabbed with a dagger.
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Then maybe I can infiltrate the camp...
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His eyes narrowed with calculation as he surveyed the layout below, mapping potential paths through the complex of tents and structures. The glass tower gleamed in the late afternoon sun, its brass supports catching the light like burning filaments.
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But his thoughts halted as he looked up at the afternoon sun, still hanging high enough to cast dangerous pools of light throughout the camp.
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His sensitive eyes tracked the slow movement of shadows across the ground below, noting with disappointment how little protection they offered.
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Inside the camp, there was little cover besides the tower—no substantial shade for him to hide from the sunlight that would sear his vampiric flesh on contact.
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Then... let's wait until night, he decided, settling back against the trunk.
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But just as Lucien reached this conclusion, his ears twitched at a new sound—the rhythmic thunder of hooves against packed earth, approaching rapidly from the southeast.
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The noise cut through the ambient forest sounds with alarming clarity to his enhanced hearing.
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Under his glinting slit pupils, which contracted to hair-thin lines as he focused, he saw a rider galloping on horseback from behind.
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He turned to spot the familiar village head—Branks—riding toward the camp.
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Hmm? Does he want to hasten the reinforcements? Lucien wondered, his brow furrowing beneath the brim of his hat.
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As far as he knew from Branks and the two fleeing maids, they had already notified the Holy Knights about the vampire situation at the manor.
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But looking at the current camp, with its orderly routine and lack of marshaling forces, there hadn't been any movement or deployment to deal with him.
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So what is the village head doing here? Trying to speed up their response?
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The question hung in his mind as he watched Branks approach the gate, where two knights in polished armor stepped forward to meet him.
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Regardless of Branks's intentions, when Lucien saw how casually the village head greeted the knight at the gate—a firm clasping of forearms rather than the formal salute he might have expected—and entered the camp without hesitation or questioning, he settled deeper into his hiding place.
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…
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The afternoon sun, which had been hanging in the corner of the sky like a copper coin, finally began to wane.
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Its descent painted the forest in gradual transitions of amber, gold, and deepening purple that Lucien could track with newfound appreciation for color and light.
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Long shadows stretched across the clearing, fingers of darkness reaching through the trees to envelop the whole camp and the surrounding forest. The temperature dropped perceptibly, a chill settling in the air that carried the scents of pine, earth, and woodsmoke from within the camp.
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But then, with mechanical precision that suggested routine, bright lamps illuminated the camp from all sides.
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Unlike natural firelight, these lamps burned with that same unnatural blue radiance Lucien had noticed earlier.
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The effect was immediate and transformative: what should have been the encroaching embrace of night became instead a pool of harsh illumination, acting as a barrier against the darkness that had begun to gather between the trees.
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But Lucien was already standing atop the lone watchtower, his tall form a darker silhouette against the night sky.
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The leather of his coat caught the starlight in dull gleams as he crouched, perfectly balanced on the narrow wooden railing.
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From this vantage point, he watched as many shadows and knights carrying the familiar blue light lamps patrolled around the camp, their armor catching the unnatural light in cold flashes.
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Now, where are you...
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He surveyed the dense camp beneath him, packed with tents arranged in concentric rings around the glass tower.
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The canvas structures rippled slightly in the night breeze, creating a sea of undulating shadows.
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Knights moved between them with purpose, yet none of them had made a move toward the manor, even after nightfall, despite the reports of a vampire.
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Their casual conversation drifted up to his sensitive ears—jokes, complaints about the evening meal, discussions of training schedules.
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He realized they must be treating the threat as a joke, perhaps another false alarm in a long series of country superstitions. Still, he hadn't seen the village head leave the camp, which piqued his curiosity further.
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The tingling, but now bearable, pain of salt lingered in his nose, an irritating sensation like fine grains embedded in his sinuses.
Stolen story; please report.
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It mingled with the scent of cold iron and the whirring of machines hidden within the tents.
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There wasn't even the faintest coil of smoke rising into the night sky; the camp used no open fires, only those strange blue lamps that gave off light without heat.
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Only the sound of grasshoppers filled the area, their rhythmic chirping creating a natural counterpoint to the mechanical sounds within the camp.
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But Lucien's focus was elsewhere, his head tilting slightly as something caught his attention.
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Smell... I can smell?
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For some reason, hanging atop the watchtower, Lucien closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring.
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Despite the stinging scent of salt that made his eyes water slightly, there was a distant—or rather, a familiar—smell he recognized, threading through the complex tapestry of scents like a ribbon of recognition.
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It was reminiscent of aged leather and dry soil, mixed with a hint of herbs—sage and something bitter—and a faint, cold metallic tang that reminded him of old coins. The combination triggered something in his memory, a flash of recognition that he couldn't quite place.
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It's familiar... but why? When and where did I smell that before?
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His brow furrowed beneath the brim of his hat, vertical pupils dilating behind closed eyelids as he concentrated. The scent tugged at him, an invisible tether drawing him forward.
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Following his instincts—Lucien opened his eyes, the crimson irises glowing faintly in the darkness.
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He began leaping from tent to tent, his body dissolving momentarily into shadow between each landing.
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He paused occasionally, crouching low to avoid passing patrols, his coat falling around him like folded wings as he hid in the shadows.
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He continued until he arrived at a particular tent set apart from the others, larger and adorned with subtle markings embroidered into its surface.
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Here, the scent was strongest, almost overwhelming his senses.
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He gently pressed one gloved finger against the tent's waxed canvas, testing its resistance.
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The material—sturdy enough to withstand heavy rain and wind—gave way easily beneath his supernatural strength, tearing with a sound no louder than rustling leaves.
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He created just enough of an opening for his slit pupils to peer inside, the red glow of his eyes momentarily dimming as he focused.
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Only to find... emptiness.
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No one was inside, yet the scent was overwhelming here, saturating every inch of the space as if its owner had only just departed.
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Eventually, Lucien tore the tent further, the canvas parting like paper beneath his careful touch. He created an opening just large enough for his tall frame to slip through.
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The interior glowed softly in the amber light of oil lamps—not the blue magical illumination that lit the rest of the camp, but traditional brass fixtures with actual flames that danced and flickered with each subtle draft.
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Crates and battered leather trunks lined the edges of the tent, their brass fittings tarnished with age and use.
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But Lucien's focus only briefly rested on the layout before his senses pulled his attention elsewhere.
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That scent—aged leather, dry soil, herbs and metal—grew almost unbearably strong near the back of the tent, emanating from a heavy oilcloth rug covering the dusty ground.
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The distinct rectangular shape of the covering was too deliberate, too carefully placed to be accidental.
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A classic underground? he wondered, his eyes narrowing to crimson slits as he approached.
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The floorboards beneath his boots creaked softly, despite his careful tread.
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He crouched down, leather coat pooling around him like spilled ink, and ran his gloved fingertips along the edge of the oilcloth. The material was stiff and practical, treated to repel both moisture and attention—a utilitarian disguise rather than a decorative element.
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He easily lifted the rug with one hand. The canvas beneath gave way to exposed earth, and there, nestled in the darkness like a secret confession, was a wooden trapdoor with an iron ring pull.
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Well…well…well… looked at this…
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Pulling up the wooden door, Lucien was greeted by a rush of stale, subterranean air.
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A narrow staircase spiraled downward into darkness, each step worn smooth in the center from countless descents.
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Light—not the warm flicker of flame, but a cold, unwavering glow—emanated from crystalline stones set into the earthen walls at irregular intervals, casting eerie blue-green shadows that seemed to dance and retreat from his presence.
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Lucien's leather coat rustled softly against the tight walls as he lowered his head, his tall frame folding with that unnatural grace as he bent his body to enter the passage.
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His red eyes gleamed in the strange light, pupils contracting to thin vertical slits as they adjusted, penetrating the shadows with predatory precision. A smile of anticipation stretched across his face, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as excitement coursed through his veins.
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But then his nostrils flared, and the smile faltered.
