The purge did not slow down. Instead, it accelerated.
"Damn it, who dared to assassinate Harry Xavierius? Just because of that one person, we are hunted everywhere now."
"I don't know much. The only thing I know is the assassin was a man. Damn, as if that helps. Was there ever a female assassin in this kingdom? Such useless information."
"If I find him, I'll torture him day and night. Because of him, every organization nearby is already obliterated. If you want to kill the head of a family, at least don't drag us into it."
The voices came from a damp cellar beneath a warehouse that would not see another sunrise. Men with rough hands and thinner patience huddled over stale ale. Their shadows were shaking under candlelight.
They were not the assassin but they were paying for him.
Outside that cellar, boots echoed against cobblestone with mechanical rhythm. Patrols no longer moved in pairs. They moved in squads with steel armor scraped against scabbards and torches burned even before dusk.
Rumors spread faster than arrests.
Some said the assassin had infiltrated the estate itself.
Others whispered that he had been hired by a rival noble house.
A darker rumor suggested the attempt had been staged.
No one believed that one man could slip past layers of noble protection without inside assistance.
Fear did not distinguish between guilt and innocence.
A herbalist was dragged from his shop because he once treated a wounded smuggler.
A dock worker vanished because his cousin had been arrested three winters ago.
Even retired thieves who had long since abandoned crime were interrogated.
The purge was no longer about justice. It was about pressure. When pressure increased long enough, something always cracked.
Harry Xavierius understood that. He did not need to find the assassin immediately. He only needed the city to tremble.
In the days following the failed assassination, the Xavierius family did not search quietly. They struck loudly, brutally, and publicly.
Gambling dens were raided, smuggling routes were burned, and informants disappeared. Whether connected to the assassin or not did not matter. The official reason was precaution but the true purpose was consolidation.
No one targeted a noble lightly and no one targeted the Xavierius family without consequence.
Yet, one man had done exactly that and escaped.
That fact gnawed at everyone.
Because the more thorough the purge became, the clearer it was. This was not only retaliation. It was opportunity.
As the head of the family, Harry used the incident like a blade. Hidden factions long tolerated were now labeled threats. Guards moved with righteous fury and old grudges were settled under the banner of justice.
To criminals, the city became a tightening noose.
To nobles, it became stability.
And inside the estate, Baston enjoyed his breakfast.
*****
Morning sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the mansion's eastern wing. Buttered bread, grilled meat, soft eggs, thick cream, and fragrant tea were laid before him in generous portions.
Baston chewed slowly, staring at the silver cutlery as though it had personally betrayed him.
If this continued, dieting would become impossible.
The irony was almost poetic.
Outside, people were dragged from shadows. Inside, he debated whether to take a second pastry.
His days had grown peaceful. No one disturbed him. Theodore and his usual companions had stopped seeking confrontation. If their paths crossed in the corridor, Theodore merely nodded stiffly and passed by.
It was kind of respect. The attitude was measured, calculated, and conditional.
Baston did not mistake it for friendship.
Sometimes, when the morning was quiet enough, Baston could almost forget that people were screaming somewhere beyond these walls.
The estate was insulated not only by stone and magic wards but by indifference.
Servants continued polishing silver. Gardeners trimmed hedges with patient precision. And maids whispered about fabric patterns and festival dates.
Stability was a luxury reserved for those with power.
He wondered briefly whether the purge would reach the academy one day. Whether hidden networks inside the school would also be cleansed in the name of security.
His fingers brushed against the edge of the table.
He had benefited from the chaos.
That truth did not disturb him as much as it should have.
Because in this world, advantage rarely arrived without someone else paying the cost.
He swallowed another bite of bread. The butter tasted rich, almost too rich.
After the sparring and the incident, he had claimed his reward from the old book. The performance had been judged good.
It was not excellent nor perfect. It was just good.
It seemed even risking his life before nobles could not break the ceiling placed upon someone of poor birth.
Still, he accepted it. The reward this time was an item which was Inferno Insignia.
He had turned it over in his hand the first night, feeling the faint pulse within it. He rarely relied on insignias. His puppets were already versatile tools. They were silent, adaptable, and terrifyingly efficient.
But this was from the book. That meant it carried weight and unpredictability.
He did not trust unpredictability. So he stored it away, swearing to use it only when necessary.
The insignia had not revealed its full nature.
When he infused a thread of mana into it that first night, the reaction was restrained.
There was no explosion and no dramatic flare.
Just a deep, simmering warmth beneath the surface.
Unlike his flare element which burned with eager volatility, the insignia felt disciplined. It was contained, almost as though it was waiting for permission.
The old book never explained its rewards. It simply delivered them and watched.
That was what unsettled him most. The book truly never wasted anything.
If it had given him Inferno Insignia now, during political instability and noble tension, then it was likely preparing him for something that required destruction, the precise one.
He did not like tools whose purpose he did not fully understand. So he waited and the insignia waited with him.
*****
Days passed then the guest arrived.
The carriage bore a crest Baston did not recognize. Unlike him, who had once been placed in the guesthouse as a polite neutrality, these visitors were welcomed directly into the main residence.
Status radiated from that single decision.
At this time, Baston's room had already been moved into the main house. A quiet acknowledgment of his improved standing which meant it would be awkward if he bumped into distinguished guests in plain clothing.
So he chose to remain inside yet the fate disagreed.
When the maid knocked with lunch, Baston opened the door to relieve her of the tray.
At the same moment, a tall nobleman rounded the corner, carrying a heavy crate with visible strain.
He paused upon seeing Baston. Relief crossed his face.
"Excuse me," the man said briskly, mistaking him without hesitation, "Can you guide me to the meeting room? I forgot the way. I'm in a hurry to bring the goods but it's quite heavy. Could you help me carry it?"
The maid stiffened.
Baston saw her hesitation. He raised a hand subtly just to help the maid.
"I will help."
He did not correct the misunderstanding.
There was advantage in anonymity.
The crate was heavier than it appeared but manageable. His strength had grown considerably since completing his quests.
They walked through long corridors lined with ancestral portraits.
The nobleman spoke little but Baston noticed something odd.
The crate was sealed carefully yet the locking runes were faintly scratched. Not damaged but scratched as if tampered with and then restored.
He said nothing to this found because he had no authority.
Still, his mind cataloged details automatically.
The scratches were too deliberate to be accidental.
They curved around the locking rune in symmetrical arcs, almost like someone had traced its structure before resealing it.
Just for testing and not breaking it.
When the nobleman adjusted his grip, Baston noticed something else.
The man's sleeve shifted slightly, revealing a faint ink mark near his wrist. It was quickly hidden again but Baston caught the shape.
A geometric pattern. Not a family crest and not a common merchant brand. It was something else.
He pretended not to notice.
In noble houses, noticing too much could be dangerous.
They passed portraits of ancestors who had built the family's authority through war, negotiation, and strategic marriages.
Every painted gaze seemed to follow them as if silently questioning what new force had just entered their halls.
They soon reached the meeting chamber.
Inside sat Harry, several elders, and three distinguished guests. The conversation paused when they entered. Recognition flashed across a few faces and confusion across others.
"Here," the nobleman gestured, "Place it there."
Baston complied, setting the crate down gently.
He intended to leave but the guest spoke again.
"Lord Harry, these goods are delicate. My assistants may mishandle them. This servant seems capable enough. May he stay to assist with the demonstration?"
Harry's gaze rested briefly on Baston.
A subtle understanding passed between them. In the end, Harry did not correct the guest.
"Very well."
And so Baston remained.
*****
The crate was opened.
Inside were magic stones, crystalline rods, silver frameworks, and etched plates. Some required assembly.
Baston followed instructions quietly, lifting components, stabilizing frames, and inserting energy cores.
When he inserted the final crystal core, he felt a faint resistance. Not physical but magical. It was like sliding a key into a lock that had already been used.
The energy flow aligned too smoothly as though the device had been activated before arriving here.
He did not mention it. He simply stepped back.
When completed, the device resembled a circular platform with a palm-sized glass panel and thin veins of silver branching beneath it. This thing could be called as magic scanner.
"Previously," the guest began smoothly, "We could only measure raw magic power. This upgraded model assesses proficiency consisted of casting speed, elemental resonance, mana stability, and efficiency."
Murmurs of interest filled the room.
For nobles, measurement was power. Power was hierarchy and hierarchy required precision.
Young members of the family were summoned. Theodore soon stepped forward first to try.
The scanner hummed, light pulsed, and numbers appeared.
"Magic power is 300 and Wind proficiency is 75."
Theodore smiled faintly. Not exceptional but respectable.
One by one, the younger generation stepped up.
The scores varied. Some was high and some was average. Each result was watched closely.
Alicia stepped forward last. She measured her strength before the device glowed brighter.
"Magic power is 350 and Wind proficiency is 85."
Harry nodded, satisfied. The presentation continued.
The guests explained that distribution would be limited. It was only for prestigious families since investment had come from nobles and royalty alike.
The nobles controlled knowledge, controlled growth, and controlled the future. Strength was truly a justice toward the society.
Baston listened in silence. He noticed something else.
Every time someone removed their hand, the scanner's inner silver veins flickered which was slightly longer than necessary as though recording more than displayed.
He suppressed the thought and curiosity.
The flicker was subtle enough that no one else reacted but Baston's perception had sharpened over time.
Each time a hand left the scanner, the light did not dim immediately. It lingered like absorbing, calibrating, and memorizing. Then it pulsed once more before settling.
That extra pulse was not part of the explanation.
It was not announced and it was not acknowledged, yet it repeated consistently. A pattern hidden in plain sight.
He briefly considered sending a puppet closer but he then dismissed the idea.
It was too early to suspect anything. It was better to do observation first before assuming action later.
The assistants began dismantling several outer panels of the scanner to demonstrate internal craftsmanship as the guest proudly described it. Silver casings were lifted carefully, revealing layered conduits beneath.
Baston's eyes narrowed slightly.
The internal structure was elegant, almost excessively so. Too refined for something meant to be distributed only among nobles. The mana channels intertwined like veins around a hidden core.
Each layer insulated with precision runes.
But there was something inconsistent.
The outer construction followed traditional arcane geometry taught in the academies. The inner lattice, however, curved differently. The angles were sharper, more experimental, almost modern.
As if two design philosophies had been merged.
One for presentation and one for function.
When the assistant adjusted a tiny crystal near the rear, Baston noticed a faint ripple of mana that did not circulate back into the main core. It vanished somewhere deeper, beyond the visible structure.
It was not leaking but redirected somewhere.
He lowered his gaze before anyone noticed his attention lingering too long.
Perhaps it was nothing or perhaps the scanner was not merely measuring those who touched it.
Perhaps it was learning them.
*****
Lunch was announced.
The dining hall shimmered with polished crystal and quiet calculation.
Baston was seated far from the main table as expected.
He ate carefully and watched discreetly.
The guests conversed about trade routes and magical regulation. Harry listened more than he spoke.
Magic lamp radiated steadily along the long table. Crystal goblets reflected golden light across polished wood.
Laughter rose and fell in controlled waves.
To an outsider, this was nothing more than a successful diplomatic exchange. But for Baston, he felt a faint tension beneath the elegance.
The visiting noble who had mistaken him earlier was unusually attentive. Not to the conversation but to the servants moving near the scanner case stored against the wall.
His gaze lingered and measured as though waiting.
And then, a tremor happened inside him. It was subtle and cold.