Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Crimson Sovereign

Looking at the flat-chested elf before him, Qin Le’s expression softened. He reached into his officer’s coat, slowly took out a gold coin, and tossed it over.

Aimoya caught the coin between her slender fingers, examined it closely, and then, as if nothing had happened, slipped it into her pocket.

It was her, indeed.

Qin Le’s inner vigilance eased a little, and he asked in Xuanlü tongue, “Where did you go earlier?”

Aimoya had suddenly disappeared before, and Qin Le thought she’d gone to pick up Olina. Although this elf often looked down on Olina, calling her an idiot at every turn, most of the time she was very concerned about her—a classic case of someone who’s prickly on the outside but soft inside.

But according to the information from the front-line troops, no one had seen Aimoya. Instead, there was an impostor pretending to be her. This made the Xuanlü realize that something might have happened to her.

“I was planning to pick up that idiot, but something happened on the way. I was ambushed by those people,” Aimoya replied in Xuanlü as well.

Qin Le’s wariness dropped further. Narrowing his eyes, he asked, “Who?”

So far, everyone only knew that cultists were lurking in the shadows, plotting something, but no one knew which cult they belonged to. According to the information from the Dawn Kingdom, cultists in this world weren’t like some grand anti-social organizations as imagined—like cults from Qin Le’s past life—but rather individuals who possessed terrifying powers.

In this world, cults were loosely organized. Followers of the same evil god might form groups, but rarely anything resembling a church. Most cultists were mentally or physically corrupted, their minds twisted—true lunatics.

Most cultists came about due to contamination from some evil entity, their thoughts unknowingly warped. Usually, they lived normally, unaware of their condition, until some stimulus triggered a complete eruption.

This was why cultists were so hard to detect, and why they were so dangerous. Their means of spreading were secretive, nearly impossible to isolate physically, and before they erupted, they were hard to distinguish from ordinary people.

If Aimoya had been directly attacked by cultists and emerged unscathed, it meant she wasn’t as helpless in battle as she claimed—or perhaps she’d already been affected by the cult.

“They called themselves servants of the Crimson King,” Aimoya said.

“Are cultists always this polite? Introducing themselves as soon as they meet someone,” Qin Le mused, stroking his chin.

Aimoya explained, “Although those lunatics usually sneak around, they never hide their devotion to their evil god. Proclaiming their faith is a point of pride—it’s something to be declared, not concealed.”

Then her expression grew grave. “I’ve never heard of the Crimson Lord before. It could be an evil god in the process of awakening—or perhaps a high-level demon in disguise. The first is more likely; after all, impersonating a being of higher rank than oneself is practically suicide.”

“An awakening evil god? You’re saying these cultists are plotting to awaken this Crimson Lord, to bring it into the world?” Qin Le ventured.

Though he knew little about the world’s evil gods and cultists, he could still make some educated guesses—stories in his previous life’s films often followed such a pattern.

“Awakening is possible, but actual descent into the world is nearly impossible,” Aimoya nodded, taking the initiative to explain. “In all known history, no deity has ever descended into reality, not even to respond—whether evil gods or gods of light.”

Relieved that his worst fears wouldn’t come to pass, Qin Le pressed on, “Can those cultists stand against the Sword of Dawn?”

If not, he’d have to consider making a run for it. After all, remote command was still command, but without strong logistics, Xuanlü’s power would be greatly diminished.

“Of course not. That sword, though only a mid-tier Royal Artifact, absolutely suppresses all powers of darkness,” Aimoya replied.

“And even without that property, the Sword of Dawn is a genuine Royal Artifact, not a forgery. Those cultists simply can’t contend with the real thing. As long as you remain in the royal palace, you’re basically safe—certainly safer than in your base.”

Qin Le asked a few more questions. Once he’d pieced together the situation in the capital from all the intelligence, he tossed ten gold coins to Aimoya.

“This is your payment.”

Aimoya swept them up in one motion, grinning as she looked at the coins. With a sweet, clear voice, she said, “Thank you, boss! You’re so generous!”

That was why she’d hurried to see Qin Le right after escaping from the underworld.

If you overlooked her tendency to borrow things and her greed, Aimoya would be a sweet and lovely elven girl, even if she’d lived for centuries.

“Boss, I won’t disturb your fun any longer!” Aimoya rose from the sofa, turned, and after a few flickers, vanished into thin air.

The room fell silent again, the only sound the steady breathing of the two maids on the bed.

Qin Le lay on the sofa, hands behind his head, staring at the intricately carved ceiling, lost in thought.

More than the intelligence Aimoya had brought, what concerned him now was something else—the current state of his vanguards.

Most of his vanguards were still like those of the old empire: killing machines, tools without personality, not truly people. For the Republic, that might be a sharp and deadly blade, but for him, it was worrisome.

This went completely against his original intention. He hadn’t acted solely for ideals—much more was for the sake of these brothers who trusted him absolutely. He wanted them to experience the joys of being human, not a lifetime as machines.

Yet in this new era, even in the Republic—a nation that granted everyone basic dignity—his vanguards could not feel the essence of being human. Or perhaps, deep down, they feared the new, instinctively rejecting it.

Was it truly right to have led them out of one hell, only to bring them into a place even more dangerous?

Qin Le got up from the sofa, poured himself a drink, swirled the wine in his glass, and said, “Are you transcendents?”

The breathing in the room was far too steady; the two beautiful maids on the bed breathed with an unnatural, deliberate rhythm—unlike before.

Just then, the two identical maids slowly opened their eyes, sat up on the bed, their white robes tracing out enticing figures.

Not only were their faces identical, but their bodies were almost indistinguishable.

One of the maids said, “My lord, you put us in a difficult position. We won’t be able to report to His Majesty that the task was completed. Are you dissatisfied with us? I can assure you, neither of us has ever had intimate contact with any man.”

“And after, we’ll take medicine to prevent pregnancy. You don’t need to bear any responsibility for us.”

This mysterious dark-haired man was nothing like a noble; he was calm with everyone, treating them as equals. It gave the two of them a strange feeling—they didn’t even know how to proceed. They were here to serve the Grand Duke of the East, but couldn’t possibly force themselves on him, could they?

“Answer a few questions for me, and I’ll help you handle His Majesty,” Qin Le said, still facing away from them, not even turning his head.

“Are you transcendents?”

Their attitude made the maids wonder if they were too unattractive, but if that were the case, the king wouldn’t have sent them here.

In a clear, elegant voice, the maid replied, “We are Shadow Guards of the Shadow Guard Corps—second-tier official assassins.”

“Do transcendents have to do this sort of thing too? Or is it that even transcendents must serve nobles as maids?” Qin Le pressed.

He’d thought only the untalented underclass were exploited in this world, but it wasn’t so. Low-tier transcendents were also exploited by high nobles with superhuman powers, albeit not as desperately. The untalented became slaves, serfs of a medieval society; low-tier transcendents were more like commoners in ancient feudal times.

“For a great noble like you, only transcendents are qualified to serve you,” the maid answered.

“On the whole, transcendents are indeed better looking,” Qin Le agreed, draining his wine and turning to look at the two twins wrapped in white cloth on the bed.

“Tell me honestly: do you feel angry at being sent to serve me as if you were mere maids?”

Transcendents did outshine ordinary people in appearance, especially physically—there was hardly any excess flesh. These two twin maids, by standards of his previous life, would easily outshine any celebrity.

The maid met Qin Le’s eyes, her expression unchanged, and shook her head without hesitation. “To serve you is our honor.”

“Oh? Is that so?” Qin Le turned away again, unable to suppress a faint smile.

When people feel guilty, they avert their gaze. When they want to conceal something, they become all the more resolute.

As the saying goes, where there is a blade in the heart, murderous intent arises.

In the old society, most people were servile, but once one possessed great power, that servility could mean little. Even the king’s own shadow guards were like this—how much more so the monster hunters who relied only on themselves?

...

Xuanlü, First Military District, in the already established secret laboratory.

One armored vehicle after another passed through layers of checkpoints, entering a laboratory where over half the best scientists of Xuanlü were assembled.

Under the blazing eyes of a group of bald men in white coats, the heavy armor vehicles slowly unloaded one iron coffin after another.

Li Zhiyuan stepped down from an armored vehicle, adjusted his glasses under the gaze of his many colleagues, and with a cultured smile said, “Gentlemen, here is what you’ve all been waiting for. Please, devote all your knowledge and skill—let us add our names to this great and memorable scientific endeavor.”

All the bald-headed scientists’ eyes blazed with a startling light. Some even flushed red with excitement; the entire group was in a feverish state of anticipation.