{Chapter: 54: Cleaning Up The Capital}
In a darkened corner of the royal capital, far from the glimmering lights of the palace and bustling marketplaces, the flickering glow of torches cast long shadows across blood-slicked cobblestones. The once-quiet night was broken by the clash of steel and the anguished cries of dying men, but by now, the sounds of violence had faded to an ominous silence. The reek of blood and burnt timber hung heavily in the air.
Several streets away, residents who had been roused from their slumber peeked through the slats of wooden shutters or narrow cracks in their doors. Faces pale, hearts pounding, they silently withdrew the moment they glimpsed the armor-clad figures moving through the night—soldiers draped in the kingdom's standard regalia, their crimson capes marked with the unmistakable royal emblem of House Woz.
None dared to intervene. No one so much as whispered. In the capital, it was an unspoken law: "No go, no die." Don't seek death, and you won't find it. Every citizen, from the lowliest chimney sweep to the wealthiest merchant, understood this brutal truth.
In the courtyard of a once-grand townhouse, now drenched in blood and surrounded by the bodies of its former occupants, a man knelt with his arms bound tightly behind his back. His face was beaten, his knees bruised, his clothes torn and dirtied with soot. Soldiers stood around him, some still catching their breath, others wiping clean their blades.
Seated calmly on a wooden chair brought from the wreckage, Prince James Woz crossed one leg over the other. His expression was unreadable, cold as polished steel. A man born and raised in courtly shadows and battlefields, James had long since learned to mask emotion beneath a composed veneer.
"Sir Carl," James said, his voice even, but sharp as a blade unsheathed. "Do you have anything else to say for yourself?"
The man known as Sir Carl, once a knight in the service of the capital's western garrison, looked up with tears streaming down his cheeks. His face was swollen, his nose broken, his lips trembling with desperation.
"Your Highness! I-I'm innocent!" he cried, voice cracking. "Please, I swear it on my family's name!"
James remained still, observing him with detached curiosity. Though the prince had already signed the man's death in his mind, he saw no harm in granting him his final plea. "Innocent?" he repeated, tilting his head slightly. "Then tell me. Just how innocent are you?"
Sensing the slimmest thread of hope, Carl's eyes widened. Snot and spit flew as he hurried to explain, words tumbling from his mouth like a flood. "It was just a dinner invitation! They told me to come as a guest—I didn't know anything about military supplies! I had no idea!"
James Woz offered a small nod, expression still unreadable. "I see," he murmured, gesturing vaguely behind him. "In that case, wait just a moment. The evidence should be arriving shortly."
Confusion spread across Carl's bloodied face. He turned his head, trying to see past the ring of soldiers. His heart froze in his chest as he beheld the incoming column.
From the building engulfed in flames behind them, a unit of soldiers emerged. Their armor was stained with soot and gore, and at the front strode a grizzled general—broad of shoulder and clad in heavy plate. In one hand, he carried a blood-soaked ledger. In the other, several severed heads dangled by their hair, still dripping crimson.
Carl's eyes went wide as he recognized the faces—men he had dined with, negotiated with, shared laughter with. Shared women with,
Wealthy merchants, rogue officers, two minor nobles. Friends and co-conspirators. And now, corpses.
With a pitiful moan, Carl's body slumped sideways, consciousness fleeing in a swirl of terror.
James didn't flinch. He barely spared the unconscious man a glance before addressing the general.
"Is it clean?" he asked coolly.
The general dropped the heads onto the cobblestones with a wet thud and knelt respectfully on one knee. "Your Highness, all targets eliminated. The ledger was found intact and confirms the movements of all military goods. Hidden compartments, forged records—it's all here."
James took the ledger and flipped through its pages. He saw numbers, signatures, coded destinations, profits split among various parties. Every detail was recorded meticulously, as if the smugglers believed themselves untouchable.
James let out a quiet exhale. "So meticulous," he murmured. "Almost impressive."
He snapped the book shut and handed it to one of his most trusted retainers. "Submit this to the Royal Bureau. Let them tally the scale of the crime."
Then, rising from his chair, he approached the heap of corpses and looked down at Carl's limp body. With a sudden twist, James delivered a brutal roundhouse kick that connected with the man's ribs.
"Crack!"
Bones shattered. Carl's body lifted slightly from the ground, then collapsed in a heap, blood pouring from every orifice. He did not move again.
Wiping the bottom of his boot against the road, James turned and said to a nearby guard, voice light with grim amusement, "Cut off his head. Stack it with the rest. I want to see how tall the pile gets tonight."
He then looked at a soldier holding a detailed city map, marked with different inks.
"Location code-named Two," James said, mounting his dark steed with practiced ease. "Let's pay them a visit."
---
Across the city, the storm continued to spread. Torches lit alleyways as soldiers swept from district to district like a tide of fire and steel. Screams rang out, followed by silence. Shutters slammed shut. Doors were barred. Even the rats fled underground.
As the searches continued across the vast royal capital, the city no longer slumbered.
Fires erupted in multiple quarters, their warm glow illuminating rooftops while smoke spiraled into the moonlit sky. The shouting of soldiers, the screeching of horses, and the occasional clash of blades echoed across stone streets that had once known peace.
Countless citizens, startled awake by the commotion, crept toward their windows with drowsy eyes and apprehensive hearts. Most saw nothing but flickering shadows dancing behind buildings, the source of the chaos still unclear. But when they caught sight of armor-clad soldiers bearing the golden royal crest—emblazoned on deep blue banners—they collectively exhaled a breath of relief.
This wasn't an invasion. This was internal.
Whatever was happening, it wasn't the enemy at the gates. That knowledge was oddly comforting.
Doors shut again. Curtains drew. Families huddled together and whispered, "Let the royals sort out their own problems."
---
On a wide, debris-littered road flanked by tall houses, Prince James Woz stood in front of several blood-spattered carriages, each laden with gruesome trophies: severed heads, black-market goods, forged documents, and confiscated ledgers.
He shook the blood from his knight's sword in a lazy flick, crimson droplets scattering across the cracked pavement. Then he turned to Ciel, who stood nearby with arms folded and an amused expression.
James jabbed a finger toward the stacked heads. "Brother, what in the gods' names are these places you led me to? I came to root out the Crooked Spirit Society—just them. But instead, I'm hitting black market caches, smuggling rings, illegal dungeons trafficking children, illegal pleasure house keep girls that are too young, assassin hideouts, dens full of the kingdom's most wanted... What the hell is going on here?"
Ciel scratched his head, looking sheepish. "This is just... an unexpected bonus. I think it proves how good I am at picking hiding spots. Or rather—how predictable our enemies have become. These spots weren't picked at random. They were just convenient, off-the-map places for anyone looking to disappear. We missed them for years."
He laughed awkwardly. "Honestly, we just got lucky. Or the capital was that filthy."
James sighed, rubbing his temple. He looked back at the wagons. "You call this luck? This city's built on rot. And we've been letting it fester for decades."
The air smelled like blood and burnt wood. Somewhere, a child was crying. Somewhere else, a dog barked and was silenced.
James stared into the distance. "I wonder how the Church is doing on their end. Maybe they're discovering even more filth."
He wasn't even sure what he wanted anymore. They hadn't found the Crooked Spirit Society—yet—but they'd unearthed an empire of crime festering just beneath the capital's skin. And it made him uneasy.
---
"Bang!"
The heavy basement door cracked off its hinges and crashed to the stone floor below. Dust billowed into the air. Behind the falling haze stood Safi, his robes fluttering with motion, his eyes sharp and ready.
The group inside turned to look. Half a dozen masked figures, all clad in dark robes embroidered with serpentine symbols, snapped to alertness. Their hands drifted toward hidden blades, wary of the intruders.
Safi took a few steps forward, scanning their garb. His eyes narrowed. "Evil Tongue Society," he muttered. "That makes five. Five cult cells in one night. Is the entire capital built over a nest of heretics?"
Behind him, clerics and knights formed up, weapons ready. One of the acolytes looked queasy.
Safi shook his head in disbelief. "We've only searched ten locations. Five were full-blown cults, two were underground crime dens. Either James is pranking me... or this city's worse than we thought."
He glanced around the crumbling basement. The smell of damp rot and incense filled his nostrils. Candles were still lit. Ritual markings stained the floor. Some kind of rite had been about to begin.
"The capital of the Principality of Marton," Safi said aloud, more to himself than anyone, "might just be the cult capital of the continent."
The leader of the cult—tall, thin, with a snake-emblazoned amulet around his neck—stepped forward. He sneered beneath his mask.
"Heretic Hunters? How quaint," the man said. "You came faster than expected. We haven't even started tonight's ritual. We haven't even started yet and you came straight to our door. It seems that you have planted a traitor among us, and he is of a high status..."