Chapter 51: Too Reckless

Chapter 51: Too Reckless
The Grand Prophet collapsed to the ground with a dull thud. The fatal wound in his chest still gushed blood, the dark crimson liquid spreading rapidly across the floor, snaking along the cold veins of the marble in all directions. His eyes, once filled with greed and false wisdom, finally began to lose their luster.

I whirled around to face Randell, my chest heaving violently, my fingertips tingling slightly from the tension of moments before.

"Have you lost your mind? Why did you kill him?"

Randell didn't look at me, as if he hadn't just pierced through a man's chest. He was pulling a pristine white handkerchief from inside his coat, methodically wiping the blood from his blade. That practiced ease, as if he'd repeated this motion a thousand times before, sent an indescribable chill through me as I watched.

"If he lived, every path forward would be closed to you," he finally spoke, his tone as flat as if discussing the weather rather than having just decided someone's life or death. "He saw our faces. If he didn't die, the moment we left, he would report us to the guards. Then every checkpoint in Aethon would be plastered with our portraits. How long do you think we could hide with the entire city hunting us?"

I stared at him hard. His logic was sound. If the Grand Prophet had survived, after we'd asked him such forbidden questions, he would certainly report us to the city guard. Our features would be wanted, the entire city's guards would track us like hounds. The difficulty of leaving Aethon would increase exponentially.

But this was absolutely not something Randell would say. Or rather, not something the Randell I'd known for thirteen years would do. The Randell in my memory, that boy who grew up in the palace, would never make decisions for me without consultation.

The Randell I knew would have asked for my judgment first, would have weighed the pros and cons, would have withdrawn his killing intent the moment I sheathed my sword. That Randell would never show this kind of cold indifference after taking a life, as if he'd merely pruned a dead branch.

I examined the man before me anew. His expression hadn't changed, his eyes held no guilt, nor any desire for credit. He simply looked at me quietly, waiting for my reaction, as if he'd just cleared an obstacle from the path rather than killed a person.

"This matter was mine," I said through gritted teeth, the words squeezing through my clenched jaw. "Not yours."

He didn't apologize, nor did he offer any defense. This was too abnormal. I had no idea what he'd been through to transform him into this cold state.

He simply sheathed his sword with a sharp metallic click that sounded particularly jarring in the deathly silent room. "We need to deal with the scene," he said. "Now."

I took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the doubts that surged through me. Now wasn't the time to analyze Randell's changes. The corpse before us was a more urgent ticking time bomb. I forced myself to shift my gaze back to the Grand Prophet's body.

"The cabinet," I pointed to the west wall. "Hide him in there."

Against the west wall of the lounge stood a massive mahogany wardrobe, hung with several of the Grand Prophet's ostentatious robes. I gestured for Randell to clear the bottom of the cabinet while I began dealing with that glaring pool of blood on the floor.

I grabbed the pitcher of red wine that had just been poured on the table—it was fine vintage, rich in color. I tilted the pitcher, and the deep red wine cascaded down, covering the bloodstain. The sharp scent of alcohol and the aroma of grapes instantly masked the smell of blood.

Then I found a rag from under the table, knelt on the floor, and scrubbed vigorously at the marble. After wiping, though some faint reddish marks remained on the floor, in the dim light they looked more like the mess from a drunkard knocking over a wine pitcher.

Randell had already cleared the cabinet. Together we lifted the Grand Prophet's heavy corpse and stuffed it inside. The space was cramped; we had to contort his limbs to fit him into that narrow confine.

Randell rehung those gold-embroidered robes, layer upon layer concealing that face that died with eyes still open. I examined it from outside—it was just a wardrobe full of gorgeous costumes, nothing unusual.

We left that death-filled lounge as quickly as possible. Fortunately, the corridor was empty, meaning no witnesses. We retraced our steps toward the great hall. Just before stepping into the hall, I stopped.

"Your clothes."

"Hmm?"

"There's blood on your scabbard."

Randell glanced down, expressionlessly wiping away the traces with that bloodstained handkerchief.

"What about mine?" I asked.

He scanned me once, his gaze settling on my right cuff.

"Your cuff."

I raised my hand. A spot of blood from wiping the floor stood out starkly against the white cuff. I quickly folded the outer coat's cuff inward twice, securing it with a pin. From outside, that sin was perfectly folded into darkness.

Sneaking out would only look suspicious. Randell and I adjusted our postures, pretending to be people who had just been received by the Grand Prophet. I slowed my pace, letting my tense shoulders relax, hanging a kind of lingering dazed expression on my face, like two ordinary believers just moved by divine miracle. We crossed through the hall; no one gave us a second glance.

At the mansion's main entrance, those two guards still stood. As we passed, the guard on the left nodded slightly.

"Why are you two leaving so late?"

I maintained that tone of devotion after being baptized by 'divine grace.' "The Grand Prophet summoned us. After hearing his teachings, we felt very fulfilled," I said, my voice gentle. "We wanted to go back and meditate properly while in this state."

The doorman nodded, unsuspicious.

"May the gods watch over you."

We walked out the mansion's main door. Outside, night had fallen, and aside from scattered firelight, the streets had turned pitch black. I controlled my stride, blending myself among the sparse pedestrians on the street, not appearing hurried. Randell walked behind me like a silent shadow.

We followed the main road for a stretch until turning a corner at a crossroads, ducking into a pitch-black alley. Once in the alley, I immediately quickened my pace, nearly running. As if the faster I ran, the more I could leave what had just happened permanently behind me.

The conversation between Randell and me became pitifully sparse. He led me to an iron door emitting a foul odor, pushing it open to reveal a deep tunnel. I covered my nose in discomfort, and combined with the stimulation of having just witnessed a killing, I leaned against the wall and vomited violently. Randell silently handed me a handkerchief, then pulled me onward. We scurried like two rats through Aethon's complex sewer system. Randell led the way, his familiarity with this city alarming—he'd clearly mapped out every hidden passage in Aethon during these four days.