The morning after the second summoning, Aurelia awoke to chaos—though no one quite realized it yet.
Fifteen players now roamed the capital.
Each of them, dressed in coarse linen with colored hair and curious eyes, had filtered into the city like water slipping through cracks. Some walked confidently, others stumbled through dialects and customs. But all of them shared one certainty: the plot had begun.
---
One helped an old man carry crates for a fishmonger and was paid with two copper coins and a stale roll. He shouted, “Side quest completed!” and immediately began scouting for the next.
Another joined a group of bricklayers, and instead of laying mortar, spent hours trying to “mine” the wall.
A third cornered a temple priest and demanded to be “initiated into the holy subclass,” prompting a confused sermon on patience and humility.
And everywhere they went, they left behind whispering crowds, baffled guards, and exhausted guild clerks.
---
The Ravens were still watching.
They had not acted, not yet. The new players could now speak a bit of the local language—enough to pass as poorly educated foreigners from the distant north. Their strange accents and missing idioms were no longer entirely alien.
Inside the hidden chamber beneath the Aurelia Archives, the Ravens reviewed fresh reports.
“They seem... calmer,” one agent admitted. “They ask for jobs. They follow basic instructions. One even helped settle a market dispute.”
The commanding officer, however, was unconvinced.
“They’re adapting. That doesn’t mean they’re harmless.”
He tapped the table.
“Mark them low-priority. Keep surveillance rotating.”
Then he paused.
“Except Subject 08. He’s started spending time near the royal quarter.”
The room went silent.
---
Meanwhile, inside the royal villa, Karl received a sealed letter.
It bore the imperial seal—black wax stamped with the double-headed lion.
He unfolded it slowly.
> “His Majesty the Emperor requests your presence at tonight’s private court dinner.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
> Attendance mandatory. No retainers or personal guard permitted.”
Karl read it twice.
Then once more.
---
Downstairs, the players were lounging in the courtyard.
The soldier was cleaning a dagger. The pervert was drawing on the garden wall with charcoal. Two newer players were playing rock-paper-scissors with a confused footman.
Karl stepped out holding the letter.
“I’ve been summoned.”
The student immediately sat upright. “To the palace?”
Karl nodded.
“No players allowed,” he added. “It’s in the letter.”
The researcher whistled. “Classic single-path quest split.”
“Cutscene incoming,” the soldier muttered.
“Should we try to follow him anyway?” asked one of the new players.
Karl ignored them.
---
Then, as if fate enjoyed stacking coincidences, another letter arrived.
This one, from a courier wearing Thalgrenn royal colors—gold trim on black velvet.
It was addressed to a different villa.
To Alven, crown prince of Thalgrenn.
Karl’s brother.
---
Alven had arrived in Aurelia several months prior. Supposedly, to request imperial support for a northern restoration campaign.
Unlike Karl, Alven didn’t hide his identity.
He moved through court with polished words and practiced grace. He dined with nobles. Whispered to ministers. Promised trade. Promised loyalty.
And with him came twenty men.
His royal guard—remnants of Thalgrenn’s elite palace fighters.
They wore matching uniforms: steel chestplates, bronze-rimmed helms, long-handled axes and ceremonial sidearms. Among them, a handful still bore fire-lance powder gear—early flintlock weapons from the mountain workshops.
They were loyal. Skilled. And very, very visible.
---
Word of Alven’s presence spread quickly.
And, predictably, it reached the players.
---
“He’s here?” one muttered.
“The other prince?” another asked. “Like, a rival faction NPC?”
“He must be trying to steal the empire’s support!”
“We have to do something.”
Some began surveillance—watching his villa, noting guard patterns.
Others asked around taverns. One slipped a coin to a kitchen maid. Another tried to bribe a garrison cook.
The most aggressive among them slipped into the city’s underbelly.
---
Beneath the eastern district of Aurelia lay the Blackvein Bazaar—a hidden network of alleys, tunnels, and ruins turned into a marketplace for things better left unspoken.
A few players found their way in.
They traded manual labor for silver.
They cleaned stables, hauled crates, ran messages.
They asked questions.
And in a shadowy corner, behind a rack of tarnished weapons, one whispered:
“If we took him out... would that change the main questline?”
The shopkeeper only laughed.
---
Back in the villa, Karl stared at his formal coat.
It had been tailored quickly. Black velvet, crimson trim. A simplified crest of Thalgrenn sewn into the collar—not the royal lion, but a mountain star. Discreet.
He hated it.
He wasn’t sure if he hated the emperor more.
Or his brother.
---
That evening, a carriage arrived with gold wheels and obsidian glass. Imperial guards stood at attention.
No players allowed.
Karl stepped in alone.
---
As the horses carried him toward the palace, across streets still humming with firelight and gossip, his players prepared their next moves.
Some practiced throwing knives in the cellar.
Others sketched maps of the noble quarter.
One was building a disguise.
Another was still arguing about whether the underground bazaar vendor accepted “friendship points” instead of coin.
---
And from a rooftop across the city, a Raven watched the villa.
He turned to his partner.
“They’ve started splitting into factions,” he said. “Some are backing the younger prince.”
“And the rest?”
“Still improvising.”
The Raven adjusted his scope.
“Either way... it’s getting dangerous.”
---
Inside the royal palace, Karl stepped out beneath golden arches.
A servant led him toward the banquet hall.
And at the end of the corridor, beneath stained glass windows and a canopy of flickering lanterns...
His brother was waiting.
