Chapter 215: Chapter 215— Powder Keg

James had done the deed.

Yeah, he’d poisoned one of his colleagues.

But he’d done it without understanding the full consequences. Without recognizing what “non-lethal” meant in Valdris’s operational vocabulary.

It was just a non-lethal poison, he’d thought. Temporary illness. The target would recover in a week, feel terrible for a few days, and James’s family would remain financially secure.

Well, he was wrong.

Drastically so.

The poison didn’t act as fast as James had expected—there was no immediate collapse, no obvious symptoms that would have triggered an emergency medical response. That had been a deliberate design on Valdris’s part. Slow onset meant the contamination source would be harder to trace.

But it did the work just as splendidly as promised.

His colleague—a boy called Rondo—had been a pretty lively one. First-year Ashmar student. Not particularly powerful or politically connected, but energetic. The kind of person who filled rooms with conversation and laughter, who made friends easily through sheer enthusiasm.

Not someone with many scruples about social boundaries or diplomatic niceties. Just genuine, uncomplicated friendliness.

So it was a very unsettling affair to watch the life flicker off from the boy over the course of thirty-six hours.

The body was found a day after James had slipped the poison into Rondo’s water during a joint training exercises.

It was discovered by a Sparkshire maintenance staff member who’d been conducting routine dormitory inspections. The woman’s scream had echoed through the entire residential wing.

It wasn’t every day a body was found on academy grounds.

And it was far less welcome in this powder keg of a political moment—foreign exchange students from two nations, the existing tensions between the Republic and Federation, and Theodore’s campaigns creating ambient hostility.

Now add a dead student to that volatile mixture.

The boy who had died was no one to James personally. They’d never spoken beyond brief greetings. James was still a first-year himself and may have found Rondo’s face familiar from dining hall interactions, but that was all.

There was no friendship, no connection. Just another student whose name James barely knew.

Which somehow made it worse.

He’d killed a stranger for money. For his family’s financial security. Because Valdris had demanded compliance and James had prioritized his mother’s medical bills over another human being’s life.

The “non-lethal” designation had been a lie. Or a mistake. Or deliberate misdirection to make the operation seem less severe than it actually was.

James would never know which.

What he did know was that he’d murdered someone. That the distinction between “temporarily debilitating” and “fatal” had collapsed somewhere between administration and outcome.

And that Valdris wouldn’t care about the discrepancy as long as the strategic objectives were achieved.

—–

Valdris, on the other hand, were not ones to shoot blindly into crowds hoping to hit something useful.

Every operation was calculated. Every target selected for specific strategic value.

Rondo hadn’t been random.

The boy was the grandson of chancellor Balam Asim —one of the neutral parties in Ashmar’s political leadership structure.

Ashmar was a federation through and through. Not a unified state under single authority, but a coalition of regional powers held together by mutual military necessity and shared cultural identity.

The leaders of this federation were men of great power with sharply different ideologies about how Ashmar should relate to its neighbors.

Some wanted to maintain the status quo. Avoid actively antagonizing the dangerous tiger at their border—the Republic, with its superior resources and larger population. Keep relations civil. Focus on internal development rather than external conflict.

Some actually wanted to defer to the Republic. Seek closer integration. I mean, who wouldn’t want a fat thigh to latch onto? The Republic offered economic opportunities, advanced research access, institutional stability that Ashmar’s more fractious political system couldn’t match.

The majority, though, were hot-blooded military men who saw no need for pretenses or diplomatic niceties.

They were men made to fight or die trying. Warriors who’d built their careers and reputations through Crawler combat and border conflicts. Who viewed strength as the only currency that mattered and saw the Republic’s diplomatic overtures as weakness to be exploited rather than cooperation to be embraced.

Chancellor Asim had been firmly in the first category. Neutral. Cautious. Advocating for measured responses and careful relationship management rather than confrontation.

His neutrality had been a stabilizing force in Ashmar’s internal debates about how to approach the exchange program and broader Republic relations.

And now his grandson was dead.

Killed on Republic soil. While under Republic protection. During a diplomatic initiative that was supposed to strengthen cooperation.

It was not a surprise that the chancellor received the message of his grandson’s death while attending a Federation council meeting in Ashmar’s capital.

The meeting had been scheduled to discuss routine matters—resource allocation, military rotation schedules, administrative coordination for the exchange program.

It became something else entirely when news arrived.

The room where the Federation’s leadership gathered was large and austere. Stone walls. Minimal decoration. A massive table carved from single piece of timber that had survived the Great One’s death and the chaos that followed.

Around that table sat a group of men and women who collectively controlled Ashmar’s military and political apparatus.

They had different opinions on nearly everything. Different regional interests. Different ideological commitments. Different visions for Ashmar’s future.

But that didn’t stop the facial expressions plastered on every one of their faces when the news was delivered.

Anger.

Raw, undiluted, unified anger.

A child had died. An Ashmar student killed while supposedly under Republic protection during a cooperation initiative.

The boy that was killed—Rondo Asim—was the grandson of one of the neutral parties in Ashmar’s political lineup.

It was literally impossible to stay neutral when your opponent had shattered your balls and deprived you of something irreplaceable.

In this case, that something was a grandson. A legacy. A future that would never manifest.

Chancellor Balam Asim sat at the table with the kind of stillness that suggested a catastrophic internal collapse held in check through pure will.

His neutrality tipped toward the dark side.

It was not consciously or through deliberate decision-making.

Just… inevitably.

The way a structure collapses when its supporting pillars are removed.

The room where anger, envy, and hatred gathered began making decisions that would have been unthinkable a day earlier.

Valdris’s poison had killed one boy.

But it had also killed Ashmar’s political restraint.

—–

In a larger scope, there was more behind-the-scenes maneuvering being orchestrated by Valdris operatives.

The poisoning was just one piece.

Simultaneously, they’d been working to make a certain mad Champion—the one who’d been a thorn in the Republic’s side for years—feel the urgent need to spread out his forces.

The Umbral Covenant’s leader.

The Seeker who’d touched Crawler consciousness and gone mad from the contact. Who commanded cultist cells throughout the Republic. Who the Senate kept at manageable threat levels rather than eliminating completely because his existence justified certain political positions and resource allocations.

Valdris had been feeding him intelligence. Resources. Coordinated timing suggestions that would make his next major operation coincide perfectly with the political crisis brewing around the exchange program.

A great level of forces would be pulled away from Central to respond to the Covenant’s activity.

Security would thin.

And the powder keg would be more vulnerable to ignition.

—–

In one dark alley of Central, far from academy grounds and Senate oversight, ink-stained doors opened.

The building they led to was nondescript. Abandoned warehouse. Forgotten infrastructure from earlier eras of urban development.

Inside, figures gathered in the darkness.

Not many. Perhaps twenty. But their presence radiated the kind of fanatical energy that made numbers irrelevant.

Covenant cultists.

People who’d heard the Crawlers’ song and found it beautiful rather than horrifying. Who believed the Shroud was salvation rather than catastrophe. Who wanted to accelerate humanity’s dissolution into the corrupted dimension rather than resist it.

Words were chanted in unison as the gathering began:

“All hail the Covenant. All hail the Covenant.”

Over and over. Building rhythm. Creating resonance.

One figure stood at the center—a woman whose eyes reflected light wrong, suggesting soul corruption that had progressed beyond what healing could address.

“Brothers and sisters,” she said when the chanting subsided. “The time approaches. Our master has given us purpose.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the gathering.

“They gather their young. Their future Champions. Their next generation of resistance.” The woman smiled. “We will teach them that resistance is futile. That the Shroud welcomes all. That their institutions mean nothing when reality itself rejects their existence.”

“When?” someone asked from the darkness.

“Soon. Our master coordinates with allies who share our vision—though they do not share our faith.” The woman’s smile widened. “The enemy of our enemy serves our purpose, even if they do not understand the truth we serve.”

She was referring to Valdris, though she didn’t know the specifics of their operations.

Just that someone was destabilizing the Republic’s political foundations at the same time the Covenant was preparing its next major offensive.

“Prepare yourselves,” the woman commanded. “The Republic believes it is safe. That Central cannot be breached. That their Champions protect them.”

“We will prove otherwise.”

The chanting resumed.

“All hail the Covenant. All hail the Covenant.”

Doors closed.

Darkness returned.

And in the shadows, something twisted prepared to emerge.

—–

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep