Chapter 410 -410 Probing
The instant Arianne was secure in his arms, Michael turned without hesitation. Spartan followed, the dark elf’s limp form slung effortlessly over one armored shoulder.
They did not meet any resistance.
Not a guard. Not a staff member. Not a single flicker of movement.
Every living soul in the building was still deep in the illusion’s grasp.
And Michael had no interest in waiting to see if that would change.
He crossed the threshold, boots striking the polished stone of the corridor, and without slowing broke into a run.
Step after step, the halls blurred around him, shadows and lamplight smearing into streaks of dim color.
At the main doors, he didn’t even pause to open them properly. He simply shifted his weight, braced Arianne tighter, and kicked the great panels wide with a thunderous crash.
Cold night air slammed into his face.
And then he was gone—past the threshold, past the courtyard, sprinting across the moonlit gardens and vaulting the outer wall in a single smooth motion.
Only when they had put almost fifteen hundred meters between themselves and the auction hall did Michael finally stop.
He stopped because something was wrong.
Michael lowered Arianne carefully to the grass, bracing her limp form against one knee.
Her head lolled back.
Her eyes, previously half-open in that vacant stare, had fluttered fully shut.
“Miss Arianne?” Michael called out softly.
There was no response.
He shifted her gently in his arms, feeling her pulse at her throat.
“Spartan,” he called without looking up.
His armored undead stepped closer and eased Lyra’s limp body to the ground beside Arianne. Michael turned his gaze to the dark elf, noting that she too had slipped into the same deep, unresponsive state.
When he’d carried them out, both women had been in that dazed half-awareness—staring blankly, but clearly still conscious on some level.
Michael slowly straightened, his gaze flicking back the way he’d come, over the gardens and rooftops toward the distant glow of the auction house.
He thought carefully, ignoring the cold breeze that tugged at his hair and the ache still throbbing in his ribs.
It must be the illusion’s range, he decided at last.
Whatever subtle mechanism had been keeping their minds partially bound had collapsed the instant they were carried too far from its core.
Michael’s gaze lingered on Arianne’s peaceful face.
He turned to check Lyra again—same pulse, same breath, same limp stillness—and let out a slow, steady exhale.
For a moment, he considered going back.
But just like the second prince had said after noting Michael’s escape, Michael also thought that any man with sense will use his freedom to ensure his own survival first.
Still, Michael could not help but glance back toward the estate once more.
Even now, the place looked deceptively serene. Candlelit windows, fluttering banners, the faint hush of the wind across the tiled roof.
As if it were any other night.
“Though I can’t be there in person,” Michael murmured, “it’s not like I can’t do anything.”
He could spread his senses back to the auction hall. But even as the thought formed, he felt a twinge of wariness.
If the spell was clever enough to catch him once, it might be clever enough to use that link to draw him back in.
And if that happened—if he stumbled right back into the same trap he’d just clawed his way out of—it would be the height of stupidity.
He had already considered that possibility.
But if he couldn’t go…
He turned his gaze to Spartan, standing silent sentinel over the two unconscious women.
There was nothing stopping him.
The undead had been untouched by the illusion, his mind shielded by death itself.
Illusion magic, it seemed, had no effect on the dead. Or rather—no effect on the undead.
As for how he would use Spartan to investigate the way ahead, it was simple.
Michael would rely on his newly awakened skill—Telepathy.
This ability was partially tied to the range of his spiritual senses.
He reasoned that if he focused carefully through his undead while keeping his own body beyond the illusion’s reach, he should be mostly safe.
However, before attempting any of that, he intended to scout the grounds around the estate.
Who knew, maybe the opposition wasn’t inside the auction building at all, but waiting outside.
If that was the case, defeating whoever had cast the spell could end it at the source.
Perhaps the real threat was beyond those walls, and Michael was willing to try his luck.
And if he decided the danger was too great to tackle alone, he already had a plan.
He’d simply leave this mess to Mage Lian and let the capital’s own powers clean it up.
Michael drew in a slow breath, feeling the night air cool against the sweat on his skin.
He reached inward again.
The connection unfurled in his mind like a taut string of thought, linking his awareness to Spartan’s empty, obedient consciousness.
Spartan, he projected, not bothering to speak aloud. His mental voice was clear and cold.
Circle the estate. Look for any signs of magic—rituals, anything. If you see something, call to me.
There was a brief pause, as though the undead was processing the order in his own way. Then.
The armored figure shifted as he turned away from the unconscious women. In a smooth motion, Spartan began moving back toward the estate, his footfalls silent on the moonlit grass.
Michael watched him go, his eyes narrow.
It was a crude plan—nothing elegant about it. Just a simple, cautious probe.
He looked down again at Arianne’s pale face, then at Lyra’s still form beside her.
He would wait here a while.However, a beat later, Michael decided to do more.
He summoned several more of his human undead, each clad in armor.
As he studied the five figures now arrayed before him, a thought struck him for the first time.
How many consciousnesses could he connect to with Telepathy at once?