Diala's question did not fade into silence.

It lingered in the chamber like a blade suspended in midair, drawing every eye toward Kiaria. The tension that had loosened when the concealment fell into place slowly coiled again.

"That's right," Princess Lainsa said, her voice thoughtful rather than suspicious. "Patron… how did you do that?"

Even Mu Long, who had already relaxed his grip on his axe, straightened slightly. Ru and Yi turned their gazes toward Kiaria. Chief Azriel folded his arms. Aizrel's eyes narrowed, not in doubt, but in anticipation.

Kiaria smiled faintly.

All of them were watching him now.

"The moment my toe touched the ground," Kiaria said calmly.

Princess Lainsa tilted her head. "Brief it."

"Alright."

Kiaria's smile faded into something quieter, more inward. He closed his eyes for a moment, as though replaying the exact sensation.

"I used pressure for two purposes," he began. "The first was obvious–to infuse the feeling of divine wrath and authority into their perception. Pressure isn't just physical force. It reshapes how a mind recognizes hierarchy."

He lifted his hand slightly, tracing an invisible line in the air.

"The second purpose was concealed. While they felt the external suppression, I transferred Earth Core Green Fire into the land itself."

Mu Long frowned. "Into the ground?"

"Yes," Kiaria replied. "Not ordinary fire. This one merges with the terrain. It becomes part of the land's spiritual layer."

His gaze sharpened.

"As long as this land remains spatially connected to me, I can ignite it at will. Anywhere. Anytime."

Diala's eyes widened slightly. "Can you execute it now?"

Kiaria shook his head.

"If we were still outside, yes," he said. "But here… no."

"Why?" Mu Long asked bluntly.

Before Kiaria could answer, Chief Azriel let out a low breath.

"Don't be a fool, Mu Long," he said evenly. "What did you expect? You think they wouldn't plot against us just because we played Gods for an hour?"

Ru nodded. "We checked this place the moment we entered."

Mu Long turned toward her. "Checked what?"

"This entire chamber is spatially isolated," Yi said quietly. "Cut off from the external land-layer. If you don't believe it–try leaving."

Mu Long's jaw tightened. He took one step toward the portal wall, then stopped.

"…Damn it," he muttered. "How dare they."

"Ahem."

Diala cleared her throat.

"Now answer the second question," she said, bringing the focus back.

Kiaria glanced at her. "Which way do you want the answer?"

"The way that stops me from being confused," Diala replied flatly.

Kiaria chuckled softly.

"Fine. Then let me ask you first."

He turned fully toward her.

"Shade, from your perspective–what did you find in the three answers the merchants gave us?"

Diala fell silent.

Her brow furrowed as she replayed the explanations in her mind, step by step. The market. The fear. The logic. The weight of each argument.

"…The depth increased each time," she said slowly. "Each answer felt more refined than the last. But none of them were perfect."

Kiaria nodded.

"You're right," he said. "That's the power of wise words when they're executed properly."

He walked a few steps forward, hands clasped behind his back.

"The deeper you go into a philosophical explanation, the more clarity you feel you're gaining. But in reality–"

He turned back to her.

"–you're sinking."

Diala frowned. "I don't get it."

Kiaria smiled again, this time faintly amused.

"Wise words, when constructed perfectly, can always give you another layer of meaning. Another answer. Another justification. The deeper you cut into them, the more they seem to reward you."

He lifted two fingers.

"But perspective is the blade. Your incision only goes as deep as your viewpoint allows. For someone else, the same words might barely leave a scar."

He paused.

"There will always be another perspective that counters your conclusion. Another logic that destabilizes your certainty. That's why none of their answers could satisfy."

Princess Lainsa exhaled softly.

"So what you're really saying," she said, "is that there is no perfect explanation for wise words. Why complicating?"

"Probably," Kiaria replied.

Then he looked at Diala.

"But not for her."

Aizrel stepped forward slightly.

"Patron," he said, his tone quiet but firm, "after everything we've been through… I don't believe you did all that just to save those tribes."

Kiaria's lips curved.

Not into a warm smile.

Not into a cruel one.

But into something sharp.

Something calculating.

"Indeed," Kiaria said quietly.

Then he fell silent, deliberately.

The pause stretched long enough to make the air feel heavier than before.

"…Secret reinforcement."

Aizrel's brows drew together.

"Reinforcement?" he asked.

Diala's eyes narrowed.

"I understand," she said softly.

Princess Lainsa let out a slow breath.

"So do I."

The others turned toward them.

Kiaria resumed speaking.

"The question I asked the merchants," he said evenly, "was never meant to be answered correctly."

He turned his gaze toward the false sky above the chamber.

"It was a hook."

He lowered his eyes back to them.

"A psychological snare."

"For them, stability is slavery," Kiaria continued. "Their entire economy, their hierarchy, their sense of safety–all of it runs on the existence of chains. Remove that, and both the rich and the struggling poor collapse together."

He lifted a finger.

"I destabilized it deliberately. For two purposes."

A faint ripple of anticipation moved through the group.

"The first was deployment," Kiaria said. "The second was distribution."

He gestured subtly downward.

"While they were engaged about salvation… I released my spiderlings into the ground."

"They are soul-type entities," Kiaria said calmly. "Small. Undetectable to ordinary perception. Difficult to trace even with spiritual power."

He turned slightly toward Princess Lainsa.

"Whatever answer they gave me could always be countered. That meant the outcome was guaranteed."

He paused.

"The release of the slaves."

Aizrel's eyes widened slightly.

"So that was the point all along…"

"Yes," Kiaria replied. "Chaos creates movement. Movement creates access."

He continued.

"The moment I declared freedom, thousands of people began relocating. Returning to tribes. Reopening sealed tunnels. Unlocking forgotten chambers."

His lips curved faintly.

"My spiderlings rode with them."

Diala folded her arms slowly.

"The rule you declared about peace…" she said.

"…was not mercy," Princess Lainsa finished. "It was camouflage."

Kiaria inclined his head.

"Correct."

"The new law allowing them to remain here," he said, "wasn't for stability. It was for concealment."

He walked a slow circle, hands behind his back.

"My spiderlings are already embedded across the fortress. Merchant halls. Prisoner hideouts. Formation maintenance tunnels. Tribal enclaves. Smuggling routes. Black chambers and those prisons."

Ru inhaled sharply.

"They're acting as–"

"Spies," Kiaria finished. "Listeners. Trackers. Memory-recorders."

"They're capturing conversations. Movement patterns. Authority chains. Command structures. Hidden names."

He stopped.

"By now, most of them have already reached safe nodes."

Silence followed.

Azriel exhaled slowly.

"But what's the use of that," he asked, "when we're spatially locked inside this palace?"

Aizrel nodded.

"Yeah. We can't even leave this floor right now."

Kiaria smiled.

Not wide or playful.

Just… knowing.

"Haha," he said softly.

"That part is a secret."

He turned his head slightly.

"I can't tell you yet."

Diala's lips curved faintly.

She already understood.

Then Azriel asked,

"So… what's the next move?"

Kiaria didn't answer.

Princess Lainsa did.

"Simple," she said. "We rest."

She looked around the extravagant chamber.

"And we behave like Gods."

Aizrel blinked.

"…You mean cultivate?"

"Yes," Princess Lainsa replied calmly.

Kiaria nodded once.

"But Ru. Yi."

Both of them straightened instantly.

"The task," Kiaria said quietly. "You must finish it on time."

They bowed.

"Yes, Patron."

And in the silence that followed–

The spiderlings continued to listen.

Meanwhile–

Deep within the fourth floor's concealed chamber, far from the market's false peace, the ritualist sat alone.

He was positioned at the center of a vast cyan formation, its lines carved directly into the stone floor in concentric, interlocking rings. Symbols pulsed faintly with cold light, and pale blue smoke drifted upward from the formation's edges, coiling like spectral mist toward his shattered meridians.

Beneath him lay a ritual cushion.

He sat rigidly upon it. Eyes were closed, hands were pressed flat against his thighs and breathing was uneven.

The formation was not meant for comfort.

It was meant for recovery.

At least, that had been the intention.

Around him, a thirteen-meter-wide surveillance array had been activated–layered formations designed to intercept sound, pressure distortions, spatial ripples, and spiritual resonance from the isolated palace chamber above.

He had positioned it perfectly.

Calibrated it flawlessly.

Fed it with his remaining spiritual energy.

And yet–

Nothing.

No echo.

No vibration.

No trace.

No whisper of sound.

The spatial formation returned only void.

The ritualist's jaw tightened.

The cyan smoke thickened, surging into his meridians in repeated waves, trying to repair what Diala's soul-blades had annihilated.

But the damage was not superficial.

It was foundational.

His meridian cores refused to reconnect.

Spiritual circulation collapsed again and again, scattering into useless fragments of broken energy.

His breath hitched.

Then broke.

He slammed his palm into the stone floor.

The impact sent a tremor through the formation.

Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth.

"…Three days," he whispered hoarsely.

His teeth ground together.

"Gods…"

His fingers curled into a fist so tight that his knuckles cracked.

His voice dropped into a venomous murmur.

"This debt… I will repay you a thousandfold."

He forced himself upright, staggering off the ritual cushion.

His legs trembled as he stood.

He grabbed his bone staff from the wall and used it to steady himself.

His breathing came ragged now.

"I will drown this place in blood and tears again," he snarled.

"Wait and see."

He limped toward the narrow window slit carved into the chamber wall.

With a shaking hand, he reached into his Qiankun bag and withdrew a blank talisman paper.

His fingers moved quickly despite his pain.

Symbols were etched onto the paper in flowing, crooked lines.

Not formation script.

But something older and forbidden.

He pinched the talisman between his forefinger and middle finger and murmured a low chant under his breath.

The paper began to rot.

Its edges blackened.

Its surface cracked.

Then–

It shattered.

The fragments lifted into the air and twisted together, reforming into a triangular-winged messenger bird made of ashen light and cursed script.

The ritualist's eyes gleamed with hatred.

"Go," he whispered.

The bird flapped once–

And shot through the window slit, vanishing into the storming sky beyond the fortress.

–

Far away–

Hidden within the relics bound to Kiaria's soul–

The Evil Spider watched everything.

Through a thousand scattered eyes.

Through soul-skull spiderlings embedded in walls, tunnels, and shadows.

Through the Skull Spider perched invisibly above the ritualist's chamber ceiling.

Every word.

Every motion.

Every pulse of rage.

Every act of treachery.

All of it flowed into Kiaria's awareness like threads being woven into a web.

Within the false palace chamber, Kiaria's gaze sharpened faintly.

A quiet smile curved his lips.

"The prey has taken the bait," he murmured.

And the trap closed another inch tighter.

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