Chapter 161: Pale Order

  Inside of Abel’s basement lanterns bathed the underground lab in a soft, eerie light. Shelves lined with jars of rare herbs, books, and alchemical tools stretched across the walls.

  The air carried a faint scent of parchment and ink, mingling with the subtle metallic tang of arcane residue from previous experiments.

  At the center of the room, Abel sat hunched over a long wooden table, its surface cluttered with open scrolls, parchment sheets, and various trinkets taken from the Murman estate.

  A quill scratched against parchment, his precise handwriting recording notes as he sorted through the trove of information.

  Most of what he had retrieved was mundane—ownership rights for land scattered across Bask, documents that detailed finances, all things that held no real interest to him unless they contained traces of magic.

  With each paper he tossed aside, his irritation grew. The Murman family had hoarded wealth, but their true treasures seemed to be disappointingly material.

  Until he pulled out a particular set of ancient scrolls.

  His eyes narrowed as he carefully unrolled them, the brittle paper covered in faded ink that had resisted time’s decay. The handwriting was jagged, hurried—a desperate record of a lost group’s final thoughts.

  "We were too late. We found her, but she fled."

  "The Flower Princess has gone into hiding, and we have failed. Into her seed, she goes."

  "Now, we wait."

  Abel murmured the words aloud, reading the fragmented tale of a group calling themselves the Flagbearers.

  They had been nomadic hunters, self-proclaimed warriors on a grand mission to claim the head of the Flower Princess as their own.

  According to their writings, they had chased after her, hunting her across great distances through the Cemetery of Misery, the Land of Hellish Hounds, and the Land of Strange Religious Nomads until she disappeared near Reinhart. Abel had never heard of these places before but made a mental note to research them at some other time.

  But then?

  They waited.

  And waited.

  Until they died, convinced they had driven her into hiding.

  Abel scoffed, shaking his head. "Idiots."

  These so-called warriors were nothing more than low-rank Apostles at best, and yet they had deluded themselves into thinking they had cornered something as powerful as the Flower Princess. A True Spirit. The arrogance was astounding.

  Even worse, their assumptions were entirely wrong.

  Abel had witnessed her awakening firsthand—that thing did not fear them. She had gone dormant for reasons far beyond their comprehension. The Flagbearers had been waiting for a victory that never existed.

  However, there was something that caught his attention.

  One passage mentioned a key—a mysterious object the Flagbearers had spent decades searching for, something they believed was the true method of entering the Flower Realm and its palace.

  But they had never figured out how to use it.

  Instead, they had fashioned their flags and rituals with the help of others as poor imitations of its power, creating artifacts meant to mimic the key’s supposed function, however, they were never successful in entering the real before dying of old age and tales.

  Abel frowned, his fingers tapping against the old parchment. A key.

  What kind of key? And where was it now?

  The scroll provided no details about what it looked like or where it had gone. Perhaps it had been lost, buried with their ignorance, or maybe—someone else had found it long ago.

  A question with no answer.

  For now.

  With a sigh, Abel placed the scrolls aside, sorting them into a separate pile of “potentially important” findings.

  Then, as he reached back into his bag, his fingers brushed against another parchment.

  Something about it felt different.

  His breath slowed as he pulled it free, unrolling it carefully. The moment his eyes landed on the writing, a strange sensation crawled up his spine. A cold wind seemed to pass by him making the hairs on his arms stand still.

  This was no ordinary document.

  And as he began to read, he knew—this one would change everything.

  Abel unrolled the parchment with careful fingers, his eyes scanning the aged, ink-stained paper. This wasn’t just another scroll.

  The handwriting was clean, and precise, but there was something unsettling about it. A coldness in the way the words were crafted, as if written without emotion.

  This wasn’t a record or a contract.

  It was a letter.

  And it was addressed to Ike Murman.

  Abel’s brows furrowed as he read further.

  "To Brother Ike, faithful of the Pale Order,"

  His grip on the parchment tightened.

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  Pale Order?

  The name meant nothing to him. But whoever they were, they had been communicating directly with Ike.

  The letter was more than just correspondence—it was an order. A directive.

  They had plans for Reinhart.

  "Your task remains unchanged. In one decade’s time, Reinhart will belong to us. You will guide its people, shape its foundations, and prepare it for the will of our Lord."

  Abel’s breath slowed.

  A decade-long plan to indoctrinate an entire town? That meant this wasn’t some small cult or minor faction.

  They were organized.

  "The gifts sent to the Murman line will ensure your continued service. You will know them when you see them."

  Gifts?

  Abel’s mind immediately raced to the oddities he had stolen—the painting that had shown him an impossible vision and the watering pot that emitted a strange vibration.

  Were those among the so-called gifts of the Pale Order? Or was there something even more insidious hidden in this estate?

  His mind flickered back to the leeches—the creatures that had granted power to the Murman family.

  Was that their method? Had the Pale Order been distributing strange creatures to their members to twist and empower them in unnatural ways?

  And if so… just how many people had already accepted their so-called gifts?

  A weight settled in his chest as he continued reading.

  "The faith must spread. The slumbering will awaken. And our work will be done."

  Abel clenched his jaw.

  He flipped through the rest of the parchment, searching for anything that could reveal more. But that was it. No explanations about their beliefs, no names beyond Ike’s, no mention of who—or what—they worshiped.

  Whoever wrote this letter knew exactly how much information to withhold.

  And that worried him.

  The Murman family was already deep within this so-called Order. Who else was?

  How far did their influence stretch?

  He exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming against the table. This wasn’t something he could ignore.

  The tower needed to know.

  He folded the parchment and tucked it carefully into his robe. If the Pale Order had roots in Bask, this was just the surface of something far greater.

  And if Ike had succeeded, Reinhart wouldn’t have just been a town under Murman rule.

  It would have been a shrine to something unknown.

  For a moment, Abel just stood there, processing. He would alert the tower as soon as possible, this was of the highest importance.

  Then after writing a few things regarding the letter he had just read. Then, after a long silence, he smirked.

  His hand brushed over the painting and the watering pot, his mind drifting to the treasures he had taken.

  A quiet murmur left his lips, amused and pleased.

  "Looting really should become a habit."

  Abel turned his attention to the watering pot, the last of the strange artifacts looted from the Murman estate.

  At first glance, it looked unremarkable—an old, slightly weathered clay vessel with delicate carvings resembling vines and flowers twisting along its surface. But the moment his fingers brushed against it, a faint vibration rippled through his palm.

  There was something inside.

  Or at least it felt as if something was lurking within.

  Abel squinted and tried to peer inside the pot’s narrow opening. Nothing. Just darkness. No water, no residue, nothing at all. The same feeling he had felt before, of nothing abnormal.

  And yet…

  He tilted it slightly, giving it a small shake.

  A soft, flowery scent escaped from within.

  It was subtle at first, but as it filled the air, Abel’s body tensed. His mind buzzed as recognition struck him like a lightning bolt.

  This scent.

  It was familiar.

  It was the same intoxicating fragrance that had permeated the Flower Realm.

  His breath hitched. His pulse quickened.

  This was it.

  This was what the Flagbearers and the Murman family had been searching for.

  Abel stared at the pot like it was the most valuable treasure in the world, his hands tightening around it as his body trembled with excitement.

  He wanted to shout. Laugh. Anything to express the sheer exhilaration coursing through him.

  He had found the key.

  The one thing that Ike and his ancestors couldn’t figure out.

  The Murmans had spent generations waiting for the Flower Princess, believing they were chosen to take her power. The Flagbearers before them had dedicated their lives to capturing her, convinced of their superiority.

  Yet they failed.

  Failed, because none of them had ever realized what this was.

  They had no understanding of mana. No ability to properly wield it.

  And because of that ignorance, they had spent centuries chasing ghosts—waiting for something that was always within reach.

  Abel nearly laughed at the irony.

  He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. Lena was still unconscious, and the last thing he wanted was to wake her with his outburst.

  His fingers twitched. There was only one way to confirm his suspicions.

  Abel closed his eyes for a moment, centering himself. Then, with careful precision, he channeled his mana into the pot.

  And immediately—

  Water began to fill it.

  His eyes snapped open, watching in utter fascination as the once-empty pot now swirled with a shimmering, sky-blue liquid.

  Abel smirked. "So that’s all it took?"

  The Flagbearers were nothing but a joke. They weren’t even apostles—just fanatics who thought that sheer willpower could unlock what required actual knowledge and ability.

  He gave the pot one last amused look before tipping it forward.

  The enchanted water poured from its spout, splashing onto the cold stone floor of his lab.

  For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

  Then—

  Something impossible occurred.

  Blue flowers—vivid and glowing with an ethereal sheen—began to sprout from the floor.

  Abel’s lips parted in awe as he watched them bloom instantly, their petals unfolding in slow, mesmerizing movements.

  It was unnatural.

  No plant should be able to grow here.

  And yet, right in front of him, the impossible had become reality.

  The flowers spread across the floor in a contained circle, their stems shimmering as if infused with an unearthly energy. Then, all at once—

  They began to sway.

  Not from wind. There was no wind here.

  They moved as if responding to something unseen, their petals vibrating in unison.

  Then—

  They began to sing.

  A soft, melodic hum resonated from them—a haunting, beautiful harmony, as though the flowers themselves were whispering a forgotten language.

  Abel stood frozen, his breath caught in his throat.

  Then the air above the singing flowers trembled.

  And from the center of the floral circle, a portal formed.

  It wasn’t like any normal gate he had seen before.

  It was liquid. Alive. A swirling vortex of blue ethereal mist, stretching upward in a slow, spiraling motion, forming a gateway to the unknown.

  Abel’s hands shook—not from fear, but from sheer exhilaration.

  The Murmans had been searching for this their entire lives.

  And yet, he was the one standing before it.

  The entrance to the Flower Realm.

  A smirk pulled at his lips.

  Abel tucked the watering pot back into his bag of holding, took one final glance at Lena, and without hesitation—

  He stepped into the portal.