The Dark Mage Of The Magus World-Chapter 73 - 74: Robert

The Banks family’s once-luxurious carriage now moved through the streets of Stormhold with far less grandeur. Here, such opulence was common—many carriages were even more extravagant, adorned with lavish embellishments that put the Banks crest to shame.

At the heart of the city stood the Adventurers’ Association Headquarters, a towering five-story structure. The ground floor served as the mission hall, bustling with adventurers of all kinds—mercenaries, rogues, and knights—flowing in and out like a living tide.

Hutson’s thoughts drifted as he observed the adventurers, his mind turning to an old friend.

"I wonder how Emil and the others are doing."

Emil, once a survivor, had chosen the path of an adventurer, taking Jimmy and the others with him, scraping by on contracts and bounties.

Before leaving Moonlight Woodland, Hutson had written him a letter.

But that letter had a long and uncertain journey ahead—it would need to cross the vast ocean, waiting for a passing ship bound for the Colson Continent. And even then, fate was fickle. A storm, a pirate raid, a misplaced delivery—there was every chance Emil might never receive it.

Hutson exhaled lightly, calculating time in his head.

"By now, Emil’s child should be born. I’m supposed to be the godfather, after all."

A quiet sense of nostalgia settled over him.

And then another name surfaced in his thoughts.

Malcolm.

A powerful First-Class Wizard, Malcolm was notorious even within the hidden circles of Green Hollow. Hutson hadn’t expected him to be so well-known, nor for Baron Buck to be so ill-fated. The entire Buck family had perished at Malcolm’s hands, save for Emil, the last remnant of their bloodline.

Had this happened on Karag Continent, the act would have been swiftly condemned. But in Colson, no one had the power—or the will—to rein in men like Malcolm.

Hutson knew better than to make a stand. Calling out Malcolm’s atrocities would be nothing short of suicidal. Until he had the strength to fight such forces, the only option was to stay clear of them.

As Hutson stepped through the entrance of the Adventurers’ Association, his presence did not go unnoticed.

The hall was filled with seasoned warriors and veteran adventurers, many of knight rank or higher. Their battle instincts were razor-sharp, honed through years of survival.

The moment Hutson entered, heads turned.

Though he wore no visible insignia of power, the aura surrounding him was undeniable—a quiet, effortless strength that commanded attention.

There was no need for words. The adventurers sensed it in their bones.

Sid, ever efficient, had already sought out an association official. It wasn’t long before he returned, accompanied by a tall, blond man with sharp, assessing eyes.

"My lord," Sid said, stepping forward. "This is Milo Kaller, Vice President of the Stormhold Adventurers’ Association."

Milo nodded politely, extending a hand. "An honor, esteemed guest. I am the acting head of the Association in the President’s absence. If there is anything you require, you need only ask."

Hutson retrieved a letter from his coat and handed it over. It bore the seal of Count Huen Banks.

Milo raised an eyebrow. "A recommendation?" He examined the wax seal, nodding as he broke it open.

"The letter is addressed to our president. Unfortunately, he is not in Stormhold at the moment. But as I am currently handling all matters in his stead, I will see to it."

His eyes flickered over the signature, confirming its authenticity before he nodded again.

"Hutson, sir, let us speak upstairs. This hall is too public."

On the second floor, Milo’s office was a well-furnished chamber of dark oak desks and high-backed chairs, lined with bookshelves filled with ledgers, contracts, and reports.

Sid stopped at the door, instinctively taking his place as a silent sentry outside.

Inside, Milo poured a cup of water and placed it before Hutson.

"If I may ask—are you a Mystic?"

Hutson met his gaze evenly. "Yes."

Milo smiled faintly. "No need for concern. Duke Theodore has a standing decree—all Mystics entering the city must be registered."

"I understand," Hutson replied without hesitation. This was standard protocol.

Mystics—whether wizards, warlocks, or sorcerers—were often considered walking disasters by common folk. It was natural for large cities to impose such regulations.

Of course, most true wizards simply ignored them. And local rulers, fearing their wrath, rarely enforced the law.

But Hutson wasn’t here to cause trouble. He had other priorities.

"Where is Robert?" he asked, getting straight to the point.

Milo nodded knowingly. "We’ve already sent word. Count Huen’s letter arrived ahead of you, and we were instructed to ensure Robert remained in Stormhold for your arrival."

Hutson leaned back into his chair, his expression unreadable.

"So it really was Robert tailing me that day... impressive."

He had suspected as much, but now, it was confirmed.

"While we wait," he added, "tell me—how many Grand Knights does the Association currently have?"

Milo hesitated for a fraction of a second before smiling. "Stormhold has three Grand Knights in total, but only one actively takes contracts—Robert."

Hutson nodded. "I see."

Half an hour later, a firm knock echoed through the office.

A deep, steady voice followed.

"Milo, I’m here."

Milo rose with a smile. "Ah, Robert has arrived. Thank you for your patience, Lord Hutson."

As the door swung open, Hutson turned his gaze to the threshold.

There, standing tall and composed, was the man he had sensed following him that night.

RobChapter 75: The Cursed Doll

The moment Robert laid eyes on Hutson, his body stiffened, his expression flickering with a brief hint of recognition before he quickly composed himself, feigning ignorance.

"Him? No... that’s impossible. He shouldn’t know who I am. That night, he might have sensed my presence, but he couldn’t have seen my face. There’s no way he recognized me."

Thoughts raced through Robert’s mind as he stepped forward, masking his apprehension behind a carefully neutral expression.

Milo, sensing no tension, simply gestured between the two. "Robert, this is Lord Hutson. He has some questions for you. I’ll leave you to it—I have matters to attend to at the Association." With that, he departed, his role in the meeting complete.

Hutson remained seated on the plush velvet sofa, taking an unhurried sip from his glass of water. His posture was relaxed, but the weight of his presence made it clear—this was not a man to be taken lightly.

"Sit," he said, his tone calm but authoritative.

Robert hesitated, inexplicably tense. Why was he nervous? He had slain countless men over the years, his hands had never once trembled before. And yet, under Hutson’s gaze, he suddenly felt like a child caught in the act of wrongdoing.

Steeling himself, he sat, his body rigid as if awaiting judgment.

Without ceremony, Hutson reached into his coat and produced the doll.

A grotesque, sinister thing—stitched together from aged cloth, its fabric darkened with ominous stains, its beady, soulless eyes seemingly whispering unseen malice.

"Did you acquire this?" Hutson asked directly, wasting no time with pleasantries.

The moment Robert’s eyes landed on the cursed effigy, his breath hitched. A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped him.

"I... I..." His mind reeled. He had been prepared for many questions, but not this.

He was no fool—Hutson was a Mystic. One wrong answer could spell his immediate demise.

Seeing the fear flicker across Robert’s face, Hutson’s voice softened, but his eyes remained unreadable.

"Relax. I only wish to know where you obtained it. Nothing more."

Robert exhaled shakily, steadying himself. "It’s true—I had it in my possession. But... I didn’t create it. I found it."

Hutson’s gaze sharpened. "Found?"

Robert quickly nodded, sensing the doubt in Hutson’s eyes. "Yes! I swear! I came across it by chance."

Hutson said nothing, waiting.

Robert swallowed, then continued in a rush. "There was a man... a sorcerer, I think. He wore a long robe, and he was clutching this doll in his final moments. I figured that if a sorcerer refused to let go of something even in death, then it must be valuable. So... I took it."

Hutson’s expression remained neutral, but his fingers drummed against the glass he held.

Robert’s voice lowered. "But... the moment I had it, I felt something was wrong. This thing—it reeks of ill fortune. It made my skin crawl. I could tell it wasn’t anything good."

He hesitated, then added, "So I sold it.

To Count Huen Banks. Nobles love collecting strange artifacts, and they have more money than sense."

Hutson had been observing Robert carefully throughout the conversation, his Mystic perception scanning for deception.

Ai chip processed the results instantly:

"Probability of truth: 99.6%."

Satisfied, Hutson leaned back slightly. So, the doll had come from a dying sorcerer.

Now, only one question remained.

"Where," he asked, voice steady, "did you find it?"

ert—the Grand Knight, and the key to Hutson’s next move.