Chapter 4: Chapter 4: Wolves in Silk
The morning air was crisp, sharp with dew and the faint scent of pine drifting in from the eastern grove.
Noel stood at the estate's front steps, dressed in a navy-blue noble's coat with silver trim and a crisp white shirt beneath. His boots were polished. His hair, for once, was neatly combed. The sword hung securely at his left side, the black scabbard gleaming faintly in the early sun.
Behind him, the great manor loomed—elegant and cold, like a monument to expectations he was never meant to meet.
The carriage waited at the bottom of the stairs. Polished black wood, silver trim. Two midnight-colored horses pawed quietly at the cobblestones.
The staff stood in line beside the doors, expressionless.
And then the family arrived.
Lord Albrecht led the procession. Stoic. Towering. Dressed in a dark high-collared coat with the family crest across his shoulder. He looked at Noel as one might study a statue—checking for cracks.
Behind him came the wives.
Lady Mirelle wore deep violet silk and a thin, unreadable smile.
"You're truly traveling alone?" she asked, her voice smooth as glass. "How brave."
Lady Serina stepped beside her, her expression softer but no less hollow.
"Do stay safe, dear. It would be such a shame if something... happened."
Noel inclined his head slightly.
"I'll do my best to disappoint you."
Mirelle's smile twitched. Serina blinked, just once.
The siblings came next, each in various states of disinterest.
Kael gave him a slow, deliberate smirk. "Try not to embarrass the family. Or die."
Damon chuckled. "Both, probably."
Livia barely acknowledged him.
Sylvette gave a lazy wave.
Noel offered a single word to all of them. "Goodbye."
No warmth. No venom. Just finality.
Lord Albrecht stepped forward. His gray eyes met Noel's.
"You will represent House Thorne. Conduct yourself accordingly."
Noel nodded. "Of course, Father."
No reaction.
Just a faint lift of the chin.
With that, the patriarch turned and walked back inside. The rest followed without a word, like wolves returning to their den.
Noel stood alone at the top of the steps.
Then he turned, his boots echoing against the stone, and descended toward the waiting carriage—quietly, like a man heading toward a crossroads, not a destination.
Just before reaching the carriage, Noel paused at the tall mirror mounted near the manor's outer entrance—a final flourish of aristocratic vanity before stepping into the world.
The morning light framed him perfectly.
He looked like a painting.
The navy-blue coat clung to his frame in all the right ways. The white shirt beneath was crisp, the collar stiff, the buttons polished. His hair, golden and slightly tousled, caught the sun like fine silk. The sword at his hip added just enough gravity to the image—discipline without ostentation.
A prince from a story he didn't belong to.
He stared for a long second.
Then scoffed, under his breath.
"If I'd had this face in my last life," he muttered, "maybe I wouldn't have died single."
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, fleeting and dry.
He stepped away from the mirror, the brief crack in his armor fading back into cool indifference.
Without looking back, Noel climbed into the carriage and shut the door behind him.
The carriage rolled steadily down the gravel path, wheels crunching over stone and dirt as the Thorne estate faded into the distance behind him.
Noel sat alone, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded as he watched the trees blur past through the small window. Tall oaks lined the road, their leaves catching the morning sun in flashes of green and gold. Birds chirped somewhere overhead. The breeze was light. The sky, clear.
It was peaceful.
Suspiciously peaceful.
Too peaceful.
He leaned back in the seat, letting his fingers tap idly against the pommel of the sword at his waist. Revenant Fang , the system had called it. Not enchanted, not legendary—but bonded. Evolving.
'We'll see if that wasn't just dramatic flair,' he thought.
The first day passed without incident.
No bandits. No wild beasts. No magical anomalies. Just the driver—a man in his late forties, silent and focused—and the open road.
Noel spent the time thinking.
About the book.
About Marcus and the others.
About how none of them knew what was coming.
And about how he—someone who was never supposed to exist—was now on the board.
But not for long.
Not yet.
He couldn't afford to move pieces too soon. One wrong move, one butterfly wing too loud, and the story could break in ways he couldn't predict.
'Stay invisible,' he reminded himself.
He ate sparingly from the food packed in the carriage compartment. Rested as the sun dipped low and the carriage pulled off the road for the night.
No campfire. No talking.
Just a bedroll, a closed door, and a blade near his hand.
He slept with one eye open.
Just in case.
The second day began like the first.
Quiet.
The sky was overcast now, a blanket of dull gray smothering the morning sun. The road curved gently through low hills and thickets of forest that grew thicker with each mile.
Noel watched it all through narrowed eyes.
Something felt... off.
The carriage bounced slightly as it turned from the main road onto a narrower path—less gravel, more dirt. More trees.
Too many trees.
He leaned forward, knocking once against the wooden panel separating him from the driver.
"This isn't the main route to Valeria," he said flatly.
No answer.
He knocked again—louder.
"Where are we?"
The carriage didn't stop.
Noel's eyes sharpened.
He reached for the door, pushed it open, and stepped out mid-motion, landing in the dirt with a soft thud . His boots slid slightly on the uneven ground, but he recovered instantly, hand already on his sword.
The carriage rolled a few more feet before halting.
The driver climbed down, slow, deliberate.
He didn't look Noel in the eye.
Noel stepped forward, drawing his blade halfway from the scabbard in one smooth, controlled motion. The silver glint of steel caught the light.
The blade's edge hovered just beneath the man's chin.
"Talk."
The driver trembled. "I—I'm sorry..."
Noel's grip didn't waver. "Not good enough."
"They—they have my family," the man said, voice breaking. "They said if I didn't take this road, they'd kill them. I didn't—please, I didn't want this!"
Noel's eyes didn't soften.
But his thoughts raced.
'Mercenaries. Or worse. They knew the route. Knew the schedule. This was planned.'
And then—
rustling .
Branches snapped behind him.
He turned—
Figures stepped out from the trees. Ten of them.
Dark cloaks. Blades drawn. Masks covering everything but their eyes.
Surrounding him in a perfect circle.
No one spoke.
Noel sighed.
"Of course."
He took a step back, sliding into a low stance. The blade fully unsheathed now, glinting in the low light.
The assassins closed in.
Ten to one.
No magic.
No backup.
Just a sword, and instinct.
Noel didn't hesitate.
He pivoted, fast, low—just in time to avoid the dagger aimed at his neck.
Steel flashed.
He retaliated without thinking, blade carving across the attacker's ribs. A sharp scream. Blood hit the dirt. One down.
The others surged forward.
Ten total. Encircling. Coordinated.
Noel stepped back, keeping his blade up, breathing steady.
'Too many.'
No time for mana. Not that he could use it properly yet.
But the body remembered.
The old Noel—the one who trained alone while the rest of the family ignored him—had drilled every movement into muscle memory. Sword forms. Dodges. Parries.
This body didn't hesitate.
Noel ducked under a slashing arc, rammed the pommel into a masked throat, then pivoted and drove his blade into the side of another.
Two.
He turned—caught a spear with the flat of his sword, deflected it, then slammed his shoulder into the attacker, sending him sprawling.
They regrouped fast.
Circling. Pressuring. Forcing him to move.
His breaths were sharp. Controlled. But already, his arms were aching.
His strikes slowed.
A knife grazed his ribs. A kick sent him staggering back.
They're wearing me down.
He killed another.
Three.
But it was getting harder.
Blood dripped from his arm. His vision blurred at the edges.
They moved in again.
Faster.
He tried to breathe—but his chest felt tight. Muscles trembling. Legs burning.
Too many.
Too fast.
And then—
It happened.
A pulse in the back of his skull. Cold and bright.
[Trait Activated: Revenant Fang]
[Clarity Enhanced – Combat Focus Increased]
[Status Update: Adaptive Evolution Triggered]
The world slowed.
Not literally—but in his mind.
Suddenly, he knew .
Where each opponent stood.
Where the next strike would come from.
Their weight distribution, their stance, their openings—
All of it, like a chessboard unfolding mid-combat.
He didn't think.
He moved.
Blade arcing clean through an exposed throat. Turning. Parrying. Sidestepping two, dropping a third. Blood sprayed in crescents, painting the dirt with every motion.
Four. Five. Six.
Breathing hard now. Covered in cuts. Eyes burning.
Seven. Eight.
He stabbed the ninth through the spine.
One left.
The final assassin ran at him with a wild scream.
Noel ducked, sidestepped, and slashed once—clean.
The man fell.
Noel staggered, panting, drenched in blood not entirely his own.
His sword trembled in his grip.
His vision swam.
But he was alive.
The clearing was silent now.
Ten bodies lay scattered around Noel, the grass soaked red beneath them. His breathing was ragged, his limbs aching with every pulse.
He stood in the center, covered in blood, his shirt torn, his side bleeding—but alive.
The driver, still kneeling behind the carriage, stared at him with wide, horrified eyes.
Noel turned toward him slowly, his expression unreadable. Cold. Focused.
He sheathed his sword.
"Get up."
The man scrambled to his feet, shaking.
"You—y-you killed them all..."
Noel didn't answer.
He walked to the leader's body—the one who had moved first, barked silent orders, coordinated the ambush. The one with the best weapons and the finest boots.
Noel crouched beside the corpse and reached for the blade still embedded in the man's chest. He wiped it clean.
Then—without ceremony—he took the man's head.
One clean strike.
It hit the dirt with a dull thud .
The driver flinched violently.
Noel stood again, holding the head by its hair. Blood dripped steadily from the severed neck.
He approached the driver and dropped it at his feet.
"That's for the two noble wives of House Thorne," he said, voice like frost. "Deliver it. No name. No words. They'll know exactly what it means."
The driver nodded frantically.
"And this—" Noel reached into his coat and handed over a sealed letter, marked only with the House crest. "Give it to my father."
The man took it with trembling fingers.
"What... what do I tell him?"
Noel's voice was quieter now. Measured.
"Tell him I'm alive. That it was an ambush. And that I don't want this incident to stain the name of our house."
The driver looked at him, stunned.
"You—you're protecting them?"
Noel met his gaze.
"I'm protecting me ."
He turned away.
"You've got one job. Don't fail it."
The driver picked up the head, wrapped it in cloth, and mounted one of the horses, galloping in the opposite direction.
Noel watched him disappear into the trees.
The blood clung to him.
Sticky. Warm. Heavy.
Noel looked down at his navy-blue coat, now ruined—cut, slashed, soaked with red. His white shirt was worse. Stained through. Torn open along the side where a knife had grazed him.
He took a slow breath and peeled it off, one layer at a time.
His skin was slick with sweat and blood. Some his, most not.
The smell hit him all at once—iron, dirt, and something else. Death.
He turned away from the bodies, gagged—
And vomited.
Bile hit the forest floor.
His hands trembled as he leaned on his knees, spitting, breathing through clenched teeth.
'It's just the shock,' he told himself.
'It was them or me.'
But the images stayed.
The way one of the men had looked at him. The flash of fear before the end. The weight of the sword biting into bone.
His first kill.
Ten of them.
Real or not, it felt... too real.
He stood slowly, wiped his mouth, and forced himself to move.
Back to the bodies. Back to the work.
He found one of the assassins with a mostly clean set of gear—gray travel cloak, light leather armor, plain shirt and pants. Functional. Sturdy. Not drenched.
He dressed quickly, the pain in his side flaring with each movement.
Then he rolled up his bloodied noble clothes and packed them into a spare sack from the carriage.
'Too expensive to burn,' he thought numbly. 'Would be a waste.'
He strapped the sword to his belt again and climbed onto the driver's bench.
The reins felt strange in his hands—too calm after so much death.
He flicked them.
The horses began to move.
Back onto the road. Back toward the academy.
The forest closed in around him once more.
And Noel Thorne—the invisible extra—disappeared behind a mask of blood and silence.
But this time, something inside him had changed.
Something he couldn't take back.