Chapter 171 - 171: Suspicious Silas
Syra tightened her grip on her star-iron staff, her mind racing through a dozen different diplomatic scenarios.
'Is restraining them actually the correct choice?' she wondered, glancing at Iron-Scale's twitching blade and Gulag's heavy, bone-plated shoulders. 'No matter what logical compromise I propose to Silas, he will reject it. He is not actually negotiating. He is playing a game, and he has absolutely no intention of letting us pass through words alone.'
She let her slitted black eyes wander across the lavish cabin, noting the impossibly massive dimensions of the ghost ship. The sheer scale of the vessel was deeply unsettling. If the Eleventh Continent utilized ships this colossal merely to collect border tolls, how terrifying was their actual naval armada?
'Even if Iron-Scale and Gulag manage to injure or incapacitate an Apostle right here, we have absolutely no idea what is waiting for us deeper in the fog,' Syra calculated grimly. 'If their transport ships are this large, their heavy artillery and defensive arrays must be equally devastating. We could be sailing blindly into a meat grinder.'
However, as she rapidly processed the variables, a glaring inconsistency suddenly highlighted itself in her tactical assessment.
'We are sailing on the exact navigational coordinates provided by the Second Continent's envoys,' Syra thought, her brow furrowing in deep concentration. 'Envoy Cassian never mentioned navigating a contested strait or paying a divine toll to a rival god. An obstacle of this magnitude is not a minor geographical detail a seasoned diplomat simply forgets to relay.'
Why would the Iron Arbiter's highest-ranking messenger omit such critical intelligence?
'Perhaps we drifted off course during the mana-hurricane?' she hypothesized, though she instantly rejected the idea since her alchemical mapping was mathematically flawless. 'Did Cassian intentionally hide the toll from us? If Elian knew we had to bleed resources just to cross the ocean, the Prophet would have demanded far stricter terms and stripped their empire entirely bare during the treaty signing.'
But as quickly as the theory formed, Syra's sharp logic tore it apart.
'That makes zero strategic sense,' she reasoned, her gaze shifting back to the smiling man in the white coat. 'If Cassian intentionally lied to secure a cheaper alliance, we would eventually reach the Second Continent, realize the deception, and violently extract the toll cost directly from their capital. The Iron Arbiter is currently bleeding to death against the Fourth Continent's heavy cavalry. They are entirely too desperate to risk angering the Vanguard right now. Betraying us over a toll would be absolute suicide.'
The math simply did not add up. If the envoys didn't lie, and her navigation wasn't flawed, then the discrepancy had to originate right here in this room.
'Something is seriously wrong,' Syra realized, a cold spike of clarity piercing through the heavy tension of the cabin. 'The envoys didn't warn us about Silas because Silas wasn't here when they crossed.'
Syra tightened her grip on her star-iron staff. She needed to test her theory before the situation spiraled completely out of control.
"I understand your demand for tribute, Silas," Syra said smoothly, letting a calculated hint of diplomatic yielding enter her voice. "However, Envoy Cassian assured us that the Eleventh Continent's recent naval treaty with the Iron Arbiter guaranteed safe passage for all allied vessels. We are currently marching to break the siege on their capital. Why are you openly breaking your own god's pact?"
Silas let out a soft sigh and shook his head, looking almost disappointed by the question. "Ah, mortal treaties are such fragile things, Elder. That pact only covered standard merchant vessels and diplomatic envoys. It certainly did not account for a fully armed expeditionary force of fifty thousand troops. My master's generosity has its limits."
Syra's slitted eyes turned as cold as the ocean outside. She tapped her staff against the floorboards.
"There is no naval treaty," Syra stated flatly, her voice echoing in the sudden quiet of the cabin. "The Iron Arbiter has been completely blockaded by the Fourth Continent for months. They haven't sent a single diplomatic vessel west in over a year. You just lied to validate a fake pact."
Silas raised an eyebrow, his charismatic smile freezing in place.
"You are not an Apostle of the Eleventh Continent," Syra continued relentlessly, stepping forward to close the distance. "In fact, I highly doubt the Eleventh Continent even claims this strait. The envoys didn't warn us about a divine toll because you were never here when they crossed. Who are you really, and why are you stalling our fleet?"
Iron-Scale did not wait for the stranger's answer. Realizing they had been stalled by an elaborate trick, the supreme commander finally snapped. He launched himself forward in a blinding blur of motion, his sleek blade cutting a deadly arc directly toward Silas's throat.
The star-iron sword struck true, but it met absolutely no resistance.
Iron-Scale stumbled slightly as his blade passed effortlessly through Silas's neck. There was no blood and no sound of tearing flesh. The image of the man simply rippled like a disturbed reflection in a pond before seamlessly reforming.
Silas looked down at his own chest where the sword had just phased through, and then he threw his head back and laughed. The melodic, echoing sound filled the lavish cabin, completely devoid of any malice or fear.
"Oh, brilliant," Silas chuckled, clapping his hands together slowly. The glowing silver rings on his fingers began to crackle with a strange, warm energy. "I genuinely haven't had this much fun in centuries. You Vanguard commanders are delightfully sharp."
Gulag swung her spiked club in frustration, but she quickly lowered her weapon when she realized there was no physical body to crush.
They were standing in a room with a phantom.
"I merely wanted to see the caliber of the monsters marching across my ocean," Silas said, offering them a dramatic, sweeping bow. The edges of his immaculate white coat began to fray into glowing embers. "I must admit, I am thoroughly impressed. I look forward to seeing your empire become one of the true powerhouses of this world."
Before Iron-Scale could demand any actual answers, Silas's entire form ignited.
He did not burn, but rather dissolved seamlessly into a cloud of brilliant golden ashes. The glittering dust caught the ambient light of the floating lanterns for a brief second before scattering completely into the damp sea air, leaving the Vanguard commanders standing alone in an empty cabin.
"What's going on? Was he a ghost?" Gulag asked. "Just like the Hydra who was once undefeatable. But why didn't he attack us if he had such powerful abilities? How can someone stop themselves from fighting when they see an enemy?" She wondered.
"No one thinks of fighting someone the first time they see them," Syra responded. "He wasn't an enemy."
"Enough of this!" Iron-Scale sheathed his sword in anger. "Let's leave this place. We have wasted enough time."
Red stopped stroking Glitch and leaned back a little, clearly surprised by what he had just witnessed.
"So it wasn't an apostle. But why did the system give me a prompt about it? Fooling the game engine is not easy. Perhaps, he was a god? But his abilities and charisma kind of reminds me of Valerius. Could it be that Silas is a native god?"