53.2: Tunnel to the Unexpected

Percival approached the blonde-haired girl that was assigned as the leader of their group not too long ago. "Lena, how are you doing?" he asked, perhaps from a sense of responsibility knowing that he was the second best behind Minerva, yet wasn't assigned as the group leader.

Her shoulders dropped as she sighed in relief, as if hoping for someone to pop that question. "I really don't like it."

"If you don't like it, then you can pass the leadership to me—I've no problem with that."

She shook her head, her brows slightly furrowing. "Thanks I guess, but Ms. Ardell trusts me. I won't break her trust."

Percival smiled and nodded, as if it was his plan to provoke her like this and make her remember the most important thing—Ms. Ardell's trust.

Their mission wasn't anything new; continue the offensive, come back in one piece, gain points. Though even at one point it would be the norm for the limited amount of time this exam took place, tension still filled their hearts—Percival was no different, and so was his exact copy that silently walked behind him.

Needless to say, having a clone and being one means knowing each other perfectly, and Percival was very much aware of the dissatisfaction that loomed within his copy, but he could care less.

The group halted before a checkpoint; a pole bearing a plain red flag. Percival turned to his copy. "You know what to do."

His copy rolled his eyes and walked past the pole alone. Lena turned to him with a worried expression. "Are you sure it's okay for him to go alone?"

"Let him be, he'll end up very useful before he dies," He said with a rather cold tone—he couldn't care a single bit if his clone dies if it served its purpose; handing him information. Though if it didn't serve useful, then Percival will end up rather irritated.

.

It took no more than ten minutes for the clone to return, not a single hint of injuries in his figure.

"What did you see?" asked Lena.

The clone glanced at each and every one of them (four). "For the most part, the area beyond this flagpole is vacant."

"Then—"

"But," He cut Lena off, "there was one house that stood out, I was able to spot a few bandits inside."

Percival raised a brow, curious. "Where is this house?"

"It's five minutes away, near another flagpole."

With his question answered, he looked at Lena, who looked back and seemed to know what it was about.

She walked forward, attracting the others to follow—they were ready to go. They could've just called it a day and return to the academy, yet as much as they, or Lena and Percival at the very least wanted to avoid contact with the bandit, they couldn't return empty-handed.

.

A plan had been formed throughout their walk; find a gap they could sneak through so they could enter without getting spotted—Percival and his clone were the head.

As a whole, they were plenty capable of bursting through the door and enacting an explosive skirmish, but they vetoed getting their hands dirtier than necessary.

The clone spearheaded the quiet offensive with Percival behind, then Lena and the other two, who were responsible for guarding their flanks.

They arrived at the back of the house in hopes of finding a window, for the left side of the place they first passed through was windowless. Their initial plan was to find a hole leading to an underground entrance, but crossed it out and replaced it with a window which made more sense. They were disappointed to say the least as they discovered the back was completely windowless.

Their hopes dropped and confusion rose as they checked the right side, which was also windowless. Just what type of house had literally no windows, save for the front?

Percival placed his hands on his hips, a sigh escaping his mouth. "Seems like we'll have to go explosive." He turned to one of their group mates. "Mason, blow up the front—"

"Wait." His clone spoke, albeit a little loud. They stared daggers at him as they tensed up, fearing the possibility of gangsters hearing them.

Alas, he ignored their response and stomped the ground, giving rise to what seemed to be the cover of a manhole disguised by grass.

Suffice to say, the group was surprised, realising just what that manhole could be. First, why was it even disguised? Well, it could be because the owner of the house didn't like it to ruin their backyard.. But why was it located there anyways? Percival was set to find out as he took a peek.

A metal ladder linked the surface and the bottom, which before it from a safe distance were lanterns in shallow holes that accommodated the light sources.

He bit his lip. Should he go in with his clone, or should he bring the whole group? They planned on going together in the first place, but the more he saw, the more he realised it was rather dangerous.

"Me and me will go. You guys go through the front." Percival declared, prompting a reaction from the group.

"But didn't we agree to going together? Why the sudden change of plans?" asked Mason, who was just as confused as Lena and Noah.

"We don't know how many guys are inside. The front has an easy escape, but this doesn't. We'll essentially be locked if we all go together."

His clone was expressionless, seemingly inline with his decision.

The three glanced at each other, then Lena sighed. "Okay, you have a fair point."

"Attack them when you're ready." He said as he gestured to his clone to enter first, only to be met with a frown.

"Why the hell would I enter first?"

Percival frowned back. "Because it doesn't matter if you get hurt or even die, I'll just respawn you."

"Tsk.. Think about the pain I feel." He retorted, but descended the ladder either way. Percival followed suit, the suggestion deflecting his ears.

They cautiously walked through the tunnel, their left hands resting on the cobblestone walls. Every now and then they'd take it off to avoid the holes where lanterns rested like from the entrance.

The pressing silence was not as dangerous as the chance of stumbling onto the trap, which they had been trying to avoid with their feet barely kissing the ground, their eyes straining to pierce through the murky glow.

From afar, faint voices of men filtered through the thick air. They steeled their guards, their mutual readiness forming an unspoken agreement: face them.

The tunnel twisted and turned like a serpent, each corner was taken with anticipation—how would they know someone wasn't there? Each corner could be an ambush point.

They moved deeper, luck siding with them as they had not stumbled onto any traps or ambush points. They reached the final turn before exposing the light-filled area where the sound of voices peaked. Both halted, pressing against the warm and uneven stone wall.

Their eager ears strained to make out the conversation from what they assumed was a room. As the voices came to a pause, the sound of clinking coins filtered through.

His brows raised upon hearing a familiar voice break the silence: the familiar voice of a guy his age, one that always carried hints of hostility despite his calmness, one that he never really interacted with, yet knew him as well as everyone did—spoilers, they didn't really know a lot about him either.

Why did he hear that voice? If it's him, why is he here? To find out what he wished wasn't true, he shut his eyes and transferred his vision to his clone, urging him to peek.

The clone being his copy understood and shared the same curiosity, thus wasted no time slowly poking his head out until his eyes could see through the rough apex.

What he—no, what they saw was a man who generally looked no different from the average gangster; rugged clothes that at this point was something like a uniform for them, and a scabbard on the side that stuck to their belt.. It was expected, though it was when he moved to the side that truly caught their utmost attention.

"You seem to despise the Little Gang Killer if you'll go this far. What's up with that?" asked the bandit who held a bag of coins, most likely the ones clanking from a few seconds ago.

"You need not learn my intentions, just take the Zinari, keep your mouth shut and do the job."

A blonde man his age stood a commanding pose, his eggplant-coloured eyes darting to the clone's direction.

That's right, the man who wore a cloak with his hood down was no other than His Grace, the Duke of Galenville.

The clone forced a step back as he gasped. Percival forced his eyes open as the revelation registered. His heart fell as if it lost balance from the edge of a cliff, yet he grabbed it at the last second and took off from leaning by the rocky wall.

"It seems we have unwanted visitors." Damon picked up his staff from the long wooden table to his right, immediately reducing himself to a ball of light that carelessly passed through the clone's body. A minimal amount of blood splashed out of his chest where Damon went through, not red but purple. He dropped to the floor, slowly fading away into thin air starting from the feet.

Percival's heart raced in panic as he sprinted, yet not as much as he expected..—Oh right, the anticipation had already gotten him panicking before he confirmed it was Damon, so what more was there to make him shiver his timbers?

The uneven surface of the tunnel threatened to trip him and leave a few wounds if he landed face-first, yet he managed to avoid them and reach the ladder.

His sprint came to an abrupt halt as the ball of light he feared would reach him did so, reverting Damon to his original state.

"Ah ah ah.. Not so fast."

Out of instinct, Percival brought his fists up and stanced his body up for a fight. The fact it was hands against a light-emitting staff didn't catch up to his mind yet.

The effects of overusing his clone magic to a length he wasn't used to finally caught up to him as he sweated buckets and felt weak on the knees at the same time.

"I don't think I can let you go after what you've witnessed. You don't mind me holding you captive for a while, don't you?"

Percival furrowed his brows. "Apologies, but I mind!" He rushed towards Damon to disarm him, his determination to escape unwavering despite a ray of light piercing through his left shoulder. "—Haaaa—!"

Damon dropped his staff and caught Percival's right fist, then his left fist. With both arms occupied, Damon hastily stepped closer and bashed his head with Percival's, the latter's jerking backward.

Leveraging the moment of disorientation, Damon stepped forward again and swung his right fist to Percival's face, the powerful blow sending him sideways as he fell to the ground.

"Resistance is futile, Percival Galath." He straddled him and grabbed his staff.

"Clara Lorum." A ray of light conjured from the sphere of his staff and travelled to the wrists of Percival, binding them like a rope.

Percival growled and wiggled around and exerted most energy to his arms in an attempt to break free—the sturdiness of the light rope nullified his attempts.

He pulled Percival up by the collar and nudged him from behind. "Go forth."

Choiceless, Percival did as he ordered and walked deeper in the tunnel, his fate uncertain.

Why was Damon there? What was the bandit's assigned job? Why did Damon pay him? What was he planning? He heard the bandit mention his hatred for the Little Gang Killer, did he want to use the gangsters as a medium to reach the notorious criminal? For what? Percival's gaze was lost as the short walk proceeded—the short walk to his fate.