He noted the mage's rhythm—when he interrupted, how quickly he leaned in, how far his authority stretched even here. The two-star knight clearly didn't like him, but orders were orders.
The mage was a sanctioned weapon.
And the crowd didn't stand a chance.
Then the tent stirred.
Whispers drifted in like smoke from the flaps.
Zac's ears perked.
"She's here—"
"Is that…?"
"It's Lisa. The Mage Knight."
A hush swept the camp.
When she entered, she didn't need to announce herself.
She glided.
Stunning, tall, with a face carved like nobility itself—high cheekbones, sharp hazel eyes, and flowing brown hair that bounced with each step. Her armor shimmered, trimmed with faint violet lines of magic threading through silver. Her presence was regal but deadly, like a sword wrapped in silk.
Zac felt the air in the room shift—soldiers stood straighter, the two-star knight rose instinctively.
Only the mage kept his seat, a faint grin on his lips. But even he watched her closely.
She spoke with calm authority. "How many?"
"Seventeen," said the knight. "Villagers from the lower quarter tavern. Accused of association with Nightshade."
Lisa's gaze swept the room and landed briefly on Zac.
He didn't move.
She continued. "You've gotten nothing useful?"
The mage chuckled, stepping forward. "I've gotten everything. They're fools in love with a mask, or should I say hood? If we squeeze harder—"
"Enough." Her voice was crisp.
The mage blinked.
"I'll take it from here."
The knight gave her a respectful nod and stepped back. The mage hesitated, lips pursed, before retreating beside him.
Lisa turned to the prisoners.
She didn't scream. She didn't cast spells. She just studied them—one by one—with a gaze that peeled away lies.
Then she spoke softly. "I'm not here to torture you. I want Nightshade. If you help me find him, I'll release the rest."
A beat of silence.
No one spoke.
Lisa's eyes fell on Zac.
"You. Stand."
Zac didn't flinch. He stood slowly, keeping the limp in his posture. "Me?"
"You haven't said a word," she said. "That's unusual. Fear or guilt?"
"Both," he mumbled, deliberately slurring just a bit. "I just came for a drink."
Lisa tilted her head, observing.
Zac met her gaze for a heartbeat.
Something flickered in her eyes. Recognition? Suspicion?
She turned slightly. "Unshackle him."
The mage snapped, "He's hiding something"
Lisa shot him a sharp look. "I said, unshackle him."
A guard hesitated, then obeyed.
The cuffs clicked open. Zac rubbed his wrists gently.
Lisa gestured. "Walk with me."
Zac nodded, careful to keep his expression mild.
Zac followed her without protest, but inside, gears were turning.
He was impressed—and a little irritated.
She'd seen through his guise with a single look. His slouched posture, dull eyes, the lazy swagger he'd perfected over the years… none of it had fooled her.
"These Mage Knights," he thought, eyes flicking to the subtle gleam in the armor threading her limbs, "they're truly something. I'll have to take her seriously."
He hadn't before—not truly. The mage in the tent? A sadist in robes, no discipline, no control. But Lisa? From the way she carried herself to the precise control in her mana, he could tell. She had just stepped into the Ascension stage. Her aura wasn't overpowering, but it was solid. Mature. Like a sword freshly sharpened—waiting to be drawn.
She was far beyond him.
In terms of power—yes. Raw stage? No contest.
But in terms of instincts, cunning, timing?
Zac didn't flinch. Not even slightly. Nightshade would never flinch.
"She might be worthy after all," he mused silently, glancing sideways at her as they walked past the edge of the torchlight. "Worthy to face Nightshade."
But then there was something else. Something that didn't add up.
Sympathy.
He saw it, felt it—right in the moment she took control of the interrogation. It wasn't a tactical power move. She'd stepped in because she couldn't stomach what was happening. She looked at the villagers not like suspects… but like people.
That's why she'd sent the mage into the corner like a dog.
"She must not be from around here," Zac thought. His gaze dropped briefly to the dirt beneath their feet. The torches cast long, flickering shadows ahead of them. "Too soft to be born under this kingdom's boot."
He'd heard the stories, of course. Wild tales whispered over cheap ale—about other regions, far across the Deadwoods. Kingdoms where men and women were judged not by their bloodline, but by their strength. Their skill. Where commoners could rise high. Where justice had a face.
He never believed them.
Or rather, he chose not to.
It was easier that way.
After what happened to his father—crucified without a hearing, betrayed by the very noble who knighted him—Zac buried those kinds of stories deep. He didn't allow himself to dream about fairness. He only sharpened his hatred.
He glanced again at Lisa.
Could she be real? Or just another illusion with better acting?
She suddenly turned to face him, and he caught the full weight of her presence. Her beauty wasn't just physical—it was layered. Steel underneath silk. Poise, sharpened by experience. Even he, who had turned heads in every tavern and alley he entered, felt pale beside her.
Lisa didn't smile. She studied him the way a hawk studies the wind.
Then, calm as ever, she began to ask questions.
Soft questions. Innocent ones. The kind that slipped in sideways, looking harmless—until you said one word too many.
"Where do you work?"
"Who's your landlord?"
"What's the name of your mother's hometown?"
Any of those questions would've made a commoner stammer, scratch his head, or glance sideways for help. But Zac didn't blink. Didn't fidget. He did need to practice this, he was a natural. An actor, considering he did put up a performance every night.
He gave answers so smooth and lazy they looked real. Casual enough to suggest ignorance, but just firm enough to show he wasn't hiding anything. The perfect mask.
Lisa watched him closely. Her eyes never drifted. With such keen eyes, would she belive his well waved lies?