Extra's Sign In System: The Hero's an Idiot!

Chapter 205: Chapter 205: The Statement Piece

Chapter 205: The Statement Piece

Nyx Vespera did not hesitate.

The moment Draven said the word execute, her hands moved.

SHINK.

Two sleek, void-steel daggers slid silently from her bracers. The pitch-black blades actively drank the ambient light on the rooftop.

She bent her knees, calculating the exact trajectory required to drop seventy feet, bypass the Envoy’s personal energy shield, and sever his brainstem before a single drop of blood hit the cobblestones.

Draven raised a gloved hand.

"Stand down, Nyx," Draven ordered quietly.

Nyx froze. She looked back at him, her starry, pitch-black eyes entirely unreadable beneath her shadow-veil.

"You said execute," Nyx pointed out flatly.

"I meant it politically," Draven corrected, his voice a calm, freezing anchor in the wind.

"A dead diplomat left in the central plaza is a war crime with a body. It forces Lord Commander Helion to answer to the Capital. It gives them a unified reason to march on Bastion Seven."

Draven looked down at the white and gold robes of Thalis Corwyn sitting in the VIP section.

"But a missing diplomat is a message only the guilty can decode," Draven continued.

"If the Envoy vanishes without a trace, the Capital has a choice. If they openly accuse Helion of an abduction, they admit to running illegal back-channels in our territory. If they go entirely quiet, it confirms they are complicit in the Cult’s operations. Either way, we control the board."

Lucien gave a slow, elegant nod of agreement.

The Storm Sovereign leaned against the stone parapet, watching the nobles below.

"It is a flawless political snare," Lucien agreed.

"I have spent enough time polishing boots in chancery halls to know how cowards operate. They will not risk an open war if they cannot prove how he died. We take him alive, and we extract everything he knows."

Aegon crossed his heavy, iron-plated arms.

"We are warriors, not kidnappers," Aegon rumbled, his voice tight.

"If he is an enemy, we should crush him and leave his head on the gates as a warning."

"We are ghosts, Aegon," Draven overruled him smoothly, leaving no room for argument.

"Ghosts do not leave warnings. They leave empty rooms."

Aegon clenched his jaw, but he nodded, accepting the command. The friction was natural. The Crucible Warlord was built for the frontlines, not the shadows.

Estella stood near the back of the rooftop. She did not say a word.

The Star Mage simply watched Draven. She watched the absolute, terrifying ease with which he dictated global politics.

He did not sound like an Academy student guessing at tactics. He sounded like a hardened veteran who had played this exact game of political warfare a thousand times before.

She cataloged the observation in her mind and remained entirely silent.

Down in the plaza, the memorial service was concluding.

Instructor Garrick Stonehelm stepped down from the splintered wooden podium. He saluted the ten empty marble pedestals one last time before turning away.

The massive crowd of students began to slowly disperse, their heads bowed in heavy, respectful silence.

The families in the front row lingered.

Through the lens of her shadow-veil, Nyx watched Seraphina Vance carefully. The top-tier Healer was still sobbing, her shoulders shaking violently as she clutched Reina’s blue scarf to her chest.

But Nyx noticed the discrepancy. Seraphina’s face was a mask of utter devastation, but her hands were completely steady. There was no microscopic tremor in her fingers.

A few seats over, Lady Elara Logcheville wiped her tear-stained face with a silk handkerchief. As she stood up to leave, the aristocratic woman tilted her head upward.

For a fraction of a second, Lady Logcheville’s sharp eyes flicked directly toward the exact rooftop where the Syndicate was hiding.

She offered a nearly imperceptible nod, before turning away to join the departing nobles.

’They know,’ Draven noted internally.

’Helion kept his word. The noble families were briefed in the bunker. They are acting.’

But Helion had only briefed the nobles.

He could not risk bringing civilians into a highly classified, Level 200 underground facility.

At the far left end of the pedestals, a heavy-set man and a short, kind-faced woman stood completely alone.

They wore simple, dark wool clothing. They were not warriors. They owned a small bakery in the outer commercial ring.

They were Bram’s parents.

And they were grieving for real.

Mrs. Stone stood in front of her son’s marble pedestal. She reached out with violently trembling hands. She touched the heavy, iron-plated Vanguard jacket folded on the stone.

She carefully smoothed out an invisible wrinkle on the collar. Then she picked it up, folded it again, and placed it back down.

She did it three times. Her hands desperately needed something to do. Her mind was entirely shattered by the loss of her gentle boy.

Mr. Stone did not move. He stood beside his wife with a hollow stare. He looked like a man who had just had his heart physically ripped from his chest.

On the rooftop, the air grew painfully heavy.

Bram did not cry. He did not make a single sound.

He just went completely quiet.

He stood perfectly rigid, staring down at his broken parents.

The agony of staying dead, of watching his mother fold that jacket, was a heavier weight than the King Level Beast had ever been.

TAP.

Natalie Tokks stepped forward silently. She did not offer hollow words of comfort.

She simply closed the distance and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him. She pressed her arm firmly against his, a quiet, physical anchor in the dark.

Bram closed his eyes and breathed out a shaky sigh, accepting the silent support.

Draven watched the exchange. This was the true cost of the shadow war. It was not paid in blood; it was paid in isolation.

---

Down below, the VIP section finally began to empty.

Envoy Thalis Corwyn stood up from his velvet chair. He smoothed out his pristine white and gold robes.

He did not look at the grieving families. He adjusted his silken cuffs and began to walk briskly toward the southern exit of the plaza.

"Nyx," Draven commanded softly. "You have the tail."

"Understood," Nyx whispered.

She did not jump off the roof. She simply took a step backward.

The [Phantom Queen] sank flawlessly into the physical shadow cast by the high parapet wall.

She descended the seventy-foot drop through the two-dimensional plane of the architecture, moving like a drop of black ink sliding down a pane of glass.

Nyx merged with the ambient shadows of the central plaza. She was completely untraceable.

She locked her pitch-black eyes onto the white and gold robes of Envoy Corwyn.

The diplomat was walking quickly. He moved away from the main thoroughfare, deliberately avoiding the large crowds of mourning students and Vanguard patrols.

Nyx trailed exactly twenty paces behind him, gliding silently across the cobblestones through the shade of the Academy walls.

She analyzed his gait.

He was not strutting. The brief smile of relief Draven had spotted during the eulogy was gone.

As the Envoy entered a narrow, empty alleyway leading out of the Academy grounds, he aggressively checked over his shoulder.

His face was pale. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

’He is not arrogant,’ Nyx noted analytically. ’He is terrified.’

The Envoy was walking like a hunted man.

He was relieved that Strike Team Zero was dead not because he hated them, but because their deaths prevented a specific timeline he desperately wanted to avoid.

Corwyn turned sharply, exiting the alley and stepping onto a main transit street.

Nyx expected him to hail a carriage and head north, toward the opulent diplomatic suites in the Noble District.

Instead, the Envoy pulled the white hood of his robe up, obscuring his face. He turned south.

He began walking directly toward the lower industrial sector.

Nyx frowned beneath her veil. She tapped the comms unit in her ear.

"Draven," Nyx reported, her voice a soft, static hum in the earpieces of the squad.

"Target is on the move. But he is heading the wrong way."

"Define wrong," Draven’s voice replied instantly.

"He is moving south. Sector Four. The factory lines and the lower wards."

On the rooftop, Draven narrowed his gray eyes.

Sector Four was a gritty, neon-lit labyrinth of heavy industry, refining plants, and the city’s criminal underworld.

It was the exact same district where Draven had executed the Blood Crucible operatives, and where he had first met Sirius and his mercenaries.

A high-ranking Capital diplomat in pristine robes had absolutely zero legitimate business in the lower wards.

"He is making a drop," Lucien suggested over the comms.

"Or meeting a contact. The Cult operates heavily in the slums."

Draven processed the tactical variables in a fraction of a second.

"A man walking into the underworld alone is either buying a secret or selling one," Draven stated coldly.

"Do not engage him in transit, Nyx. Let him reach his destination. I want to see exactly whose door he is knocking on."

Draven turned away from the edge of the roof.

"Move out," Draven ordered the Syndicate. "We take him tonight."

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!