The Devil's Cage Chapter 1613 – Dig A Hole

Translator: EndlessFantasy Translation Editor: EndlessFantasy Translation

Pudder, who hadn’t slept for a whole night, managed to nap around dawn.

A painful chest and dry eyes told the middle-aged chief officer that he should rest, he wasn’t as young as he used to be.

But…

The documents piled up like mountains on his desk as he shook his head in hopes of energizing himself.

Only in such moments, Pudder admired those Extraordinary individuals for their outstanding stamina and energy, something that he always sought after yet was unable to obtain.

However, he quickly cursed he Extraordinary individuals who thought they were above the law.

There were no reports of casualties of civilians during the battle in the outskirts yesterday but more than a hundred meters of asphalt road and electrical posts were destroyed. Repairing all of them would be quite the construction process and once he thought about the detailed report that he had to submit to the mayor’s office, his temple swelled in pain.

What was worse was yet to arrive.

There were also a dozen cases of arson during last night alone. No casualties were reported but many buildings were damaged.

“A bunch of good-for-nothing bastards! Can’t they learn something from that guy? He is cold but he knows what he wants and never acts recklessly!”

Pudder couldn’t help but think of Kieran as he read through the reports.

The chief officer had a mixed view of Kieran. Even though he was dutiful and loyal to his job, Kieran did save him before and he was in Kieran’s debt, so he could not forget about it.

Or in other words, if he would forget about Kieran saving his life, he wouldn’t be as loyal and dutiful to his job.

Pudder loosened up his tie and went into deep thought.

He ought to return the debt to Kieran one day, otherwise his feelings would eventually affect his job. He knew his position in the force would ultimately bring him to an opposite site, he would have to go up against Kieran.

It wasn’t good or evil, just the difference in ideals.

“What should I do?” he muttered in a muffled voice.

There was then a knock on his door.

Knock, Knock, Knock!

“Come in,” said Pudder.

“Coffee, hotdog, and salad; less sugar in coffee and salad without dressing.”

Michael, his assistant, came in with food in a bag for Pudder.

“Thank you Michael, you can head home for now. Come back tomorrow, don’t be late,” Pudder smiled.

The reason why he gave his young assistant the day off wasn’t because of the breakfast, it was because Michael hadn’t been home for three days straight.

As for Pudder himself, Kieran did knock him out for a long time, hence he had quite the sleep.

“Em,” Michael nodded and went out.

When he turned around to the door, Michael showed a helpless look on his face. He instinctively turned back to Pudder, who had entered his working trance, wanting to say something but nothing came out, so he gave up.

Michael grabbed his coat, waving at his colleagues, who were still working overtime and left the station, but he did not head home. He went to a nearby 24 hour fast food joint instead.

“Ice cola, fried fish and fries please.”

Michael headed to the seat in the corner telling his order to the waiter.

The place he chose to sit was empty but when his food was served by the waiter, a person suddenly sat behind Michael.

“You are late!” the person said in a muffled voice.

“I’ve tried my best to be here on time!” Michael replied coldly.

At first, Michael loved his job, he thought it was cool and paid quite handsomely. It was a great start for him. However, as time flew by, Michael spent a lot of time with Pudder, finding it hard to adapt to his current identity, especially when he handed some secret information to the person who came to this meeting, feeling guilty about his actions.

He wanted to stop but it was hard for him to escape from his current life.

“Like promised, this is what you people want.”

Michael handed a detailed document on the arson cases last night to the person behind him. He didn’t turn around, passing the file through the chair’s opening.

The person behind him replied by handing him a paper bag too.

Michael knew what it was, hesitating for a while but ultimately taking it. He wasn’t as happy and excited like his earlier days. Quite the contrary, he felt disgusted and wanted to get his hands away.

“Some things are better remained as thoughts, you know what will happen to you once you break the promise,” the man behind Michael casually reminded him and before Michael could reply, the man stood up and left.

Michael sat down blankly for quite a while before he stood up too. He packed the food himself and walked out of the fast food joint, and when he did, he felt the blinding sun on his face. He smiled helplessly.

He knew exactly what would happen to him once he broke the promise, but…

The suffering in his heart tortured him like hell, it was more suffocating than death.

…

Cymilaide took the paper bag and returned to his hotel room quickly.

“Being an idiot is infectious, hope you won’t do anything that you and I will regret.”

Cymilaide tossed the paper bag on the table and muttered to himself.

He had seen too many young men like Michael.

These young men became the so-called secret agents with a little temptation but the majority of them would regret their decision. Likewise, none of them ended up well.

The Senate had a group of professionals to deal with these regretful young men.

It wasn’t him, he wouldn’t take up such responsibility because it was too dangerous!

Cymilaide’s aim was to be safe until he could retire, so he was quite reluctant to participate in the upcoming plan but had no grounds to reject.

“What a bloody life!”

Cymilaide cursed before he opened the paper bag. He carefully went through the reports that he got from Michael but the more he read, the more he was terrified.

Soon, his forehead was smeared with beads of sweat.

Cymilaide was a participant, not an observer, but he knew where the places mentioned in the reports were. Every single location was the temporary hideout of those who planned to ambush Kieran.

“Karma strikes like a bitch eh?”

His doubtful tone had a thick sense of fear.

Cymilaide was certain all these arson cases were the handy work of Kieran, without a doubt.

The worst thing was his next mission was to pay Kieran a visit.

“This is as shit as it goes!”

Cymilaide leaned back on his chair helplessly, muttering to himself.

…

17th Randletine Street.

After a scrumptious and happy breakfast, Kieran went to the study room.

Old Book Canberlanor was drawing and writing and when he saw Kieran come in, he stood up with a smile.

“I bet you have something good for me,” Kieran said with a smile.

“I’m happy to not let you down. Based on the records in these secret books, I’ve gotten a general idea about this Madam Mordin. Firstly, she wasn’t a sculptor imprisoned during the papal era, like the rumours say. She should be a saintess of Armiarde Sect back in the days. On top of that, this Madam Saintess is very unlike the others, she possessed not only the identity of saintess but was also a powerful sorcerer and demon hunter. She controlled fire, wielded a greatsword, and had a raven as companion: she was familiar with potionology, mystical knowledge and sculpting, and without a question, her sculpting skills had reached unprecedented levels,” explained the Old Book.

“A sorcerer?” Kieran raised a brow.

Based on his own mystical knowledge, sorcerers usually relied on their bloodline power to perform remarkable feats and possessed outstanding powers, the origin of their bloodline determining how powerful their spells were.

The bloodline may originate from elves, elder dragons that soared the skies, or devil from the bottomless abyss.

Instinctively, when Kieran heard the term ‘sorcerer’, his mind reminded him of the words etched on the base of [Hell Breath].

Father, please save me!

It’s dark here and I’m scared—Mordin!

“You said she’s a sorcerer? Of what bloodline?” Kieran asked.

“The Devil!” Old Book said with a weird look on his face.

“Devil…” Kieran frowned.

“My lord, it may be just a coincidence, I’ve found nothing, not even a mention, about you in all the books, and I can’t get a result from my simulations,” Old Book Canberlanor tried his best in talking to Kieran.

Coincidence?

Too bad Kieran never believed in coincidence!

Kieran went into deep thoughts quietly for a while, before he continued, “What else have you got for me?”

“There is one more important thing! Madam Mordin seemed to have been involved in some major event, after that, she poured her devotion into mastering the art of sculpting and fused her own power into her work. But as for what major event, I don’t know, there is very little information on that!”

Old Book said in a regrettable tone as he stood in front of a hundred books.

Kieran didn’t censure Old Book for that, he knew that although there were a hundred books in the room, what he truly needed was a sentence, or half a sentence, in a few or one book. Without Old Book’s help, getting his hands on such information would exhaust a great amount of manpower, resources and time, and it may not be as fruitful; Old Book Canberlanor wasn’t almighty either.

Some secret information was off the books, or rather, those books, the scrolls that had the information he seeked were currently out of his reach.

Time was a scary weapon, nothing would live for eternity!

Withering and dying was a natural law in the river of time!

Therefore, he had to choose another way, a better way to approach.

“Ferris,” Kieran called at the door.

“My lord, how can I help?” Ferris walked and replied.

“Do you know how to sculpt?” Kieran asked.

“Sculpt? A little but far from good,” Ferris froze before he replied.

“A little would suffice,” Kieran smiled.

…

Cymilaide visited almost every famous pastry shop and special restaurant in Alkender and brought a large amount of food to 17th Randletine Street.

Ding Dong!

“Good day, I’m Cymilaide, here to visit Sir 2567.”

Politely, Cymilaide pressed the doorbell and stated who he was through the connected intercom, also raising the food up to the camera for a clear view.

“Please hold on,” A cold voice replied.

Two seconds later, the door opened.

Ferris answered the door and looked down at Cymilaide with a judgmental gaze, his eyes pausing at the food before he stepped aside.

“Come in,” said Ferris.

“Thank you,” Cymilaide bowed politely.

He then followed Ferris to the study room on the second floor.

As a matter of fact, Cymilaide had been through the blueprints for 17th Randletine Street more than 30 times, making him very familiar with the structure, including the secret room and the people who lived there.

Ferris, Odork, Emma Eddie, and the newly joined Goran.

Before his visit, he already knew about these tenants.

Cymilaide had his own thoughts about Ferris and Odork, and he knew Goran liked his own palm.

However, Cymilaide dared not show his confidence on his face.

These people’s identities were not as important to him or the Senate as the person they served.

A few senators had their eyes on Kieran, hence the order to ‘investigate’ for Cymilaide.

Honestly, Cymiliade really wanted to hang those senators up and beat the crap out of them.

Investigate the Glutton Emperor? How ridiculous would that be?

The slightest mistake would cost him his life, he would have to die for his duty!

Even if everything turned out well, he had spent 2 months of his salary just for this meeting alone!

Cymilaide felt depression and despair at his thin wallet.

Although he could claim it back from the Senate after he head back, the complicated process would take around two months and he would have scant himself in food and clothes.

Somehow when he thought about scanting food, the food that he held in his hand, which he thought normal before, suddenly looked tasty.

Quietly swallowing his saliva, Cymilaide warned himself in his head to not touch the ‘offering’ that could be exchanged for his safety.

The door of the study room wasn’t shut.

Cymilaide saw Kieran behind the study desk outside the room but at the next moment, his eyes subconsciously looked at the desk instead.

The desk was big but filled with many things at the moment.

Two sheathless swords, a knife sheathed in a leather case and an aged leather armor.

Cymilaide had sharp eyes, a single glance told him all the swords and the knife possessed special powers and the leather armor was a rare treasure.

He once saw a similar leather armor in some senator’s treasure vault.

Rumour had it that the senator spent a fortune and some inglorious methods to obtain it.

But now?

The armor of similar rarity was simply placed on the desk, and the owner of the armor seemed to be captivated by the weird sculpture in his hand instead of the items.

A sculpture?

Cymilaide froze for a second before reacting.

He shut his eyes and knelt down on both his knees.

“I know the rules! I know it! I didn’t see anything, I know nothing!”

Cymilaide crawled back out as he screamed in panic.

“Come back,” Kieran said.

“As you wish sir!” Cymilaide crawled back to the study room.

“Do you know this sculpture?” Kieran asked.

“I-I know, it should be the legendary Master Mordin’s work,” Cymilaide stuttered.

“Of course I know it’s Mordin’s work, I’m asking you do you know which work this is?”

Kieran then placed the sculpture on the desk.

Cymilaide raised his trembling head and carefully placed his hands down from his eyes. He first took a peak, he did not notice anything unusual, he then heaved a breath of relief before looking at the sculpture.

And when his gaze landed on the sculpture, his face changed for the worse.