NOVEL WEB Chapter 173: Warning do not unlock
The suffocating darkness of the dungeon receded behind them, leaving only heavy silence in its wake.
Even so, Violet's eyes drifted back again and again, stealing uneasy glances into the depths where two blurred outlines stood vigil, keeping watch over everything, weather moving or unmoving.
Her chest tightened. She had seen them clearly enough to know.
Channel Forging Realm experts…
Her fingers dug into her palms as disbelief warred with dread. The sheer weight of their presence alone had made her bones ache, and she could not shake the feeling that their gazes had carved through her soul.
"Damien, my son…" her lips trembled with the thought, "…I hope you do not act rashly."
She had heard whispers of his defiance, of his indomitable figure on the battlefield. But even those stories felt fragile compared to the chasm of power she had just witnessed. Whatever strength Damien carried, Channel Forging experts existed in a world far beyond his reach.
Ahead, a softer glow spread across the corridor. The scent of burning incense mingled with the stale dungeon air, guiding them forward.
And then—figures awaited.
A group of men and women clad in golden silk stood in formation, each balancing a polished golden tray. The moment Armstrong Yellowlock stepped into the light, their movements synchronized as if rehearsed a thousand times over.
They bowed deeply, voices echoing in unison:
"Welcome back, Young Master Armstrong!"
The arrogance on Armstrong's face didn't shift. He didn't so much as glance at them. With his chin raised, he strode forward as though their existence was beneath him.
The servants, far from insulted, seemed relieved. They were used to his disdain. To them, acknowledgment would have been more frightening than indifference.
One after another, the golden trays were opened. Violet and Niomi found themselves surrounded, servants moving with fluid precision as they scattered fine powders of rose and mint, sandalwood and saffron. The dust clung to their skin, filling the air with a heady, intoxicating fragrance.
Violet's brows furrowed. Niomi's lips parted, eyes flickering with confusion.
Finally, Niomi caught the wrist of a timid servant girl, halting her movements.
Her voice wavered, tinged with suspicion:
"What are you doing? What is the purpose of this?"
The young girl froze, caught between duty and fear. Her hands trembled as she lowered her eyes.
"Forgive me, young lady," she whispered, voice thin as silk, "but no one can enter the Yellowlock residence carrying the aura of the ancient dungeon. It… must be washed away."
The powders fell like ash around them, binding them with fragrance as invisible chains.
And while Violet and Niomi struggled to make sense of it, Armstrong had already turned his back. Without pause, without a single word, he walked away—his silhouette merging into the blinding light of the Yellowlock estate.
…
The Yellowlock family had ruled Mesrith City for longer than anyone could clearly remember. Generations had risen and fallen, yet the family's grip remained unshaken. In that vast stretch of time, the wealth they had gathered was beyond the imagination of ordinary folk—riches measured not in coins, but in influence, fear, and secrets.
Mesrith itself was divided into three great sections.
The outer city, sprawling with narrow alleys and bustling with common folk, housed the majority of ordinary citizens and low-ranked warriors. The scent of iron from blacksmiths' forges mingled with the cries of street vendors, life there simple but harsh.
The inner city was different—a thriving hub of commerce and authority. It was here that the great guilds had built their halls, each standing like monuments to ambition. The renowned Alchemical Guild, whose cauldrons never ceased smoking, claimed its seat here. And alongside it, the rising power of the Divine Research Guild, whose name had lately spread like wildfire, casting a mysterious shadow over the city's balance.
But towering above both was the core city—the domain of the Yellowlock family.
This sacred ground was veiled behind walls that only the chosen few could pass. To enter required the family's direct permission, marked by their exclusive token. Strength alone meant nothing. Even the mightiest cultivators, those who had climbed far beyond the limits of ordinary warriors, found themselves barred if they lacked that sigil of approval.
Whispers told of one infamous incident. A channel forging realm expert—renowned, feared, and arrogant—had once tried to breach the core city by force. The very next morning, his corpse appeared on the outer roads, drained of vitality, eyes frozen wide in disbelief. His fall had been so clean, so absolute, that it silenced every murmur of defiance.
From that day forward, no one dared test the Yellowlock family's boundaries.
Even now, as Mesrith swelled with powerful strangers drawn by the Divine Research Guild's recent proclamation, the core city stood untouched. No reckless step disturbed its gates, no proud aura dared to linger too close. It was as if an invisible hand pressed down upon all who approached, reminding them that within those walls lived a family whose authority was not to be questioned.
Meanwhile, deep within the core area…
At the highest peak of the Yellowlock family estate stood no golden palace, no towering fortress—only a weathered thatched hut. From a distance, it looked like something a peasant might abandon in favor of sturdier shelter. Its roof sagged in places, its wooden beams darkened by age, as though a single storm could scatter it into splinters.
Yet around it, the mountain itself seemed to bow in reverence. The air was unnaturally still. Every leaf, every blade of grass, carried the weight of an invisible authority that no intruder would dare test.
Beside the hut stretched a modest field. There, bent over with a crooked back, an old man dug quietly at the soil, plucking weeds with weathered fingers. His movements were slow, unhurried, like someone with all the time in the world. But his eyes—bright, clear, brimming with vitality—betrayed the illusion of frailty. Compared to the fading aura of the land, his gaze shone with a life far richer.
Then, all at once, his digging hand stilled. He straightened, nostrils flaring faintly. A familiar aura crept across the mountain path. The corners of his mouth tugged upward, revealing rows of teeth far too white, too perfect, for someone so ancient.
Footsteps followed soon after, steady and powerful. Out from the mist emerged a young man with sharp, wolfish features and an expression honed by arrogance. His presence carried the weight of inherited blood—proud, oppressive, unyielding.
This was Armstrong Yellowlock, young master of the Yellowlock family.
He stopped before the old man, lowered his head, and bowed with respect that seemed at odds with his otherwise domineering aura.
"The woman's talent has been confirmed," Armstrong reported, his voice firm but tinged with restrained excitement. "She is indeed fit to revitalize the vitality of our Yellowlock bloodline."
The old man's face lit with a smile that radiated warmth on the surface, yet behind it lurked something sharper—like a predator finally glimpsing prey after centuries of hunger.
"Good… very good," the elder said, his tone almost trembling with relief. "At last, the drought that has plagued our Yellowlock family for hundreds of years is at its end."
The words struck the air like a solemn decree, echoing faintly through the silent field.
Armstrong's lips twitched as if a grin threatened to break free. For the first time in his life, he could taste it—the possibility of freedom. The shackles of lineage, of a curse that had bound their family for generations, might finally be shattered.
And it would all begin with her.
Just then, the aura around the old man shifted. The joyous warmth faded from his wrinkled face, slowly replaced by the sly smile of a cunning fox. His sharp eyes gleamed with calculation.
"Still…" his voice deepened, carrying the weight of centuries of vigilance. "Although the information provided by those Blood Fang dogs may be true, we cannot trust those bastards. Keep an eye on them."
Armstrong bowed his head slightly, his thoughts no different. Of course, they can't be trusted. He was well aware that the Blood Fang Gang had long set their sights on Mesrith City and the resources it controlled. The very fact that they had such detailed knowledge of the Yellowlock family's hidden troubles spoke volumes about the threat they posed.
After another short exchange, Armstrong was about to take his leave when the old man's gaze suddenly sharpened. His eyes flashed, and he added in a tone laced with warning:
"And also… keep an eye out for that so-called Crown Prince Damien. According to the rumors, that boy alone defeated the Blue Hammer King."
As those words left his mouth, a smile full of disdain tugged at the corners of the old man's lips. He clearly didn't believe such an outrageous tale. In truth, deep down, he felt there had to be a far greater power lurking behind the destruction of the Blue Hammer Kingdom.
It could be anyone, the impatient blood fang gang or anyone for that matter.isjd