I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 795: Elves

The palace corridors stretched before Jack Kaiser, weighed down by centuries. Marble floors reflected torchlight in pools of orange.

The architecture intimidated through scale.

Ceilings that soared three stories high, walls carved from bedrock, archways that framed the space.

His boots echoed against the stone with each stride. The sound carried upward through the vaulted ceilings, announcing his presence whether he wished it or not.

The torches created alternating light and shadow. Jack moved through both without hesitation, his eyes adjusting seamlessly.

He was moving toward the throne room when he noticed the scrying screen positioned in an alcove.

The device was mounted on a stone pedestal, its surface active and glowing. The image displayed the Finals arena in real time. Millions of viewers watched simultaneously across seven kingdoms. The stadium was packed. Energy cascaded through the connection.

Jack slowed his pace.

Four competitors stood on a central platform. He recognized Rhys immediately. The half-blood’s bearing was unmistakable.

The way he carried his shoulders, the way his breathing remained controlled, the way his eyes processed the arena without emotion.

The women in white began to move.

The crowd’s energy fractured. Hundreds of heads turned. Thousands of eyes fixed on the figures traversing the stadium.

They reached the central platform.

The first woman approached Rhys directly. Her hand moved to his shoulder. The gesture lasted only moments.

Jack watched patiently.

“Looks like you’re doing just fine, Rhys,” he said to himself. His voice was barely audible. “Pho did well in your training.”

The woman removed her hand and turned away. She did not acknowledge the crowd. She did not respond to the chaos she had created. She simply walked back toward the exits, her companion following.

Jack’s jaw tightened slightly. His breathing remained controlled. A faint smile crossed his features.

Everything was proceeding exactly as intended.

His sisters had executed their part flawlessly. Rhys stood on the central platform with the weight of sponsorship confusing everyone. The stadium erupted into pandemonium, trying to calculate who these women in white were and why they had chosen to back a Vileblood.

They would know soon enough.

Jack resumed his stride toward the throne room, his expression settling back into neutrality. His pace remained measured. His hand unclenched.

The plan was working.

——————-

Maelor sat on his throne, watching the scrying screen positioned before him. The image showed the moment the woman in white removed her hand from Rhys’s shoulder. The stadium erupted into pandemonium. Spectators were on their feet. The announcer’s voice carried across the connection, though Maelor had muted the sound.

His son.

Rhys was his son. The half-blood competitor who had advanced through the tournament with absolute dominance was his son.

The realization carried weight that had been building throughout the tournament, but the mysterious sponsor had transformed it into something far more complex.

Rhys had backing. Someone had chosen to support him. Someone with strong political networks. Rhys was not merely a talented competitor but a competitor positioned within circles of power that Maelor did not fully comprehend.

The throne room doors opened without announcement.

Jack Kaiser entered. His presence weighed down the room. His clothing was dark. His expression revealed nothing. His eyes scanned the space with the precision of someone assessing everything simultaneously.

Maelor rose from his throne.

“Congratulations,” Jack said. “Your son has advanced to the Finals. He will likely claim the championship.”

Maelor’s expression hardened slightly. His hand gripped the armrest of his throne.

“He has backing now,” Maelor replied, his voice low. “The woman in white. I do not know her identity, but her position seems significant. I do not know how my son received such support.”

Jack turned toward the scrying screen, watching Rhys stand on the central platform. His expression remained unchanged.

“The Finals will be worth watching,” Jack said flatly. “Your son will face formidable competition, but he is capable of victory.”

He turned back to face Maelor directly. Their eyes met.

“You should observe the Finals when they commence,” Jack said. “But before that, we have other business.”

Maelor’s grip on the throne’s armrest tightened. His jaw clenched.

“The prisoners,” Maelor said, not a question but a confirmation.

“The prisoners,” Jack repeated. “I hope they are ready.”

“They are.” King Maelor confirmed.

Maelor stood and descended the stairs from his throne. His movements carried the weight of ceremony. His robes flowed behind him as he walked toward Jack.

“You understand what we are doing?” Maelor asked as they moved toward the chamber’s exit.

“I understand completely,” Jack replied. “They were criminals. They committed atrocities severe enough to warrant eternal imprisonment rather than execution. They have spent centuries confined, their lives reduced to the space of their cells.”

Jack paused at the threshold.

“In death, they will serve a better purpose.”

———-

The dungeons beneath the palace were older than the structure above them. The stone walls bore the weight of centuries of confinement, their surfaces marked by the particular erosion that comes with age and moisture.

The air was thick with the particular smell of human waste, stale water, and desperation.

A smell that no amount of ventilation could fully eliminate.

Maelor led Jack down through the levels. Their footsteps echoed off the walls, creating a rhythm that seemed to grow louder with each descent. The sound was hollow, empty, causing the prisoners’ ears to perk up.

The corridors narrowed as they descended deeper. Torches mounted on the walls became less frequent. The light grew dimmer. The temperature dropped noticeably.

By the time they reached the lower levels, Maelor’s breath was visible in the air as pale vapor.

Guards positioned at intervals stepped aside as the king passed. They understood not to question his movements.

They understood that whatever occurred in the dungeons was beyond their authority and their right to question.

The final level opened into a massive chamber.

The space was cavernous.

A cathedral of confinement built into the bedrock beneath the palace itself. The ceiling soared upward into shadow.

The floor was ancient stone, scarred by centuries of captivity. The walls were lined with cells constructed from iron and stone, each one barely large enough for a prisoner to stand and lie down.

One thousand elves occupied the space.

They were confined in individual cells, each cell sealed by a gate constructed from wrought iron and reinforced with magical binding. Their clothing was tattered and soiled.

The degradation that accompanied prolonged confinement.

Their bodies bore the marks of centuries of imprisonment: scars from previous violence, bruises that had never fully healed, the particular gauntness that accompanied malnutrition.

Many of them bore the marks of criminals.

Tattoos applied during their trials, brands that identified their crimes to anyone who possessed the knowledge to read them. These were not innocent prisoners. These were not people imprisoned for minor transgressions.

These were rapists, thieves, murderers, and abductors.

Those who had committed atrocities so severe that the kingdom had deemed them too dangerous to execute or rehabilitate.

They had been imprisoned so long that some of them had forgotten the names of the crimes that had brought them to this place. They had been imprisoned so long that the dungeons had become their entire existence.

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