Hacking the Game Didn't Go as Intended

CHAPTER 186: Plotting Against the Tainted Crown

"Did it... just emerge from your shadow?"

"Wh-What is that?"

Lyndoria and Lumielle exchanged wide-eyed glances, a mix of surprise and wonder in their expressions. Meanwhile, Zephyr, clearly unenthused, shot a scornful glare at the Djinn who met his gaze with a proud, almost defiant tilt of his chin.

"His name is Midnight," Daisuke stated with a confident smile. "He'll be our key to gathering sensitive information throughout our mission to bring down the Mhaledictus. With his ability to slip through and travel within shadows undetected, he can access places we can only dream of—silent, unseen, and entirely unnoticed."

"Th-That's beyond amazing!" Lyndoria gushed in a rare show of excitement. "Having a familiar with abilities like that at our disposal changes everything!"

Lumielle smiled at the thought, her heart quickening with anticipation.

"With that said," Daisuke leaned in just slightly, his voice softening to a near whisper. "Do you know where the king is right now?"

***

The king's chambers were shrouded in an oppressive stillness. Heavy curtains hung over the tall windows, banishing the light of day and leaving the room in a dim, shadowy haze. The mana crystal chandelier overhead cast a faint, cold glow, its light reflecting off gilded furniture and ornate décor that once radiated majesty but now seemed drained of life. Rich tapestries depicting ancient triumphs lined the walls, their vibrant colors muted in the gloom, while the faint scent of incense lingered in the air—a futile attempt to mask the stench of illness.

On the grand canopy bed, the king lay motionless, his figure swallowed by layers of embroidered silk and velvet. His face was a portrait of frailty: sunken cheeks, pale skin stretched thin over sharp bones, and lips tinged a sickly blue. His breaths were shallow, barely perceptible, as though life itself clung to him by a thread.

From the shadows, a pair of emerald-green eyes glimmered with quiet intensity, perched atop the bedpost. Midnight's sleek, obsidian fur blended into the darkness, his presence so subtle it might have gone unnoticed—had his gaze not gleamed with an otherworldly light. He watched, silently and keenly, as a conversation unfolded in the room.

Two men stood near the foot of the bed, their voices low but clear in the stifling quiet. One was a court official, dressed in the sharp, tailored garb of his station and exuding an air of cold authority. The other, a prominent city healer, stood visibly uncomfortable, his hands clasped tightly before him as though to steady his trembling fingers.

Along the walls, several female servants stood like lifeless statues, heads bowed, their lips pressed into a taut line. Not a whisper escaped them, not even the rustle of fabric.

"How is His Majesty's condition?" the official asked, his tone sharp and impatient as he turned his gaze from the silent maids to the healer.

The elderly man hesitated, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "His Majesty..." He paused, avoiding the other man's piercing eyes. "He is beginning to develop a tolerance to the drug. It's... only a matter of time before he starts regaining consciousness."

The official's jaw tightened, and his shadow loomed over the floor like a dark omen. "Then increase the dosage," he ordered flatly.

The healer's face paled. "Increase the dosage? But that could—"

"Do what you're told," the official interrupted, his voice as sharp as a blade.

The healer's lips parted, but he faltered, casting a desperate glance at the motionless king. "Increasing the dosage may... it may kill him," he warned, his tone barely above a whisper. "Or at the very least, cause irreversible brain damage."