The Yellow-Haired Villain in Soaring Phoenix's Novels Also Desires Happiness Chapter 585: Chaos Rekindled

“Rat King, sir— a letter! Your letter!”

Sowhere in the lower city, the door to a hidden underground chamber was suddenly shoved open. A faint wash of light stirred the dust and fell over a small figure who was carefully wiping down a hand crossbow.

“What are you yelling for?!”

Thrum—

A bolt ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) snapped out and pinned itself into the wall, and the subordinate who’d been making a fuss instantly went quiet.

“M-My lord... the letter.”

The subordinate carefully presented the letter.

Back when the Rat King had been crawling and scraping through the lower city, he couldn’t read. He only started learning after founding the Rat Society, but his mind never stayed put, so he learned in bits and pieces—reading a full sentence through was difficult.

Later, after he beca Lord Bruce’s “dog,” he stabilized quite a bit. Under Bruce’s demands, he went back and patched up that cultural weakness.

Of course, only enough to read the words in a letter.

“Who sent it?”

“It’s... that person.”

The Rat King’s spirits lifted. He took the letter with great seriousness and opened it under the candlelight.

It wasn’t long. He finished quickly. Afterward, he held the envelope to the fla and burned it to ash, then let out a long breath.

His expression didn’t change, but his subordinate could clearly feel that his mood had turned complicated.

“Any intel from that side?”

The Rat King asked.

“Not detailed intel yet, but according to our eyes, that side’s moving too.”

“Is that so...”

The Rat King leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling, sighing.

“This ti, the sky is really changing.”

“Changing?”

The subordinate still didn’t quite understand what he ant.

“Don’t worry about it. Those things are too far above you.”

“Then what do we do next?”

“What do we do...”

The Rat King gave a soft chuckle.

“What else can we do? I’ve mixed it up in the lower city this long. I thought I’d finally made myself into sothing. But in the end, from start to finish, I only ever had the right to put my life on the gambling table as a chip and play.”

He rose to his feet.

“But if it’s gambling, then sotis you win too, don’t you? I don’t believe I’ll lose forever.”

He re-cocked the hand crossbow, pushed open the door, and stepped into the lower city’s darkness.

“Boys. Get your gear. It’s ti to put an end to what happened before.”

...

Far away, the upper city blazed with light. Brilliant flas reflected off the surface of the Gulein River like a mural freshly unearthed from an ancient tomb—so dazzling it seed to write both an era’s splendor and its curtain call.

But just one river away, the lower city was still dark and quiet.

In the shadows cast by the low rooftops lining the road, points of fire suddenly lit up.

Bright. Dim. Bright. Dim.

After the rhythm cycled, that little fla flared brighter than ever—so bright it looked as if it might ignite—

Then it turned into pale ash and fell with the rest into the deep night.

Old Ghost flicked his cigar to the ground, crushed it under his boot, and lifted his binoculars to watch the silent column advancing through the dark, two blocks away.

“So they really managed to get an army into the city. That’s a hell of a trick.”

Old Ghost lifted a brow.

“To avoid being discovered, that army’s numbers shouldn’t be high.”

Beside him, Mister Gro gave a smiling response.

“It’s not many. About a thousand or so. Maybe two thousand.”

Old Ghost’s mouth curled into a cold smile.

“But it looks like a very elite force. You think my people—these punks who can’t even scrape together a full set of gear—can beat them?”

“You’re afraid?”

“A little. I’m not an idiot. I’m not doing sothing that’ll get killed.”

“Fear isn’t sothing you should be saying, Old Ghost!”

The ‘gentle’ look vanished from Mister Gro’s face in an instant, turning hard and ugly.

“Don’t forget who propped you up. A stray dog that lost everything got to crawl back up to this position again, and your purpose is— guh—”

His words cut off.

Because clear handprints suddenly appeared, clamped into the thick neck of the pig-fat ‘gentleman.’

Like an invisible hand had seized his throat and was squeezing.

“I’m really curious.”

Old Ghost stepped closer, mild and unhurried, staring at Mister Gro with a thoughtful tilt.

“You’re a worthless mouthpiece. So why are you suddenly brave enough to talk tough to ?”

“Or what—do you look down on now? That I’m just so forr... ‘stray dog’?”

“Who gave you the courage? The people behind you? Or the victory you think is about to arrive?”

“You think once everything’s done, you can just toss aside?”

“Ghk... hah...!”

Mister Gro’s feet dangled as he struggled, but it was useless. His fat face gradually turned the color of liver, and his eyes bulged as if they were about to pop from their sockets.

There was pleading and terror in his gaze, but more than that, disbelief.

He’d bowed his head to this man before, but he clearly never imagined that this slightly more capable lowborn trash would dare lay hands on him.

After all, after all—inside his body flowed noble—

“I hate idiots.”

Crack.

Glo’s head spun a full seven hundred and twenty degrees atop his neck. Noble blood poured from the torn flesh like money ant nothing.

“Especially idiots who can’t even read the situation.”

A subordinate stepped up, utterly unfazed, and dragged away the twisted corpse.

Old Ghost took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped his palm. Even though not a single drop of blood stained it, he still felt filthy.

“And now...”

Old Ghost turned, looking down over the entire lower city from on high.

“The banquet’s climax begins.”

He didn’t care about an idiot’s death. He’d lain low for a full decade—he hadn’t co back just to be cannon fodder for fools.

And the move he’d left behind earlier had, in the end, beco the perfect garnish for this feast.

Stopping an army?

Only an idiot would do that. Not him.

“Who wins and who loses—it doesn’t matter.”

In the end, the fight for that seat was far too distant for the lower city.

But as long as there was enough chaos, he could take greater profit from it.

Firelight reflected in Old Ghost’s eyes. He reached out—by habit—wanting to grasp this entire lower city that belonged to him...

Click.

Old Ghost’s motion paused.

Because from within the dark, he heard a familiar sound.

A crossbow being cocked.

“So you still ca.”

Old Ghost acted as if he didn’t feel that bone-deep chill at all. He casually took out another cigar, lit it, and drew in a deep breath.

“You’re a real headache, Sam.”

“That’s my line.”

The Rat King stepped out of the shadows.

“A ghost from ten years ago should crawl back to hell where it belongs, Old Ghost.”