The Shepherds Are Dense

Chapter 88: Sculptor Lars Graham

Avalon, White Queen District.A plain building, more warehouse than home, served as Lars Graham’s sculpture studio.

The 74-year-old, hunched over a bone-white cane, stared up at a half-finished, 2.5-meter stone statue.

Translucent white chisels and hammers floated in the air, striking with a crisp, rain-like rhythm. Without visible effort from Graham, the sculpture took shape rapidly, as if fast-forwarded.

His sunken eyes, purpled eyelids, and wrinkled, darkened face betrayed his frailty. Sparse, dull white curls ringed his head. His cloudy brown eyes, yellowed by shadow or light, struggled to stay open.

Once an art master, he was now a withered shadow, so fragile he seemed one sleep from never waking.

His ornate silk robe—dark yellow, black, and red with dizzying patterns—was too lavish, overshadowing any wearer. Yet it suited Graham, his collapsing frame like a wilting flower, legs thinner than a maiden’s arm, a mere husk wrapped in fabric, evoking a trembling butterfly in a storm.

The chiseling stopped abruptly, echoes lingering like an illusion.

Without turning, Graham rasped, “Why are you here, Chloe?”

From the shadows behind him emerged Chloe, glamorous yet battered, covered in wounds and dust, some flesh charred.

Her injuries looked gruesome, as if she’d rolled on a hot plate, but they were mostly superficial, already half-healed. Her nearly severed right arm had reattached, almost mended.

“Dean Graham, I need herbs,” Chloe croaked. “And something to drink, if you have it. The city’s on lockdown; I can’t risk their apothecaries. I’m short on what I need to heal.”

She called him “Dean” because Graham was the deputy dean of Sidai University’s Art Institute. Though invited to Avalon to sculpt a holy statue for the Queen, he retained his position.

“Herbs are in the cabinet on your left,” Graham sighed, turning slowly with his cane.

A cold, emerald third eye on his forehead scanned Chloe indifferently.

“Not badly hurt, ‘Caramel’ Miss,” he chuckled, tone unclear—mocking or gloating. “Compared to the mess you caused, your wounds are light.”

“I used up all my life-saving gear!” Chloe snapped, resentful. “I still don’t get how that Moriarty knew I was there!”

She rummaged through the tall herb cabinet, pulling drawers and dumping heaps of herbs onto the table—far more than a single dose, enough for weeks, toxic to normals.

Swallowing them raw, she wolfed down the pile.

No brewing or extracting needed; her Adaptation path drew and purified the herbs’ potency. Green light glowed from her wounds, healing visibly, compressing weeks of recovery into minutes.

This was her exclusive “Herbal Therapy” art.

Her wounds healed faster than she ate. By the time she finished, her injuries were nearly gone.

Then she vomited violently, expelling black, foul sludge—herb dregs mixed with waste from accelerated healing. Afterward, her spirits lifted noticeably.

“…Ah, I’m alive again,” she exhaled, turning to Graham. “I’ll clean this up later, Dean!”

He ignored her, glancing expressionlessly as he hobbled to his desk.

Chloe hurried over, pouring him water.

Graham eyed her. “What else?”

“I want revenge, to blow off steam before I leave,” she said coldly. “I need your advice.”

She was still bitter, pained by her lost assets.

“Your mission’s done, Chloe,” Graham drawled in Irisian, sipping water. “If I were you, I’d hide in the countryside, then head home when things cool.”

“They can’t catch me,” Chloe said, brimming with confidence after days of evasion. “Authority path inspectors are dumber than Love or Beauty path superhumans. If I plan carefully, ambush Aiwas at his sleep spot, and wait a day or two without eating, I’ll succeed.”

“Sounds like a trap,” Graham said幽幽ly. “You’re too proud, Miss Chloe. At 24, you hit the fourth tier, but you haven’t reached the fifth. Without the advancement ritual, many in Avalon can handle you.

The Great Arbiter, Great Adjudicator, Great Guardian, Great Justice, and Theocracy’s Master Yannis—at least five confirmed fifth-tier superhumans serve the crown. Any one could stop you cold.

The Arbitration Hall hasn’t even moved. With their Authority path powers at full strength in Avalon, knights without such power are less threatening. Your recklessness strays from the Adaptation path. I’ll report this to the leader.”

Who’d have thought this student, hopeless in the Beauty path under his tutelage, would thrive in Adaptation?

But her smooth advancements and flawless assassinations had unbalanced her.

Such flamboyance defied Adaptation principles, stalling her growth.

“…You’re not opposing my plan, Dean?” Chloe asked, surprised.

She flashed a sweet smile, flattering, “You’re a ‘Master’ too. Yannis took over 200 years to become one; you did it in under 40…”

“No flattery,” Graham chuckled lowly. “I won’t help, no matter how close you get. I have a bigger mission and can’t be exposed. Yannis is watching me; I can’t act.”

“Just in case, where will you ambush?”

“Not sure. His home?” Chloe said casually.

“Don’t,” Graham said firmly. “His butler, Oswald, is dangerous.”

“Fifth tier?”

“Hard to say, likely. Oswald has no ‘profession’ but uses the old, pre-profession system of long-lived races. His paths are mixed, unclear. No one knows his aptitudes or powers.

He’s shown at least fourth-tier Adaptation strength. Elves are knowledgeable; he likely knows about shadow stealth. You’d die there.”

Graham’s cold, critical gaze fixed on her, his voice rhythmic and biting. “If you risk capture, I’ll kill you.

Now, where will you ambush?”

Chloe, shocked by the elf butler’s strength, hesitated. “…Outside, then. I’m sure he’s famous now, though I haven’t read their papers. Killing him will make headlines.

To escape, it must be discreet, in a place no one notices, with time to flee…”

“My advice: revisit the White Slipper Club for his commendation ceremony,” Graham said.

“It’s almost five already!”

“No matter. His Inspectorate ceremony is this afternoon. Even without a banquet, he’ll be back after 5:30. With travel, he’ll reach his dorm by 6 or 7. If there’s a banquet, add two or three hours—maybe he’ll drink.

My intel says someone’s targeting him today. Two hours ago, two Red Nobility demon scholars infiltrated the university. The statues at the gate told me. They’re strong, but their assassination will fail. Aiwas’s defenses against you will work on them, since he knows you’re alive.

You can observe his methods and trump cards.”

Though disapproving of “Caramel’s” reckless plan, Graham offered sound advice from his own assassination days. “There’s no better chance.

He’ll be relaxed after thwarting enemies and receiving rare honors. Ambush him at his dorm.

Post-socializing, he’ll be tired, full, maybe drunk. You don’t need Eagle Feather—just poison his lips with toxin. He’ll die in his sleep, cause unclear, giving you time to escape Glass Island.”

“Brilliant, Dean!” Chloe beamed, convinced. “I’ll do it!”

(Chapter End)