Chapter 15 — The Price of Silence
POV: VIP Residence — Near the Central Arena
The VIP residence stood just beyond the shadow of the Central Arena.
From the outside, it appeared dignified rather than imposing—white stone walls reinforced with layered enchantments, wide balconies overlooking the main plaza, and arched entrances designed to welcome honored guests.
Security, however, told a different story.
Guards patrolled the grounds in steady rotations, their movements practiced and unhurried. Unlike the royal residence, there was no visible tension here—no tightened grips, no sharpened nerves.
Not because the threat was lesser.
But because anyone foolish enough to attack this place would not live long enough to regret it.
Most of the guards stationed here did not belong to the Aurethian royal army.
They wore unfamiliar armor—each design distinct, each presence heavy.
Some stood clad in rigid, layered armor built for endurance rather than speed. The metal was dark and unadorned, etched only with an ancient sigil shaped like a turtle's shell. Their stances were immovable, feet planted as if rooted into the earth itself.
They did not patrol.
They anchored the perimeter.
Others wore armor of deep crimson, lavish in its craftsmanship—plates polished to a mirror sheen, trimmed with gold, decorative yet unmistakably lethal. A phoenix emblem burned proudly across their breastplates, wings spread in silent defiance.
They moved little.
They did not need to.
Then there were those dressed far more simply—martial attire reinforced with light armor at key points, flexible and worn with ease. A tiger emblem rested on one shoulder, subtle yet unmistakable. These guards moved the most, their patrols fluid, their eyes constantly shifting.
If one paid close attention, it became clear—
The phoenix-bearers and the tiger-marked warriors did not get along.
Their gazes lingered a heartbeat too long. Their paths adjusted just enough to avoid crossing.
No words were exchanged.
No weapons were drawn.
Because all of them understood one thing.
The individuals inside this residence were not to be disturbed.
These were the guards of the Guardian Families.
And within these walls, the balance of power itself had gathered.
---
POV: VIP Residence — Interior Hall
Inside the residence, the atmosphere shifted.
The spacious hall was designed for comfort—wide floors of polished stone, tall windows letting in soft daylight, and several seating arrangements spread across the room to accommodate dignitaries of differing ranks and temperaments.
Most areas were empty.
No one dared intrude where they didn't belong.
Near one of the large windows, four figures sat around a low table.
Three men.
One woman.
Tea steamed gently between them.
No one spoke.
And yet—there was no tension.
Only coexistence.
The residence's owner stood a short distance away, hands clasped tightly behind his back. Sweat dotted his brow despite the cool air. His eyes flicked repeatedly toward the seated figures, as though expecting violence to erupt at any moment.
It never did.
At the head of the table sat a man dressed in black ceremonial robes.
He appeared to be in his fifties, yet there was no gray in his hair—thick, jet-black, and tied neatly behind him. His frame was massive, nearly seven feet tall, with broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his robes. Despite his size, his posture was relaxed, almost slouched.
His expression was neutral.
Almost sleepy.
He looked like a man who would rather be anywhere else—preferably asleep.
And yet—
His presence pressed down on the room like an immovable mountain.
An impenetrable wall.
Morvane Kharos, the current Champion of the Black Tortoise.
Seated to his right was a man who could not have been more different.
He wore a martial uniform reinforced with light armor, similar in style to the guards outside—but crafted with far greater care and expense. His arms were bare, muscles honed by countless hours of battle and training. His build was lean and powerful rather than towering.
His hair was white, streaked with faint blue highlights, untamed and falling loosely around sharp features. His eyes carried a constant edge, like a predator forced to sit still.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Annoyed.
Not because of danger.
But because of restraint.
This was Aeron Fenris—
The Champion of the White Tiger.
A beast made human.
Across from him sat a couple, composed and unhurried.
Both wore ceremonial garments of deep crimson, embroidered with gold thread—elegant, extravagant, and unmistakably symbolic of their lineage.
The woman appeared to be in her thirties.
Valeria Ignis.
Her dark crimson hair flowed smoothly down her back, complementing her attire and accentuating a beauty that demanded attention without asking for it. Her posture was relaxed, confident. Each movement—lifting her cup, setting it down—was measured and deliberate.
Calm.
Pleased, even.
Yet beneath that calm lay heat.
A presence that did not flicker like flame—
But burned like a sun.
She was the Champion of the Phoenix.
Beside her sat her husband.
Roland Ignis.
He looked to be in his forties, blond hair tinged with red at the tips, as though singed by the very fire he commanded. A ceremonial sword rested at his side—no ornament, no decoration. The blade bore signs of use, its scabbard worn smooth by years of battle.
Commander of the Phoenix forces.
A veteran.
A survivor.
His presence was fierce—like wildfire ready to consume—
And yet, compared to his wife, he felt almost restrained. Like a candle standing beside a blazing star.
He glanced occasionally toward Aeron Fenris, his expression faintly apologetic—not for himself, but for his wife's antics, well aware of the long-standing rivalry she enjoyed poking without ever naming.
Valeria Ignis, meanwhile, sipped her tea with quiet satisfaction.
The four sat together in silence.
Not allies.
Not enemies.
But pillars of an age that had not yet decided whether it would remain standing.
---
The silence did not last.
Aeron Fenris leaned back in his chair with an irritated click of his tongue.
"So," he said flatly, eyes half-lidded, "how much longer are we supposed to wait? They're late."
Roland Ignis exhaled quietly, already tired.
"Lord Fenris, these types of gatherings always take time," he replied. "Our guards just reported that the allied delegates have entered the western gate. They should arrive shortly."
He paused, then added,
"And His Majesty Reinhardt has also departed his residence—with the Third Princess and the Second Prince to meet the delegates and us."
Aeron's brow twitched.
"…Second Prince?" he repeated."Not the first?"
Before Roland could answer, Valeria Ignis set her teacup down with a soft clink.
"Oh my," she said pleasantly, lips curving. "Don't tell me your information network is slipping."
She leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming.
"To think the mighty Aeron Fenris relies on such incompetent subordinates. Fu fu fu~"
Hearing this, Aeron gritted his teeth. Valeria has been making fun of him this entire time; he is reaching his breaking point.
A faint blue aura rippled around Aeron.
His chair creaked.
Valeria smiled wider.
Sensing this, Morvane finally opened his eyes.
"Valeria," he said calmly, gaze steady, "stop provoking him."
Then his eyes shifted.
"Aeron. Control yourself. You're frightening the staff."
Aeron froze.
He glanced around.
The steward and attendants stood rigid, faces pale, breaths shallow. Even people in the main seating area had begun to stare.
Aeron clicked his tongue and retracted his aura.
"…Tch."
Valeria waved a hand dismissively.
"Oh, please," she said lightly. "Sorry, Morvane. This wet cat is just too easy to tease."
Aeron snapped.
"What did you just call me, you old hag?"
Valeria's aura ignited in crimson heat.
"Care to repeat that, you overgrown furball?"
"Flaming chicken."
"House cat."
Morvane closed his eyes again.
Roland rubbed his forehead.
"Dear," he said carefully, "please don't start something here. You're setting a bad example for our children."
Valeria gasped, visibly offended.
"How could you betray me like that?" she said dramatically."You always take his side."
She turned away, arms crossed.
"I'm not speaking to you."
Roland sighed.
Some things never change.
He cleared his throat and redirected the conversation.
"According to our intelligence," he said, "the First Prince personally went to the northern frontlines to assess the recent demon activity."
Aeron's irritation faded.
"Good," he said approvingly. "That boy has backbone."
He paused, then added thoughtfully,
"If he wasn't already engaged, I may have considered an arrangement between him and my eldest daughter."
Silence returned.
This time, heavier.
Aeron broke it again—voice lower.
"…Do you think the Dragon will appear this year?"
Valeria's smile vanished.
Roland's expression stilled.
Morvane said nothing.
"I don't know," Valeria said at last. "It's been years since the Dragon's Champion last appeared. It was during the age of calamity that he appeared last time."
Aeron hummed.
"And the Pegasus?"
He leaned forward slightly.
"Rumors say he appeared a few years ago—during Reinhardt's daughter's kidnapping. Only the child saw him, though."
Valeria's gaze lowered.
"…After what happened six years ago," she said quietly, "I doubt he wants anything to do with nobles—or royalty."
Roland's jaw tightened.
Six years ago, an incident occurred that reshaped the relationship between the Guardian families and the royal court.
It began with arrogance.
Duke Magnus Corvain, a powerful noble whose territory bordered the Pegasus Shrine, believed authority over land meant authority over everything upon it. His son, Lucien Corvain, inherited not only his father's entitlement—but amplified it.
Lucien entered the Pegasus Shrine uninvited, accompanied by retainers and guards, and confronted the current Pegasus Knight, declaring that the shrine stood within Corvain lands and therefore fell under his jurisdiction.
Naturally, He was expelled from the shrine.
Not humiliated.
Not harmed.
Simply removed.
Lucien took this dismissal as a personal insult.
What followed was desperation disguised as ambition.
Knowing that no conventional force could threaten a Guardian Champion, Lucien sought something forbidden and sent his man on an endless search to find a way to deal with the Champion. During one such search, one of his men encountered a merchant—later identified as a demon in disguise—who offered him a weapon capable of killing even a Calamity-class being.
No payment was demanded.
The blade was simply handed over.
Lucien returned to the shrine.
Once more, he demanded control.
Once more, the Pegasus Knight refused.
This time, feeding on his hatred, the sword awakened.
Black mana poured from the weapon, coiling around Lucien's body like living smoke. The Pegasus Knight recognized the aura immediately.
The Demon King's influence.
Before Lucien could fully transform, the Pegasus Knight moved—appearing beside him in an instant, blade drawn, intent on ending the threat before it could mature.
He was too late.
Lucien vanished from his reach.
His body began to warp, power surging violently as his rank climbed—from a mere C-Class noble to peak SSS, bordering on Calamity. His screams echoed across the sky—half agony, half ecstasy—as his form became something monstrous and unrecognizable.
The battle erupted above the city.
Though untrained, Lucien's power was overwhelming. The Pegasus Knight dominated the fight—until Lucien deliberately redirected his attacks toward the capital below.
The Pegasus Knight intercepted them.
Every strike.
Every wave of corrupted mana.
And he paid the price.
Each strike, though unrefined, still carried the force of a peak SSS-class being, and the damage steadily accumulated.
Wounded but unyielding, he sent his sole apprentice ahead—ordering him to warn the guards and begin evacuation procedures.
The apprentice obeyed.
At the royal castle, Duke Magnus Corvain was already present, lodging complaints against the Pegasus Knight for "assaulting his son."
When the apprentice and guards arrived and explained the truth, the court fell into chaos.
The King ordered evacuation.
But before reinforcements could be dispatched, the nobles intervened.
They argued that public disclosure would shatter trust in the crown. Panic would follow. Their reputations would suffer. The city's stability would crumble.
The King hesitated.
Then chose secrecy.
Seeing this apprentice left, while looking at the King with disgust.
A barrier was raised around the city. Evacuation was conducted quietly under the guise of a controlled outbreak. No reinforcements were sent to the Pegasus Knight.
He fought alone while still defending the capital.
When the barrier fell, the area around the city bore scars of devastation, while the barrier was unharmed. Lucien Corvain's body was found near the gates—twisted beyond recognition.
The Pegasus Knight's body was discovered at the shrine.
The apprentice was gone.
The incident was sealed.
Records were classified.
Responsibilities were buried.
Later, when Cecil Ashborn returned to the capital, after her trip to Allied Kingdoms and learned the truth, she marched to House Corvain and erased it from existence.
She then went to the royal castle to do the same.
Only David stopped her—reminding her that their fallen friend would not have wanted further bloodshed.
Cecil left.
But not before delivering a final warning to the King.
"You will regret this."
From that day onward, the Guardian families severed meaningful ties with the royal court.
For six years, they did not return.
Until now.
---
The silence in the hall felt heavier when the memory faded.
Roland exhaled slowly.
He had been close to the previous Pegasus Knight.
Closer than most.
Valeria's fingers tightened around her teacup.
Morvane remained motionless.
From the main sitting area, raised voices suddenly echoed—something breaking, followed by sharp argument.
Roland glanced over.
"…They're arguing again."
Aeron sighed.
Valeria chuckled softly.
"Oh dear," she said. "Looks like our children are at it again. Hopeless, aren't they?"
Aeron nodded.
"Honestly," he said, "I wonder where they learned such behavior."
Roland stared at him.
Then at Valeria.
"…Yes," he thought wearily.Where indeed.