"I agree."
The words left my mouth before my fear could catch them.
Alcatraz du Vonel didn't smile. He didn't nod like a man pleased by loyalty. He only looked at me as if I had confirmed the shape he already expected.
"Very well," he said.
A butler stepped forward the moment the patriarch's fingers moved. Everything in this hall responded to Alcatraz like the world itself was trained.
"Bring it," Alcatraz said.
The butler returned with a scroll held in both hands, as carefully as if it were a blade without a sheath. The parchment wasn't old, but it looked… heavy. The surface carried a faint sheen, and the ink-lines of a circular pattern sat at its center—runes I couldn't read, arranged with a precision that made my skin prickle.
Alcatraz accepted it without ceremony.
Then he spoke to me again, as calmly as if he were instructing a child on table manners.
"This is a binding oath," he said. "It will mark you under Vonel authority."
My throat went dry.
He continued, voice steady, exact.
"If you betray the oath—if you attempt to act against Vonel interest—your own mana will burn you from within."
A pause.
Not dramatic. Just enough for the meaning to settle.
"Your heart will be the first to fail," he finished.
I stared at the scroll.
The decision I'd made seconds ago suddenly felt heavier, realer—like I'd stepped off a cliff and only now noticed the ground far below.
The butler lifted the scroll slightly. "Young master," he said politely, eyes lowered. "Place your hand on the circle."
I hesitated.
I didn't even know how to use mana. I didn't even understand what "mana" felt like inside my body.
And yet they were talking about burning it like it was kindling.
Fear crawled up my spine. A ridiculous thought flashed through my mind—What if this stops me from saving her? What if I just put a leash on myself and then—
I clenched my jaw.
I had no choice.
Not if there was even a small chance.
I placed my right hand on the center circle.
The scroll was warm.
Not like sunlight.
Not like fire either.
Like something alive under my skin.
The runes lit in a soft, pulsing glow. The air above the parchment shimmered, and a thin thread of smoke rose—black at the edges, silver at the center—curling as if it was searching.
Then the smoke didn't drift away.
It rushed into me.
Not through my palm alone—through my nose, my mouth, even my ears, as if my body had suddenly become full of open doors. I tried to pull back, but my fingers wouldn't lift. The circle held me.
The parchment began to burn.
No flame—just disintegration, like the scroll was turning into ash from the inside out.
And as the last of it vanished, pain slammed into my left chest.
A sharp, stinging brand right over my heart.
I gasped. My vision flashed white.
For a moment I genuinely thought I was dying right there on the red carpet.
Then the pain settled into something worse than pain.
Weight.
Like a chain had clicked shut around something I couldn't touch.
I sucked in air, shaking, and finally my hand lifted freely.
Alcatraz spoke again, as if nothing had happened.
"The vow is done," he said. "You are now a loyal servant of Vonel."
The words hit like an arrow to the ribs.
Not because they surprised me.
Because hearing them made them real.
A servant.
A loyal slave with a clean title.
Alcatraz leaned back in his seat.
"You have freedom," he added, almost kindly, "at least for now."
He listed options like he was offering dessert.
"The welcoming party continues. You may join it. You may rest in the guest room. Or you may return home."
He paused, gaze steady.
"Further instructions will come later."
Then he dismissed me with a small motion of his hand.
And just like that, the most life-altering moment of my life was treated like paperwork.
***
The massive doors shut behind me with a deep, final sound.
The hall's cold seriousness stayed inside.
Outside, the corridor felt strangely brighter, even with all the estate's quiet still wrapping around my shoulders.
The same butler who had brought the scroll stood beside me. He folded his hands neatly.
"What would you like to do?" he asked, polite as ever.
I stood there, blinking, trying to remember how to be a normal person.
My body screamed for rest. My side ached in deep pulses. My left arm hung uselessly in its sling, heavy and numb.
But somewhere inside me—inside the ten-year-old part that still existed under bandages and fear—something childish lifted its head.
There's a party.
There's food.
There are sweets.
And I might never get this chance again.
"I…" I hesitated, embarrassed by my own voice. "I want to go to the party."
The butler's expression softened into the smallest smile. "Very well," he said, and turned smoothly as if my request had been perfectly reasonable.
He escorted me through corridors that made my footsteps feel too loud, past windows showing gardens that looked painted rather than grown.
My excitement and worry tangled together. I kept expecting someone to stop me. To demand an explanation. To remind me I didn't belong.
But the butler walked like a shield. People stepped aside. Servants bowed. Even silence seemed to make room for him.
We stopped at a dressing room.
"Your current attire will draw attention," the butler said mildly, and I realized he meant my injuries, my bruised face, the bandages, the sling—my whole existence.
He changed me with professional efficiency, layering expensive fabric over my battered body until I looked less like a boy who survived an arena and more like someone who had been born indoors.
I stared at myself in the mirror when he finished.
It didn't feel like me.
It felt like someone had dressed my pain in gold.
Then he guided me onward.
***
The banquet building was massive.
Tall ceiling. Pillars lining the sides like a temple. A grand staircase at the far end, draped in red carpet the same way the patriarch's hall had been—like the whole estate shared one obsession.
The difference was the sound.
Voices. Laughter. Music like a polite river flowing through a room full of glittering stones.
Nobles crowded the floor in expensive outfits, their movements smooth, their smiles practiced.
I noticed them for one heartbeat.
Then my eyes locked onto the tables.
Food.
More food than I'd seen in my life.
Sweets arranged like jewels. Small cakes shaped like flowers. Cookies stacked in neat towers. Drinks that caught the light like colored glass.
And in the middle of one long table…
A chocolate fountain.
It flowed like a small miracle.
I stopped walking.
The butler waited patiently beside me as if he'd seen this reaction a hundred times and found it mildly amusing.
I stared at the fountain like it was a myth.
"Can I… eat those?" I asked carefully, because this place made me feel like even breathing might be regulated.
The butler inclined his head. "Master Trey has permission from the patriarch," he said. "You may partake of anything."
Master Trey.
The title made my stomach twist, but the word anything drowned it out for a moment.
I turned into a bumpkin instantly.
Not running, not grabbing—my body was too sore for that—but my eyes scanned the tables with the focus of a starving hunter.
Look first.
Choose wisely.
Because even in paradise, my stomach still had rules.
If I ate too much, I'd suffer later. And my wound did not need a stomach war.
So I hovered, picking carefully, fighting the urge to shovel everything into my mouth at once.
The butler followed behind me like a calm shadow, subtly positioning himself between me and sharp stares.
And there were sharp stares.
My bandages were still visible. My sling stood out like an insult. I was an anomaly in a room built for perfection.
I tried to ignore it.
I drifted toward the sweets section like it was gravity.
The chocolate fountain grew larger in my vision until it filled my world.
I leaned forward slightly, captivated.
Then I bumped into someone.
A plate jolted.
A slice of cake tipped.
Time slowed—not the grey world, not Flow—just the helpless slow motion of disaster.
Plop.
Cake hit the floor.
Silence snapped around us.
I turned, already reaching for an apology—
And a girl screamed like I'd shattered the kingdom.
"WHAT DID YOU DO?!"
She looked about my age, dressed in red, pink, and white like a walking flower arrangement. Her red hair was styled too neatly for a child. Her eyes blazed with outrage that seemed practiced.
She pointed at the fallen cake like it was a dead body.
"That was imported!" she declared, voice rising. "Do you know how rare that is?!"
I opened my mouth.
She didn't let me use it.
"Kneel," she ordered, like she was issuing law. "Apologize. Now."
People nearby paused, watching with interest.
I felt heat creep up my neck.
"I'm sorry—" I started.
"No," she snapped. "Not like that. Properly. And you will make it up to me."
Her chin lifted proudly.
"You will carry my sweets," she announced. "For the rest of the night. You will serve as my attendant."
My brain stalled.
I was injured.
I was bandaged.
I had just signed a contract that could burn my heart out of my chest if I betrayed it—
And this girl wanted me to carry pastries.
Before I could respond, the butler stepped forward smoothly.
His tone remained polite, but it cut through the tension like a blade through silk.
"Miss Adamantia," he said, bowing slightly, "my apologies for the disturbance. However—this guest is under Young Master Lyan's protection."
The words landed.
And the room obeyed them.
Not loudly.
Not with applause.
But the air shifted. The watchers' interest dulled. Servants relaxed. Even the girl's outrage hesitated, as if she had hit an invisible wall.
The girl blinked.
"Lyan?" she repeated, suddenly smaller. Her cheeks flushed. "Y-you mean… Young Master Lyan?"
She snapped her gaze to me like I had grown horns.
"H-He's L-Lyan's—?" Her voice jumped an octave. "No! That's impossible!"
She jabbed a finger at me again, but it trembled slightly now.
"How is a bumpkin friends with the most powerful noble in Azuris?!"
Her outrage returned, but it was mixed with disbelief and embarrassment.
I didn't know what to say.
Country bumpkin.
Yes.
That was me.
All I wanted was to eat sweets in peace.
But peace had apparently been banned.
"I…" I tried again.
She cut me off, regaining pride with sheer force.
"Don't speak to me," she snapped. "Do you even know who I am?"
Her posture expanded, proud of the space she occupied.
"I am a fiancée candidate," she declared, as if that sentence alone could conquer nations. "For Young Master Lyan!"
The room didn't react much. But she clearly expected it to.
She lifted her chin higher.
"My name," she said, savoring the moment, "is Fillia Scarlett von Adamantia."
The name was so long it felt like it had its own servants.
I stared at her, wondering how anyone survived introductions in noble society.
Before I could ask what I should call her, she leaned forward, eyes narrowed.
"You will call me 'Master,'" she ordered.
My soul left my body and came back holding a plate.
"…Yes," I said weakly.
Her eyes sharpened. "Not 'yes.' Say it properly."
I swallowed, glanced away, and forced the words out like swallowing nails.
"Y-yes… Master."
She beamed, victorious.
I wanted to lie down on the floor beside the fallen cake.
Then a voice boomed from behind me.
"Fillia!"
I flinched.
Lyan strode toward us, loud and sharp, like he'd been looking for trouble and found it.
"What are you doing to my friend?" he demanded.
Fillia turned so fast her dress swished.
Her whole personality flipped like a page.
"Oh!" she squeaked, suddenly sweet, suddenly delicate. "Young Master Lyan! I-I didn't know—!"
She clasped her hands together, eyes wide, acting like she had been wronged by reality.
"I thought he was a servant," she said quickly. "Or someone trying to use your name!"
She shot me a suspicious glance that said illegal.
Lyan sighed like he was tired in his bones.
He stepped closer and looked at me—really looked.
The concern in his eyes was sincere.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
I nodded once.
Lyan turned back to Fillia.
"This is Trey," he said plainly, introducing my name like it belonged here. "Be nice."
Fillia's expression froze.
"T-Trey… That weakling on the arena?!" she repeated, as if the name didn't fit my face.
Then she snapped back to pride.
"How did you even meet?" she demanded, offended by the concept. "A commoner shouldn't be—"
Lyan flicked her forehead.
Not hard.
Just enough to puncture her arrogance.
"Ow!" Fillia hissed, clutching her forehead.
Lyan spoke with a friendly, mischievous calm.
"There's no benefit in separating people like that," he said. "Commoner, noble… we're all people. People are the same."
Fillia stared like he'd spoken a foreign language.
"You're saying that while you're a Vonel," she muttered.
Lyan ignored that and answered anyway.
"We met at the guild," he said. "The pre-adventurer class."
Fillia's eyes widened in horror.
"The guild?!" she gasped. "That filthy place full of brutes and uncivilized—"
Lyan flicked her forehead again.
"Stop," he said, still calm. "It's not that bad once you get used to it. And not everyone there is a brute."
Fillia rubbed her forehead, pouting like a child.
"But—"
"And it's not filthy," Lyan added, smiling faintly. "You just don't like places where people sweat."
Fillia sputtered.
I watched them bicker, and for a moment it felt almost normal.
Almost.
Like three kids arguing at a table—if one of them wasn't a noble and the other wasn't wearing a leash on his heart.
We walked the banquet floor together after that.
Lyan and Fillia side by side, talking like the world belonged to them.
Me behind them, scanning food like it was treasure.
I disappeared behind a pillar and reappeared with a pastry.
Then vanished again and returned with a cookie.
Fillia noticed eventually.
"Bumpkin," she grumbled, watching me with open disapproval. "Do you have no dignity?"
I shrugged with my good shoulder and took a bite while my mouth still full of the cookie I'd grabbed earlier like a survival tool.
Lyan sighed the way someone sighs when he knows he's babysitting.
The sweets were unbelievable.
Chocolate that melted like warmth. Cake that tasted like it had never known cheap flour. Little pastries that looked too beautiful to eat—and then became even better once I did.
My stomach warned me.
I negotiated with it.
One more.
One more.
Last one.
I was lying.
At one point, I laughed under my breath at something Fillia said, and it pulled at my side hard enough that my wound stung sharply.
I stopped laughing immediately.
Fillia noticed and rolled her eyes. "See? Even your body agrees you should have manners."
Lyan glanced back at me, concern flickering again.
"Don't push it," he murmured.
I nodded, chewing slowly this time like a person who had learned pain was expensive.
Then the room changed.
The music softened. Conversations lowered.
People straightened as if strings had been pulled.
Heads turned toward the grand staircase.
Alcatraz du Vonel descended with his wife at his side.
Not rushed.
Not dramatic.
Simply walking—and the room made way like water.
The butler behind me shifted subtly, as if reminding me where I was.
Alcatraz reached the floor and spoke.
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried. It didn't ask for attention; it took it.
He spoke about the expedition continuing. About duty. About the Abyss.
Then he announced, with measured pride, that Lyan had awakened his aura at eleven.
The crowd erupted into amazed murmurs.
All attention snapped toward Lyan like a spotlight.
Fillia pressed closer immediately, trying to occupy the space beside him as if proximity could be claimed.
Lyan's posture stiffened, but he held it.
After the speech, nobles swarmed toward Alcatraz like moths to power, eager for connection. The patriarch stood there calmly, receiving them like a mountain receiving wind.
Lyan looked at me then, and his expression softened.
"What do you want to do next?" he asked.
I stared at him with my mouth full of cookie.
I swallowed the "heaven" in my mouth with effort.
"I want to go back to the guild," I said. "I don't want them to worry."
Lyan nodded immediately, understanding.
He turned and spoke to the butler who had been following me faithfully.
"Escort him home," Lyan ordered.
The butler bowed slightly. "As you wish."
Before we separated, a thought struck me.
I hesitated, then asked, awkwardly, "Can I… take some sweets with me?"
Fillia jumped like I'd stabbed the carpet.
"That's insolent!" she exclaimed. "You have no manners—!"
Lyan flicked her forehead again.
"Ow!" Fillia hissed.
"You can take whatever you want," Lyan said to me, completely casual, as if he was granting me a loaf of bread.
My eyes widened.
Lyan gestured to the butler. "Prepare it."
The butler bowed. "Understood."
Lyan then exhaled and glanced toward the crowd around his father.
"I should go," he said quietly. "I need to… speak with him."
Fillia clung to that immediately.
"I'll come too!" she chirped, suddenly sweet.
Lyan didn't argue. He simply started walking, and Fillia followed like a ribbon tied to him.
Before she disappeared into the crowd, Fillia turned her head back toward me.
She stuck her tongue out.
Then she made a teasing face that somehow contained both victory and jealousy.
I stared at her, then looked away, too tired to fight a girl who declared cake a tragedy.
***
The butler asked me to wait.
After a short while, he returned holding a box.
A proper one—sturdy, neat, the kind of box that looked like it was designed to protect sacred things.
He opened it slightly to show the inside—partitioned, lined, prepared.
It was so perfectly arranged it felt like he already knew exactly what I would pick.
And he did.
Cookies.
Chocolate cake.
Small pastries.
The best sweets.
All waiting like they belonged to me.
My stomach was full. My heart felt heavy.
But the box in my hands felt warm in a different way.
We walked out from the banquet toward the estate gate.
As we approached, another butler waited there with my belongings.
He handed them to me with polite precision.
I blinked—and realized something with sudden embarrassment.
I was still wearing the fancy outfit.
I froze.
"Oh—sorry," I blurted. "I need to change—this isn't—"
The two butlers exchanged a brief glance like my panic was familiar.
"You do not need to change," the first butler said gently. "The patriarch instructed us to give it to you."
My mouth opened, then closed.
This outfit was expensive. It had to be. It probably cost more than anything I'd ever owned.
To them, it was a spare cloth.
To me, it was a reminder.
A reminder that I had stepped into their world and their world had wrapped itself around me without asking.
The gate opened.
The guards—those same guards who had stopped me the first time—stood straighter.
Their eyes were respectful now.
"Safe travels, Young Master," the taller one added, voice polished to a shine.
They bowed slightly as I passed.
It was a stark contrast, and it made my skin prickle.
I walked out of the Vonel estate with a box of sweets in my right hand, pain tugging at my side, a sling supporting my left arm, and an oath branded over my heart.
The sunlight outside felt ordinary.
Too ordinary for what had happened inside.
I took a breath.
And then I saw her.
Outside the gate, standing as if she had been waiting the entire time, was the white-haired lady knight.
Her armor was immaculate. Her posture steady. Her eyes fixed on me like she already knew the answer to questions I hadn't asked.
I stopped walking.
She took one step closer.
Not threatening.
Not friendly.
Just inevitable.
Then she spoke, voice calm as steel.
"So you're the boy."