"Reporting, my lord. The enemy has abandoned pursuit and is heading back the way they came."
"Good."
Black nodded, then turned his gaze to Ofalil beside him.
"Just as you suspected, wasn't it?"
"Of course it was…"
Ofalil pressed a hand to her forehead, letting out a helpless sigh.
"Trespassing on others' territories, playing cat-and-mouse with the royal army, even looting stolen goods from bandits… Holy Light, I've never done anything like this before."
"Once you've done it once, it gets easier. You'll get used to it."
In contrast to Ofalil's complaints, Black patted her shoulder reassuringly.
"After all, you'll have to get used to it sooner or later."
In other words, there would be more of these adventures in the future?
Ofalil shot Black a helpless glare. Even though she had put aside her identity as a princess, the education she had received in the royal palace still lingered. To her mind, everything ought to follow rules and order—that was the proper way of doing things. But what Black was doing… well, killing bandits and seizing their treasures wasn't exactly illegal, and there was no law in the kingdom's codex that prohibited it. Still, the former princess couldn't shake the faint sense of unease gnawing at her conscience. Not that her personal misgivings mattered much—they had been thoroughly ignored by Black, anyway.
Putting aside Ofalil's minor grievances, Black considered the entire operation an unqualified success. After absorbing the soul energy of hundreds of bandits, the spirit warriors had shed their original *ethereal* forms and begun the transition toward becoming *physical* beings. Now, aside from Judy, who served as their captain, the remaining nine spirit warriors had all regained their peak Mid-Tier Upper Rank strength. Of course, due to their differing attributes, there would inevitably be gaps in their progress and speed as they completed their transformation into physical entities—but for Black, this outcome was more than satisfactory.
Financially, too, the expedition had exceeded expectations. In addition to the plunder they had seized from the bandits, Daros had provided a most pleasant surprise. It seemed that stashing away private savings was a universal male trait. Inside that wooden box, along with the evidence of his collusion with the nobles, were dozens of priceless gemstones. According to Ofalil's calculations, if these gems were auctioned off on the open market, they would fetch at least twenty to thirty thousand gold coins—more than enough to keep Twilight Castle running until Black could secure a stable, *legal* source of income.
Lost in thought, Black lifted his gaze to the starry sky in the distance. The crackle of the campfire mingled with the whisper of the wind in his ears. When he turned back, he found Ofalil had not left; she was still standing quietly beside him.
"Something else on your mind?"
"Indeed, my lord."
Responding to Black's question, Ofalil—unusually shy—raised her head hesitantly, then voiced her request with a trace of uncertainty.
"I was wondering… if you would teach me something about combat."
"About combat?"
Black blinked in genuine surprise.
"What do you know about the subject already?"
"I'm ashamed to say…"
Ofalil let out a bitter laugh at Black's question.
"My knowledge of combat is no different from that of any ordinary noble in the royal court."
"That hardly seems fitting for someone of your reputation."
Black's expression remained unchanged, but he effortlessly pointed out the flaw in her words. If anyone else had said this to him, he might have believed it. But the young woman before him was none other than the once-celebrated "prodigy princess" of the Kingdom of Wester, renowned far and wide for her brilliance—not some sheltered flower raised in the palace, who spent her days daydreaming about fairy tales of princes and princesses until adulthood.
"I couldn't learn."
Faced with Black's probing gaze, Ofalil shook her head, her voice tinged with melancholy.
"The truth is, I only have half royal blood."
"Oh?"
Black's interest was piqued. He studied Ofalil carefully, then patted the grass beside him.
"Tell me about it."
After a moment's hesitation, Ofalil smoothed out her skirt, hugged her knees to her chest, and sat down next to Black. Then she began to tell her story—a story that was anything but glorious, for her, or for the Kingdom of Wester.
Ofalil's mother had never been a queen, nor even a concubine. She had been nothing more than a lowly palace maid. Her family had served the Wester royal palace for generations; had fate run its course, her mother would have continued in that role, married a palace servant, borne children, and sent those children to serve in the palace in turn—a never-ending cycle.
But her fate had taken an unexpected turn.
It had happened when the previous king was thirty-five years old. On his birthday, he had won a great victory in battle, personally driving the invaders who had dared to ravage the kingdom's lands back to their own territory. The double joy of his birthday and his triumph had led the king to drink far more than usual. Ofalil's mother, along with another palace maid, had been tasked with escorting the inebriated monarch back to his chambers to rest. And even kings, after all, were only men—indiscretions under the influence of alcohol were all too common. That night, the king had taken both Ofalil's mother and the other maid, robbing them of their innocence.
It sounded like a tragedy, but in the eyes of the royal household, such things were merely part of a servant's duty. Palace maids like them were often given as gifts to the king's sons or his loyal vassals as rewards. So when the night was over, life went on as usual. The maids said nothing of what had transpired, and the king paid no mind to who had shared his bed.
But then, Ofalil's mother had discovered she was pregnant—and nine months later, she had given birth to Ofalil. That was when the trouble began.
If Ofalil had been an ordinary child, the matter might have been swept under the rug. But the problem was that she bore the unmistakable features of the royal bloodline: her violet hair and sapphire-blue eyes were the signature traits of the Wester royal family—unique, and impossible to fake.
In those days, this would have been considered a stain on the royal family's honor. By tradition, Ofalil ought to have been drowned in the lake and her body disposed of without a trace. But King Wester IV had chosen not to do so. The man was already forty years old, and yet he had no heirs to his name. Suddenly blessed with a daughter, he was overjoyed. Defying the objections of everyone around him, he had married Ofalil's mother as a concubine, bringing her into the royal palace, and bestowed upon Ofalil the royal surname "Wester." In an instant, a family of palace servants had been elevated to the ranks of the nobility.
This absurd rise in status had naturally sparked the envy of many—especially the other concubines and the queen herself, none of whom had borne the king any children. These women were all princesses or daughters of powerful nobles, their marriages to the king nothing more than political alliances. Compared to them, a former palace maid was nothing but a lowly upstart.
And now this upstart had the audacity to claim equal status with them?
From the moment she was born, Ofalil had watched her mother endure endless snide remarks and mockery at royal banquets. The other women had made no attempt to hide their contempt for her mother's bloodline, her humble origins, her lack of refinement—and by extension, for Ofalil herself. Ofalil's mother had been utterly helpless. A former palace maid, she knew nothing of navigating the treacherous waters of court politics. Faced with their venomous barbs, she could only swallow her pride and endure in silence. It was then that Ofalil had sworn an oath: she would protect her mother.
And she had kept that oath.
She threw herself into her studies, devouring books on politics, history, economics, and every other subject imaginable, absorbing knowledge like a sponge. Through sheer hard work and her innate brilliance, she had gradually become known as the "Jewel of Wester." Many of her political ideas and proposals had won the approval not only of the common people and the nobility but also of the king himself. Thanks to her efforts, her mother had finally been able to live in peace, no longer subjected to the humiliations she had once endured.
But for all her achievements, the former princess was well aware that there were certain lines she could never cross.
Military affairs, for one. Combat, for another.
Of course, it was not unheard of for noble ladies from military families to learn combat skills from a young age. But Ofalil's position was different—she was a princess.
As long as she avoided the study of warfare and combat, the other nobles were willing to tolerate her. But what if a princess as talented and popular as her were to start learning the art of war and military strategy?
What would that imply?
Ofalil knew the answer all too well. The only reason she had been able to live in peace was because she had never shown the slightest interest in the military. After all, she only had half royal blood. Unless King Wester IV died without fathering any other children, the throne would never be hers to claim. And once the first prince and second princess had been born, that possibility had become all but nonexistent. If she had dared to study warfare and command, the other nobles would have seen her not as "a princess with exceptional political talent," but as a threat to the established order.
"…So it wasn't that I didn't want to learn," Ofalil finished, hugging her knees tighter, her eyes fixed on the ground as if lost in the memories of her past. "It was that I couldn't."
Black said nothing for a long moment, simply watching her. Then he spoke.
"Why tell me this now?"
"Because I can feel that you've been testing me this entire journey."
In response to Black's question, Ofalil's lips curved into a faint smile as she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I had no intention of keeping it a secret forever. I figured I might as well be honest with you, instead of living in constant fear of being found out."
Hearing Ofalil's half-complaint, Black did not look the least bit embarrassed. He merely shrugged his shoulders. The truth was, Ofalil was absolutely right.
From the very first moment he had struck his deal with the princess, Black had been suspicious of the circumstances surrounding her death. A princess as brilliant and beloved as her—murdered in cold blood? It was not beyond the realm of possibility that she had been killed for harboring ambitions to seize the throne. Especially given his memories of her popularity among both the common people and the nobility; if she had set her mind to it, and managed to win the support of the military, she could have easily become the kingdom's first queen regnant.
That was why he had brought her along on this expedition—to observe her, to get to know her better, to see if he could detect any hint of hidden ambition. But as the journey had progressed, he had discovered that for all her intelligence, the princess was utterly clueless when it came to matters of combat and warfare. Her earlier discussion with Judy about the relative strength of High-Tier Swordsmen had been no more insightful than the ramblings of a common townsfolk.
That had struck him as highly unusual.
Now, Ofalil's story had finally put his doubts to rest. If what she said was true, then the princess had never had any desire to seize the throne. After all, winning the support of the military required at least a basic understanding of warfare—and judging by her complete lack of knowledge on the subject, it was clear she had deliberately avoided learning anything about it.
But then why was she suddenly so eager to learn now?
"Because I am your adjutant," Ofalil replied, lifting her head, her sapphire-blue eyes steady and unwavering.
"The reason you brought me along this time wasn't just to test me. It was to show me that this is the kind of life I'll be leading from now on, isn't it? And as things stand, the knowledge I possess is clearly not enough to be of any real help to you in this regard. That's why I want to learn from you… is there a problem with that?"
"Excellent answer. Ten points."
Black nodded approvingly at Ofalil's response, then stood up, looking down at the young woman before him. But then he held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
"Unfortunately, I can't teach you combat skills."
His voice was filled with genuine regret.