"Day how many now?"
Black reached out, picked up a black chess piece from the table, and placed it firmly on a dark square.
"Fifteenth day, my lord."
Ophelia frowned slightly, her brow furrowed in concentration. She paused for a moment, then lifted a white piece to block Black's advancing attack. It had been fifteen days since those watch soldiers had arrived in Duskwood. In all that time, they had refrained from doing anything overtly out of line—patrolling the town and the connecting roads exactly according to the routes Ophelia had laid out, not a single deviation to be seen.
"Those men sure know how to play the long game."
Knight, left flank, charge.
"They are the retainers of a great noble house, after all. Unlike common street thugs, they don't reveal their hand so easily."
Queen, fall back to hold the line.
"Speaking of which—how are the matters with the merchants progressing?"
Pawn, advance to capture the rook.
"Everything is proceeding exactly as you instructed, my lord. We've offered them quite generous concessions, and I've also relaxed the scrutiny on their trade permits."
Chariot, circle around to outflank the rear guard.
"In that case, it seems the time has come."
With that, Black moved his knight forward.
"Checkmate."
After studying the board for a long moment, Ophelia sighed and set down her piece in resignation.
"I lose."
"You're too obsessed with controlling the entire board—that's not always a virtue," Black said, a triumphant smile tugging at his lips as he set down his own piece.
The game they were playing was a magical war chess set passed down through the ages, a game that could simulate real battlefields and armies. Players commanded their pieces with a variety of tactics to secure victory—a test of a commander's strategic acumen, and an excellent way to practice battle tactics. At this moment, Black was using the game to teach Ophelia the finer points of military strategy.
"I beg to differ, Lord Black," Ophelia replied, clearly unconvinced by his assessment. Ever since she had learned to play this game, she had tried dozens of different tactics in her attempts to defeat Black—but victory had always eluded her. For all the variety of her strategies, Black's approach was brutally simple: from the moment the pieces were set up, he did nothing but charge with his knights, over and over again. It was as if nothing else mattered to him at all.
Ophelia had always thought that such a reckless, unbalanced attack would be easy to counter. But the reality was that she had been utterly defeated time and time again. Against Black's relentless knight charges, she had never been able to find a single opening. What frustrated her most was the sheer unpredictability of his strikes—his knights always charged at the most bizarre and unexpected moments, leaving her with no time to react. Every time she thought she had prepared the perfect defense against his knights, they would break through her lines from an angle she had never anticipated, destroying her command center before she could even recover.
"You try to be perfect at everything," Black said, pushing the chessboard aside and picking up his teacup.
"Your mages abandoned their offensive role to support the shield warriors and spearmen in defending against my knights. That left your own attacks woefully weak. On the battlefield, the number of soldiers you have is always limited—you can never have both impenetrable defense and unstoppable offense at the same time. The moment you focus on one, the other will inevitably suffer."
"But—"
"I know what you're going to say," Black cut her off with a wave of his hand.
"Believe me, I understand your thinking better than you do, Princess Ophelia. You are an extremely talented person—there's no denying that. And I'll even admit that you excel at everything *except* military strategy. But that doesn't mean you can master warfare by applying the same principles of perfection you use elsewhere. You didn't set out to create some flawless, all-encompassing battle plan—but your way of thinking is inherently geared toward that kind of perfection. And that has become your greatest limitation. What is it?"
The last part of his sentence was directed at Irene, who had burst into the room looking flustered and anxious. Startled by Black's question, Irene paused for a heartbeat before blurting out her news in a rush.
"Reporting to my lord! Mayor Clark just sent word—those watch soldiers got into a fight with a group of outsiders! They're brawling right now in the town square!"
"Oh?"
Black and Ophelia exchanged a glance, a look of mutual understanding flickering in their eyes.
Finally.
By the time Black and Ophelia arrived at the town square, the fight was already drawing to a close. The traveling merchants had brought a fair number of bodyguards with them—but these watch soldiers were no easy prey. Each and every one of them was a low-rank intermediate swordsman, more than a match for ordinary mercenaries and adventurers.
When the two of them reached the scene, most of the merchants' bodyguards were already lying on the ground groaning in pain. None of them were dead, but it would take them at least half a day to a full day to recover. The few remaining guards were all injured, barely managing to shield their employers behind their battered forms.
The watch soldiers, on the other hand, looked nothing like the instigators of a brawl. Instead, they all wore stern, righteous expressions—as if they were valiantly fighting against the most heinous evil in the world in the name of justice and freedom. Ophelia had been absolutely right: the retainers of a great noble house carried themselves with a dignity that common thugs could never hope to match.
Fighting back a chuckle at the soldiers' over-the-top performance, Black cleared his throat lightly, then pushed his way through the crowd to the center of the chaos. At the sight of Black's arrival, Castor's eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of smug satisfaction flashing across his face before he quickly waved a hand to signal his men to stand down. The watch soldiers, who had been confronting the merchants with their weapons drawn, immediately sheathed their swords at his command.
The merchants, caught off guard by this sudden turn of events, stared blankly for a moment before turning their gazes to the young noble who had just stepped forward.
"What exactly is going on here?" Black asked, his eyes sweeping coldly over the group of outsiders.
"Reporting to my lord!"
At the sound of Black's question, Castor immediately stepped forward, bowing deeply and respectfully before speaking.
"During our routine inspection of these outsiders, we discovered that they were smuggling contraband goods! Acting in accordance with the kingdom's laws, we ordered them to lay down their weapons and submit to an investigation. But these criminals not only refused to obey our lawful commands—they even attempted to resist arrest! That is why this conflict broke out between us."
"That's a lie!"
A man's voice rang out sharply from the merchant's carriage. Even though he could see that these soldiers were clearly the young noble's men, and that the two parties were likely in cahoots, he knew he had to speak up—otherwise, he would lose all ground to stand on.
"We were not smuggling any contraband! They're deliberately framing us!"
In the face of the man's angry accusation, Castor said nothing further. Instead, he lowered his head, playing the part of a loyal retainer waiting patiently for his lord's judgment. The man's shouts seemed to be of no consequence to him whatsoever.
Just then, Ophelia gently tugged on Black's sleeve, leaning in to whisper in his ear.
"My lord—there's something off about these people."
"You noticed too?" Black whispered back. In truth, he had known from the moment he laid eyes on these outsiders that they were far from ordinary. Leaving aside the armed mercenaries they had brought with them, even the merchants themselves looked out of place—their muscular builds and the weapons hanging at their waists were completely inconsistent with their supposed identities as traders. What's more, Black had detected a note of nervousness in the man's voice when he had shouted his denial at Castor—not the righteous indignation of an innocent man wrongfully accused, but the panicked fear of someone who was afraid that something *else* would be exposed.
Castor had certainly picked an interesting target to provoke. On the one hand, these men *did* seem suspicious. But on the other hand—Black was certain that their suspicious behavior had nothing to do with smuggling contraband.
"What kind of contraband were they smuggling?" Black asked, turning his attention away from Ophelia and back to Castor.
"The contraband they were smuggling is right here, my lord."
Still maintaining his silence and deference, Castor lifted both hands to present a heavy burlap sack to Black. When Black opened the sack and looked down at the fine white powder inside, he couldn't help but frown slightly.
Salt?
Salt was a commodity explicitly prohibited from private smuggling in every kingdom across the continent. While inspections were not always strictly enforced in these times, traveling merchants and adventurers typically carried small amounts of salt on their persons, hidden away in small pouches—so that if they were caught, they could claim it was for their own personal use. But transporting salt in large sacks like this was an obvious sign of commercial trade—there was no way it could be passed off as personal supplies.
This was a frame-up so blatant it was almost laughable. Even if the merchants hadn't protested, Black would have known immediately that the salt had been planted by Castor beforehand, to be "discovered" during the inspection. This kind of tactic was far from uncommon—but it usually did little to enhance a lord's reputation. After all, no merchant wanted to do business with a lord who was as dangerous and untrustworthy as a bandit, who might seize their goods at any moment on a trumped-up charge. In some remote regions, the local lords were little more than legalized robbers, anyway.
"Honored sir! This is all a conspiracy! We were not smuggling any contraband! They planted that evidence to frame us!" The man shouted again, his hands clenched into fists and his face dark with anger.
But Black paid him no mind. Instead, he turned to Ophelia, nodding slightly to signal his instructions. At Black's silent command, Ophelia stepped forward, pulling her cloak slightly to conceal her features before speaking in a calm, authoritative tone.
"Regardless of your claims of innocence, we cannot rule out the suspicion that you were smuggling contraband. Now—lay down your weapons and surrender immediately. After a thorough investigation, we will ensure that justice is served and that you receive a fair verdict."
At her words, the people in the carriage exchanged despairing glances. Then, their faces ashen with defeat, they dropped their weapons to the ground one by one.