When the Council Elder caught sight of Blake, a smile crept unbidden across his face. He could feel the eyes of the nobles around him, filled with reverence and admiration, fixed upon his person. Though Blake had not deigned to communicate with them beforehand, the Traditionalists had been waiting for this day ever since the elder's plan was set in motion. They all understood that as a High-Ranked Swordsman, Blake's pride would never allow him to come crawling to them like a man cornered. Even if he was eager to return to his domain, he would insist on holding the upper hand in these negotiations. The Traditionalist nobles were well prepared for this; they had no intention of antagonizing the young, formidable swordsman. So long as his demands were not unreasonable, they were willing to accede to them—to foster a favorable relationship with him.
Of course, doubts lingered. The nobles privy to the elder's scheme assumed Blake was hurrying back to the Zach Clan because word had reached him of the trouble brewing in his territory, requiring his immediate return. But this raised a new question: where were the men who had been sent to stir up that trouble? Why had they not sent word back? In truth, the Zach Clan nobles had lost contact with the raiding party the moment they entered the Duskwood—and had heard nothing from them since. To avoid alerting the sharp, cunning swordsman to their machinations, they had been forced to bite their tongues and wait in silence.
Yet now, as Blake's figure stood before them, unease gnawed at the hearts of some. Would everything truly unfold as smoothly as the elder had planned?
Naturally, such doubts were kept strictly to themselves—especially after a small, familiar figure stepped into view, banishing all lingering misgivings.
"Master Zach!!"
At the sight of the boy, every noble present felt a surge of elation and excitement. Many of them were loyal vassals of the late patriarch; seeing the sole heir to his bloodline safe and sound stirred emotions unlike any other.
Blake stepped into the room, his gaze sweeping casually over the assembled guests. A dozen or so nobles in formal attire stood or sat scattered about. The elderly man who had negotiated with him before stood at their center. Blake's eyes drifted further, and he spotted Keller's familiar form. The man of half-Traditionalist blood seemed all but forgotten, standing silently at the back of the crowd, his expression impassive as he stared at the thin boy beside Blake. What was he thinking? Anger? Regret? Or was he simply mocking the farce unfolding before him?
"On behalf of the Zach Clan, I welcome you, honored Lord Blake," the Council Elder's voice rang out, cutting through the hubbub and silencing the room instantly.
"No need for such formalities," Blake replied, offering the old man a nonchalant shrug before dipping into a graceful bow in return. "This is merely a matter of fulfilling my duty. I once made a promise to young Master Zach—that I would return him safely to the Zach Clan. Now, the time has come for me to keep that vow."
"I see," the nobles murmured, exchanging glances. They had expected the young swordsman to offer some pretext for his sudden arrival, but this was an excuse far more peculiar than any they could have imagined. Still, judging by the boy's demeanor, it did not seem like a last-minute fabrication. Could it possibly be the truth?
"Welcome home, Master Zach," the elder took a step forward, opening his arms wide. "We have been waiting for this day—we always knew you would come back to us."
"Elder Grandpa…!"
With Blake's silent permission, the boy spun around and darted forward, throwing himself into the old man's waiting embrace.
"I was so scared! So scared! Ever since I left, I've been terrified…"
"It's alright now, Master Zach," the elder soothed, gently stroking the boy's hair. "You're home. We swear to protect you, always—until you grow into a worthy clan leader. This was your father's dying wish… and ours as well."
As the old man whispered comforting words to the child, Blake's gaze fell upon the cane clutched in his hand. He frowned slightly, then in the blink of an eye, he seized Ophelia's hand and pulled her behind him. A calm, gentle smile spread across his face as he spoke.
"A touching reunion, old sir."
"My apologies for our outburst of emotion," the elder replied, releasing the boy from his embrace. He cleared his throat, his warm smile fading to be replaced by his usual solemn, grave expression.
"Then I suppose my promise is fulfilled?" Blake asked.
The elder had expected the swordsman to press him for further recompense—to negotiate terms for his cooperation. Yet before he could even invite Blake to discuss the matter privately, the man had uttered these words instead. What was the meaning of this? Was the situation in his territory truly so dire that he had no time or inclination to haggle for more?
If that were the case, it would be a most welcome turn of events. But the elder's instincts warned him that the truth was far more complex than he could fathom.
"It is indeed, sir," the elder replied, straightening his posture. His left hand tightened around the head of his cane, tapping it lightly against the floor before subtly drawing the boy to stand at his side. "You have honored your word—a most noble quality for a man of your station."
"I couldn't agree more," Blake nodded, displaying none of the modesty expected of a nobleman. But his next words sent a chill down the spines of everyone present.
"Moreover, in my experience, a man who keeps his promises expects others to do the same."
"Of course, Lord Blake," the elder frowned, twirling his cane thoughtfully. He wondered why the young man was prattling on about such trivialities at a time like this. The nobles, still buzzing with excitement moments ago, sobered quickly. They sensed instinctively that events were veering off course, spiraling toward a destination none of them could anticipate—but none could pinpoint exactly where things had gone wrong.
"Then, as a man of my word, I suppose it is time for me to keep my *next* promise," Blake said.
The moment the words left his lips, the elder raised his cane suddenly. A crimson spark erupted from the ruby set in its head, blooming in the blink of an eye into a massive fireball that hurtled toward Blake, who stood mere paces away.
A searing wave of heat and wind exploded outward from the elder, forcing the nobles to stumble backward in alarm. Blake, directly in the path of the attack, seemed to have no chance of dodging. But in that split second, he did something no one could have predicted—faced with the incoming inferno, he tightened his grip on Ophelia's hand, spun around, and *thrust her forward*.
"My lord?!"
Ophelia had no time to process what was happening. One moment, she was cowering behind Blake, her heart pounding with dread as she watched the tension mount. The next, she was being shoved to the front, staring directly into the maw of a colossal, roaring fireball hurtling toward her!
Though she existed now as a soulbound entity, the sheer terror of the approaching flames overwhelmed her. For a heartbeat, she forgot her inhuman nature—the searing heat felt as if it would incinerate her flesh and bone, as if death was once again looming before her, close enough to touch, ready to claim her life for a second time.
Ophelia squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for annihilation.
But to her utter astonishment, just as the scorching heat seemed about to engulf her, it vanished completely. The raging tongues of flame, the blistering air that threatened to parch her skin—all of it was gone in an instant. When she opened her eyes in shock, she found herself surrounded by a swirling shroud of faint, inky mist, which coiled protectively around her body. The terrifying fireball that had loomed so large was nowhere to be seen.
"Phantom affinity!"
At the sight of the ethereal shadows swirling around Ophelia, the elder's face hardened. In the blink of an eye, he raised his cane high once more. A translucent magical barrier erupted from it, shielding both him and Master Zach from harm. It was only then that the elder realized the young swordsman was no longer standing beside Ophelia.
Where had he gone?
The question had barely formed in his mind when a bloodcurdling scream pierced the air. When the elder turned to look, he saw Blake standing casually by the door on the opposite side of the room, yanking his pitch-black longsword free from the body of a convulsing noble.
"I told you," Blake said, his eyes meeting the elder's gaze. A lazy, amused smile played on his lips as he shrugged, stepping aside to reveal the figure he had been shielding behind him—Keller.
"I am a man of my word."