Though Viscount Wen had no idea what the clan elder was really thinking, a subordinate's duty was to obey his lord's orders. Still, as he stepped out of the room, he didn't think this task would be too troublesome. After all, with that young lady's imposing aura, surely no one would be foolish enough to go out of their way to disturb her—or so he thought. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he spotted a figure he knew all too well heading straight for Ophelia. At the sight of this man, Viscount Wen's vision momentarily darkened, and a tangled mix of elation and loathing surged in his chest.
The man approaching Ophelia was none other than Pelzen, the heir apparent to the Byrd family.
Following the failed "bandit suppression" mission in the Duskwood, the clan elder had ordered Pelzen to confine himself to his quarters to reflect on his mistakes. But this punishment had its limits. After all, this was the Midsummer Festival—a time when every noble of the Byrd family gathered together. If Pelzen were barred from attending such an important event, it would inevitably arouse suspicion among the other nobles. Thus, the clan elder had finally relented and allowed him to come out of seclusion. For though Pelzen had brought shame to the family, his blunder was not serious enough to strip him of his position as heir. Besides, the absence of the family's first heir at the Midsummer Festival would surely spark all sorts of unsavory rumors—and that was the last thing the clan elder wanted.
Pelzen knew full well that his standing was on shaky ground. Thus, he had made a complete about-face, putting on a show of humility. The other nobles had certainly laughed up their sleeves at his misfortune, but Pelzen was still the family heir—the future clan leader. So they had kept their snickers to themselves, never daring to say anything disrespectful to his face. Moreover, time had dulled the sting of his failure, and the incident was no longer a hot topic of gossip. Thus, when Pelzen arrived, the nobles had swarmed around him, engaging him in lively conversation, treating him with all due deference.
But Pelzen's attention was fixed solely on Ophelia and her companions. Though he had been confined to his quarters, as the family's heir apparent, he had access to all the top-secret affairs of the clan. Thus, during his house arrest, he had learned all about the deal that young lord had struck with the Byrd family. That upstart, relying on his status as a High-Tier Swordsman, had actually dared to make such audacious demands of the Byrd family! In Pelzen's eyes, this was sheer, unbridled audacity. Who did that whelp think he was, demanding terms from the great Byrd family? The nerve of him!
Of course, Pelzen's resentment toward Blake ran deeper than mere anger over the deal. The moment he had heard that Blake was a High-Tier Swordsman, he had immediately connected the dots to the events in the Duskwood. Come to think of it, it was right after that young man had become the lord of the Duskwood that all the bandits and outlaws in the forest had been wiped out. And let's not forget Daros—a High-Tier Swordsman in his own right. He could never have been killed by an opponent weaker than himself. Thus, there was only one possibility: he had been defeated by someone just as powerful as he was. Since that young lord possessed the strength of a High-Tier Swordsman, he was the prime suspect!
The more Pelzen thought about it, the more convinced he became that his reasoning was sound. In his view, Blake was clearly harboring ill intentions toward the Byrd family. Otherwise, why would a High-Tier Swordsman willingly accept such a deal, giving up fertile land on the plains to move to that backwater dump of a forest? There had to be some hidden agenda here.
Thus, the moment he learned that Ophelia and her companions had arrived, Pelzen had immediately resolved to confront them. True, the young lord himself was absent—but that was just as well. Pelzen was confident that he could wheedle some useful information out of these women. Though that young lady clearly had royal blood running through her veins, so what? Even royals had their limits when it came to supporting a mere noble. Nobles would never align themselves with the royal family without reservation, and vice versa. Pelzen was certain that with a little bit of pressure, that young lady's attitude would soften considerably. If he succeeded, he would not only gain valuable intelligence but also put these women in their place, ensuring that the upcoming negotiations proceeded on terms favorable to the Byrd family. And if he pulled this off, he would surely win his father's favor—and his recent humiliating failure would be swept under the rug once and for all.
Buoyed by this scheme, Pelzen strode forward eagerly, determined to put his plan into action.
Viscount Wen saw the look in Pelzen's eyes, and he understood exactly what the heir was thinking. That was why he felt such a conflicting mix of joy and anxiety at the sight of Pelzen's approach. He was delighted because this fool was clearly oblivious to the true power of their guests and was about to make a fool of himself. The clan elder obviously held that young lady in the highest regard—if Pelzen dared to cross the line and cause a scene, the elder might even strip him of his title as heir. And if that happened, then among the younger generation, Viscount Wen—with his talent and popularity—would be the perfect candidate to take Pelzen's place. But at the same time, Viscount Wen was deeply worried. If Pelzen really did mess things up royally, it could lead to a complete breakdown in relations between their family and the guests. And that would be disastrous for both sides—or rather, disastrous for Viscount Wen, if not for the guests. After all, these were no mere petty nobles with a little power and no real backing. Three High-Tier Swordsmen—their combined strength was more than enough to turn the entire region upside down and reduce it to chaos. And if Viscount Wen were to inherit the family in the aftermath, he would be left holding nothing but a crumbling mess—and that was the last thing he wanted.
After thinking it over for a moment, Viscount Wen's lips curled into a cunning smile. Then he turned and vanished into the crowd.
By this time, Pelzen had already reached Ophelia's side. Sensing the approach of another person, Ophelia—who had been resting with her eyes closed—opened them and fixed the man before her with a cool, appraising gaze. She said nothing, simply staring at him, waiting for him to speak first.
"Greetings, fair lady," Pelzen said, bowing slightly in a show of respect. Even he, arrogant as he was, couldn't help but be taken aback by the sheer intensity of Ophelia's azure gaze. "I am Pelzen, the eldest son of the Byrd family. It is truly an honor to welcome a lady as beautiful as yourself to our humble abode."
Ophelia narrowed her eyes slightly. The man had introduced himself as the eldest son of the Byrd family and had welcomed her on behalf of the entire clan. So this was the future leader of the Byrd family, was it?
"Thank you for your warm welcome, Mr. Pelzen," Ophelia replied, nodding her head slightly and offering him a sweet, gracious smile. "I have long heard that the Midsummer Festival here is unlike any other in the kingdom. I am eager to witness it for myself. I am sure it will be a memory I cherish for years to come."
As she spoke, Ophelia's gaze drifted, and for a moment, she seemed to be lost in a daze. It was as if she had been transported back thirty years—to a time when she had stood here, in this very hall, having this exact same conversation with someone else. That someone had been a kind, stern yet warm-hearted middle-aged man. Ophelia could still vividly recall the benevolent smile on his face... Come to think of it, thirty years had passed now. Had that man become the clan leader of the Byrd family?
Shaking her head slightly to dispel these idle thoughts, Ophelia turned her gaze back to Pelzen—only to be surprised to see a flicker of disdain lurking in the depths of his eyes.
What was this?
Ophelia's expression remained unchanged, but a hint of confusion stirred in her heart. From Viscount Wen's earlier attitude, it had seemed that the Byrd family was ready to back down and concede. But the look on this heir's face told a different story entirely. Could it be that the Byrd family was setting a trap, trying to lull her into a false sense of security?
The thought only served to make Ophelia more calm and composed. She shot Charlotte a quick glance, then fixed her gaze firmly back on Pelzen. And at that moment, Pelzen finally spoke up again.
"I wonder if I might be so bold as to ask for the fair lady's name?"
"Ophelia West," Ophelia replied, answering his question at last. This was one of the basic courtesies expected of a noble lady. As a woman of royal blood—even a former royal—one should never take the initiative to strike up a conversation with others unless absolutely necessary. It was an unspoken rule that all noble women abided by, and Ophelia was no exception.
"Ophelia... what a beautiful, melodious name," Pelzen said, smiling. But how much genuine warmth lay behind that smile was anyone's guess. "I hear that you ladies hail from the Duskwood? A long journey like that must have been quite tiring, I imagine."
"It was a bit exhausting, I'll admit," Ophelia replied, her expression remaining serene as she spoke in a soft, gentle voice. "But the breathtaking beauty of your lands has more than made up for our weariness."
Her response was perfectly poised and polite, but it did nothing to dampen Pelzen's resolve. If it had been that easy to get the better of her, it would have been beyond his wildest expectations. Thus, after hearing Ophelia's answer, Pelzen cast a deliberately confused glance around the hall before fixing his gaze back on her. "Though I must say, I am surprised not to see Lord Blake among your party. As the lord of the Duskwood, why did he not grace us with his presence at this grand festival?"
"Lord Blake was detained by some urgent matters back in the Duskwood that required his personal attention," Ophelia explained calmly. "Thus, I have come here in his stead. I hope this does not inconvenience any of you."
"Not at all, not at all!" Pelzen waved his hand dismissively, but his tone made it clear that he had no intention of dropping this line of questioning. "It's just that I never would have imagined that Lord Blake would send such a lovely lady to represent him... if I may be so bold as to ask, what is your relationship with his lordship?"
"I—"
"Miss Ophelia is Lord Blake's fiancée, and she also serves as his adjutant, sir," Charlotte suddenly interjected, cutting Ophelia off mid-sentence. She delivered this bombshell with a sweet, innocent smile, as if she were simply stating an obvious fact. The revelation left both Ophelia and Pelzen utterly stunned.
Ophelia was shocked because she was only Blake's adjutant—since when had she become his fiancée? She shot Charlotte a questioning look, but the latter merely smiled back serenely, completely unperturbed by the explosive nature of her words, as if she had just stated an irrefutable truth rather than a blatant lie.
Pelzen was equally dumbfounded. For in the kingdom, it was extremely rare for the royal family to marry one of their own to a mere noble. Only the most powerful, influential great noble families ever had the honor of forming such a union. But Blake was nothing more than a petty noble—no, scratch that, he wasn't even a formally titled noble! He was just a lord of a backwater fiefdom. How on earth could the royal family bestow such a great honor upon someone like him? Pelzen had seen Ophelia with his own eyes—her beauty, her poise, her refined manners—she was clearly a product of royal upbringing. Add to that her unmistakable cascade of violet hair, and there could be no doubt that she was a member of the royal family—perhaps even a person of very high standing. How could a young lady of her caliber possibly be engaged to that upstart?
Pelzen stared at Ophelia, his eyes filled with renewed curiosity and doubt. But Ophelia simply met his gaze with a perfectly poised smile, a faint blush tinging her fair cheeks—exactly the look of a young woman feeling shy and embarrassed when her fiancée status is mentioned. To all outward appearances, there was nothing amiss.
What Pelzen failed to realize was that the moment Charlotte had spoken those words, Ophelia had indeed been caught off guard—but she had quickly grasped the reasoning behind Charlotte's lie. If she had only introduced herself as Blake's adjutant, it would have come across as a deliberate slight to the Byrd family. For in noble society, all interactions were conducted through the lens of "face"—of mutual respect and propriety. If she had come here without a title befitting the occasion, the Byrd family might have interpreted it as a sign that Blake did not take them seriously (which was, in fact, the truth). And even if they were forced to cooperate with her now due to circumstances, their future relationship would never be stable. But the title of fiancée was a different matter entirely. Though they were not yet married, it placed her on an equal footing with Blake. Combined with her royal status, it was a gesture that showed the utmost respect to the Byrd family—ensuring that they did not lose any "face."
Of course, understanding Charlotte's reasoning was one thing—but Ophelia still felt a twinge of annoyance. She had been so preoccupied with the details of the deal during the journey that she had completely overlooked this minor but crucial point of etiquette. And Charlotte had clearly seen this oversight but had chosen not to warn her, waiting until now to spring this bombshell on her. It was enough to make her want to sigh in exasperation. Though her expression had remained perfectly composed throughout the entire exchange, a faint flush of annoyance had indeed risen to her cheeks—but Pelzen had mistaken it for the "shyness of a young maiden."
"I see," Pelzen said, clearing his throat awkwardly as he realized he had been staring. He forced himself to regain his composure, putting on a gracious smile. "To be engaged to a lady as beautiful as Miss Ophelia—Lord Blake is a very lucky man. By the Saints, I must admit, I am almost envious of him."
"Thank you for your kind words," Ophelia replied with a polite smile. "I am sure Lord Blake would be very pleased to hear you say that."
With that, their conversation came to a temporary halt. Pelzen's first round of probing had ended in complete failure—but he was not discouraged. He had more important matters to attend to.
"By the way, I hear that Lord Blake is a High-Tier Swordsman?" Pelzen asked, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp with curiosity.
"That is correct," Ophelia replied, tilting her head slightly as she met his gaze. "Why? From the look on your face, Mr. Pelzen, it seems you find that hard to believe?"
"Oh, not at all!" Pelzen replied with a laugh, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "You must understand, Miss Ophelia—I am a swordsman myself. I know full well how incredibly difficult it is to reach the High-Tier realm. And Lord Blake... if I remember correctly, he is barely twenty years old, is he not? For someone of his tender age to become a High-Tier Swordsman... frankly speaking, it is quite hard to fathom, is it not? Don't you agree, everyone?"
"Absolutely! Precisely!"
The moment Pelzen had begun speaking to Ophelia, the more curious nobles had already crowded around them, eager to eavesdrop on their conversation. And now that Pelzen had thrown the question open to the crowd, they had immediately chimed in with enthusiastic agreement. This was not just because of Pelzen's status as heir apparent—it was because they truly found it hard to believe that a mere twenty-year-old noble could be a High-Tier Swordsman. It was simply too incredible. Was he some kind of once-in-a-century prodigy?
"To tell you the truth, before the Midsummer Festival began, I was really looking forward to meeting Lord Blake in person," Pelzen continued, shaking his head in feigned regret. "I wanted to see for myself if his strength was really as formidable as the rumors claim. But alas, since Lord Blake is detained by pressing matters and cannot be here, I suppose that will have to wait. What a pity."
As he spoke, Pelzen let out a dramatic sigh of disappointment—but everyone listening could hear the unspoken implication loud and clear. He was openly insinuating that Blake was nothing more than a fraud, a man who claimed to be a High-Tier Swordsman but was actually afraid to show his face here for fear of being exposed as a charlatan. It was a blatant provocation.
Viscount Wen, who was hiding in the crowd, heard every word, and his brows furrowed deeply. He was tempted to step forward and intervene, but after a moment's thought, he decided against it. Right now, Pelzen was riding high on his own sense of self-importance—any attempt to dissuade him would only backfire and make things worse. Besides, the clan elder had told him to accede to that young lady's every wish. But the Byrd family was a clan—not a single individual. And with so many nobles gathered here for the Midsummer Festival, if they were to see the clan elder backing down in public, who knew what kind of reaction they would have? Still, Miss Ophelia was no pushover—surely she would be able to defuse this crisis with ease.
Sure enough, upon hearing Pelzen's thinly veiled taunt, Ophelia's eyebrows arched slightly. She cast a silent glance over her shoulder at the two young girls standing behind her, who were now tugging gently at the hem of her dress, their pale purple eyes sparkling with excitement and eagerness. Though Ophelia was not yet very familiar with the twins, she could guess exactly what they were thinking.
"So let me get this straight, Mr. Pelzen," Ophelia said, her voice cool and clear, cutting through the murmur of the crowd. "You want to see the strength of a High-Tier Swordsman with your own eyes?"
"That is exactly what I want," Pelzen replied immediately, completely oblivious to the fact that he had just stepped right into Ophelia's trap. He nodded vigorously, his expression filled with feigned regret. "You may not realize this, Miss Ophelia, but High-Tier Swordsmen are an extremely rare breed. Even among us nobles, it is a rare privilege to lay eyes on one. In fact, many people here share my curiosity. It is truly a shame that we cannot satisfy that curiosity today."
Pelzen's words were half-truth and half-lie. For while it was true that High-Tier Swordsmen were rare, they were not so rare as to be mythical creatures that no one had ever seen before. But the way he had phrased his words was clearly meant to mock and belittle Blake.
"Since everyone here is so eager to witness the power of a High-Tier Swordsman," Ophelia said, her smile never wavering as she stepped aside, revealing the two young twins standing behind her to the astonished gaze of the crowd. "I think it would be a shame to disappoint you all. I suspect you may not be aware of this, but Lord Blake is not the only High-Tier Swordsman in our party. Allow me to introduce you to these two young ladies—Messiah and Semia. They are Lord Blake's..." Ophelia paused for a moment, as if searching for the right words to describe these two girls who called Blake both "brother" and "daddy."
"...They are Lord Blake's subordinates," she finally said, settling on a neutral term, "and also his relatives. And I can assure you all—these two young ladies are also High-Tier Swordsmen in their own right."
The moment the words left her mouth, the crowd erupted into a chorus of gasps and exclamations of disbelief.
Unlike Viscount Wen, these nobles had never expected Ophelia to make such a claim. Are you kidding me? She was saying that these two little girls—who looked no older than ten years old—were High-Tier Swordsmen? True, their outfits were unique and somewhat eccentric, but they looked like nothing more than two spoiled noble young ladies, not seasoned warriors. If they were really swordsmen, shouldn't they at least be wearing armor? Or carrying a weapon? Even a noble swordsman like Pelzen, who was dressed in formal attire for the festival, had a decorative rapier at his waist. But these two little girls had nothing but a pair of parasols in their hands. Where were their swords? At the very least, they should be carrying swords, shouldn't they?
"Miss Ophelia, you can't be serious..." Pelzen stammered, staring at the twins in open-mouthed disbelief. He had thought that his taunts would leave her flustered and at a loss for words—but he had never dreamed that she would come back with such a shocking claim, one that made him look like a fool. He peered closely at the two girls, searching for any sign of hidden power—but he saw nothing. They were just two innocent-looking little girls. Could they really be High-Tier Swordsmen? This was absurd! Was this young lady deliberately trying to trick him? Did she think he would never dare to challenge two little girls to a duel, so she had made up this ridiculous lie to save face?
Pelzen was still wracking his brain, trying to figure out how to respond to this unexpected turn of events, when Ophelia's voice rang out again, cutting through his thoughts.
"By the way, if I remember correctly, there is going to be a Martial Tournament as part of the Midsummer Festival celebrations, is there not?" she asked, her tone casual and confident. "Since everyone here is so eager to witness the power of a High-Tier Swordsman firsthand, I have a proposal to make. Why not let these two young ladies participate in the Martial Tournament? They can showcase their skills and prowess in the sacred light of Mana... what do you all think?"
The Martial Tournament was the highlight of the Midsummer Festival. Under the starry night sky, warriors would compete against each other in mortal combat, displaying their strength, skill, and the artistry of their fighting styles. The winner would receive a generous reward and the admiration of the entire clan. Though the tournament had originally been a contest for commoners, once the nobles had gotten involved, it had transformed into a stage for them to display their military might. As cadet branches of a great noble family, they were forbidden from openly raising their own private armies—but they were free to recruit skilled warriors to their cause. The Martial Tournament had thus become a way for nobles to vie for status and influence by pitting their chosen "champions" against each other in combat.
"Of course! That would be perfectly fine!" Pelzen replied immediately, gritting his teeth as he forced a smile. In his eyes, Ophelia had painted herself into a corner with this proposal—and she had done it deliberately, to make her ridiculous claim seem more credible. He refused to believe it—refused to believe that two little girls of ten years old could have reached the High-Tier realm, let alone two of them!
Let them make fools of themselves in front of the entire clan, he thought maliciously. That way, I will have the upper hand in the negotiations!
With this thought in mind, Pelzen nodded his head without the slightest hesitation, a triumphant smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
"Then we shall eagerly await the opportunity to witness the two young ladies' heroic feats at the Martial Tournament," he said, deliberately emphasizing the words "heroic feats." He shot Ophelia a smug look, then turned on his heel and strode away, convinced that he had won this round.
But hidden in the crowd, Viscount Wen watched Pelzen's retreating figure, shaking his head slowly. He glanced at the two young girls, who were now giggling merrily, their faces bright with innocent delight, then back at Pelzen's departing back, and let out a long, weary sigh.
That young master Pelzen, he thought to himself, really is courting disaster.