Night fell.
As the last glimmer of the sun vanished below the horizon, the small town did not grow quiet—in fact, the townsfolk grew all the more excited. They poured into the central square, waiting for the most thrilling part of the Midsummer Festival: the Martial Tournament.
Originally, the Martial Tournament was a segment of the Midsummer Festival ceremonies, where people showcased their courage and prowess to demonstrate humanity's strength in conquering nature. The final victor would receive rewards and blessings under the gaze of the sacred Mana. However, with the nobility's participation, this once-peasant tournament took on an entirely different meaning.
For the nobles, the tournament was more than just a festival event—it was a stage to exert influence and jostle for power. Bound by the rules of the kingdom's noble system, few aristocrats were willing to clash openly; direct confrontation was both an act of provocation and a reckless gamble. To the nobility, such brute conflict was uncivilized. Thus, the tournament's outcomes became their arena for "indirect conquest." Under the guise of the festival, they could bring their clandestine power struggles into the light and wage their battles openly. Of course, these status-conscious nobles would never deign to step onto the arena themselves. Instead, they sent their retainers to fight in their stead, defeating rivals' subordinates to claim victory. In this way, they not only humiliated their opposing clans but also earned the cheers and applause of the common folk—a most profitable bargain indeed. Moreover, through these contests, they aimed to display the nobility's might to the peasants and secure their reverence.
None of this mattered to the common people, though. They cared not for the nobles' schemes; for them, all that mattered was to revel to their hearts' content. As for the rest? Let the lords upstairs worry about it!
"Damn this weather," Ganan muttered as he climbed down from his carriage, mopping the sweat from his forehead. He glared disapprovingly at the throng of peasants crowding the square's perimeter. Though the air was reasonably cool, the sheer mass of people pressed together sent an unwelcome wave of heat washing over him.
As the town's governor, Ganan would never miss this chance to curry favor with the members of the Byrd family. True, he currently administered the town on the Byrds' behalf, but that did not guarantee a smooth path for his official career. A man elevated by the Byrd family, Ganan knew full well that his future prospects hinged entirely on his relationship with them. He was not a Byrd by blood—he owed his position solely to his talent for managing finances. Without that, he would never have worn such fine clothes or ridden in such a grand carriage.
"Filthy peasants," Ganan sneered inwardly, his expression darkening as he stared at the sea of faces. He conveniently forgot that he, too, had once stood on the square's outer edges alongside these people, gazing with envy and excitement at the fighters within, cheering for the victors and mocking the unlucky losers. But that was all in the past. He was no longer one of those lowly commoners—he was the town governor, a man of status and rank, far too dignified to indulge in such uncouth displays of emotion.
With that thought, Ganan straightened his robes, then waddled awkwardly down from the carriage, his portly frame swaying with each step. He broke into a warm smile and strode toward Viscount Wen, who stood outside the square.
"Lord Wen! It has been far too long! Why, you look as hale and hearty as ever..."
Ganan knew full well that this young man might one day replace him as governor. Yet he did not dare show a hint of resentment—that was the way of the noble world, where bloodline trumped all. No matter how incompetent a man might be, if he bore the family's name, he would always be more trusted than an outsider. And Viscount Wen was by no means incompetent. Thus, Ganan's only course of action was to ingratiate himself with the young viscount. Even if the worst came to pass, clinging to a sinecure was far better than falling back into the ranks of the common folk.
"Governor Ganan," Wen greeted him, his expression calm and unchanging. Though Ganan held the title of governor and outranked him in official position, Wen was a viscount—a status that Ganan, a mere appointed administrator, could never hope to match.
"You must have gone to great trouble to make the trip in this sweltering heat."
"Nonsense, Lord Wen!" Ganan chuckled, rubbing his palms together eagerly.
"This is the annual Midsummer Festival—how could I possibly stay away? Ah, speaking of last year's tournament, it was nothing short of spectacular! The warriors of your noble house were truly unmatched—their feats had the entire crowd roaring with approval. I daresay no one will stand a chance against your house this year either..."
As he spoke, Ganan glanced up instinctively, scanning the VIP seats for familiar faces. But when his eyes fell on a slender figure seated nearby, he froze. It was a stunningly beautiful young woman with long violet hair, sitting serenely in her chair and sipping black tea at her leisure. Beside her, two lovely girls dressed in black-and-white attire chatted softly. Behind the violet-haired maiden stood a golden-haired maid clad in an eccentric uniform. The group exuded an air of overwhelming presence; from the moment they entered the square, every commoner and noble alike had been drawn to them like moths to a flame—though how many managed to tear their eyes away afterward was another matter entirely.
"Lord Wen," Ganan tore his gaze away reluctantly, curiosity getting the better of him. "Might I ask... who are those young ladies?"
After all, the seats they occupied were reserved exclusively for the Byrd family's VIPs. In Ganan's memory, only the clan patriarch, esteemed family elders, honored guests, and the family's closest allies were permitted to sit there. Yet now, four young women occupied those seats—a sight that left him both curious and astonished.
"That is Lady Ophelia, representative of the Twilight Forest's lord. I would think even you, Governor, have heard the rumors surrounding her," Wen replied.
"So that is her..." Ganan's eyes widened in sudden realization.
Gossip spread like wildfire among the nobility, especially when it involved money, power, and beauty—and Lady Ophelia was the perfect subject for all three. Though she had only been at the festival for three days, she and her companions had already become the talk of every noble household, particularly among the men. Ophelia was, after all, a former princess. Charlotte and the twin sisters at her side were no less distinguished. In both beauty and elegance, they far outshone the gaudily dressed noblewomen of the region. Of course, any discerning aristocrat who caught sight of that striking violet hair would know better than to cross her. That did not stop them, however, from whispering among themselves about the enigmatic beauty. While Charlotte and the twins were not as dazzling as Ophelia, they possessed a unique charm that had won them no shortage of admirers.
Naturally, Ophelia's background was a hot topic of debate among the nobility. A member of the royal family betrothed to the heir of a declining house—it sounded nothing short of preposterous. Beyond their envy and resentment toward Blake, many nobles doubted the veracity of the engagement rumors. To stir the pot further, Pelzer had deliberately spread word that Ophelia had come to the festival to resolve a territorial dispute between the Felix and Byrd families over the Twilight Forest.
Pelzer's manipulation of the gossip was clever, but those who paid close attention could read between the lines. Every member of the Byrd family knew exactly what kind of place the Twilight Forest was. This so-called "territorial dispute" was clearly about the forest's revenues. The nobles were well aware that the Golden Trade Route ran along the forest's outskirts—a thoroughfare they had spent decades developing. They would never allow it to fall into someone else's hands. Thus, nearly all the aristocrats were skeptical of the negotiations. Some even harbored resentment toward Ophelia. Even as a betrothed bride, she was still a member of the royal family. To brazenly march into a noble's domain and demand a territorial settlement was highly inappropriate. The royal family might wield great power, but as the saying went, even a mighty dragon could not overpower a local snake. Did this young lady truly believe she could bully the Byrd family into submission with her royal title? Preposterous!
Before meeting her in person, Ganan had imagined Ophelia as a vapid, arrogant socialite—all beauty and no brains. But now, having seen her with his own eyes, he realized she was nothing like his preconceptions. She exuded an air of calm and composure, her bright blue eyes unclouded by fluster or anxiety. Unlike most noble ladies, she carried herself with a quiet dignity, as if she sat far above the fray, looking down on the crowd below. Their whispers and stares meant nothing to her.
Once he recognized Ophelia, the identities of the two girls beside her became obvious.
Every noble present had heard Pelzer's challenge—and Ophelia's bold response. But none of them believed for a second that two ten-year-old girls could be high-ranked swordsmen.
It was absurd!
Most nobles dismissed Ophelia's claim as a desperate attempt to defuse an awkward situation. After all, who would dare to strike a pair of young girls, even if they had some basic swordsmanship training? With their small, delicate frames, how formidable could they possibly be?
Thus, the nobles chuckled privately, waiting for the tournament to begin. When the twins stepped onto the arena before hundreds of spectators, Ophelia would have nowhere to hide her deception.
A small handful of nobles, however, approached the matter with caution. After all, the Sith Empire had its share of child prodigies—child knights were not unheard of. Could these two girls be among them? This line of thinking was rare, though, and even its proponents knew it was flimsy at best. Everyone was aware that the Sith Empire's armies were massing at the border. War loomed on the horizon, and tensions were running high. If these girls were truly prodigy knights, why would they be wasting their time at a trivial festival during such a critical period?
Ganan, for one, did not believe the twins had an ounce of that supposed strength. But he wisely kept his thoughts to himself. With a sigh, he plastered another warm smile across his face.
"Lord Wen, if I may ask—where is Lord Pelzer? I should go and pay my respects..."
"Pelzer..." Wen's lips twitched into a meaningful smile at the mention of the name.
"Governor Ganan, I would advise you not to seek him out right now. His mood is... less than pleasant."
Pelzer was, in fact, in a foul temper.
He sat alone in a private VIP chamber, glaring coldly at Ophelia across the square.
At first, Pelzer had been immensely pleased with his own machinations. He believed he had executed his plan flawlessly—isolating Ophelia and her entourage from the nobility and publicly humiliating them. True, the beautiful lady had refused to back down, but so what? Two ten-year-old high-ranked swordsmen? Who in their right mind would believe such a tall tale? Once the tournament began, the girls' lack of skill would be exposed for all to see.
Pelzer had been convinced that his scheme was flawless. He had not only deflated Ophelia's arrogance and defended his family's honor but also seized the upper hand in the upcoming negotiations. In his mind, if he could secure the role of the Byrd family's chief negotiator, he could use this opportunity to reclaim the status and prestige he had lost.
Pelzer had not anticipated, however, that the clan patriarch would utterly disregard his efforts. He had expected his father to summon him, praise him profusely, and urge him to capitalize on this triumph to restore his standing. But days passed, and the patriarch sent not a single word. Perplexed and growing anxious, Pelzer had taken the initiative to visit the patriarch before the tournament—only to be turned away without so much as a meeting. A servant had delivered a message: the matter of the Twilight Forest territorial negotiations had been entrusted entirely to Wen. All other matters would be discussed after the Midsummer Festival.
The news had left Pelzer seething with frustration. He had watched Wen closely these past few days. While Wen had always been a capable man, in the presence of Lady Ophelia, he had displayed an obsequious deference that made Pelzer's blood boil. Entrusting such a critical family negotiation to Wen was a recipe for disaster!
What made Pelzer want to spit blood, however, was what happened when he had confronted Wen as the family's heir apparent, attempting to remind him of his duty to the Byrd family. Wen had simply informed him that the patriarch had given him full authority to handle the negotiations—and that he was to agree to all of Ophelia's demands regarding the Twilight Forest territory.
Pelzer was utterly bewildered and outraged. He could not fathom why his father would make such a foolish decision. Did he not realize that this would spell disaster for the entire family? Pelzer had half a mind to accuse Wen of lying, but he knew better. For Wen to make such a bold claim, he must have had the patriarch's explicit approval. Otherwise, even as a favored member of the clan, he would have been expelled for overstepping his bounds.
Though Pelzer could not understand his father's reasoning, he had no intention of accepting defeat so easily. The moment he received the patriarch's message, he knew he had bungled things once again. But he refused to dwell on his failure. He prided himself on knowing his father well—surely this concession was a temporary measure made in the family's best interests. Thus, Pelzer had resolved to shift his strategy. If he could not outmaneuver Ophelia and her allies in the negotiation room, he would teach them a lesson on the tournament arena. He would show them that the Byrd family was not to be trifled with!
With that thought, Pelzer let out a cold snort and waved a hand. A man quickly approached his side.
"My lord Pelzer? You summoned me?"
"Is everything ready?"
"Everything is in place, my lord," the man replied with a confident grin.
"I have already spoken to our fighters. They will take the stage first, to test the waters... I assure you, there will be no problems."
"Good," Pelzer's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Do not forget my instructions."
"Of course not, my lord."
No sooner had they finished speaking than the boisterous square fell silent. Then, surrounded by his retinue, the clan patriarch emerged. He stepped down from his carriage, his gaze sweeping over the assembled crowd. His eyes lingered on Ophelia for a brief moment before moving on. Supported by Wen, he walked to his seat and sat down. A deep, resonant horn blast echoed across the square.
The climax of the Midsummer Festival—the Martial Tournament—had officially begun.