The Duskwood Forest was abuzz with an unprecedented commotion.
For the residents here, it was far more than just a few extra mercenaries arriving. A few days prior, a procession of opulent carriages had rolled into this once-tranquil city, shattering its age-old peace and quiet. The original inhabitants of Duskwood Town could easily recognize the emblems emblazoned on these carriages—most belonged to the noble lords of the surrounding regions. Even the refugees from Oult, unfamiliar with these crests, could tell at a glance that their owners were no ordinary folk, judging by the gilded carriage interiors and the haughty lords strutting about in their tailcoats.
What on earth was going on?
"Honestly, I think this is the stupidest decision I've ever made in my life."
Seated on a rough wooden chair, Blake twirled the glass goblet in his hand, his face dark as he muttered under his breath. He stared glumly at the bustling street scene outside the window. Right now, a throng of noble ladies and young lords were strolling about, their faces alight with curiosity. From a lord's perspective, Blake ought to have been pleased by this lively atmosphere—but deep down, an inexplicable rage was simmering within him, a fury he could not even begin to fathom.
"M-My Lord, I think... this is rather nice? It's so lively..."
Hearing her lord's complaint, little Irene stood nervously behind him, stammering as she spoke up. These past few days had been the busiest the Duskwood Forest had ever seen. Charlotte was occupied with preparations for the upcoming banquet; Ophelia was naturally in charge of finalizing the details of the invitations to the nobles. Following Blake's orders, Judy had already begun leading the mercenaries in their first phase of training, leaving early each morning and returning late each night. No one knew exactly what they were doing—but judging by the mercenaries' deathly pale, blissful expressions, it was clearly not something just anyone could handle with ease. For safety reasons, Messiah and Semia had departed for the underground cavern to take charge of guarding the Source. This left Blake with no one to attend to him—and while he himself did not mind in the slightest, Ophelia clearly thought otherwise.
"As a lord, unless you are heading into battle, I would advise you to have someone by your side at all times. After all, it is a matter of noble dignity."
With Ophelia having said her piece, Blake wasted no time in requisitioning Irene from her side, then whisked the little girl away to a tavern in Elysium City to drown his sorrows in drink.
"Lively, lively—lively is the last thing I want! Look outside! A bunch of roosters, hens, and chicks, squawking away like we're in a chicken coop!"
Blake waved a hand dismissively, clearly displeased. He had, of course, anticipated that after sending out his invitations, many nobles would try to curry favor with him. But he had never imagined they would be quite so enthusiastic. The banquet had not even begun yet, and already hordes of nobles had arrived early to pay their respects. Naturally, Blake had no desire to meet with any of them—which was why he had dumped all these tedious matters onto Ophelia and made a clean getaway.
Originally, Blake had intended to turn these nobles away with excuses like the castle not being fully renovated yet, at the very least sending them scurrying back home. But these nobles had proven far more stubborn than he had anticipated. In the face of Blake's excuses, many of them had declared that they were perfectly willing to stay in Elysium City for a while longer. For all its small size, Elysium City truly had everything one could need. Though it had only a little over a thousand residents, it boasted both taverns and inns. What was more, many of these nobles had long been eager to take a closer look at this beautiful city—after all, its very existence had turned everyone's expectations upside down. When they had first heard rumors of a city in the Duskwood Forest, most nobles had dismissed it as nothing more than a ramshackle settlement. The Duskwood Forest was remote, and these nobles were all local powerhouses—surely they would have heard reports if any large-scale construction or troop movements had taken place in the area. Thus, they had never paid Elysium City much mind.
But the moment Elysium City came into view, almost every single one of them had immediately changed their minds. This city, steeped in an air of mysterious charm, had captivated the nobles' attention from the very first glance. The dense forests, the rolling mountains, the cool spring waters, the serene, peaceful streets, and the Gothic architectural style they had never seen before—all of it had left the nobles utterly astounded.
This was not a ramshackle settlement at all—it was a veritable masterpiece of a city!
Originally, the nobles had been hesitant about whether to report to the lord first. After all, as guests, proper etiquette dictated that they ought to pay their respects to the master of the house before wandering about freely. But Blake's evasion had inadvertently given them the perfect excuse. Since the master was indisposed, there was no need for them, as guests, to rush to disturb him... And so, exploring the city first had become the nobles' top priority.
"..."
Watching Blake lounge about grumbling, little Irene shrank back timidly, not daring to respond. During her time with Ophelia, she had gradually grown into her role as a maid, and with Charlotte and the others setting such good examples, she had learned a great deal. But her fear of Blake remained unchanged. After all, she had once been nothing more than a poor little girl, never having laid eyes on such lofty personages before. Ophelia was strict yet kind to her—but this young lord was somewhat of an enigma. Though he was always polite, and often wore a smile that put people at ease, for some reason, little Irene found him somewhat intimidating. Yet if asked to pinpoint exactly what about him scared her, she would have been unable to say.
"I wish this tedious banquet would be over and done with already."
Blake drained the last of his gin, then set the goblet down on the table. He lifted his head and glanced out the window once more—but this time, the look of impatience had vanished from his face. Though the street outside still displayed its beautiful, elegant scenery and tranquil atmosphere, a faint undercurrent of commotion had now intruded upon that peace.
"What the devil is going on?"
Blake frowned, stood up, tossed a single gold coin onto the table without a second thought, then turned and strode out of the tavern.
"My Lord, that... they didn't give you your change..."
Irene glanced awkwardly at the gold coin on the table, her voice soft as she tried to remind Blake—but before she could finish speaking, his figure had already vanished outside the tavern door.
Stepping out onto the street, Blake did not need to search far to find the source of the disturbance. A crowd had gathered around a restaurant near the square, and the noise of an argument was emanating from within. From the sound of the raised voices, it was clear that a heated quarrel was in full swing. This put Blake in an even fouler mood. Damn it all—this was his territory! These damned nobles swarming in like a pack of yowling cats was already more than enough to put him on edge, and now they had the audacity to bicker here? Did they take this place for a bullring?
With that thought, Blake's expression darkened instantly, and he marched toward the center of the commotion.
"Who the hell do you think you are?!"
As soon as Blake reached the outskirts of the crowd, a young, arrogant voice rang out loud and clear.
"Don't think that an apology will make this go away! Understand me? Let me tell you something—I..."
Peering through the gaps in the crowd, Blake quickly spotted the speaker: a young man clad in outrageously flamboyant noble's attire, the garish colors far removed from the style popular among the nobles of Wester. At that moment, the young man was waving a black cane, his face flushed with anger as he hurled insults. Opposite him stood a boy dressed in a waiter's uniform, his face bright red as he hung his head, his jaws clenched tightly as he struggled to find his voice. Beside him stood an elderly man—presumably the owner of the restaurant—who was bowing and scraping, wearing an ingratiating smile as he nodded his head repeatedly. The onlookers around them wore a variety of expressions. The common folk were clearly incensed—but the young man's attire marked him as a noble, and ordinary commoners dared not oppose a noble. As for the other nobles watching from the sidelines, though they too had gathered to observe, they had pointedly kept their distance—and judging by their expressions, they seemed to regard the young man causing the scene with a distinct air of wariness.
"Honored sir, we apologize—this truly was an accident..."
The old man forced a smile as he spoke, bowing his head and bending his waist low.
"But we assure you, we had no ill intentions! The boy merely brushed against you—he had absolutely no desire to steal from you!"
"I don't believe a word of it! You filthy peasants—you were definitely trying to rob me! And what's more, your grubby hands have defiled my clothes! These are high-quality garments! You will compensate me for this!"
"Of course, of course! How much would you like, sir...?"
Though the young man's words were extremely aggressive, the old man seemed determined not to cause any further trouble, still smiling as he responded.
"How much?!"
Upon hearing the old man's question, the young man let out a cold laugh.
"Fifty thousand gold coins!"
"Fi-Fifty..."
At this, the old man's face paled instantly, turning as white as a sheet of ice.
"You're taking advantage of us! Honored sir!"
Seeing that the young man clearly had no intention of letting them off the hook, the old man's tone grew firmer.
"By the Light of the Divine! We merely brushed against you—we didn't even stain your clothes! Yet you demand fifty thousand gold coins? This is nothing short of extortion!"
"The very touch of you lowly peasants is a stain in itself!"
The young man snorted disdainfully, then his eyes darted about, and a triumphant smile spread across his face.
"Looking at you bunch of penniless wretches, I doubt you could scrape together fifty thousand gold coins even if you tried. So here's my offer: you let that boy chop off his right hand, and I'll consider letting this matter drop!"
"Go to hell, you bastard!"
At these words, the young waiter—who had remained silent until now—suddenly jumped to his feet, his face livid with rage.
"Who the hell do you think you are?! You want my hand? Fine! Come and take it! I'll cut you down first, you pretty-faced pretty boy! You're nothing but a worthless fop!"
"Ray! Rayza!"
Seeing his waiter's sudden outburst, the old man was thrown into a panic. He hurried forward, grabbing the young man tightly by the arm.
"Don't be reckless! He's a noble!"
"So what if he's a noble?! Even nobles have to abide by reason! This is a land of law—this is Elysium City, Lord Blake's territory! Who does this bastard think he is?!"
"Insolent cur!"
Upon hearing this, the young noble's face darkened instantly. He drew his sword from its scabbard in a flash—and at the sight of the weapon, the onlookers around them scrambled backward in alarm. Even the nobles watching from afar frowned in disapproval. A noble ought to conduct himself with dignity; quarreling with a mere commoner was beneath his station, and drawing a weapon was nothing short of shameful. Even so, none of these nobles said a word. They were all old hands at this game, and had no desire to put themselves in the line of fire at a time like this. And though they disapproved, the young man was a commoner—sticking up for him would bring them no benefit whatsoever. As nobles, defending a commoner so vehemently was hardly something to be proud of.
Just as the young noble was about to step forward and teach this insolent peasant a lesson he would never forget, a sudden gust of icy sword wind sliced past his nose, grinding him to an abrupt halt.
"Who goes there?!"
Reacting quickly to the sudden attack, the young noble leaped backward in an instant, then fixed a wary gaze on the direction from which the sword wind had come. There, he saw Blake's figure standing calmly, still wearing that elegant smile—though this time, his right hand, which had previously hung loosely at his side, was now resting firmly on the hilt of the sword at his back.
Judy had taken the mercenaries off to training, and the patrolling guards were nowhere to be seen. Thus, faced with such a situation, Blake had no choice but to intervene personally—otherwise, allowing an outsider noble to run amok in his territory would have been the height of humiliation.
"Making such a racket in the middle of the street—have you no regard for noble honor?"
Blake's smile was warm and reassuring, but his words were utterly unsparing.
"Sir, though I know not which family you hail from, I think you might benefit from a refresher course in etiquette and decorum. If you lack a suitable tutor, I should be happy to recommend one—though his fees are somewhat steep, I assure you, they will be well worth your while."
"Hahaha..."
Hearing Blake's thinly veiled sarcasm, the surrounding nobles watching from the sidelines could not help but chuckle softly. They had taken an instant dislike to this young upstart, and now that someone had stepped forward to put him in his place, they were more than happy to sit back and enjoy the show—provided, of course, that the person doing the scolding was not one of their own.
"Who the hell are you? How dare you speak to me like that?"
The young noble glared at Blake, his face contorted with anger.
"You're nothing but a backwater bumpkin from Wester—what right do you have to lecture me?"
"It was merely a suggestion. A friendly suggestion."
Blake spread his hands, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.
"I see no harm in it for you, do you, sir? For your own good, I would advise you to turn around and leave right now. It would be for the best for everyone involved."
"Are you threatening me?"
The young noble clearly had no intention of taking Blake's "advice." On the contrary, he tightened his grip on his sword and took several steps toward Blake.
"That's my line, you Wester bumpkin! Now get out of my sight! Scram! And don't let me ever lay eyes on your revolting, tasteless face again! That would be for the best for you—do you understand me?"
"Oh?"
Hearing this, Blake raised an eyebrow, a mysterious smile playing on his lips. Just then, a crisp voice suddenly rang out, shattering the tense, sword-ready atmosphere.
"My Lord! There you are!"
Following the sound of the voice, little Irene squeezed laboriously through the crowd, her skirts hitched up in her hands. She darted over to Blake's side, then held out her tightly clenched right hand, gasping for breath. "M-My Lord, this is your change... you forgot to take it earlier..."
"Oh?"
Glancing down at the dozen or so silver coins in Irene's hand, Blake blinked in surprise. He had not given the matter a second thought. Though he had known full well that the bottle of gin—hardly of the finest quality—was not worth a single gold coin, the loose change had been of no great consequence to him. But he had never imagined that little Irene would take it so seriously. He stared down at the little girl's anxious, innocent face, utterly baffled by her concern.
And in that split second of distraction, the young noble saw his chance.
"Die!"
By the time Blake reacted, the young noble's sword was already hurtling toward him in a brilliant flash of steel, aimed directly at his head.
Savoring his imminent victory, the young noble's mood lifted instantly. He stared at the man before him with a triumphant smile, already envisioning the look of sheer terror on his face, the sound of his desperate screams, his pleas for mercy—until a sudden surge of immense force slammed into the side of his sword with a resounding clang.
The young noble barely had time to tighten his grip on his weapon. The colossal power was like a rampaging beast—crude, brutal, and unstoppable. He felt a searing numbness shoot up both his arms, then watched in disbelief as his sharp, finely crafted sword went flying sideways, clattering to the ground nearby. He saw nothing—if he had seen anything at all, it was a fleeting black streak that flashed before his eyes the instant his sword was knocked from his hand, and nothing more.
Then, he felt a sudden coldness on his left shoulder.
At first, the young noble did not realize what had happened to him. It was only when the surrounding crowd screamed and pointed at his body that he glanced down at his shoulder in confusion. Then, his eyes widened in horror, and he stared at the sight before him in disbelief—blood was gushing forth from a long, narrow gash in his shoulder, rapidly soaking through the elaborate garment he had claimed was worth fifty thousand gold coins.
"Aaaah! Aaaah!!!"
All trace of the young noble's earlier arrogance vanished without a trace. He clutched his wound, his face ashen as he stumbled backward, his eyes darting about in terror. And following his screams, the crowd erupted into chaos. Several burly men came charging out of the throng, rushing over to him and crowding around protectively. "Your Highness! Are you alright? Who dared to wound you?!"
"It's him! It's him!!"
The young noble pointed tremblingly at Blake, one hand still clamped over his bleeding wound. Though he was in shock, he was not entirely stupid. Though he had not seen what had happened to him, he was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was the fault of this man before him—this man with the infuriatingly smug smile.
"Kill him! Kill him right now!"
Upon hearing this, the burly men exchanged uneasy glances. They frowned, staring at Blake, then gritted their teeth and charged at him like a pack of wild beasts.
"My Lord!"
Watching these men charge toward Blake with murderous intent, little Irene's hands flew to his sleeve in a panic, trying to pull her lord away to safety. But Blake merely patted her head gently, then pulled her behind him with a single, effortless motion.
"There is nothing to fear."
As Blake turned his head to speak softly to Irene, the men charging at the forefront let out a roar, sweeping their swords in a wide arc as they lunged at his body.
In the eyes of these men, the young man before them was nothing to be afraid of. His stance, his posture—nothing about him suggested the bearing of a warrior. Even if he had dabbled in swordsmanship, he could not possibly be all that skilled. And with them attacking with all their strength, catching him off guard as he was distracted—the outcome was a foregone conclusion.
But in the face of their assault, Blake merely tilted his head slightly to the side, maintaining his posture as he spoke to Irene. The only difference was that his right hand, which had previously rested on the hilt of his sword, now slid out a fraction of an inch, then snapped back into the scabbard with a sharp click. At the precise moment the sword met the sheath, an almost imperceptible black line flashed into existence between Blake and the charging men.
"Clang! Clang! Clang!!"
With a series of crisp, ringing clashes, the swords in the men's hands were sliced cleanly in two. The men themselves were sent flying backward by the immense force, crashing heavily to the ground.
"Ugh!"
Letting out a chorus of pained grunts, the unfortunate men lay sprawled on the pavement, their faces twisted in agony—clearly unable to rise again.
"Like master, like dogs. The master favors sneak attacks, and his dogs are no different."
Only then did Blake turn his head, patting Irene gently on the shoulder to signal her to stay put. Then, wearing that same ever-present smile, he strode over to the young noble, folding his arms across his chest as he stared down at his ashen, sweat-beaded, livid face.
"Though I know not who you are... if you came here looking for trouble, then I'm afraid you've picked the wrong place, sir. And the price... will be a steep one indeed."