The old man's words were sharp and unforgiving, leaving Viscount Wen's smile frozen on his face. Yet his first instinct was not anger—it was to spin around and glance nervously at his lord. Not far away, Della also frowned, then quickly melted into the shadows beside a stone pillar, determined to avoid being splattered with the blood of the poor fool who had just sealed his own fate.
But Blake showed no sign of anger whatsoever. In fact, he did not even spare the old man a glance. Instead, he turned and made a subtle gesture to Charlotte. The head maid immediately stepped forward to stand beside her master, waiting patiently for his command.
"Charlotte, did we extend an invitation to this... *gentleman* for our banquet?"
"No, Master. He arrived with the Perrod family and possesses no invitation letter from us."
"It seems your work has been rather sloppy."
Blake's brow furrowed slightly at this.
"My sincerest apologies, Master. This is our failure."
Charlotte bowed her head deeply, her voice laced with remorse.
"I shall remedy this mistake at once."
"Good."
With that, Blake fell silent, closing his mouth and turning his attention back to his wineglass. Charlotte lifted her head, her gaze locking onto the elderly troublemaker before her.
Without warning, both Wen and the old man felt a frigid, bone-chilling surge of killing intent emanate from the head maid's beautiful, bright eyes. Then Charlotte clapped her hands softly. In an instant, two maids who had been serving food and wine to the guests glided over to stand beside the old man. Sensing their approach, the old man's eyebrows shot up, and he opened his mouth to roar furiously.
"How dare you! Do you know who I am? I am—"
But his words were cut short mid-sentence. One of the maids standing at his side suddenly raised her left hand, and the old man's body went rigid. A slender, silver needle, glinting coldly in the light of the magic crystals, jutted from the center of his throat. As the old man's eyes widened in shock and he reached up instinctively to touch his neck, the other maid took a half-step forward, her right hand striking out like a blade and slamming heavily into his abdomen.
"Ugh!"
A muffled grunt escaped the old man's lips, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he collapsed. But just as his body began to topple, the two maids moved in perfect unison, grabbing him firmly by the arms and hoisting him upright, preventing him from hitting the floor.
"This gentleman appears to be exhausted," Charlotte announced coolly, her last few words barely more than a whisper. "Please escort him to his chambers and ensure that little Melissa personally attends to his needs..."
The two maids exchanged curious glances, then looked back at Blake and stuck out their tongues playfully before "supporting" the unconscious old man and marching him out of the banquet hall. No one noticed that the direction they were heading was toward the staircase leading down to the dungeons below.
"My lord, you really should not have done that."
Only when the old man's figure had vanished from sight did Viscount Wen finally relax, letting out a long breath he had not realized he was holding. He turned to Blake with an awkward expression, his hand drifting up to rub his own neck nervously. He had never imagined that these maids, who looked so delicate and beautiful, possessed such terrifying combat prowess. He shuddered to think that if the maid's needle had been aimed at him instead of the old man, he would have been just as dead before he could even react. In fact, if the old man had not acted so outrageously, no one would have even noticed that anything untoward had happened to him.
"That old man is no ordinary person. He is—"
"I have absolutely no interest in who he is."
Blake waved a hand dismissively, cutting the viscount off mid-sentence. His expression still wore that same relaxed, elegant smile, as if he had not a care in the world about the incident he had just orchestrated. But his actions spoke louder than his words, leaving Viscount Wen feeling utterly helpless. He glanced at Charlotte, opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and clamped his lips shut. After all, this was not his problem to solve. Even if he told Blake the old man's true identity, what good would it do? Viscount Wen had heard all about the earlier unrest and the tragic fate of that young noble. Unlike Blake, he had spent decades navigating the treacherous waters of noble society—he knew exactly who that young man had been. Which was precisely why his heart had skipped a beat when the old man had appeared, fearing that another disaster was about to unfold. For the old man's status was one that none of them could possibly afford to offend. Yet he had never expected his lord to resolve the situation with such ruthless efficiency, dispatching the troublemaker with a casualness that bordered on indifference. Well, judging by the outcome, there would no doubt be more trouble to come. But Blake's nonchalant demeanor made it clear that he simply did not care.
If the person involved did not worry about the consequences, then why should he? With that thought, Viscount Wen shook his head. Blake's earlier words had been a clear warning: he did not want to know anything about the old man, and he expected Wen to pretend he knew nothing either. It was better this way for everyone.
Having come to this realization, the viscount wisely chose to drop the subject entirely, shifting his focus instead to Elysium City. After all, as the original controllers of the Golden Trade Route, the Byrd family was the most astonished by the city's sudden emergence. Viscount Wen, in particular, had visited Duskwood Town before and knew exactly what it had looked like. To see that humble little town transformed into a thriving city in such a short time was nothing short of miraculous. He knew that the young lord had purchased vast quantities of building materials and stone recently, but even with those supplies, constructing a city of this scale should have been impossible. What methods had the young lord employed to achieve this feat?
Unfortunately, getting answers out of Blake was proving to be an exercise in futility. After chatting with him for quite some time and failing to extract a single truthful word about the city's construction, the two men finally settled on some more detailed cooperation agreements. Then the viscount took his leave, looking thoroughly dejected. No sooner had he departed than another figure, silent as a shadow, materialized behind Blake.
"To be honest, I have always known you to be a bold man, Mr. Blake—but I never imagined you would be *this* bold."
"This is merely a trivial matter."
Blake turned to face Della. The former assassin now wore the smile of a polished nobleman, standing before Blake with all the deference expected of a subordinate. Yet beneath his polite facade, Blake could still sense the unmistakable aura of a killer. Though he acted with the utmost respect, his left hand hovered unconsciously near his thigh—a stance that allowed for the fastest possible reaction in a crisis. His body's posture was also more tense than that of an ordinary noble, a trait honed to maximize explosive power in sudden combat. These were subtle details that no ordinary noble or warrior would ever notice.
"I did not expect *him* to send you here. Tell me—are you here to voice your opinions or ask questions, just like the viscount?"
"Of course not, Lord Blake."
Della did not dare to joke with Blake the way Viscount Wen did. As someone who had faced Blake in combat firsthand, he knew all too well just how terrifyingly powerful the young man truly was. But that was not the only reason for his current trepidation. He had witnessed everything that had just transpired in the banquet hall, and the shock he felt was far greater than anything Viscount Wen had experienced. Wen was merely a family steward; he would not dwell too much on the incident. But Della was a killer—a man who made his living in the shadows, striking from the darkness and vanishing without a trace. He was a master at observing his surroundings, assessing threats, and identifying potential dangers. Yet this time, he had failed utterly. He had not detected the slightest hint of danger from those maids, dismissing them as nothing more than ordinary servants—albeit unusually beautiful ones—during the entire banquet.
But after watching those two maids dispatch the old man with such ruthless efficiency and practiced ease, cold sweat had broken out across Della's back. By the Divine, how many terrifying talents did this young lord have under his command? Della's trained eye had allowed him to see that the maids themselves were not particularly strong. Instead, they wielded bizarre techniques that amplified their lethality to deadly levels. Now, he felt a growing sense of unease about his master's decision. Before coming here, he had been confident in his ability to persuade Blake to offer his assistance. But now, he realized that the ace up his sleeve had already been rendered completely useless.
Even so, he had a job to do. With a deep breath, Della forced himself to step forward.
"In truth, I am here on behalf of the Patriarch of the Zack family—to seek your assistance, my lord."
"Oh?"
Blake's interest was piqued at this. He set down his wineglass and looked at the assassin-turned-noble with genuine curiosity.
"Assistance? Is there something that old fox cannot handle on his own?"
"Certainly not, Lord Blake. The family is running smoothly under the Patriarch's leadership, with no internal issues whatsoever. But... I think you can understand, my lord. The Patriarch is a cautious man, blessed with great foresight. And under the current circumstances, he fears that things are not as secure as they appear."
"What do you mean?"
Della straightened his expression, knowing that he had finally reached the crux of his mission. He wasted no more time on pleasantries.
"The Patriarch believes that war between Westria and the Sith Empire is inevitable. And he has little confidence in Westria's ability to hold the line against the Sith forces. Which is why... the Patriarch hopes to secure your aid, my lord. Both military and martial aid—we are in desperate need of your strength."
"Oh?"
Blake's eyes flickered with interest. The Patriarch of the Zack family was a shrewd old man indeed. But what exactly did he hope to gain by making such a request?
"Military and martial aid? It seems your intelligence network is rather lacking. My Duskwood Forest has fewer than two thousand regular soldiers. To ask me to help you hold back the Sith Empire's armies—surely you cannot be serious?"
"That is not what we mean, my lord."
Della hastened to explain, wiping the sweat from his brow with a look of helplessness.
"The Patriarch is well aware that the Zack family alone cannot hope to withstand the full might of the Sith legions. But... if we can hold them off for even a few days... I think you understand what that would mean, my lord. A great noble house, no matter how powerful, is still..."
Della's voice trailed off awkwardly. After all, he was a killer, not a true noble. He could manage the superficial niceties of noble conversation well enough, but when it came to negotiating matters of genuine interest and power, he was clearly out of his depth compared to Blake. Furthermore, after discovering that Blake's subordinates were far more formidable than he had ever imagined, Della had entered a state of heightened alert. A killer trapped in an environment he could not control was never a relaxed one. As a result, his explanation came out as little more than a jumbled mess of half-formed thoughts.
"I understand. I shall consider your request. Perhaps I will find the time to speak with your Patriarch in person."
Blake's tone with Della was far less cordial than it had been with Viscount Wen. The Byrd family had shown Duskwood Forest nothing but kindness and respect, and they had gone out of their way to give Blake face in recent dealings. The Zack family, however, was a different story. Though they were nominally a great noble house, their patriarch owed his position entirely to Blake's intervention. In Blake's eyes, the Zack family had done nothing to earn his respect. Of course, as a business partner, he did not allow his personal feelings to show. Instead, he nodded firmly, giving Della a response that brought a look of genuine surprise and relief to the assassin's face.
"I see no reason why this should be a problem. We nobles exist to defend our kingdom, after all. If those Sith dogs dare to set foot on our lands, we shall make them pay a price they will never forget. Please inform your Patriarch that I will visit him at a suitable time to discuss the details of this arrangement."
"Thank you so much, Lord Blake! My master will be absolutely delighted to receive you."
Della's face broke into a wide smile, the tension in his shoulders easing now that he had secured Blake's promise. It was only then, with his mind finally at ease, that he allowed himself to glance around the hall, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"Pardon me, my lord—but where is the young lady who was standing beside you earlier?"
"Hmm? I imagine she has gone back to her duties."
Blake glanced casually around the room, then shrugged his shoulders.
"Why? Have you taken a fancy to her?"
"No, it is not that... it is just..."
Della scratched his head awkwardly, a look of perplexity crossing his features.
"It may be nothing more than a trick of the light, but she seems so familiar. She looks exactly like someone I know..."
"Perhaps it is just your imagination."
Blake said nothing more on the subject, lifting his wineglass in a silent toast.
"After all, such coincidences happen all the time. Though I must say, Mr. Della—if you are trying to win a young lady's heart with such a clumsy line, you still have much to learn."
At this, Della could only manage a helpless, bitter smile. But deep down, the seed of doubt had already been planted.
Why did that maid feel so familiar?
Cold water dripped from the ceiling, splattering onto the black stone floor with a crisp, echoing sound. Charlotte stood silently in the dungeon corridor, her face ashen and pale. The gentle, beautiful smile that usually graced her lips was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a gaze burning with seething, icy rage.
"I really did not want to deal with this kind of trouble tonight."
Her eyes fixed on the pitch-black depths of the dungeon before her, her voice dripping with loathing and cold-blooded cruelty.
"This will only make the Master think less of me. Thanks to you, I fear his opinion of me has been tarnished forever. Perhaps I should thank you for your foolishness?"
"..."
A cold snort echoed from the darkness, the old man's voice thick with resentment.
"Do you know who you are speaking to, you insolent wench? You and your master are nothing but a pair of upstart nobles! Do you have any idea of the consequences of your actions? You will be wiped out! Erased like the filth you are! Lowly Westrian scum, daring to treat me with such disrespect—you will pay for this, with your lives!"
"I shall reserve judgment on that."
Charlotte's expression smoothed out, returning to its usual calm, unreadable state.
"Now then—perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me why you are really here, old man?"
"I am here to find someone! Someone you have imprisoned, you worthless servants!"
The old man's voice rose to a shriek, filled with rage and desperation.
"That man is not yours to punish! Hand him over to me! Now! At once!!"
"I do not believe you are in any position to make demands."
Charlotte paused, her gaze drifting toward the deepest shadows of the dungeon. Then she walked over to the wall, her fingers closing around an iron torch bracket mounted there.
"But since you are so eager to see him... I suppose I can indulge you."
With that, Charlotte twisted the torch bracket gently.
"Click."
A low, rumbling sound echoed through the dungeon. Then, the stone wall behind the old man began to rise slowly upward, revealing the hidden chamber beyond. The old man spun around in shock, his eyes widening as he stared into the shadowy space. When his eyes finally focused on what lay within, his voice rose to a terrified scream that echoed through the corridors.
"By the Divine!! What have you done to him?! You monsters!!"
"Just a small punishment."
Charlotte smiled faintly, then took two steps back, putting a safe distance between herself and the dungeon entrance.
"Since you came all this way to see him... I am sure the young gentleman will be delighted to have some company."
With that, Charlotte raised her right hand to her lips and let out a sharp, piercing whistle.
"Little Melissa—dinner is served."
"—!!"
At Charlotte's command, several slimy, writhing tentacles shot out from the inky darkness, coiling around the old man's body in an instant. Before he could even scream, the tentacles dragged him backward into the endless shadows, his form vanishing without a trace.
"No! No!! You monsters! You cannot do this! You cannot—AAAAGH!!"
Soon, the old man's terrified screams were replaced by the sickening sound of wet, gurgling swallowing, echoing through the dungeon like a macabre melody. Charlotte stood silently watching the spectacle, a cold smile playing on her lips.
"Well then—sweet dreams, you two."