"Business?"
Upon hearing Black's words, Celt nearly choked on his breath. For the first time, he fixed the young lord with a sharp, suspicious glare, wondering if Black was deliberately mocking him. Celt would be the first to admit that the young man was powerful—but this was his fortress, his territory. Could he not at least pretend to show some respect?
No, that was not quite right. On the surface, the young man was impeccably polite, so courteous that no one could fault his manners. But if you thought about it for even a moment, you realized he did not take Celt seriously at all. Even on a matter as grave as this, he seemed utterly indifferent. This was the most critical issue facing them—so why was he acting like this? What, then, did he consider *truly* important?
"Very well."
But thirty years had changed Celt. The trials of war and the weight of time had tempered him, making him far more patient and composed than he had been in his youth. So when he heard Black's words, he did not respond immediately. Instead, he fell silent for a moment, then nodded and sat back down.
"Speak. What business do you have?"
"Regarding the recent attacks on your fortress."
Celt fell silent, his expression hardening.
"What? Is this not the most pressing trouble we need to resolve right now?"
"…You are correct."
Celt felt the urge to slam his fist on the desk.
"Then, General, I would like to know what exactly is going on here. Why are we not deploying our full strength to wipe out those beasts? In less than a month, this place will become the front line of a war against the Sith Empire—a formidable enemy. To avoid unnecessary threats, I would think you would understand what needs to be done. The Cyclops Tribe is strong, but they are no match for a nation's army. Yet you have chosen to avoid direct confrontation. I can only assume there is another reason."
"You are right."
Celt set aside his thoughts of the princess for the time being—there would be time to deal with that later. The immediate priority was those damned monsters. So he did not hold back, recounting the entire story to Black without reservation.
It had all started half a month ago. The Crimson Fortress had come under sporadic attacks, with patrol after patrol falling victim to raids by the Cyclops giants. Caught off guard by the sudden assaults, and outmatched by the sheer brute strength of the cyclops, the fortress garrison had suffered heavy losses in the initial skirmishes. Celt had refused to let the situation spiral out of control, immediately dispatching troops to launch a counteroffensive against the Cyclops Tribe in the river valley. Like Black, Celt knew exactly what he was dealing with—mindless, muscle-bound brutes with barely enough intelligence to function. A single, decisive blow would teach them a lesson they would never forget, and the beasts would flee, whimpering, back to their lairs. It should have been a simple matter.
But what happened next had left Celt frowning in confusion.
The cyclops were indeed no match for the army—but after suffering a few defeats, they had changed their tactics. By the Saints! These stupid, mindless beasts had actually learned how to *ambush* their enemies! It was nothing short of astonishing. What was more, their previous attacks—random, chaotic, and aimless—had become surprisingly coordinated and purposeful. By the Saints! They had actually learned how to conduct guerrilla warfare!
This was what had caused Celt such a headache. No matter how hard he tried, the cyclops would flee at the first sight of his troops. A few might be lured into ambushes, but they were always just a handful. The Crimson Fortress had never been built to defend against such primitive creatures—they had far more important matters to attend to. It would be a waste of resources to focus all their efforts on hunting down the cyclops. So Celt had ordered an investigation, hoping to locate their lair and wipe them out once and for all.
But when the results of the investigation came back, Celt had cursed silently. All intelligence indicated that the cyclops' current stronghold was located *inside Orlut's borders*. In other words, to eradicate the beasts completely, Celt's troops would have to cross the border.
That was where the real trouble began. The river valley formed a clear, unambiguous border between Orlut and Westerland. In the past, Celt could have simply requested Orlut's assistance in dealing with the cyclops. But now, Orlut was under the de facto control of the Sith Empire—and that made things infinitely more complicated. Celt's worst fears had been confirmed: the cyclops were not acting out of their usual mindless rage, as they had done in years past. They had become pawns of the Sith Empire.
Faced with this situation, the old general had been left with no good options. These were critical times—he could not afford to leave the fortress unguarded. Nor did he have enough elite troops at his disposal to launch a cross-border mission to eliminate the cyclops, not without risking being caught by the Sith. If the Sith discovered Westerland troops trespassing on Orlut's territory, they would have the perfect excuse to launch a full-scale invasion of Westerland. Border disputes were common between nations, of course, and usually amounted to nothing more than diplomatic squabbles. But the Sith Empire was different. They had been preparing for war for a long time—and they would have invaded Westerland with or without an excuse. The cyclops were simply a convenient pawn to stir up trouble.
As the Sith had predicted, Celt was now caught in a bind. He had no doubt that his troops were capable of crossing the border and destroying the cyclops' lair—but he was far less confident that they could return safely. Such a mission required soldiers of exceptional skill and experience. And Celt was certain that the Sith Empire had already set a trap, waiting for him to make a move. It was a risk he was not willing to take.
That was why Celt had ultimately chosen a defensive strategy, focusing on minimizing losses and deploying more mobile outposts around the fortress. As for the cyclops operating deeper in the valley, he could only do his best to contain them—nothing more.
"I see."
After listening to Celt's explanation, Black raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"But now, General, I suspect you have had a change of heart. If that is the case, then I would be more than happy to lend you a hand."
"Don't think I don't know what you're planning, Lord Black."
Celt replied dryly. Black would not have asked the question unless he had already guessed Celt's thoughts. Still, the old general was cautious, refusing to commit to Black's offer immediately.
"This is an extremely dangerous undertaking. What's more, you and your men have only just arrived at the Crimson Fortress—you are completely unfamiliar with the terrain here. Launching a mission under these circumstances would be reckless, to say the least. I'm sure you understand the risks involved."
At this, Black could only shrug, falling silent and letting the matter drop. He knew there was no point in arguing further. The Crimson Fortress was a military stronghold, off-limits to all but authorized personnel. No one could be expected to know the terrain well—not even a seasoned soldier. If Black, a minor lord from the Twilight Forest, claimed to be familiar with the area, Celt's suspicions would only deepen. Given the current situation, even if the old general did distrust him, he would not act on it—not with the Sith Empire looming on the horizon. But Black had no desire to stir up unnecessary trouble.
Ophelia's situation was part of his plan—something he could handle. But unexpected complications were best avoided whenever possible.
"In that case, there is nothing more I can do."
With that, Black drained his wine glass in one gulp, rose to his feet, and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
"Then I suppose I will have to wait for your orders before taking any further action. If you will excuse me, it is getting late—I should return to my men and make preparations."
"Lord Black! Wait a moment!"
Celt's eyes lit up. He called out to Black, stopping him in his tracks.
"I must apologize for how my men treated you yesterday. They failed to verify your identity properly before assigning your quarters. I offer you my sincere apologies. That place is entirely unsuitable for you and your followers. I will send men to help you relocate to more appropriate accommodations immediately. And as a token of my regret, I would like to invite you and your men to dine with me this evening. I hope you will not refuse."
"…I would be honored."
Black's expression remained unchanged, as if he had been expecting this all along.
"I could not possibly turn down such a generous invitation from you, General. But I do have one small request."
"Speak your mind."
"I hope you will keep what you saw today a secret."
"Secret? But…!"
Celt stared at him in surprise.
"Of course I will. My lips are sealed."
"No, I don't think you understand what I'm asking."
Black held up a single finger, shaking it gently.
"I want this matter to remain between you and me—and no one else. Not a single soul. After all, if word were to get out, it would put a certain young lady in grave danger. I know your intelligence network is impeccable—but that is precisely why I am worried. That young lady has no desire to be involved with them ever again."
With that, Black smiled faintly, bowed to Celt with elegant courtesy, then turned and walked out of the room. Celt watched his retreating figure in silence, turning Black's words over and over in his mind. It was clear that Black was trying to tell him something—but he was speaking in riddles, refusing to say it outright. What did he mean? Why would the news of Princess Ophelia being alive put her in danger? What danger? If his intelligence network was as reliable as Black claimed, then the secret should be safe. But Black did not seem to be worried about the information leaking—he seemed to be worried about *someone specific* who would inevitably learn about it.
Someone who had ties to Princess Ophelia.
Celt fell silent, his mind racing. The other two legion commanders were out of the question—Ophelia had never met them. Lord Laribaud, the court mage, had once served as a royal scholar and had interacted with the princess, but Ophelia had never shown any interest in magic. So who else could it be?
Then it hit him. A chill ran down Celt's spine as he thought of someone he had been trying to avoid—someone he could no longer ignore.
A small boy who had once followed Princess Ophelia everywhere, clinging to her side, inseparable from her.
The Crown Prince.
Could it be…?
Was the reason she had abandoned her royal name, the reason she wanted nothing more to do with the royal family… because of *him*?
"His Majesty the Emperor…!"
Celt clenched his fists tightly, his teeth grinding together as he whispered the words under his breath.