As Black left the fortress, a light and triumphant smile played at the corners of his lips. In truth, he had been waiting for this very moment all along. Ever since learning of the close bond between Ophelia and General Celt, Black had been plotting to use this information to achieve his own ends—and now, the opportunity had finally presented itself.
From his previous conversations and interactions with Celt, Black could tell that the old general was a man of unwavering principles and considerable talent, with a deep, abiding love for Westerland. Based on Black's past experience, men like Celt rarely pledged allegiance to any single individual. They were patriots—capable, confident, and possessed of the strength and means to realize their ideals. As such, there were very few people in this world who could earn their genuine loyalty and obedience. To have a man like Celt serve under a wise and just king was a blessing for any nation; conversely, it spelled disaster for a ruler who was incompetent or corrupt.
Though Black had never laid eyes on King Westerland V, he had gleaned enough from the accounts of others to know that the king was far from being a wise monarch. Ophelia once described him as overly cautious, self-centered, and paranoid—and that was before he ascended to the throne. After becoming king, the nobles' opinion of him had remained lukewarm: they neither liked nor hated him. In other words, the king was as bland as plain water, not worth their attention or opposition. The nobles did not expect much from his personal abilities; after all, while education could be acquired through effort, true talent was innate. The heights Ophelia had reached at sixteen were still beyond the king's grasp at forty. It was clear as day how vast the gap between them was. Thus, the nobles did not hold out hope that King Westerland V would lead the kingdom to prosperity and glory. Their only wish was that during his reign, the country would remain peaceful and stable, free from upheaval and policies that harmed noble interests. They asked for nothing more.
But these were the sentiments of peacetime, when nations coexisted in relative harmony. Such a passive attitude was understandable in times of peace—but those days were long gone. War loomed on the horizon, and the people yearned for a wise, visionary monarch to lead them through the coming catastrophe. In such a time, a king as bland and ineffectual as Westerland V was bound to draw criticism. Even if he made no mistakes now, there was no guarantee he would not make disastrous decisions once the war began. From Celt's earlier words, Black could tell that the old general had little faith in the king's abilities. Take, for example, the recent decree summoning nobles to reinforce the fortress garrison—both Ophelia and Celt had pointed out that it was a foolish move, seemingly impressive but utterly meaningless. If the king could make such a stupid decision before the war even started, it was hard not to wonder what even more idiotic choices he would make once the fighting began in earnest.
A lesser general might have blindly followed the king's orders out of loyalty to the royal family, no matter how absurd they were—like General Schmitt of Orlut, who, as a soldier sworn to the crown, would charge headlong into a death trap even if he knew it meant certain doom.
But Celt was different. His loyalty lay first and foremost with the kingdom itself, not the royal family or any individual. So, if the king issued an order that harmed the kingdom's interests or endangered the nation, what choice would the old general make?
Black did not know if Celt had made any preparations for such a scenario, but now, he had presented the general with a choice. Black was well aware that this choice would not yield immediate results—but he was confident that, with careful planning, the seed he had planted would one day bloom and bear fruit.
Celt wasted no time in acting on his promise. By the time Black returned to their quarters, several officers were already waiting there, tasked with leading them to more comfortable and secure lodgings in the inner fortress. The others had already begun packing their belongings once more. As Black approached, Charlotte and Ophelia, who had been waiting nearby, stepped forward at the same time.
"Master."
"Lord."
They spoke in unison, then glanced at each other in surprise. Ophelia took a step back, deferring to Charlotte, who spoke again.
"Master, what shall we do with them?"
"Them?"
At Charlotte's question, Black raised an eyebrow, his gaze drifting to the young nobles standing not far away. They were grumbling as they packed their gear and luggage, clearly still buzzing with excitement from their earlier encounter with the cyclops.
"Hand them over to Dororo. Tell him that if they refuse to obey orders, they can get out of my army."
Dororo was the leader of the orc mercenary band, and the commander in charge of their mercenary forces. Though he was not particularly familiar with Black, he was a professional who took his work seriously. So Black decided to pass the young nobles off to the orc—he did not care about these unexpected guests anyway.
"Yes, Master."
Having received Black's orders, Charlotte turned and left immediately. Only then did Black turn his attention to Ophelia.
"What is it? You wanted to talk to me?"
"Well… Lord, I just wanted to ask what you and General Celt talked about…"
Ophelia's expression was somewhat uneasy. Gone was the calm composure she had displayed in front of the old general; instead, she looked hesitant and flustered.
"After all, we just arrived at the fortress. I don't know what General Celt thinks of us, or how he sees us. You…"
"It was nothing important."
Black waved a hand dismissively, a smile spreading across his face.
"General Celt welcomes our arrival warmly. He even invited me and my subordinates to dine with him this evening."
Here, Black paused deliberately, then fixed Ophelia—whose expression had subtly shifted—with a smile, repeating the last two words slowly.
"My subordinates."
"Lord, I…"
"Charlotte."
Just as Ophelia was about to speak, Black suddenly turned his head and called out to Charlotte, who was standing nearby.
"Yes, Master?"
"What is your position?"
"Reporting to Master, I am your maid, and the captain of the Doomsday Knights Special Operations Combat Unit."
"Judy, and you?"
"Yes, Lord."
Judy stood at attention, saluting Black crisply.
"I am your personal guard captain, and the leader of the First Assault Squad under the Doomsday Banner."
"Messiah, Semia."
"Messiah, commander of the Holy Wings Knights, the Second Combat Unit under the Doomsday Banner."
"Semia, commander of the Wraiths' Chorus Knights, the Third Combat Unit under the Doomsday Banner."
"We're here, Brother!"
"We've been waiting, Father!"
"Good."
After listening to each of their replies in turn, Black turned his gaze back to Ophelia, watching as a complex mix of emotions flickered across her face.
"And you, Miss Ophelia?"
"I…"
Ophelia took a deep breath, seemingly understanding Black's meaning. She let out a helpless chuckle, then spoke.
"I am your adjutant, Lord."
"Excellent."
Black nodded in satisfaction, clapping her gently on the shoulder and smiling.
"Then, as my subordinate, you will be attending the dinner as well, won't you?"
"Do I have a choice?"
Having made her decision, Ophelia no longer looked as tense as before. Instead, she rolled her eyes at Black playfully, then nodded in agreement. She turned and walked toward the group, who were making final preparations to depart.
"Perfect."
Black narrowed his eyes, watching her retreating figure with a smile. He waved a hand to his side, and the others quickly gathered around him.
"It's done. Charlotte, how are things on your end?"
"Of course, everything is under control. Semia and I would never let a trivial matter like this trip us up. Everything is proceeding exactly as you ordered…"
Here, Charlotte shot a mischievous glance at Ophelia, who was walking away in the distance.
"Without a single hitch."
The group had not packed much to begin with, so they were ready to leave in no time. Under the guidance of the fortress soldiers, they headed toward the inner fortress. This time, the soldiers clearly had received orders from above—their gazes toward Black and his companions were no longer tinged with contempt, but rather with curiosity and respect. After all, many of them had heard about the patrol's encounter with the cyclops: those terrifying monsters had been wiped out without the slightest effort. It seemed almost inconceivable to the soldiers, and it sparked their curiosity about these nobles. What's more, Black's entourage was filled with beautiful women—a rare sight in the fortress. Charlotte and the others were friendly and polite, which only endeared them further to the soldiers, who treated them with far more courtesy than before.
Celt clearly held Black in high regard. Instead of the dilapidated stable they had been assigned earlier, he arranged for them to stay in a spacious and luxurious mansion owned by a wealthy merchant. The house was not only large and clean, but also featured a small training yard in the inner courtyard, perfect for drills and exercises. Such facilities were rare among inland nobles, a testament to the martial spirit that prevailed in the borderlands. The mansion's original owners had long since fled to safer regions due to the impending war, so the property now belonged to the fortress. Thus, Celt could afford to be generous with it without any trouble.
"Very nice."
Black nodded in satisfaction as he surveyed the mansion. He raised his hand, pointing toward the front, about to say something—when the street nearby suddenly erupted in commotion.
Curious, Black turned his head. A large, raucous crowd was approaching, many of them mounted on sturdy warhorses, though their formation was loose and disorganized. The men walking beside the riders were clearly not fortress soldiers—judging by their armor, they were private retainers.
More nobles.
Black raised an eyebrow. It seemed the king's summoning decree had not been entirely useless. He had arrived early, but it appeared other nobles were now trickling in as well. Still, he wondered who these newcomers were. After all, the decree itself was hardly convincing—aside from people like himself, who had come for their own reasons, the only ones answering the call were fools like the young nobles in his party. Such people were obviously not the main force, so what had brought these other nobles to the fortress? What were their motives?
As Black pondered this question, the crowd drew near to his group. Upon seeing how small Black's entourage was, the noblemen riding on horseback—dressed in fine, elaborate clothing—scoffed disdainfully. But when their eyes fell on the young, beautiful women in Black's party, their faces lit up with greed and lust. Then, they noticed the elegant mansion before them. At the sight of it, the leading nobleman's expression darkened abruptly. He yanked hard on his horse's reins, bringing the animal to a sudden halt.
His unexpected stop caught the men behind him off guard, sending them into a chaotic flurry of shouts and horse whinnies. The fortress soldiers standing nearby watched them with the same disdainful look one might give a fool.
"Who are these people? Where do they come from?!"
The nobleman raised his riding crop high, pointing it at Black and his companions as he barked the question. None of them paid him any mind, save for the young nobles, who glanced over in surprise. Charlotte and Ophelia continued to supervise the unloading of supplies from the carriages; the twin sisters stayed close to Black, giggling and whispering to each other as they played childish hand-clapping games; Judy was busy directing the soldiers to march in formation, with no time to spare for these interlopers. Noticing their indifference, the nobleman's face turned even darker with anger.
Just then, a junior officer standing beside him realized that things were about to escalate, and quickly stepped forward to answer.
"Reporting to you, sir, these people are from the Twilight Forest. They…"
"Twilight Forest?"
At the mention of the name, the nobleman let out a cold laugh, flicking his riding crop dismissively to brush the officer aside. He urged his horse forward, riding directly up to Black and his companions.
"Sir, may I help you with something?"
As the man approached, Black's smile faded. He fixed the nobleman with a calm gaze and asked the question. The nobleman looked down his nose at the young lord standing before him, sneering contemptuously.
"This place is mine. You can leave now."
Then, he spoke in an arrogant tone.
"In the name of the great Chenis family, bearers of the Eagle Banner, I order you to take your men and get out of here at once. Do you understand me?"
"Chenis family?"
Faced with the nobleman's arrogant demand, Black's expression remained unchanged. He paused for a moment, then nodded briskly.
"I think I understand your meaning perfectly."
"Good."
Satisfied with Black's response, the nobleman nodded, falling silent. He had expected the young noble to back down immediately upon hearing his family's name—but to his surprise, after nodding and saying "I understand," the black-haired young man did absolutely nothing. He acted as if he had not heard a word, continuing about his business as if the nobleman did not even exist.
"Hey!"
After waiting for a moment and seeing that Black still had no intention of ordering his men to leave, the nobleman's face twisted into a ferocious snarl.
"What are you waiting for?!"
"Just minding my own business," Black shrugged, replying casually.
"We have a lot of things to do, so we won't be able to entertain you. We would be most grateful if you and your men would step aside and make some room for us."
"Are you deaf?!" This time, the nobleman's face truly turned ashen with rage.
"Did I not just tell you to get out of here? This place belongs to us now!!"
"I heard you loud and clear," Black shrugged again, replying calmly.
"I just said I understood your meaning. I never said I would do as you asked."
"What did you say?!"
Upon hearing this, the nobleman gritted his teeth, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword as his eyes blazed with fury.
Seeing this, the officer who had led Black and his group here could no longer stand idly by.
"Sir, whoever you are, you cannot just demand a change of quarters like this. Let me make this perfectly clear: this arrangement was ordered by General Celt himself. You have no right to question the general's orders, nor do you have the authority to alter them."
"General Celt?" At the mention of Celt's name, a flicker of fear crossed the nobleman's face—but it was gone in an instant. This was just a trivial matter of lodging; the general would not care about something so insignificant. Besides, his family had deep ties with Celt. The general would never risk alienating him over a mere mansion for some backwater noble.
"I will handle General Celt myself," the nobleman thought to himself, steeling his resolve. He spoke aloud.
"Then we can discuss this further once you have done so," Black interjected coolly, stepping forward and gesturing with a hand in a polite "please" motion.
"We are very busy, so we won't keep you any longer. Good day."
"You…!!"
The nobleman glared at Black with murderous intent. He reached for his sword instinctively—but when he caught sight of the fortress soldiers standing nearby, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to back down.
"Very well! We'll see about this, you country bumpkin!" With that, the nobleman lashed out with his riding crop, striking his horse hard on the flank.
The horse reared up in pain, its front hooves pawing the air wildly before crashing down. Black was standing directly in front of it—if those hooves landed, he would surely be seriously injured.
But in the face of the impending attack, Black did not move a muscle. He simply raised a hand, resting his fingers lightly on the hilt of his sword.
A bone-chilling wave of cold energy emanated faintly from the blade. At that moment, the horse seemed to sense something terrible. It let out a shrill whinny, then twisted its body violently to the side, collapsing to the ground and narrowly avoiding Black.
"Ugh!!"
The nobleman had not anticipated his horse's sudden panic. Caught off guard, he was thrown from the saddle, landing in a heap on the ground, covered in dirt and dust. Fortunately, he was well-trained; he managed to maintain his balance at the last second as the horse fell, but his fine clothes were ruined, stained with grime.
"Sir! Sir, are you alright?!" Seeing their master fall, several men rushed forward to help him up, brushing the dirt off his clothes. The nobleman shoved them away angrily, then looked up, fixing Black—who stood not far away, watching the scene with an indifferent, almost amused expression—with a venomous glare.
"You did this, didn't you?!"
"I didn't do a thing."
"Very well!"
The nobleman roared in rage, tearing off his white glove.
"You have insulted my honor! In my capacity as the second heir to the Chenis family, I challenge you to a duel! To the death!!" With that, he hurled the crumpled white glove at Black.
But fate had other plans.
As the crumpled glove flew toward Black, a sudden gust of wind swept through the street, altering its trajectory. The glove veered sharply to the side, then *smack*—it hit a black-haired girl standing beside Black, who had been whispering in her sister's ear.
"…"
Everyone present—Black, the fortress soldiers, and the self-proclaimed noble of the Chenis family—froze in stunned silence. A glove duel was a sacred matter of honor among nobles; it could not be refused or altered. What's more, the nobleman had declared it a duel to the death, meaning it would be a fight with no quarter given. But what was this? Everyone stared at the girl, who tilted her head in confusion, staring at the white glove lying on her clothes, clearly unaware of what had just happened. Was the duel still going to take place? The girl was no more than ten years old! While tradition dictated that the person struck by the glove must accept the challenge, this was simply absurd…
But their shock was nothing compared to the reaction of others.
"Father, what's going on? Is someone challenging Sister to a duel?"
"That's right."
In response to the twins' question, Black pointed shamelessly at the nobleman standing not far away.
"That gentleman thinks I insulted his honor, so he wants to duel you."
"Father, insulted his honor?"
"Brother, is someone trying to bully you?"
Upon hearing Black's words, the twin sisters' playful smiles vanished. Their expressions turned cold, and Semia stood up, fixing the nobleman with a hostile glare. Messiah chuckled softly, linking her arm through Semia's.
"Then…"
"Speak…"
"When?"
"Where?"
"Where will it be held?"
"When will it take place?"
"How will we duel?"
"To the death?"
They alternated speaking in soft, icy tones, their eyes narrowing as a dangerous glint of killing intent flickered within them.
"Then… we'll make you taste the kiss of death."
They spoke in unison, their voices cold and unforgiving.