At the twins' words, the nobleman's face turned ashen. He had never anticipated things would spiral so far out of control. The little girls before him looked like nothing more than ordinary children. Even though the mishap was embarrassing, he had been certain that a few sharp words would send them scurrying off to cry for their mothers, no further effort required. That way, he could save face and back down gracefully. But he had never imagined that these two brats would not only refuse to flee in terror but also step forward and accept his challenge!
Preposterous! How dare two little girls look down on him like this?!
Very well. Be that as it may.
The nobleman's expression flickered through several shades of anger before settling into icy calm. He stared at Black with a blank, emotionless gaze, and Black met his stare with the same casual indifference he always wore. Meanwhile, everyone else turned their eyes to the nobleman, waiting for his decision. Now that the black-haired girl had resolved to fight—what would he do?
The nobleman's retinue shifted nervously. Dueling a little girl, even by accident, was an utter loss of face. But the other side was being so stubborn, refusing to give them any room to maneuver. What else could they do? They glanced anxiously at their master. Damn it all—everyone knew his temper. Now that things had come this far, there was no way to smooth things over peacefully.
As for the fortress soldiers, they were mostly just here for the show. They were soldiers, and private duels were forbidden in the military. Their warrior's blood and love of combat had to be suppressed. But these nobles were different—in the soldiers' eyes, they were not part of the army, so they were not bound by military regulations. Besides, let's be honest: watching those high-and-mighty noble lords come to blows was quite entertaining. Not a single soldier was foolish enough to step forward and intervene.
Thus, an awkward silence fell over the scene. Finally, the nobleman gritted his teeth and spoke up.
"Very well. In that case, I have nothing more to say. You may choose the time and place. It matters not—victory will be mine regardless. I have no need to quibble over such trivial details."
"In that case, we shall not stand on ceremony."
Black glanced around, then pointed to a small square not far away.
"What about there, after dinner this evening? I think it would make for an excellent post-meal stroll."
A vein throbbed violently on the nobleman's forehead. Black's tone was light and casual, but it dripped with unvarnished, blatant contempt. Damn it! By the Saints! He was treating a solemn duel like a trivial after-dinner exercise?!
"Very well. It is settled."
Still, he managed to swallow his rage, forcing his voice to remain steady as he replied.
"I hope your dinner is a good one. That way, you will have no regrets!"
With that, he clamped his mouth shut, spun on his heel, and waved a cold hand at his men. He marched off, his retinue trailing behind him.
Once the main players had left, the onlookers quickly dispersed. The crowd that had gathered around Black and his companions melted away in moments. Only then did Ophelia approach him.
"Lord, I must say—you have a remarkable talent for stirring up trouble."
"Life is only interesting when it is filled with the unexpected and conflict."
Black shrugged his shoulders.
"A smooth, uneventful life leads only to stagnation and decay. It is only in the midst of turbulent waves that one can truly appreciate the beauty of living, is it not, Miss Ophelia?"
He paused, gazing up at the sky. Vivid crimson sunset clouds stretched across the blue expanse, painting a dazzling, gilded curtain—as if the prelude to some grand theatrical performance. The unexpected incident had wasted a great deal of time; dusk was already falling, and the time of General Celt's dinner party was fast approaching.
"Well, it is getting late. We should be on our way."
Black tore his eyes away from the sky and turned back to Ophelia. The former princess seemed completely oblivious to the impending catastrophe, standing quietly at his side, obedient as ever, utterly unaware of the tragedy that was about to unfold.
"However, Miss Ophelia—this is the general's dinner party. If we are to attend, we ought to dress appropriately for the occasion, should we not?"
"Huh?"
Ophelia blinked, still not quite processing his words. She glanced down at her scholarly attire, which looked perfectly fine—clean, neat, and suitably formal. What was the lord going on about?
"I believe you should dress in a manner more befitting our host. To show our respect and appreciation, a change of attire is in order. This is the proper way to respond to his hospitality. Oh, no need to thank me for the suggestion, Miss Ophelia—it is merely my duty as your superior."
As Black finished speaking in one breath, Ophelia still had no idea what he was getting at. But a woman's intuition made her take a few wary steps backward, a vague sense of unease creeping over her.
"I do not understand what you mean, Lord Black. What are you planning…?"
"Do not worry—I have everything prepared!"
Black snapped his fingers. Ophelia suddenly felt a pair of hands resting gently on her shoulders. She turned in surprise to see Charlotte looking at her with a soft, expectant smile.
"Come along, Miss Ophelia. We have everything ready. We have been waiting for this moment."
"You… what is this…?"
Ophelia's question trailed off as Messiah and Semia seized her hands, one on each side, and dragged her unceremoniously into the house. At that moment, Ophelia had no inkling of what awaited her.
But she was about to find out.
As a soldier, Celt's dinner party was never going to be one of those elaborate, scheming affairs favored by nobles. In fact, the feast was held in a spacious military conference hall. A long oval table was draped with a white tablecloth, paired with wooden chairs that had been polished to a glossy sheen by years of use—that was the entire setup for the banquet. The meal itself was equally straightforward. Nobles held dinners primarily to socialize; eating was secondary. But soldiers were different—they were far more practical. After all, the purpose of eating was to fuel the body for battle. If they ate like nobles, they would probably still be hungry after a whole night of nibbling on tiny delicacies. Thus, instead of the dainty morsels favored by the aristocracy, the table was laden with roasted chickens, sliced steaks, hams, bread, and the fortress's own ale—that was the main fare for the evening.
Naturally, the stars of the dinner were not the elegant nobles. Celt did not attend alone. Out of respect for Black—or perhaps to make a statement—he had invited several of his subordinates and key members of the legion to the feast. However… the behavior of these men was currently making Celt cringe with embarrassment.
These rough-and-tumble soldiers were never ones for manners. Getting them to refrain from interrupting while others spoke was already a minor miracle; expecting them to behave with the refined politeness of nobles was utterly impossible. But at that moment, these burly men in military uniforms were staring with their eyes wide as saucers, their gaze fixed intently on the guests before them. It was hardly surprising. The fortress was a male-dominated world—women were a rare sight, let alone beautiful ones. The presence of so many lovely women at the dinner party made the soldiers feel as if they had stumbled upon an oasis in the desert; they simply could not get enough of the view.
Faced with their stares, the young women in Black's entourage remained calm and composed. Charlotte stood quietly behind Black, fulfilling her duties as his maid. The twin sisters attacked the steaks on their plates with knives and forks, laughing and chatting loudly, utterly devoid of ladylike decorum. But since they were just two little girls, the soldiers thought their antics were adorable rather than rude, and paid no mind to their lack of manners. Judy maintained her usual icy demeanor—but the sharp, battle-hardened aura emanating from her made it clear that she had seen real combat on the battlefield, earning her the respect of the military commanders.
The most embarrassed of them all, however, was Ophelia. She sat beside Black, her head bowed so low that she was practically staring at her plate, her face flushed bright red all the way down to her neck.
And it was no wonder. Ophelia was the center of attention for all these rough soldiers. She was wearing a sleeveless, figure-hugging evening gown. The understated burgundy fabric complemented her violet hair perfectly, accentuating her elegance and nobility. Her beautiful, snow-white arms were fully exposed. A small white hairpin adorned the side of her head, embellished with a few sparkling jewels that added a touch of mature charm to the young woman.
In any other setting, Ophelia would have been proud of her appearance, even delighted. But at that moment, she felt nothing but awkwardness and self-consciousness. After all, attending a military dinner party dressed as if she were going to a ball made her feel like a fool. Ever since she had arrived, she had kept her head bowed, acutely aware of the soldiers' unrestrained stares, which made her extremely uncomfortable. But Black seemed completely oblivious to her predicament, chatting and joking with the men as if nothing was wrong.
"You have quite the eye, young man!"
"Just doing my duty, sir. A man ought to know beauty when he sees it, wouldn't you agree?"
"That's the spirit! Bah, if my old woman was half as pretty as this young lady, I'd never get out of bed in the morning!"
"It's all about technique, sir—nothing difficult about it. Once you get to know a woman, you'll discover she has a unique inner beauty. Besides, I'd never be the one stuck in bed all day—you're just getting old."
"Hey, you whippersnapper! Old? I'm still in my prime! How about we head over to Old Carriage Tavern in the north later and let Sally settle this argument?"
"Ahem."
Seeing that Ophelia's head was about to disappear under the table, Celt was forced to awkwardly cut off Black's lively banter with his subordinates. He shot the young lord an exasperated look, then raised his wine glass.
"Alright, alright—we're here to eat, not to exchange idle gossip. Come, let us toast to the arrival of a reliable ally to our fortress!"
"Cheers!"
Although the soldiers were still skeptical about their commander's description of Black as a "reliable ally," there was no denying that Black was a master of people skills. Seizing on the opportunity presented by Ophelia's presence, he had already won them over with his easygoing manner. At the very least, this kid was not as stuck-up and hypocritical as other nobles. He was actually quite entertaining—worth getting to know better. Thus, they raised their glasses without hesitation, though deep down, they still had their doubts about the young man's strength and that of his followers.
Nonetheless, the atmosphere of the dinner was warm and lively. The soldiers did not hold back in the slightest, despite the presence of outsiders. They chatted and ate, updating General Celt on the latest developments at the fortress as they went. None of this was classified military information, and the fortress itself was not facing any immediate crises. As Black listened, he realized that the only real problem plaguing them was the band of cyclops holed up in Orlut territory. Clearly, according to the soldiers' reports, the constant raids and the fortress's policy of non-retaliation had begun to erode the troops' morale—a dangerous situation for any army. And at present, Celt seemed to have no better solution to offer.
"Lord Black."
After several rounds of drinking, as the dinner reached its midway point, Celt finally got down to business.
"The truth is, the reason I invited you all here tonight is to hear your thoughts—your opinions on the Four Scourges of the Sith Empire."
"Oh?"
At this question, Ophelia looked up in surprise, her gaze locking onto the old general. Black merely raised an eyebrow, then smiled faintly.
"Why us?"
"Because…"
Celt hesitated for a moment, then spoke slowly.
"I believe you know far more about *Innate Knights* than us old veterans ever could."
As soon as the words left his mouth, the entire conference hall fell dead silent.
**Innate Knights.**
Born with the inherent talent of knighthood—these were the darlings of fate. The power of every Innate Knight far surpassed that of ordinary humans. This was not merely due to their monstrously fast growth rate, but also because Innate Knights possessed a unique ability that no one else could claim—the **Aura of Faith**.
Powerful warriors who had reached the rank of Knight could manifest their faith into swordsmanship. But Innate Knights took this ability to a whole new level. Not only could they materialize their own faith, but they could also extend this aura to cover others, infusing them with the same power! In truth, this ability was a mysterious, indescribable force—as if it were the very embodiment of the laws of faith itself. It could only be obeyed; never resisted.
In his youth, during his travels across the continent, Celt had been fortunate enough to witness the combat prowess of one of the Sith Empire's Four Scourges—the oldest and most seasoned of the four, the Shield Knight, Nahias Stone. At the time, Nahias had been in command of the Imperial Garrison, defending the southern border's Black Forest, when they were besieged by a once-in-a-century beast tide: hundreds of thousands of ferocious black wolves swarming together to assault the imperial frontier. Back then, Nahias had fewer than thirty thousand men under his command. The weather was freezing cold, and their supplies and equipment were woefully inadequate. By all rights, it should have been a hopeless slaughter. But when the Shield Knight unfurled his unique, one-of-a-kind Knight Aura, every soldier within its range instantly became as solid as a wall of flesh and blood, holding the line against the endless hordes of black wolves. It was utterly illogical. After all, human strength paled in comparison to that of wild beasts, and the hundreds of thousands of wolves were attacking all at once—there should have been no chance of victory whatsoever. But when they clashed with the soldiers enveloped by the aura, they were halted dead in their tracks, as if they had slammed into an invisible barrier. This was the power of faith made tangible. Within its bounds, all common sense was rendered meaningless; only the power of faith itself prevailed.
The people were not entirely ignorant of Innate Knights. The range of their Aura of Faith varied greatly, as did the number of people it could cover. In fact, the manifestations of their auras were infinitely diverse. Some took the form of glowing halos; others were far more dramatic and conspicuous. Still others were as intangible as air—you would never know they were there until you felt their effects. As for the Sith Empire's four generals, Westerland had spared no effort in gathering intelligence on them.
The Shield Knight Nahias Stone's Aura of Faith was the Power of Protection. Its effect was absolute: within the aura's range, no one and nothing could break through his defenses. This ability alone was worthy of the title of Absolute Defense, and it was no wonder the Sith Empire regarded him as their greatest hero for guarding the borders. However, there was no reliable data on the maximum number of people his aura could cover.
As for the Wind Messenger, Karan—his Aura of Faith remained a mystery to the outside world. For whenever he activated it, Karan and his army would be shrouded in a thin, misty veil, after which they would move with a speed that defied all belief—an otherworldly swiftness that seemed to belong only in dreams. His forces never exceeded twenty thousand men, leading Westerland to estimate that this was the limit of his aura's range.
"But the ones I fear the most," Celt said, his face betraying unvarnished dread, "are the Puppeteer, Sidvi, and the Silver Princess, Lindilot."
"Karan's incredible speed is certainly a nuisance, but he is ultimately nothing more than a guerrilla fighter—hardly a cause for serious concern. Stone is old now, and his specialty lies in defense, so we need not worry about him for the time being. But Sidvi is a different matter entirely. We have confirmed the nature of her aura…"
The old general paused, taking a deep breath before continuing.
"Within the range of her aura, she can control every single soldier as if they were her own limbs! That's right! Every soldier is completely under her thrall! In the hands of that young woman, there are no soldiers—only puppets! They will not retreat; they will not break; they will not even have thoughts or emotions of their own!"
This was the source of the old general's deepest fear. All wars were fought on two fronts: the physical and the psychological. Through various tactics, one could target the enemy's morale, causing them to collapse or scatter before the battle even began. This was only natural. After all, humans were individuals—even soldiers sworn to obey orders unto death could not be guaranteed to stand firm in the face of overwhelming odds. What was more, every person was different; their sense of strategy and judgment varied greatly. When faced with danger and hardship, the decisions of a forward scout unit might clash completely with the commander's intentions, or opportunities might be missed due to miscommunication or delays.
But Sidvi's soldiers were immune to all of this. They were the most obedient puppets imaginable—they would go wherever she pointed, never deviating an inch. They executed her orders flawlessly, never succumbing to the emotional burden of fear or despair, never making mistakes due to pressure. Everything was completely under Sidvi's control. She did not need to worry about the morale of her troops; she did not need to concern herself with casualties or resource consumption; she did not even need to worry about her battle plans being resisted by her soldiers.
No one knew how the young woman managed to do this. As Celt had said, Innate Knights were inherently mysterious beings—sometimes, their abilities defied all logic and reason. They worked because they worked. No why, no how. No questions, no answers.
To be honest, Celt's feelings toward Sidvi were incredibly complicated. After all, Sidvi was likely to become the Crimson Fortress's most formidable enemy, and this prospect filled him with dread. But it also stirred within him a twinge of envy. After all, such an ability was nothing short of overpowered— the stuff of every general's wildest dreams. By the Saints! What kind of twisted fate was this, to bestow such a terrifying power upon a mere girl?
Finally, when it came to the last and most important member of the Four Scourges—the Silver Princess, Lindilot—Celt summed her up with a single, chilling statement.
"Her power… is that of a monster."