Is he declaring loyalty to the royal faction?
That was the only conclusion Gazef Stronoff could reach.
From his perspective, Lock's actions made little sense otherwise. Assisting the Kingdom's strongest warrior so openly—dispatching troops, even joining the expedition personally—was tantamount to standing against the noble faction.
And yet… could it truly be that simple?
"It would certainly ease matters if you were to assist," Gazef said carefully. "But would this not place you in a difficult position? Your father—"
Lock cut him off with a faint, indifferent smile.
"My father is my father. I am myself. Please do not conflate the two."
He leaned back slightly. "My support is my own decision."
Gazef paused, then bowed his head briefly. "Then forgive my presumption. When will your knights depart?"
"Immediately." Lock turned to one of the family knights standing nearby. "Barker. Mobilize the order. We move at once."
"Yes, my lord."
Lock rose from his seat.
"Come, Warrior Captain."
Gazef startled. "You… are accompanying us?"
"Obviously."
Lock had already turned toward the exit.
Gazef stared at his back, momentarily at a loss. A noble personally entering a border conflict—against a power like the Slane Theocracy—was not cautious. It was confidence.
Or something else entirely.
He could not read it.
But regardless of motive, the offer favored the Kingdom. There was no rational reason to refuse.
"I will wait outside the castle with my unit," Gazef said at last.
"I will join you shortly," Lock replied.
Gazef departed with his guards, his expression grave.
After he left, Vier remained still for a moment, watching the doorway.
"Master," she said at last, "is Gazef Stronoff truly worth this much effort?"
Lock answered without hesitation, his tone calm.
"In the Kingdom, he is no longer merely a man. He is a symbol. A commoner elevated by merit, noticed by the King through the Royal Tournament. Though the nobles blocked his rise, the King reshaped the system itself to create the title of Warrior Captain for him."
He glanced toward the window.
"The soldiers he personally trained form the Kingdom's sharpest blade. Remove him, and the royal faction loses at least a third of its real power."
It was an objective evaluation.
Yet Vier, watching his pale red eyes, noticed something else.
Indifference.
The words praised Gaze, but the gaze did not.
"So you chose this path for his sake?" she asked.
Lock did not answer. Instead, he turned and said simply, "Prepare the carriage."
Vier inclined her head. She knew when to stop.
"Shall I accompany you, Master?"
He reached out and flicked her nose lightly.
Her reaction was immediate—eyes widening, cheeks flushing, posture shrinking into practiced shyness.
"Of course," Lock said faintly. "You know I have grown accustomed to your presence."
"Yes… I will prepare at once."
She turned and hurried away, looking every bit the blushing young maid.
Only until she rounded the corner.
The shyness vanished. Her expression sharpened, ccomposeded and capable. Confidence returned to her step. She lifted the rose she still carried, inhaled its scent, and smiled faintly.
Lock watched her leave and allowed himself a small smile.
She was learning quickly.
Very quickly.
Then his expression cooled.
"Doubt all you like, Gazef Stronoff," he thought. "You will never grasp my true objective."
His reasons had nothing to do with admiration. Nor with protecting border villages. Nor with the stability of the Kingdom.
Such notions were irrelevant.
His true goal was contact.
Contact with the master of the Great Tomb of Nazarick—
Suzuki Satoru—a man who had arrived in this world without understanding it.
Lock knew one thing with certainty: Nazarick would not tolerate exposure before its master understood the laws, powers, and dangers of this world. Caution would dominate its early actions.
And Lock intended to reinforce that caution.
Fear was a tool.
A measured threat, applied early, would keep Nazarick restrained—buying him time.
If events unfolded as he predicted, this journey would grant him far more than an encounter. He would secure valuable pieces on the board. Perhaps even open channels to the Slane Theocracy itself.
His vaults were filled with dormant relics. Unused power was wasted power. Influence required circulation.
And for that, he needed people.
Talented ones.
"Clementine…
Brain Unglaus…"
Lock's gaze lifted to the bright sky, his expression chillingly calm.
"Do not disappoint me."
He required loyalty—not faith, not ideals. Absolute obedience, forged through fear and dependence.
Simple minds were easiest to shape.
Gazef Stronoff, bound by loyalty to a decaying crown, held no value to him beyond convenience. For now, he served as justification—nothing more.
And there were other eyes in this world.
Ancient ones.
"Platinum Dragon Lord… one day, I will deal with you as well."
Until then—
"Observe. Interfere. Play your role."
Lock turned away, already moving forward.
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