Chapter 600: Pink Knight
The ground trembled beneath the thundering hooves of the charging warhorses. A woman rode at the front, her armor catching the light in gleaming flashes of silver and steel. Her dark cloak billowed behind her, snapping against the wind as she led the charge, a blade drawn and ready in her hand. The knights at her back followed without hesitation, their polished armor forming a sea of steel and determination. Dust rose in thick clouds from the earth as they advanced, their war cries building into a deafening roar.
Ahead, the enemy knights formed their lines, shields locked, spears angled forward. The battlefield stretched wide, open terrain with nowhere to hide—only steel, skill, and fury would determine the victor. The woman did not slow, her focus narrowing to the line of enemies before her. Her grip on the reins was steady, her warhorse responding with a powerful surge as they closed the distance.
"Shields up! Brace for impact!" a voice from the opposing ranks bellowed.
She raised her sword high, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade through flesh. "FORWARD!"
The force of knights behind her roared in response.
"YES! CAPTAIN VALERIA!"
The impact came in a collision of bodies and steel. Horses reared, metal clashed, and cries of pain mixed with the brutal symphony of war. Valeria struck first, her sword carving through an enemy's raised shield, the force of the blow sending the knight staggering back. Another came at her from the left—she twisted, parrying the downward strike with ease before driving her blade forward, slipping between the weak points in his armor.
A spear thrust toward her side. She leaned, letting the tip scrape against her pauldron, then wrenched the weapon from the knight's grasp with a sharp flick of her wrist. He had no time to react before she drove her boot into his chest, knocking him off his horse.
All around her, the battle surged, steel meeting steel in a brutal dance. Her knights pushed forward, breaking the enemy's formation with relentless force. Blood stained the earth beneath them, the scent of sweat and iron thick in the air.
Valeria did not slow. She was the tip of the spear, the force that would drive through the enemy line. A knight clad in crimson armor locked eyes with her from across the chaos—his stance low, his greatsword raised in challenge.
The knight in crimson armor urged his warhorse forward, his greatsword gleaming under the overcast sky. His movements were controlled, precise—he was no reckless fool swinging blindly into the fray. He was calculating, watching her, measuring her stance.
Valeria's grip tightened on her sword as she met his charge, boots braced in the stirrups. Their warhorses surged toward each other, pounding across the battlefield. The moment they came within striking distance, the knight swung first—his greatsword carving a brutal arc toward her side.
SHHNG!
Valeria twisted her upper body, the blade whistling just past her armor. She countered with a swift cut toward his exposed gauntlet. CLANG! He parried, the impact jarring through her arm. Their weapons clashed again, steel on steel, ringing out over the chaos.
'Peak 4-star… He's skilled, but predictable.'
She feinted to his left, baiting his parry—then snapped her wrist, reversing her blade's momentum in a tight, deceptive cut. SCHNK! The tip of her sword nicked the crimson knight's shoulder, slicing through the leather straps securing his pauldron. It loosened but did not fall.
He grunted, shifting his grip. Instead of retreating, he drove his warhorse into hers, using sheer weight to throw her off balance.
THUD!
Valeria lurched as the impact rocked her seat, her horse snorting in protest. The knight capitalized, raising his greatsword overhead for a downward strike meant to split her helm in two.
She let go of her reins.
As the blade came down, she leaned back, almost parallel to the saddle, the tip of his sword missing her face by inches. WHOOSH! As soon as it passed, she snapped upright and lashed out with her own blade.
SHNK!
Her sword carved through the straps of his damaged pauldron, sending it clattering to the ground.
The knight hissed, his movements stiffening. Valeria could see it now—his left side was exposed, his armor compromised. She pressed the attack.
'He'll guard his weak spot. I'll strike where he thinks I won't.'
She feigned another swing toward his left—he instinctively shifted his greatsword to intercept—then, in the same instant, she dropped low, hooking her boot around his stirrup. With a sharp yank, she pulled.
CRACK!
The knight lost his balance. His warhorse reared, and he tumbled from the saddle, crashing onto the blood-soaked earth with a thunderous THUD!.
Without hesitation, Valeria dismounted, landing smoothly beside him. The crimson knight groaned, rolling onto his knees, but she was already moving.
Her sword flashed downward.
CLANG!
He barely raised his weapon in time, catching her strike. Sparks burst from the impact. He forced himself to his feet, swinging his greatsword in a wide horizontal sweep—FWSSH! She ducked, the blade slicing empty air above her head.
Before he could recover, she surged forward, twisting her body into a brutal upward slash.
SCHKK!
Her sword cut across his chestplate, a deep gouge splitting the metal. He staggered, his grip faltering. Valeria seized the moment. She turned her blade, gripping it with both hands—then drove the pommel straight into his helm.
CRACK!
The force sent him crashing to the ground. His greatsword slipped from his hands, landing with a dull thump beside him.
Panting, Valeria stood over him, sword raised, eyes locked on his heaving form.
"Yield," she commanded, her voice like steel.
The crimson knight groaned, coughing, his body too battered to rise. Slowly, his gauntleted hand lifted—then struck the ground once, twice, in surrender.
Valeria exhaled through her nose, stepping back.
Valeria turned her head, her gaze shifting past the battlefield to the looming castle that stretched across the horizon. Its stone walls stood tall and imposing, the banners of the opposing forces still fluttering in defiance. Yet, even from here, she could see the tide of battle shifting in her favor.
Her knights, alongside the soldiers entrusted to her by her father and Marquis Vendor, had pressed deep into enemy lines. The once-disciplined formations of their foes had fractured, their retreat evident in the way they desperately tried to regroup. Bodies littered the ground—fallen knights, both friend and foe, painting the earth in streaks of crimson.
And there, amidst the chaos, the enemy's strongest warrior—the 5-star Vassal—had been subdued.
He was on his knees, his heavy armor dented, his weapons stripped from him. Several of her knights surrounded him, their blades held steady, though they seemed wary. Even beaten, even disarmed, a warrior of his caliber was still dangerous.
Valeria exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders before glancing down at the crimson knight she had just bested. His breaths were labored, but he was still conscious. She could respect that—holding onto one's will even in defeat. But he was no longer her concern.
She turned, scanning the battlefield until her eyes landed on a familiar figure. "Ser Orin!" she called out.
A knight in silver and black armor strode toward her, his sword still stained from battle. "Captain."
"Watch over this one," she said, gesturing toward the crimson knight. "Make sure he doesn't try anything foolish. If he does, cut him down."
Ser Orin nodded, stepping forward as two more knights moved in to assist. Valeria gave them no further glance.
Her eyes were fixed on the castle.
It loomed in the distance, an iron beast that still stood defiant against her assault. The main gate was closed, its drawbridge lifted, yet she could see movement along the battlements—archers repositioning, soldiers bracing for the inevitable siege.
They would not surrender easily.
Valeria clicked her tongue, her fingers tightening around the reins. Another prolonged fight. Another needless waste of life.
She did not want that.
Her warhorse moved beneath her, hooves pressing firm into the blood-stained earth as she urged it forward. The sound of battle was fading now—her forces had gained the upper hand, and the enemy knights had begun either retreating or surrendering. Yet, even with their forces crumbling outside the walls, those within the castle still clung to their weapons.
'Fools. Do they even know what they're fighting for?'
Her gaze remained fixed on the looming fortress, her mind already set. If she could prevent further bloodshed, she would.
She rode ahead, passing by her knights, ignoring the distant cries of the wounded, and stopped just outside the castle's main gate. There, she raised her sword high into the air, her voice ringing with authority.
"BARON!"
Her voice echoed against the towering walls. The soldiers upon the battlements stilled, their bows half-drawn, their spears held uncertainly in their hands.
"BARON GODFREY!" she called again, her tone cutting through the uneasy silence that followed. "You stand accused of heinous crimes! By decree of Marquis Vendor, you are under arrest!"
Chapter 601: Pink Knight (2)
"BARON GODFREY!" she called again, her tone cutting through the uneasy silence that followed. "You stand accused of heinous crimes! By decree of Marquis Vendor, you are under arrest!"
The murmuring among the enemy soldiers grew louder. Some glanced at one another. Others hesitated, their grips loosening on their weapons.
Valeria continued, her voice unwavering. "The charges against you are numerous. Child trafficking. The enslavement of common folk. Murder, extortion, and betrayal of the Crown! Your crimes are well-documented, and your fate is sealed!"
A few of the soldiers on the walls visibly flinched. Even those who had been prepared to fight now looked uncertain.
Valeria's eyes narrowed. "*There is no honor in protecting a man like this!**" she declared, raising her chin. "Lay down your arms, and you will be spared! Resist... and I will see to it that every last one of you falls for a cause that is already lost!"
The tension was thick, a suffocating weight in the air.
For the past year, this had been her reality. Riding out with a decree in one hand and a sword in the other. Standing before lords and barons who had grown fat off the suffering of others. Watching their soldiers hesitate, torn between loyalty and self-preservation.
It had all begun the moment he spoke.
Lucavion.
When he had revealed the corruption of the Cloud Heavens Sect, when he had dragged their filth into the light, the empire itself had begun to shift. The balance of power—once unshakable—now trembled like a dying beast. The Cloud Heavens Sect had ruled in shadow, their influence woven deep into the nobility, the merchant guilds, even the Imperial Court. Their existence had been undeniable.
But Lucavion had broken them.
And in the aftermath, Marquis Vendor had moved swiftly, swallowing up their lands, their wealth, their very foundation before anyone else could stake their claim. He had been prepared for this. Waiting. A man like Vendor did not let opportunity slip through his fingers.
She knew this because she had sat across from him when the deal was made.
She had been at that very table.
As the heir to House Olarion, her authority was still limited. She was not yet the head of her family, not yet in full control of its resources. But her father—her entire house—would never ignore an opportunity to reclaim what they had lost.
Once, the Olarion name had been glorious. A family spoken of with respect, their honor unquestioned. That era had long passed. Their standing had eroded, their influence fading like sand through an open hand.
Now?
They would take any chance to rebuild.
And Marquis Vendor needed a sword.
The deal had been simple.
House Olarion would pledge its military strength to the Marquis' campaign, lending its knights, its armies—its heir. In return, the Olarion family would be given dominion over the lands reclaimed from the Cloud Heavens Sect, the wealth of the fallen lords, and—most importantly—a path back to prominence.
And so, House Olarion had become his sword.
And she had become the blade that cut down his enemies.
Valeria exhaled, looking up at the fortress before her. She had done this before. Again and again. How many lords had she unseated? How many castles had she stood before, just like this, demanding surrender in the name of justice?
She had lost count.
The soldiers above still wavered. Some exchanged uncertain glances, others clenched their weapons tightly, unwilling to make the first move.
She knew what they were thinking.
Baron Godfrey had been their liege. He had given them land, coin, purpose. And yet, how many of them truly knew the depths of his crimes?
She let the silence hang, let the weight of her words press down upon them.
Then, she spoke again.
"Your Baron will not save you!" she called. "Do you think he fights for you? That he bleeds for you? No! He is a man who preys on the weak, who sells children like cattle, who would throw you all away if it meant saving his own miserable life!"
A pause.
Then, she thrust her sword forward, pointing directly at the fortress.
"If you stand with him, you stand for filth!" she declared, her voice cold, merciless. "Make your choice now. Die for a man unworthy of your loyalty… or step aside and live."
The wind howled against the stone.
And then—
A voice from the walls.
"…Lower the gate."
A knight. Not a commander, not an officer. Just a soldier who had seen enough.
Another voice followed. "Lower the gate!"
The first clank of the chains echoed.
And just like that—
The castle began to fall.
The heavy iron gate groaned as it lowered, chains rattling, the sound of surrender echoing through the fortress. Valeria wasted no time.
"Move in," she ordered, dismounting from her warhorse. Her boots struck the ground with purpose, and her knights followed, their blades drawn, their presence an unshakable force pressing into the heart of the castle.
They had appeared here without notice, without warning.
Their march through the Forest of Duskvale had ensured that. The dense, tangled expanse of ancient trees had concealed their movements, allowing them to cross into enemy territory unseen. No messengers had escaped, no scouts had returned to raise the alarm.
By the time the fortress realized what had happened, it had already been too late.
And now, Baron Godfrey stood cornered.
Valeria moved through the dimly lit corridors, past cowering servants and trembling guards who dared not lift their weapons. The air smelled of cold stone and burning torches, but beneath it, there was something else—something rotted.
They reached the Baron's chambers.
The doors had been left open in haste, and inside, the once-powerful lord stood rigid. He was still dressed in his noble garments, but his coat was unbuttoned, his hair unkempt. A clear sign that he had not been prepared for this. His breath came fast, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of a desk littered with half-written letters and overturned goblets.
Valeria stepped inside, her knights flanking her. The room was grand—too grand for a man who had stolen everything he had. The chandelier above them swayed slightly from the disturbance, casting flickering light against the dark wood paneling.
And the Baron?
He was staring at her as though he had seen a ghost.
"Y-you…" his voice caught in his throat before he straightened, forcing a sneer onto his face. "What is the meaning of this, Captain Valeria? How dare you barge into my home like some thug?"
Valeria let the words hang in the air for a moment.
Then she stepped closer.
"You have no home," she said, voice flat. "Not anymore."
The Baron stiffened. "I am a lord of the empire. You think you can simply walk in here and—"
"The Marquis Vendor says otherwise," she cut in, cold and unwavering.
Silence.
A muscle in his jaw twitched.
"You are accused of child trafficking, slavery, extortion, and treason against the empire," she continued, her tone measured. "By decree of the Eastern Plains, you are under arrest."
His sneer wavered. "Lies. All of it! Lies spread by those who envy me! Do you have proof? Where is your proof?"
Valeria tilted her head slightly.
Proof?
She had walked through it.
She had seen the hidden chambers beneath his holdings. She had seen the ledgers detailing his sales—children, stolen from villages, priced like livestock. She had seen the broken bodies left in the wake of his greed.
Proof?
She could smell it in the very walls of this fortress.
She took another step toward him.
"The only reason you're still standing," she said, "is because I gave your men the choice to surrender."
The Baron's face paled.
Valeria watched him carefully. He was no warrior. He had ruled through power, through wealth, through the fear of those who could not stand against him.
But now—
Now, there was nothing left to shield him.
"You can come quietly," she said, lifting her sword slightly, just enough to catch the light. "Or we can drag you through your own halls in chains. Either way, you will leave this place."
For the first time, true fear flickered behind his eyes.
His hands clenched at his sides. His gaze darted toward the desk, then toward the wall where an ornamental dagger rested on a display.
Valeria's voice dropped.
"Try it," she said.
The room held still.
The Baron did not move.
And then—
His knees buckled.
He collapsed onto the floor, breathing hard, his eyes refusing to meet hers.
Valeria let out a slow exhale.
She turned slightly, looking toward her knights. "Take him."
Chapter 602: Pink Knight (3)
The Baron's protests were little more than breathless murmurs as her knights dragged him forward, his weight shifting unsteadily between them. He didn't resist—none of them ever did, not truly. The moment their walls crumbled, the moment the weight of their sins was forced upon them, they all broke the same way.
Valeria followed behind, her boots echoing against the stone floor, her grip still firm around the hilt of her sword. The castle halls stretched wide before them, lined with faded tapestries, fine paintings—ornate displays of stolen wealth. She had seen this before. Again and again.
Five.
Five barons had fallen by her hand. Five castles conquered, five noblemen dragged from their thrones like common criminals.
And every single one of them had been the same.
Their reactions had not varied. The sneering denial. The false bravado. The demand for proof, as if the blood on their hands wasn't evidence enough. As if the shattered lives they had left in their wake could be dismissed as mere rumors.
Then, once reality had settled in—once they realized that there was no bargain to be made, no escape to be found—they all crumbled.
Like rotting wood beneath the weight of a heavy blade.
Her gaze flickered toward the Baron's hunched form. His fine clothes, once pressed and pristine, now wrinkled and damp with sweat. He was breathing heavily, his once-sharp eyes glazed with exhaustion and dread.
Just like the others.
Baron Relmar had begged, dropping to his knees before her, hands trembling, offering wealth beyond measure in exchange for his life. "Please, I can be of use! Whatever you want—gold, land, soldiers!"
Baron Varrin had cursed her, called her a traitor, spat at her feet as the chains were locked around his wrists. "You are nothing but Vendor's hound! When the empire turns on him, you will fall with him!"
Baron Estrel had tried to run, even after she had given him a choice, darting through secret corridors like a rat scurrying from fire. He had not made it far.
They were all the same.
They built their power atop the suffering of others, convinced of their own invincibility. And when the reckoning came, they clung to whatever delusions they could, as if their status could shield them from the weight of the truth.
It never did.
Valeria inhaled slowly, the cool air of the corridor doing little to push away the heavy exhaustion creeping into her limbs. She did not falter—she never did—but the weight of it all pressed against her nonetheless.
This was her duty. Her family's path to redemption.
But that did not mean she had to enjoy it.
By the time they reached the castle's entrance, the sounds of the battlefield had faded into an eerie stillness. The courtyard, once a site of struggle, was now filled with surrendered soldiers, their weapons piled in heaps beside them. Her knights stood watch, some tending to the wounded, others securing the fortress as ordered.
All of it was routine. All of it expected.
And yet, as she stepped forward, looking over the conquered keep, the Baron at her back, and the ever-present weight of war pressing upon her shoulders—
She could not shake the thought.
'And how many more will be like this?'
The Baron was dragged past her, his feet stumbling over loose stone, his breath uneven. He muttered something—whether a curse or a plea, Valeria didn't care. Her gaze wasn't on him anymore. It was distant, caught somewhere between memory and the present.
The wind carried the scent of blood and smoke, but beneath it, she thought she could almost smell something else. Old parchment, ink, the crisp morning air of Andelheim.
She could almost hear the city streets bustling, the voices of merchants calling out their wares. And over it all—his voice.
Lucavion.
The first time she had seen him, truly seen him, he was bribing his way through the registration queue of Andelheim.
She was a bit late at that time to register for the tournament, and when she arrived, the queue was long. But she didn't mind it at all…
The guards had been slow, thorough in their inspections, as was expected. Order was everything. The city had rules, laws that had to be upheld.
And then he had come along.
She had watched, incredulous, as he casually slipped a pouch of coin into a guard's hand and strode past the waiting travelers without a second glance.
It had infuriated her.
Not just because he had broken the rules, but because of how easily he had done it. How naturally he had dismissed the very laws she had been raised to uphold.
She had confronted him right then and there, her voice sharp, demanding an explanation.
He had simply smirked.
"Rules? Oh, those. You mean the ones that only apply when it's convenient?"
She had been livid.
To her, who had been raised by the doctrine of Noblesse Oblige, the belief that the strong had a duty to uphold honor, to protect those beneath them, his blatant disregard for order had felt wrong.
They had clashed often after that. She had fought him with words, with principles, trying to make him see that the laws were there for a reason. That without structure, society would crumble. That the nobility—her family, the empire—were meant to lead by example.
He had laughed.
"You think the nobility care about anything other than themselves? The rules exist to keep people in line, not to serve justice."
At the time, she had thought he was cynical. Arrogant. Wrong.
And then, Lucavion had spoken those fateful words.
"I'm going to start a Witch Hunt."
She had thought he was going too far. That his crusade, his obsession with rooting out corruption, would turn him into something just as monstrous as the people he sought to destroy.
Now?
Now she understood.
Now she had seen the world for what it truly was.
She had watched nobles sell lives for coin. Had seen the depths of depravity hidden behind silken curtains and grand halls.
She had spoken of honor. They had spoken of profit.
She had believed in duty. They had believed in power.
The nobility she had once held in such high regard had betrayed everything they were supposed to stand for.
Lucavion had seen it long before she had.
And now, as she stood in yet another conquered castle, another den of filth and greed reduced to ruin, she found herself thinking back to those moments.
Not with anger. Not with resentment.
But with something close to gratitude.
Because he had made her see the world differently.
Because he had challenged her beliefs, forced her to think beyond what she had been taught.
And for that—
She treasured every moment she had spent with him.
Because without him, she would have never come to understand the truth.
Valeria stepped out of the castle's main doors, the heavy wooden slabs creaking as they swung open. The cold evening air hit her, clearing the remnants of stale candle smoke and damp stone from her lungs. The battlefield was no longer filled with the sounds of clashing steel—only the murmurs of the surrendered, the occasional cry of the wounded, and the disciplined movements of her knights securing the area.
And then—
"Lady Valeria."
The voice was crisp, formal, yet carrying the weight of familiarity.
She turned her head.
Standing near the base of the stone steps was a knight clad in polished plate armor, the sigil of House Vendor engraved into his breastplate. His helm was tucked under one arm, revealing a face marked by years of experience—short-cropped blond hair, sharp blue eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard.
Maynter.
One of Marquis Vendor's household knights. His allegiance was to Vendor alone, yet here they were, fighting on the same side, their orders aligned.
Maynter's lips curled into a slight smirk, though his tone remained as measured as ever.
"You have done a splendid job, as usual."
Valeria exhaled, rolling one shoulder as if to ease the weight of the battle from her limbs. "It had to be done."
Maynter chuckled, stepping forward. "Perhaps. But the efficiency with which you execute these orders is… admirable." His eyes flicked toward the Baron, who was still being dragged forward by her knights. The man had gone quiet now, resignation weighing down his every step.
Valeria crossed her arms. "Flattery doesn't suit you, Maynter. What is it you want?"
The knight let out a small hum, as if amused. "Straight to the point. Very well." His expression turned slightly more serious. "The Marquis will want a full report. And, given that this is the fifth baron you've unseated… he may want to speak with you directly."
That wasn't unexpected.
Marquis Vendor was a man who preferred efficiency. And though Valeria acted with his authority, she was still an Olarion. Not one of his own. He would want confirmation that she was still aligned with his interests.
Still, the idea of another political meeting, another discussion of tactics, logistics, and the next target—it was exhausting.
She glanced back at the fortress, its once-proud banners now sullied with blood and smoke.
"Fine," she said at last, looking back at Maynter. "I'll send my knights ahead with the Baron. I'll make my report personally."
Maynter nodded. "Good. The Marquis will be pleased."
Valeria said nothing.
Chapter 603: Pink Knight (4)
The march back to camp was silent, save for the occasional murmurs among the knights and the heavy, uneven footsteps of Baron Godfrey as he was dragged along. Valeria walked at the front, her gaze fixed ahead, thoughts already shifting away from the conquered fortress behind her.
She could have stayed there. It would have been the logical choice, the practical one. Most commanders, when overtaking a stronghold, would claim the facilities for their own—at least temporarily. The halls were built to house lords, the food stores stocked to sustain an army, and the walls designed to shield them from the elements.
But Valeria had never done that.
Not with Baron Relmar. Not with Baron Varrin. Not with Estrel, nor with any of the other criminals she had unseated. And certainly not with Godfrey.
She would not take their homes.
Because they were not hers to take.
Just because a man had been found guilty, just because his lands had been seized under the authority of Marquis Vendor, did not mean they suddenly belonged to her or her knights. The authority over these lands remained with the empire, with the governance that would come to replace the corruption she had torn down.
More importantly, Valeria refused to let her men grow accustomed to the idea of occupying what was not theirs.
War had a way of shifting perspectives, blurring the lines between justice and conquest. She had seen it before—knights who began to believe they were owed something for their victories, who took what they pleased simply because they could.
She would not allow her forces to become like that.
And so, as she had done with every other fortress they had overtaken, she had ordered a camp to be set outside its walls.
By the time they arrived, the encampment was already well-established. Tents lined the clearing just beyond the castle's reach, campfires flickering in the dusk. Knights moved with disciplined efficiency, some tending to their wounded, others cleaning weapons or reinforcing the perimeter. It was not the comfort of a noble's estate, but it was theirs.
At the start, she had not thought much of it.
She had done what was expected of her. She had taken command of the forces granted to her by her father, by House Olarion, and carried out her duty with unwavering resolve. Every battle, every castle taken, every decree executed—it had all been in the name of restoring her family's honor.
That was what had driven her.
She had fought for the Olarion name, to carve a path back to prominence, to prove that their bloodline was still worthy of respect.
But now—
Now, as she stood in the flickering glow of the campfires, the night wind carrying the distant murmurs of her knights, she looked back on everything she had done.
And she saw how naïve she had been.
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides.
She had believed that honor was a guiding star, something absolute, something pure. She had followed it blindly, believing that so long as she adhered to it, her path would remain just. That her choices would be right.
But the world had torn that illusion apart.
She thought back to the nights spent with Lucavion.
No inn, no shelter, no safe haven willing to take them in—because he had made enemies of the Cloud Heavens Sect. Because he had dared to stand against them.
No noble had extended a hand. No merchant had offered them respite. Even those who knew the truth, who whispered of the sect's corruption in private, had turned away in public.
Because it was easier.
Because justice was only convenient when it did not threaten them.
And then—
Then there were the two little beastkin children.
That night would never leave her.
She had stood there, the scent of damp earth and firewood in the air, watching them huddle together for warmth, their eyes filled with a fear they had learned—not from monsters, but from people.
From men like Godfrey.
From lords and barons who saw them as little more than property, something to be sold, to be used.
She had spoken of Noblesse Oblige, of duty, of honor.
But what did it mean if she had never felt the weight of it? If she had never been the one starving, the one turned away, the one praying for mercy that would never come?
Honor was not just an oath. It was not just a banner to raise when convenient.
It was a burden.
It was a duty that did not bend when the world made it difficult, that did not vanish when it became inconvenient.
And it was not easy.
She understood that now.
"Sigh…."
Or did she?
"Sigh..."
Or did she?
Had she really figured anything out?
Or was she still searching?
The answer was clear, wasn't it?
She had yet to figure anything out.
For all the battles fought, all the corrupt lords dragged from their thrones, all the righteous speeches delivered in the name of justice—what had she truly discovered?
She had seen the world for what it was. She had seen the rot beneath the gold and silk, the filth hidden beneath titles and etiquette. But knowing what was wrong and knowing how to fix it were two entirely different things.
She had been raised to believe that honor and duty were unwavering. That righteousness was a clear path. But now she knew it wasn't a path at all—it was a constant battle, a struggle against the world itself.
And despite everything, despite how far she had come, she still didn't know if she was winning.
Her thoughts drifted further.
What would he say if she met him again?
Lucavion.
Would he smirk and tell her, "Took you long enough to see it, Valeria?" Would he mock her old beliefs, remind her of how blindly she had clung to the ideals of nobility, of the very system that had allowed monsters like Godfrey to thrive?
Or would he say nothing at all?
Because—
"Will I even meet him again?"
The thought pressed against her chest, heavier than she expected.
Lucavion was never the type to stay. She had known that from the beginning. He was a storm, passing through one place and moving on before anyone could ever grasp him. He was not like her, bound to duty, bound to a family name that demanded restoration.
He had no place to return to. No banner to kneel under.
And that was why—
Perhaps he was already gone.
Valeria's eyes dropped to the dirt beneath her feet. The firelight flickered, casting long shadows against the ground.
"He wouldn't stay in one place for too long."
"Isn't that right?"
Just then, footsteps approached from the side.
"Captain."
She blinked, turning her head.
A young knight stood beside her, his features half-lit by the fire's glow. He was younger than most of her men, his face still holding traces of youth despite the years of battle hardening his expression. His armor was well-kept, but it bore the marks of use—scratches and dents that told the story of a knight who had earned his place.
Thom.
One of her own. One of the few who had followed her before any of this had begun—before the Marquis, before the great cleansing of the Cloud Heavens Sect.
He had been there with her before she truly understood the world.
He had been there when they had traveled to Rackenshore.
"…You've been thinking too hard again," Thom said, offering a small smile.
Thom was older than her, yet somehow, Valeria always found him to be a little childish.
Perhaps it was the way he carried himself—relaxed even in the aftermath of war, always quick with a grin, as if the weight of the world never truly settled on his shoulders. Even now, as he stood beside her, there was something too easy about his demeanor.
She narrowed her eyes slightly, observing him closer.
"…You've drunk."
Thom blinked. Then, slowly, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Aye…" he admitted, scratching the back of his head. "Captain, why are you so strict?"
Valeria crossed her arms. "Didn't I say you're not allowed to drink during work?"
He held up a finger. "Ah, but wasn't this the last one? The last baron, the last stronghold? I thought that meant work was—"
"Until we safely deliver him," she cut in, her tone firm, "it is not over."
Thom stared at her for a moment. Then, slowly, his shoulders sagged.
"....."
He knew better than to argue when she was like this.
With a heavy sigh, he dropped his teasing manner and changed the subject entirely. "Right, well—if you're done scolding me, the call with the Marquis is ready."
Valeria exhaled, glancing toward the larger command tent in the center of camp.
So Vendor was ready to hear her report.
She had expected as much. He was not a man who waited idly when there was something to be gained.
"…Fine," she said at last. "I'll speak with him now."
Chapter 604: Pink Knight [Interlude]
Valeria stepped into the command tent, the air inside noticeably warmer than the crisp night air outside. The scent of parchment, wax-sealed letters, and faint traces of old magic clung to the space—remnants of the preparations made for this very moment.
At the center of the tent, resting atop a reinforced wooden table, was the communication sphere.
A polished gem of deep blue, large enough to fit in both hands, resting within an intricately designed metal stand. Thin veins of silver magic pulsed along its surface, barely visible in the dim lighting.
Valeria looked at it with a faint sense of wariness.
She had heard the explanations before—how the artifact connected over long distances, how it linked to its twin within the Marquis' possession through arcane resonance. One of the mages under her command had gone into detail about its functions once, explaining the precise theories behind the spellwork involved.
It had all gone straight over her head.
She was not a mage. She understood swords, strategy, the weight of a blade in her hand—but magic?
She simply knew that if she activated the sphere correctly, it would work.
Taking a breath, she placed her palm against the cool surface of the gem.
The energy beneath her fingertips stirred, and with a pulse of light, the connection was made.
The air inside the tent shifted, magic thickening around her like an unseen weight. The sphere shimmered, then—
A figure formed.
The outline sharpened, and within moments, standing before her in translucent projection, was Marquis Vendor.
Tall, composed, and ever unreadable. He wore a dark embroidered coat with the sigil of his house pinned at the collar. His silver-threaded cloak draped over one shoulder, and despite the distance between them, there was no mistaking the cold intelligence in his eyes.
Valeria straightened.
"My lord," she greeted.
At her greeting, the Marquis' sharp gaze shifted slightly. Then, to her mild surprise, a smile spread across his face—a rare expression from a man as calculating as Vendor.
"Didn't I tell you to not be so strict?"
His voice was lighter than usual, carrying something almost teasing, though the weight of his authority never fully disappeared.
Marquis Vendor had become immensely powerful over the past year. With the fall of the Cloud Heavens Sect and the slow, methodical consumption of their assets, his influence had grown unyielding. His military strength rivaled those of older noble houses, and his word was slowly creeping its way into the Imperial Court.
But despite all of that, he had always been rather fond of Valeria.
He was one of the few who did not regard her simply as a sword to wield. He had seen her determination, her unwavering discipline, and rather than shape her to his will, he had let her remain as she was.
But Valeria remained a knight first.
She inclined her head slightly, unwavering in her posture. "Formality is necessary, my lord. I am still under your command."
Vendor exhaled with amusement, shaking his head slightly. "And yet you never allow yourself even a moment's ease."
Valeria said nothing.
Valeria remained silent, her expression steady and composed.
Marquis Vendor chuckled, the deep sound carrying through the projection. "Truly, you are relentless, Valeria. I wonder if you ever let yourself rest."
She simply held his gaze.
He let out a small sigh, as if resigned, before waving a hand dismissively. "Very well, let's not waste time. Your report?"
Valeria gave a sharp nod. "The castle has been occupied. Baron Godfrey is in our custody, his forces have surrendered without prolonged resistance. We will be escorting him to Vel Strael."
Vendor raised an eyebrow. "Vel Strael? Hm. The old garrison city?"
"Yes," she confirmed. "It is fortified, and more importantly, neutral ground under the Empire's jurisdiction. The Council stationed there will see that he does not escape before his trial."
The Marquis exhaled slightly, nodding. "A wise choice. I will take things from here. Once he is secured, I will arrange for his formal sentencing."
Valeria inclined her head. "Understood, my lord."
Vendor studied her for a moment, his sharp gaze scanning her face as if searching for something unspoken. Then, after a pause, his expression shifted once more, amusement flickering in his eyes.
"With this, your duty for now is over," he said, his voice carrying a note of finality. "You have done well."
There was no mistaking the rare note of satisfaction in his tone. He leaned back slightly, his sharp gaze softening just enough to reveal the depth of his approval. "House Olarion's cooperation in this campaign has been invaluable," he continued, his voice measured yet warm. "I am truly pleased."
Valeria inclined her head in acknowledgment, her posture unwavering. "I am grateful for your words, my lord." And with that, she received the grace.
She had been working relentlessly—not just out of duty, but because this was the path set before her. It was the agreement made between her father and the Marquis, one that she had honored without question. Of course, she was not the only capable knight within their forces. There were plenty of skilled warriors under her command, including several five-star-ranked knights and even a formidable six-star among them.
Her role as an acting captain was not just a title but a challenge she had taken upon herself—to lead, to learn, to sharpen her own edge amidst battle. She had no illusions about her place; there were others stronger than her. But she would not let that deter her. This was her experience to gain, her battlefield to understand.
The tension in the tent eased slightly as Marquis Vendor exhaled, leaning back with a look of quiet satisfaction. His sharp eyes, so often calculating and reserved, held a rare trace of warmth as he regarded Valeria.
With a subtle shift in tone, he spoke again, his voice carrying a more casual air. "Ah, but enough of war councils and obligations," he mused, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I have heard an interesting piece of news about you, Valeria."
She met his gaze, waiting.
He chuckled softly, a rare sound from him. "I hear you are set to attend the Imperial Academy."
Valeria gave a slight nod. "That is correct, my lord," she confirmed, her voice composed as always. "The time has come for me to enroll."
"Of course," Vendor murmured, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "It is only natural, isn't it? House Olarion has been making steady strides to reclaim its former prestige. Attending the most esteemed academy in the Empire is a necessary step in that effort."
Valeria inclined her head slightly in agreement. The Olarion name had suffered over the years—its reputation once shining, now dulled by political missteps and diminished influence. Her father had spent years carefully positioning their house, aligning with the right factions, rebuilding old alliances. But prestige was not merely a matter of politics—it was also a matter of strength. And there was no better place to prove one's strength than the Imperial Academy.
"More than just necessity," Valeria added, "it is an opportunity."
Vendor gave an approving nod. "Indeed."
A pause stretched between them before the Marquis tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. "And from what I hear, you will not be the only 'prominent' figure gracing the Academy this year. It seems this particular generation is quite an interesting one."
Valeria remained silent for a moment, considering his words.
It was true. This year's Academy enrollment was said to be unusually competitive, drawing in figures from noble houses, renowned sects, and even those of common birth who had made names for themselves through sheer ability. She had caught murmurs of it before—the scions of major houses, young prodigies, ambitious warriors all converging upon the Academy like storm clouds gathering before a tempest.
"It does seem so," she admitted at last. "Several well-known names have surfaced. Heirs of major houses, sect disciples, and even some independent fighters."
Marquis Vendor exhaled softly, the amusement in his gaze lingering but now tempered with something more thoughtful. He regarded Valeria for a moment before leaning back slightly in his chair, his expression shifting to something more introspective.
"I do not know what your father is thinking," he mused, his voice carrying a rare note of casual reflection. "Nor do I claim to know what your family's intentions are regarding your time at the Academy. But—" he paused, his eyes sharp yet strangely warm, "—you should treasure it."
Valeria blinked, slightly caught off guard by the shift in tone.
Vendor smiled faintly, as if sensing her surprise. "You are young, Valeria, but not naïve. You understand duty, ambition, and discipline better than most. But the Academy… it is not just about sharpening one's strength or securing a position for the future." His gaze turned distant, as though recalling something long past. "It is a fleeting time, one that you will not experience again. And when you are older, you may find yourself looking back and realizing just how much of it was lost to responsibilities you never questioned."
Valeria remained silent, studying him carefully.
"Ah, speaking from experience, are we, my lord?" she asked at last, her voice neutral but lightly probing.
Vendor chuckled, shaking his head. "I suppose I am," he admitted, his smirk tinged with nostalgia. "When I was younger, I thought every moment had to be spent in pursuit of something—power, influence, proving myself to those who doubted me." His fingers tapped idly against the armrest of his chair. "I was not wrong. But I did not realize, until much later, that there were moments in between… moments worth keeping."
It was something Valeria couldn't easily figure out….
Chapter 605: The girl from the Military
The cold stone beneath his knees was unforgiving, a stark contrast to the warmth of the torches lining the grand hall. His breath came ragged, his fingers curling into fists against the marble. He had lost. He had lost.
And she—she stood above him, the dim firelight catching in her dark hair, her sharp eyes locked onto his with a quiet, brutal certainty. No trace of warmth, no hesitation.
"You lost, brother."
Her voice was calm. Unfeeling. It wasn't a taunt, nor was it pity. It was simply fact.
His breath caught, rage burning through his veins, deeper than the bruises blooming across his body. His jaw clenched, his teeth bared like a cornered animal.
"Don't call me brother, you whore."
The words left his lips in a snap, venomous and cruel.
Then—
"Linston! Mind your words!"
A voice thundered through the chamber, sending a hush rippling across the gathered nobles.
Linston's head whipped toward the sound, his anger twisting into something frantic, something desperate.
"FATHER! WHY!" He was on his feet now, fists trembling at his sides, his breath heavy with disbelief. "She is just the daughter of a lowborn!"
A sharp crack echoed through the hall.
Their father's palm met his cheek with brutal finality.
"WATCH YOUR WORDS!"
Linston barely had time to register the sting before their father's voice cut deeper than the blow.
"She is my daughter."
Linston staggered back, his breath uneven, the sting of the slap still burning across his cheek. His father's words rang in his ears, twisting like a knife in his gut.
"She is my daughter."
No. No, that wasn't possible. His father, the noble patriarch of the Burns family, couldn't have meant that. Couldn't have acknowledged her. Not here, not like this.
His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms, as his vision blurred with fury.
"I refuse," Linston spat, his voice laced with disgust. "I refuse to acknowledge this filth as my equal." His blood boiled at the very thought. How could he—Linston Burns, the rightful heir, the son of noble blood—have lost to someone like her?
Yet here he was. On his knees.
He had lost.
A sharp gasp filled the hall, and then a woman's cry split through the heavy silence.
"Linston, my son!"
A figure pushed past the stunned nobles. His mother, dressed in an opulent gown of crimson and gold, stormed forward with the fire of a woman who had spent years ensuring her son's place in the world. Her eyes blazed with fury, locked on the man who had just struck her son—her husband.
Her voice rose, shrill and indignant. "What do you think you're doing?! How dare you raise your hand against Linston? He is your son, the heir of this house! Have you gone mad?!"
The tension in the air was suffocating.
The patriarch of the Burns family, a man of steel and discipline, turned to face his wife with an expression of quiet, simmering fury. "And what of it?" he said coldly. "He has disgraced this house with his words. His arrogance has blinded him. Do you expect me to sit idly while he throws filth at his own kin?"
His wife's face twisted with rage. "Kin?" she hissed, and then, as if she had only now remembered Jesse's presence, her furious gaze snapped toward her.
Jesse remained still. Unmoved.
The matriarch's lips curled in contempt. "And you…" Her voice was venomous, thick with disdain. "You dare lay a hand on my son?"
Jesse met her gaze with a quiet, unwavering stare. She had anticipated this reaction, had known from the moment she returned that the woman before her would never accept the truth.
"I didn't lay a hand on him," Jesse said smoothly, her tone devoid of emotion. "He lost. That is all."
Linston let out a strangled growl, his pride unable to take the weight of those words. His mother, too, recoiled as if struck.
"How dare you—"
"Enough," their father interrupted, his voice like iron. His gaze swept over his family, over the nobles who watched with bated breath. "Linston failed. And failure has consequences."
Linston's mother turned on him with a look of betrayal. "You're truly going to humiliate your own son in front of the entire court? In front of these people?!"
The patriarch didn't waver. "No, I am making him learn." His eyes flickered toward Jesse. "She has earned her place, whether you accept it or not."
Linston's face twisted in fury. His whole world—his birthright, his pride, his superiority—had been shattered before these very people.
The hall fell into a suffocating silence as the weight of the patriarch's words settled over them like a heavy storm cloud. The gathered nobles stood frozen, their gazes darting between Jesse and Linston, as if expecting the defeated heir to lash out, to protest, to demand another chance.
But no such plea came.
Instead, Linston stood stiffly, his body trembling—not with exhaustion, but with barely contained rage. His breath was shallow, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
Then, his father spoke again, his voice steady, authoritative, final.
"As per the agreement, Jesse will be the one to be sent to the Imperial Arcanis Academy."
Murmurs rippled through the court like a wave, nobles exchanging hushed words, scandalized glances. The weight of those words—Jesse will be the one—was more than just a declaration. It was an upheaval of the expected order.
The treaty between the Loria Empire and the Arcanis Empire had been the defining political maneuver of the decade. With war between the two great nations coming to an end, the peace treaty had not only halted bloodshed but had also created a delicate, strategic alliance.
One of the most critical aspects of this treaty was the Exchange Pact, an agreement that allowed Loria to send its most promising heirs and prodigious youths to study at the prestigious Imperial Arcanis Academy—a place of immense prestige, power, and political influence.
And the Burns family had been granted a coveted seat among those chosen.
This duel, this battle between Jesse and Linston, had been more than just a contest of skill or family pride. It had been for the right to claim that seat, the right to stand among the future rulers, scholars, and warriors of the Arcanis Empire.
And now, she had won it.
Jesse said nothing as the weight of her victory settled over the court. She had expected this outcome, but the satisfaction she should have felt… wasn't there. The air was too thick with tension, with resentment, with the silent fury of a man who refused to accept his loss.
Linston's breath hitched sharply, his nails digging into his palms as his body trembled. "No," he whispered, his voice hoarse. Then louder— "NO! THIS CAN'T BE!"
Of course it was not going to be easy at all.
Chapter 606: The girl from the Military (2)
"NO! THIS CAN'T BE!"
He turned on his father, his face contorted with a mixture of fury and disbelief. "You're sending her? A bastard? A lowborn?! To the Imperial Arcanis Academy?!" His voice cracked, desperation bleeding into his words. "Do you even hear yourself?! She doesn't belong there! That seat belongs to me—I am your son! I am the rightful heir of House Burns!"
The patriarch's expression remained unreadable, his steel-gray eyes unwavering. "That seat belongs to the one who earned it."
Linston shook his head violently, his face a mask of denial. "NO! You can't do this to me! Do you know what kind of people attend Arcanis? Do you think they will accept her? Do you think they will see her as anything but trash?" He spat the last word with venom, his voice ragged. "This will ruin our family's reputation!"
SLAM.
His father's cane struck the marble floor, the sharp crack silencing the murmurs around them. The air grew even colder.
"I have made my decision," he said with finality. "Jesse will go to Arcanis."
Linston's entire body locked up, his rage no longer restrained. He turned to Jesse, his lips curling in sheer hatred. "You did this," he hissed, his voice low, trembling. "You took what was mine."
Jesse met his gaze without flinching.
"You lost," she repeated, her voice devoid of malice, devoid of sympathy. "That is all."
It was the truth. And the truth was more unbearable to Linston than any insult could ever be.
Then—
"You will regret this."
The words left Linston's lips like a curse, like a promise of vengeance. His breath was ragged, his eyes dark with something ugly, something dangerous. "You think this is over?" He took a step closer, the veins in his temple pulsing with barely controlled rage. "You think just because you won today, you will keep winning?"
Jesse didn't move.
Linston bared his teeth, his voice dropping into a low, vicious whisper.
"You took my place," he seethed. "I will take everything from you."
A cold smile touched Jesse's lips, sharp as a blade.
"You're welcome to try."
The hall was silent, every noble watching the exchange with bated breath.
Their father, unmoved by his son's tantrum, turned to Jesse once more. "You depart for Arcanis in three days."
Jesse gave a slow, respectful nod. "Understood."
Linston's mother, who had been standing in the background seething, suddenly stepped forward, her gown swishing violently as she turned on her husband. "You're truly going through with this?" she spat. "You're sending her—the daughter of a maid, a common whore—to represent this family? To stand among the true nobility?"
Her fury was uncontainable, her hatred for Jesse burning in her eyes. "You're throwing away our son for her?"
The patriarch exhaled slowly, as if dealing with a child throwing a tantrum. "I am sending the strongest candidate. The most capable one. I will not tolerate any further discussion on this matter."
Linston's mother trembled with rage. She turned to Jesse, her face twisted with pure loathing. "How dare you injure my son?!" she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut. "How dare you humiliate him like this—humiliate us?!"
Jesse tilted her head slightly, her expression blank, but her voice… was not.
"I dare, because I won."
The room fell into stunned silence.
Linston's mother's face contorted in a mix of disbelief and rage, but before she could respond, Jesse continued, her voice unwavering.
"Perhaps you should have trained him better."
A choked sound came from Linston. A gasp rippled through the nobles.
The matriarch of the Burns family was speechless, shaking with anger.
But Jesse didn't care. She turned away, stepping past Linston's trembling form without so much as another glance, past the nobles who could barely comprehend what had just happened.
She had fought. She had won.
And now, she was leaving this wretched place.
Jesse stepped into her chambers, the heavy wooden door closing behind her with a quiet thud. The ornate room, once a place of confinement, now felt like nothing more than a temporary resting place—a mere stepping stone to where she truly needed to be. The fight was over. The voices of the court, the fury of her stepmother, the seething hatred in Linston's eyes—it was all left behind. None of it mattered now.
Slowly, she made her way to the window, her fingers lightly tracing along the cold glass as her gaze fell upon the vast, sprawling estate of the Burns family. The torches lining the walls flickered in the night breeze, casting long shadows across the stone paths. The moon loomed high, illuminating the lands she had once thought would be her prison forever.
A small, sharp breath left her lips, and then—she smiled.
But it was not a complete smile.
"Finally."
The word escaped in a whisper, but it carried the weight of years.
Finally, she would be able to find him.
For so long, she had searched. She had fought, bled, and endured the unbearable—all for the sliver of a chance to chase the one thing that had been ripped from her grasp. The day Lucavion disappeared, the day she was left behind, her world had collapsed.
She had been broken before, barely holding herself together with his presence alone, but when he left… that was when she truly shattered.
The world had become gray. The battlefield, once terrifying, had become a place where she simply existed. Even the hatred of her peers, the condescending looks of nobles, and the cruelty of her commanders had failed to reach her. She had lived like a ghost—breathing, fighting, but never truly living.
And all because he was gone.
At first, she had thought it was because he no longer cared. That he had left her behind like everyone else in her life had done before. The pain of that thought had nearly consumed her.
But over time, as she clawed her way through the military, as she grew stronger and sharper, she began to understand.
Lucavion had always been an enigma. A man with ambition, a man who didn't belong in the rigid structure of the army or the empire. His eyes had never once carried loyalty to their superiors. He had been planning something. And now, after all these years, she finally had the answer.
Shadowed Thicket.
A borderland between the Arcanis Empire and the Loria Empire. A treacherous, winding expanse of land infamous for smugglers, fugitives, and those who sought to vanish from the eyes of their nations.
That was where he had gone.
And logic dictated that he had moved past it—straight into the Arcanis Empire.
Jesse's grip on the window tightened.
"I know you are there."
Her voice was quiet, but her resolve was unwavering.
Lucavion had never been a man without purpose. He had always had a goal—something more than the endless grind of the battlefield. If he had fled, if he had abandoned the Loria Empire, it was because he had a plan.
And she was going to find out what it was.
For years, she had been cast aside, ridiculed, and deemed unworthy. For years, she had endured, survived, and pushed herself beyond the limits of what anyone had expected of her.
Not because she cared about the empire.
Not because she wanted power or prestige.
But because she had to find him.
Because if she didn't—if she truly lost him forever—then what had all of this been for?
Her fingers lifted from the glass, leaving faint traces of warmth against the cold surface.
Lucavion had always been just beyond her reach, always walking a path of his own. But this time, she would not be left behind.
This time, she would chase him to the ends of the empire if she had to.
And when she found him?
Jesse's lips curled into something sharper, something unreadable.
"You won't escape me this time."
Chapter 607: Family
The grand iron gates of the Thorne estate loomed in the misty evening air, their intricate patterns of coiled serpents and thorns casting long, twisted shadows beneath the lanterns that flanked the entrance. The carriage rumbled to a stop in the cobblestone courtyard, and the moment the door opened, the girl stepped out, her movements rigid with frustration.
Her black hair, normally pristine, was slightly tousled from the long journey, but she paid no mind to her appearance. The weight of failure pressed against her shoulders, an unbearable burden that only grew heavier as she walked up the stone steps toward the entrance.
Her father was waiting.
The grand doors opened before she could reach for them, and there he stood in the dimly lit hall. The flickering chandeliers cast harsh shadows across his sharp, imposing features. His cold, steel-gray eyes locked onto her, piercing through her like an unforgiving blade.
But his gaze did not linger on her face. It fell to her hands.
They were empty.
Silence thickened between them like a slow-moving storm.
"You return," he said at last, his voice dangerously low, measured. "But without his head."
She clenched her jaw, her fingers twitching at her sides. "I—"
"Enough," he cut her off, stepping forward. His heavy boots echoed against the marble floor, the sound as ominous as thunder. His expression remained unreadable, but the disappointment that radiated from him was suffocating.
"You were gone for nearly a year," he continued, his voice cold and clipped. "You followed his every trace, every whisper of his name, and yet—"nothing." Not a body, not a drop of blood. Not even the tattered remains of his damn cloak."
The girl swallowed back the sharp retort that threatened to escape her lips. Her failure already burned deep within her, and yet hearing it from him made it unbearable.
"He was always just ahead of me," she bit out, her tone laced with restrained fury. "Everywhere I went, he had already left. Whether it was a day, an hour, or mere moments—he was always gone before I could reach him!"
Her fists curled, her nails digging into her palms as she fought against the simmering rage that clawed at her insides.
Her father's expression hardened further. "Excuses," he said simply, and the word sliced through her like a blade.
She lifted her head sharply, eyes blazing with barely contained fury. "I hunted him relentlessly!" she snapped. "I tracked him through the Andelheim Tournament, through the roads leading west, into the ruins of Verekhold, even across the northern border. I followed his trail, his supposed victories, the traces of his existence, but every time—every time!—he vanished into thin air!" ((N1))
Her breath was ragged now, her control slipping.
"He left no corpses behind, only rumors," she continued, her voice quieter but no less venomous. "No real allies, only the ghosts of those who had once fought beside him. His very existence is like chasing smoke."
A long pause. The fire in the hall crackled, filling the silence that stretched between them.
Then, her father exhaled slowly, his disappointment sharpening into something heavier, something laced with restrained fury.
"A man who was meant to be executed like a dog," he said coldly, "now moves like a phantom beyond our reach. That is what you are telling me?"
She said nothing, her silence an answer in itself.
His lip curled slightly, barely perceptible, but his contempt was clear.
"You failed," he stated plainly.
The words struck harder than any blow.
Her shoulders tensed, her breath hitching for only a fraction of a second, but it was enough.
He saw it.
And he turned away.
"The Thorne family does not tolerate failure," he said, walking past her, the finality in his tone as cutting as a sword through flesh. "I gave you this task because I believed you capable. Because I trusted you would not return empty-handed."
He stopped at the base of the grand staircase, his back still to her.
"And yet here you are, standing before me with nothing."
Her hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her skin so hard she nearly drew blood.
The girl stood rigid, her breath uneven as her father's words settled into her bones like ice. You failed. She had known it long before she had returned, known it with every step she took toward the estate, but hearing it spoken aloud still struck like a blade between her ribs.
She clenched her jaw, swallowing down the humiliation that threatened to choke her.
And yet, despite her failure, something gnawed at her—a question without an answer, a riddle without a solution.
How?
How had he—Lucavion, the disgrace of the Thorne family—become this strong?
Her fingers twitched at her sides, her nails still digging into her palms, frustration pulsing through her.
"It doesn't make sense," she muttered, more to herself than to her father. Her voice was quiet but sharp, carrying the weight of her anger and confusion. "His name has spread too far, too fast. Sword Demon—that title shouldn't belong to him."
Her father turned his head slightly, steel-gray eyes flicking toward her, but he remained silent.
"I've spent the better part of this year chasing his shadow," she continued, the words bitter on her tongue. "And now, because of his name, it's even harder to track him. Every city, every town, every godsforsaken battlefield I went to—there were dozens claiming to be him. A wave of impostors, all eager to wear his mask."
Her voice darkened, thick with venom. "They die just as easily as the filth they are."
The only problem was that none of them were him.
The truth settled like a lead weight in her stomach. Wherever she went, Lucavion had already left. He was just ahead, just out of reach, a phantom that existed only in whispers and fading footprints.
Her father let out a long, slow exhale, his shoulders shifting ever so slightly before he turned toward the great windows of the estate hall.
The dim glow of lanterns flickered against the glass, casting shadows across his stern face. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly before relaxing.
"First, he awakened," he murmured, as though speaking to no one in particular. "Then he deserted."
A bitter scoff left his lips. "And now, he has somehow become a man whose name carries weight in the empire."
His gaze darkened as he looked beyond the window, beyond the mist-shrouded courtyard, toward the unseen lands that stretched into the horizon.
"It doesn't make any sense at all," he admitted finally.
The girl shifted slightly, her sharp gaze flicking to his profile. Her father was not a man prone to confusion. And yet here they both stood, unable to grasp how Lucavion had risen from disgrace to something beyond their control.
It infuriated her.
Her father let out a slow, deliberate sigh, his fingers pressing against the window frame. "And while we waste time trying to understand how this happened, the Thorne family's position continues to erode."
The girl's fists tightened. She knew it all too well.
The Dukedom of Valoria had already set their sights on them, their influence pressing harder and harder like a slowly tightening noose. The Thorne family had its share of enemies before, but Lucavion's desertion had given their political rivals a reason to strike at them with renewed force.
And now—now—some were even daring to accuse the Thorne family of aiding in his escape.
The thought alone sent a fresh wave of rage coursing through her veins.
"Assist him?" she spat, her voice sharp with disdain. "Assist that filth?!"
Her father remained silent, his gaze still fixed on the distant darkness beyond the glass.
"The accusations are growing louder," he admitted after a long pause. "Those who have always waited for a chance to see us fall are growing bolder. This time, they have something to sink their teeth into."
Her breath was steady, but inside, she burned.
Lucavion.
Even now, even in his absence, he continued to be a thorn in their side—an insult to their name, a shadow they could not shake.
"Sigh…"
Her father finally exhaled, the sound heavy with exhaustion. But he did not turn to face her.
He knew she had done all she could.
He knew that even with her skill, with her relentless pursuit, tracking a ghost in an empire as vast as this one was near impossible.
And yet—
"It is unacceptable," he muttered, his voice low, clipped. "That we, of all people, have no control over our own blood."
Chapter 608: Family (2)
The heavy wooden doors groaned open, their weighty presence commanding attention as a figure stepped into the dimly lit hall. The sharp click of boots against marble cut through the tense silence, steady and deliberate, each step measured with precision. The firelight flickered across his face—sharp, defined features sculpted into an expression of quiet control. His steel-gray eyes, colder and more calculating than their father's, swept across the room, assessing the atmosphere with a single glance.
"Alistair," their father acknowledged, his voice neutral but firm.
"Father," Alistair responded with a slight bow of his head, his tone carrying the respect expected of him, though without warmth.
Then, his gaze shifted.
"Sister," he said smoothly, turning toward her. "You have returned."
His voice carried none of the disappointment their father had made no effort to hide. No sharp words, no clipped commands—only a simple statement of fact, one devoid of surprise or sentiment.
She met his gaze with an impassive expression, refusing to betray the simmering frustration that still burned within her.
"Brother," she said coolly, straightening her posture. "I have."
Alistair studied her for a moment, his gaze flickering briefly to her empty hands before returning to her face. Unlike their father, he did not openly display his displeasure. He did not need to. The weight of his silence was just as cutting.
His lips curled slightly, but whether it was in amusement or disapproval, she could not tell. "Then I assume the rumors were true," he murmured. "Lucavion continues to elude you."
A muscle in her jaw tightened. "For now."
Alistair hummed lightly, as if considering something, then turned back to their father.
"I received word earlier," he said. "The accusations against us from Valoria are gaining traction. The Duke's men are pressing harder, and some of our supposed allies are beginning to distance themselves. They fear being seen as sympathizers."
Their father exhaled through his nose, his fingers curling slightly against the window frame. "As expected."
Alistair let out a quiet breath, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves before speaking again.
"I just finished a meeting with several key figures," he said, his voice as composed as ever. "The usual complaints. Concerns over our influence wavering. Thinly veiled threats wrapped in political courtesy."
Their father turned slightly, his steel-gray eyes still fixed beyond the window, waiting.
"And?"
Alistair exhaled through his nose, his expression darkening just a fraction. "And, Father… Prince Adrian has stated his disappointment."
At this, their father finally shifted, his gaze sharpening like a blade as he turned fully to face his son. The girl, too, stiffened slightly at the mention of the prince.
"He was not subtle about it," Alistair continued. "For some reason, I feel he is far too interested in Lucavion."
A grim chuckle left their father's lips—low and bitter. "Of course."
His fingers tapped idly against the wooden frame of the window, a rare sign of his own irritation. "Lucavion, that bastard, did not simply disgrace our family. He had to take it further. Had to ruin one of the most powerful men in the empire along with us."
Alistair's jaw tensed. "His affair with the prince's former fiancée."
A sharp silence fell over the room.
Even now, years later, the weight of that scandal still clung to the Thorne name like a stench that would not fade.
Prince Adrian—heir to the throne, the empire's golden prodigy—had once been betrothed to Elara Valoria, the jewel of the nobility. A woman as graceful as she was cunning, the very image of regal perfection.
And Lucavion had defiled her.
Whether it had been love or lust, coercion or mutual destruction—it did not matter. What mattered was that Lucavion's betrayal had shattered the engagement and dragged both the Valoria and Thorne names into disgrace.
Prince Adrian had been humiliated.
And the Thornes had paid the price for it ever since.
Alistair's grip on his sleeve tightened subtly, his cold exterior barely concealing the disgust roiling beneath it.
"Everything he touches turns to ruin," he said, voice clipped, precise. "He was given a chance—sent to the battlefield, given the opportunity to die with some semblance of dignity. And yet he refused even that."
His steel-gray gaze flicked toward his sister.
"And now," he continued, tone laced with quiet disdain, "instead of rotting in the dirt where he belongs, he has become a name?"
Alistair's cold gaze lingered on his sister for a moment before he finally turned away, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves with a slow, deliberate motion.
"Enough," he said, his voice carrying quiet authority. "For now, you will remain in the territory."
Miranda's fingers twitched slightly, but she did not protest.
"You've spent an entire year chasing his shadow," Alistair continued, his expression unreadable. "And what do you have to show for it? Nothing. No corpse, no proof of his demise. Only whispers and fleeting footprints."
His steel-gray eyes met hers again, sharp and unyielding. "While finding Lucavion remains a priority, we cannot afford for you to waste any more time aimlessly chasing ghosts. There are matters here that demand your attention. You should not neglect your training."
Miranda's jaw tightened slightly at the implication, though she remained outwardly composed.
"I have not neglected my training," she said, her voice measured. "Even during my search, I maintained my discipline."
Alistair gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Perhaps. But you are not at your peak either." His gaze sharpened. "We have more enemies now; we need to be strong."
Miranda's fingers curled into her palms, but she said nothing.
He was not wrong. Even if she had kept up with her training during the past year, it had been different—not structured, not as refined as it could have been under proper instruction. She had spent months on the road, tracking, fighting, pursuing, always moving from one lead to the next. It had honed her instincts, sharpened her endurance, but it had not been the same as dedicated refinement within the halls of their family's training grounds.
She knew it. And so did Alistair.
Her father, who had been silently observing the exchange, finally turned back toward them. His gaze flickered between them before settling on Miranda.
"Alistair is right," he said simply. "There is no point in continuing a pursuit that yields no results. Your skills must remain at their sharpest if you are to face him again."
Miranda inhaled slowly, letting the words settle.
"...Understood," she finally said, inclining her head. "I will remain in the territory."
Alistair studied her for a moment longer before giving a short nod. "Good."
The matter was settled.
For now.
Though she would remain here, though she would focus on her training, the fire within her had not dimmed. If anything, it burned hotter than ever.
Lucavion was still out there.
And the next time they crossed paths—
She would make sure there would be no escape.