Vajra snapped back to attention and quickly nodded. "Yes—according to my subordinates' reports, he led a special team, stormed the beholder Xanathar's criminal operation in the sewers, and found this key in its treasury."
"Afterwards, knowing this was public property belonging to the city, he entrusted another of my subordinates to deliver the key to me."
Laeral gave a soft smile. "Quite the noble archduke. Did he ask for anything in return?"
Vajra thought of Anno's blushing, beaming face, but recalling Laeral's earlier sudden coldness, hesitated a moment.
Her tone became cautious as she replied, "He himself asked for nothing at all. He believes that bringing justice and recovering lost wealth is simply his duty as a powerful member of the extraordinary classes."
Laeral frowned slightly. "That won't do. Even if he claims not to want a reward, we have to give him something. Otherwise, no one will ever be willing to hand over seized assets so selflessly in the future."
Vajra nodded lightly. "I agree. It's just that, with my level of authority, I'm afraid I can't solve his most urgent needs."
Laeral's eyebrows quirked. "And what might those be?"
"He has a lover, the daughter of House Amcastra," Vajra continued, "But he himself is a commoner, which makes their relationship… not so smooth."
This was a half-truth—more her own conjecture. Remembering her own days as a commoner, how she'd suffered slights, Vajra was simply projecting her past experience onto his situation.
Laeral's expression showed understanding. "So it's just a title holding him back? No problem—he's already on this year's honors list, and I've already set him down for a countship. That's settled."
"Does he need anything else?"
Vajra was startled—hadn't expected Laeral to assign such a high title from the get-go! Asking for higher—like a marquis—would be pushing it. She shook her head: "I'm not sure; I haven't spoken to him directly. But a person like him, if he wanted anything, it'd probably be something magical."
Laeral nodded. "Then let's remember that. If he runs into trouble later, we can grant him another favor."
Vajra nodded, the mood between them becoming much more pleasant and relaxed, letting her breathe a little easier—though there was still a bittersweet sadness in her heart.
All her life, she'd relied on absolute strength to seize what she wanted. She'd never imagined the day would come when she'd have to use the oily speech of bureaucrats she'd always despised, going to her higher-ups to petition for favors.
Maybe fate just works that way; in time, everyone becomes what they once scorned.
As she pondered this, Laeral Silverhand suddenly said, "Vajra, since you wield the artifact Blackstaff, would you preside over this year's ennoblement ceremony? Would you bestow the honors on the new nobles yourself?"
Vajra's eyes flew wide open in disbelief. "What?"
Laeral only smiled. "No need to act so modest. My mother's staff has accepted you; you're one of the people I trust most."
Vajra's lips parted as the weight of responsibility settled on her shoulders.
Traditionally, the ennoblement ceremonies for new nobles shouldn't be done so lightly.
Normally, the Open Lord was supposed to send a list of new nobles to the Emperor of Sein for official approval, and after the Emperor rubber-stamped it, those chosen would travel to the capital to be knighted in person.
But with the imperial capital literally thousands of miles away, making such a trip just for a title ceremony was laughably impractical.
Back when the Sein Empire was at its height, they'd at least built giant portals in every great city, so new nobles could teleport straight to the capital. But now, with the Empire in decline and no money for such extravagance, the power to ennoble was handed off to city rulers instead.
For Liberl Port, that meant Laeral Silverhand acting in the emperor's stead to bestow new titles. The emperor just rubber-stamped the list to make the whole thing official.
In an age where the Sein Emperor is basically a ceremonial figurehead, how many or what kind of new nobles to grant—all of that really falls to the city's lord.
And, eager to win over local talent, every city has been lengthening its honors list year after year. Titles are becoming chips in political deals for the rich and powerful, though unsophisticated heroes and commoners still see them as the highest of honors.
Laeral Silverhand, while conservative by tradition, can't resist this pragmatic shift. She trusts in her subordinates' judgment, decentralizing her own authority as much as possible—only presiding at critical rituals like this herself, handing out honors to the new nobles in person.
She can dodge most things, but this duty she can't avoid. The sacred weight of noble rank now rests on the approval of someone even more sacred—Laeral Silverhand herself, daughter of the Goddess of Magic, Queen of the Northern Witches, and a figure even royals bow to.
Passing this honor to Vajra was no small thing—no wonder Vajra was stunned.
"I…" Vajra stammered, nerves jangling. "I don't know if… I'm qualified to bear such responsibility…"
Laeral just smiled, gazing at this woman decades her junior with calm reassurance. "Don't worry. There's nothing difficult to it. Just touch the new nobles on their shoulders with Blackstaff—they'll take being touched by an artifact as the highest honor."
Seeing that serene, kind smile, Vajra finally relaxed, feeling a gentle peace in her heart.
...
South Harbor District, inside the monastery.
Standing outside the nuns' training hall, Charles put his hand on the doorknob, then glanced back at the Moon Elf girl behind him. "We're about to meet my battle nuns—your new students. Nervous?"
Nymeria's eyes sparkled, and her pointy elf ears twitched up and down as she pumped her tiny pink fist, full of spirit. "Not a chance! Watch—I'm gonna turn every last one of them into battle-hardened warriors!"
Charles couldn't help worrying. "You… do know how to be an instructor, right?"
Nymeria punched forward, grinning. "Of course! First I demo all the moves, then I eat snacks and watch them train, teasing them a bit if they mess up, then helping them fix it!"
Her enthusiasm made Charles's blood pressure spike. "Be serious!"
Nymeria blinked, startled. "Huh? Why?"
Charles took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. "Because you're new, and you have no authority here. The nuns don't know you—don't know your strength, your character, if you're reliable."
"But you have to teach them. Sometimes you'll need to discipline lazy girls. If you don't act authoritative, the girls won't respect you—they'll challenge your authority and push back."
"It's easier to prevent problems before they start—showing a little sternness will help establish your place."
Nymeria nodded, looking like she half-understood. "Oh, okay, I'll try to put on a stern face…"
She stuck her hands behind her back, puffed up her chest, and put on the stiffest, most severe expression she could muster.
Charles was still uneasy—this look just felt… weird. But at this point, all he could do was hope for the best. He sighed. "Alright, let's go in."
With that, Charles took the lead into the training hall, Nymeria right behind. Fifty battle nuns, grouped by height, waited in ranks. Not too formal, but when they saw Nymeria's elven ears (a sight none of them had ever seen), curiosity gleamed in their eyes—they couldn't help but glance her way over and over.
Nymeria consciously puffed up her chest a bit more, trying to look even more dignified.
Charles cleared his throat and got straight to the point. "As you all know, our combat style's been too wild and rough in the past. Priest Kowal visited recently and said we need to change. Trading blow for blow isn't the way of the Goddess of Life!"
He meant every word. Anyone who could cast spells as a priestess was already an elite talent—if they're fighting like reckless fools, it's only a matter of time before someone slips up and gets killed by a stray arrow or a lucky sneak attack.
That's how cannon fodder fights—not elites. So, Charles had arranged for Nymeria to spar with the nuns, exposing their weaknesses and forcing them to learn defense.
"To that end," he continued, "headquarters has sent us an instructor with rich battle experience—Miss Nymeria Galanodel. Let's give her a big hand!"
The hall erupted with applause—though curiosity still lingered in every glance. Charles stepped back, putting the spotlight on Nymeria. "Instructor Nymeria, would you like to say a few words?"
The nuns turned their eyes to her. Nymeria, putting on a forced deep voice, said, "Alright! Let's start with introductions!"
She pointed to the first nun on the left. "You—start!"
That nun, intimidated by Nymeria's stance, shouted back: "Winnie Carter, 19, Storm Domain Pastor!"
Nymeria's eyes popped a bit, amazed. But the introductions kept coming—each girl giving her name, age, and class, one after another…
As she listened to all these "eighteen" and "nineteen" year olds, Nymeria just couldn't hold it in. She leaned over and whispered to Charles, "Why are your nuns so old?"
Charles looked at her, horror-struck. "'Old'? Wait… they must be way younger than you—right? Hang on…"
He eyed Nymeria—so tall, so mature. "Forgive me for asking, but… how old are you, exactly?"
Nymeria's face turned awkward. "I'm… I'm definitely older than any of them!"
"I just mean… uh… their ages, by human standards, aren't exactly young, right?"
Charles narrowed his eyes, sensing the elf wasn't telling the full truth.
This isn't even about legal age anymore.
Could she actually be… the youngest person in the battle nun squad?!
That realization hit him like a punch in the gut. Good god, this elf is a kid, and I'm making her work at my monastery… What am I doing?
The thought sent a shiver down his spine, but he didn't dig further. He'd seen Nymeria's strength for himself, and she was more than capable, if maybe a bit immature. The only real risk was if her parents showed up and accused his monastery of child labor. Given the times and the lack of regulation, though… probably not a real problem.
Shoving aside his worries, Charles put on a calm face and silently observed Nymeria's training style.
After the self-introductions, Nymeria kicked things off.
If teaching and doing were the same, life would be easy. But the Moon Elf's approach was… basic. She didn't know any subtle instructional methods—she was an elf, after all. Magic came naturally, and many things she could do were all but impossible to put into words for humans.
Her answer: brute force.
She just pulled out her weapon and sparred with the nuns, exposing their gaps through real fighting, then shared a few tips or strategies, leaving them to learn what they could.
It wasn't enough to turn every nun into a shield-fighting prodigy like Anno, but as the girls fought her, they quickly learned that charging head-on at an agile foe like Nymeria was suicide. They needed tactics—raw aggression would never suffice.
After all, not every future enemy would be a reckless demon. There'd be thieves, goblins, kobolds—enemies who relied on speed and cunning.
Learning to attack with discipline and cover themselves would keep the nuns from getting punked by some random footpad—or winding up prisoners to low-level monsters.
…Well, hopefully.
After watching Nymeria go one-on-three and still win effortlessly, Charles decided the nuns were in good hands. Satisfied, he slipped away and left the monastery.
He had another very important task today.
The honors list had come out. The South Harbor District office had notified him he'd be receiving a noble title, and the formal ceremony was tomorrow morning.
He would need to take a carriage to the Mithral District, check into the city hall's accommodations, and then attend the ritual first thing in the morning.
Although he'd lived in this city for more than half a year, Liberl Port was so vast that Charles had never had reason to visit Mithral District.
Now, as he stepped out of his carriage for the first time, he was confronted by a totally different scene.
Unlike the South Harbor District's poverty, Blackstaff District's old buildings, or the central district's sheer urban density, Mithral District was full of new high-rises and villas—but all spaced out among sweeping lawns and greenery. In the heart of the city, where a single home sold for twenty thousand gold, the rich and powerful had insisted on vast parks and trees to beautify their surroundings and keep the air clean.
The place he was staying was much the same. After checking in at city hall headquarters, the staff took Charles to a castle-turned-hostel in the castle district and gave him a room.
The view was breathtaking—you could see half the city's splendor from your window. Tall buildings, vast ships—all the bustle, none of the noise.
After settling in, Charles didn't hide himself away; he went down to the castle's opulent common room, looking for a spot to eat and to maybe meet some other soon-to-be nobles.
After all, anyone who could afford to buy into a noble title had plenty of resources worth knowing. Charles was actually curious to see who he might meet here.
Despite the record number of honorees this year, the hostel wasn't crowded. Many were local and had their own homes nearby; only those from other districts were staying here. Charles saw people gathered in small groups all around, chatting in low voices.
Their backgrounds, races, and classes varied widely—but tomorrow, they'd all receive the same honor: imperial nobility for life.
There were two kinds of noble titles in the Empire of Sein: "hereditary nobles," who could pass their privileges and lands to descendants, and "lifetime nobles," who enjoyed the title only in their own lifetime.
The former naturally had more real power on their fiefs, but the latter, with only a single generation to build prestige, rarely established deep roots. When you died, it all went back to the crown.
Becoming a new hereditary noble was all but impossible; the empire hadn't created a new one in centuries. If you really wanted in, you'd have to spark a rebellion and have the new emperor ennoble you—or just become emperor yourself. But everyone knew the House of Sein wasn't going to hand out new hereditaries, so most people aimed for high-ranking life noble as their practical goal.
Descending to the main hall, Charles wore an easy smile and soon drew plenty of looks.
He didn't have to approach anyone first—someone came to him. "You must be Mr. Nigel Charles? What an honor. I'm Lucy Bronzer, a footballer. Uh, very nice to meet you…"
Charles turned to see a woman half a head taller than himself—a half-orc with rough, dark skin, nervously twisting her huge hands, unsure if she should go for a handshake.
Charles smiled gently and offered his hand. "A pleasure, Madam Bronzer."
Visibly relieved, Lucy Bronzer exhaled heavily. "I really admire you. Growing up, I dreamed of being a barbarian warrior and fighting evil, but I didn't have the bloodline…"
"So I admire that you could defeat those awful demons. Would you sign my jersey? I want to wear it at my next match."
With a smile, Charles obliged, and the half-orc woman fished a white #10 jersey from her Bag of Holding. When he scrawled his name, she looked so excited she was near tears. "Thank you—it's an honor."
Charles just smiled, and they chatted. Bronzer explained that by winning the Empire's football World Cup that fall, she'd earned herself a shot at nobility.
"But that's nothing compared to your achievements," she said with a touch of envy. "All I get is the Saint George badge for a lower knight—defeating demon lords like you should be worth at least a viscountcy!"
The noble ranks went duke, marquis, earl (count), viscount, baron, then different orders of knights. The first five had lands; knights simply had stipends and privileges, but it was still a huge honor.
Charles laughed. "Viscount? No way—that's like getting an entire town as my fief. No chance."
While he and Bronzer speculated, a gentle male voice chimed in from behind. "Indeed, viscount is probably too high."
They turned to see a portly man with a wide square jaw, thick-rimmed black glasses, and a crisp suit heading over.
Bronzer's face soured, but Charles smiled. "Hello, I'm Nigel Charles. And you are…?"
"Arnold Abinson, acting secretariat at City Hall," the man replied, tongue clicking, a paragon of dignified, old-school nobility. "I've received three knight's badges already, so I know a bit about how these things go."
"But I suppose you've never faced down an Abyssal Lord before, hm?" Bronzer added pointedly.
Arnold didn't blink. "Naturally not. But I've seen plenty with comparable achievements. If this is your first ennoblement, Mr. Charles, it's nearly impossible to get a high rank on your first try."
Charles nodded. Prior experience did count for a lot; even if he didn't agree, it was how things were. "So, in your experience, I'm likely to get…?"
Arnold mused. "The Guard badge—the highest of the knight's ranks among you commoners."
Even as the top knight's badge, it's still just a knight title, not true nobility.
Bronzer gasped. "That low? Should at least be a baron!"
Arnold shot her a cold look. "Guard badge is already very high, madam. You, even as a world champion, might get the Saint George badge at best, right?"
Saint George was the lowest knight's badge, and while most badges were named after historical figures, most people just used the common terms. Bronzer clenched her jaw but couldn't argue.
Charles just smiled. "That's fine. I haven't exactly been serving in city hall all these years. I'm happy with whatever I get."
He had no interest in arguing with this pompous old bureaucrat—he'd find out the actual results tomorrow.
Arnold looked pleased, deciding this young man was worth supporting—a fellow who knew how to respect civil servants and hadn't let a single demon lord kill go to his head.
He gave Bronzer one last scornful look. To him, "half-orc" and "football" couldn't be less noble. Awarding badges to people like this was a sign of the times.
With his prejudices plain, Arnold finally wandered off. Bronzer glared after him, voice brimming with rage. "Those guys… whatever."
She muttered in contempt, and Charles gave her a calming smile. "Don't let those old nobles bother you. It's all about attitude—doesn't mean a thing."
Bronzer brightened a little—just as another slightly sharp male voice called out behind them, with a playful click of tongue, "True. So long as those guys pay us on time and don't try to control the media, I wouldn't call them enemies."
Turning around, Charles and Bronzer saw what looked like a humanoid, but with a brightly colored owl's head and two feathery eagle-clawed hands—a young Owlin man shuffling forward with an awkward sort of grace. "I'm Paul McCartney, Muse District born—a humble rock musician. It's a pleasure to meet you, Priest Nigel Charles."
~~~
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