House Zahav was a prestigious family. For now, at least.
Among the two major knight orders of House Zahav, the Silver Lion Knights. Hilda Hereib, who had earned her position as vice-captain through her abilities, desperately wanted to switch houses.
But she couldn't because of one person.
"Dad, can't we just leave for somewhere else now? Didn't the Coral Count's family offer to take you last time?"
"This is an official setting. Call me Captain. And I already told you I turned down the transfer."
The captain of the Silver Lion Knights—and Hilda's father—Calton Hereib.
Hilda stayed with the Silver Lion Knights because she couldn't abandon him.
"Ah, there's no one around right now, so this much is fine, right? And someone of your caliber would be welcomed back with open arms! Especially the Coral Count's family—they're a mage house, always thirsty for top knights!"
"Vice-Captain Hilda. Let me say it again. I have already pledged my loyalty to House Zahav."
"Even though House Zahav is on the brink of ruin?!"
Hilda truly believed that. Most retainers who remained probably thought the same.
They had accumulated wealth and influence over the years, so things were still holding up. But the future outlook was grim.
The people of House Zahav were generally ferocious by nature. It wouldn't be wrong to call them a family of tyrants.
Even accounting for that, things had gotten extreme lately. With the succession struggle intensifying, how many conflicts had there been where they killed each other until everyone was dead?
More people had died than was publicly known, vast fortunes had been squandered, and key interests had been handed over.
A hollow shell.
That was Hilda's view of House Zahav's true state.
It might look massive for now, but House Zahav's future would inevitably converge on ruin amid all the turmoil.
Hilda's ambition matched her innate talent. She couldn't understand why her father insisted on burying his bones in a sinking ship.
"Our family isn't even that old a lineage. You said we only became a knight house starting with Grandpa, and before that, we were just ordinary adventurers. There's no great loyalty to House Zahav, so why not..."
"Enough. Even so, I have already entrusted my sword to House Zahav."
Calton emphasized firmly once more. But then he added softly.
"...But you are different, Hilda. My daughter. If you find your own path and leave, I won't stop you. Remember that your father will always bless your future."
"Tch. You just told me to call you Captain, and now what? I'm not going anywhere without you, Dad."
Hilda grumbled but straightened her formal attire and adjusted the sword at her waist.
Calton knew this meant she was responding to the Young Lord's sudden summons, and a faint smile crossed his face.
"Thank you."
"No big deal. By the way, what kind of person is the new Young Lord? It's so sudden, I haven't heard any rumors."
"I don't know much either. Just that he's from Calypso Territory... and that he's Sir Cain's illegitimate son."
"The bastard part isn't surprising... but Calypso Territory?"
Hilda frowned in dismay.
She had never left Zahav lands in her life, but she had often heard of Calypso's notoriety.
In the past, it had been ruled by House Calypso, founding meritorious nobles like House Zahav who had earned ducal status.
It was once called the heart of the East, though with some exaggeration...
But for unknown reasons, House Calypso was wiped out, and now it was a land swarming with all sorts of continental criminals and even worse madmen.
Alchemists researching taboos, assassin guilds that loved gold more than people, demon worshippers who sacrificed humans at the drop of a hat, criminal mercenary bands rejected everywhere else, and so on.
A territory where infamous figures killed each other in pursuit of evil goals, scheming in the shadows.
Entering was one thing, but anyone who came out was monitored desperately by the entire continent—sometimes blocked or even put on wanted posters depending on the case.
An open prison. The empire's greatest underworld. Or the continent's trash bin—the derogatory nickname wasn't unfounded.
So if Zahav blood, infamous for its ferocity, had grown up in such a Calypso Territory?
"...I'm a little worried, Dad."
"...Don't judge too soon. And now call me Captain for real. We're almost there."
Hilda sighed deeply and headed to the audience chamber with Calton.
And there she saw him.
"Oh. More people than I expected."
A man lounging casually in the head seat.
Unnecessarily flashy blonde hair. The now tiresome tanned skin. Sloppy attire with no regard for proper dress, even in front of numerous retainers. And the raw aura emanating from his entire body.
No one expected dignity from Zahav blood. But this was too much.
He wasn't noble-like at all—more like a street thug. She couldn't sense Zahav's sole advantage, their innate strength, and even accounting for his Calypso origins, he seemed problematic in every way.
Just a frivolous bastard who got lucky.
That was Hilda's impression of the new Young Lord, and probably everyone else's in the room.
Hilda decided to abandon her last shred of hope for House Zahav. She resolved to throw a tantrum if needed and drag Calton away to Coral Territory or anywhere else.
"Well, shall we dive right in, headfirst?"
If not for the sudden murderous aura emanating from Enoch.
A chilling sensation like shoving your head into a beast's maw.
She reflexively gripped her sword before realizing it. The predator's savage gaze hidden behind that frivolous smile.
This was beyond mere strength.
It was a matter of presence as a being. The reason nobles were nobles. Not something honed or trained, but innate.
'Ah, so that's why...'
She finally understood why the strict head butler had brought Enoch into House Zahav without question, why he had assigned his precious granddaughter to him.
A Zahav raised in the trash bin had become the fiercest beast of all.
Nothing else mattered—he was undeniably Zahav-like. And that was enough for the head butler.
'Maybe even for Dad.'
Glancing at Calton, he had the sparkling eyes of a boy.
An expression unseen during the years when those with Zahav blood killed each other, none truly Zahav-like.
The south was always a place of life-and-death with dungeons and monsters. Worshipping the strong was practically instinct.
Even if it was a beast cub not yet fully grown.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
"Well, shall we dive right in, headfirst?"
Not content with summoning them abruptly, he now demanded obedience outright.
An outrageous act that would have anyone charging in with "Let's see you try!" if it were me.
Even if not that extreme, I expected at least some grumbling...
So why was no one rebelling?
There should be complaints like "This is too much" or "He's not even officially inherited the title yet— isn't he overstepping?"
Yet no one contradicted me, not even a peep.
This is tricky.
My original plan was to cower pathetically against those pointing out my rudeness, planting the image of someone with nothing but bloodline to boast about.
Naturally, eyes would turn to his legitimate sister, Jevella, born female but of the direct line.
I had even prepared a manual with anticipated patterns and responses...
But this renders half of it useless.
I sighed deeply and flicked my hand slightly, calling Karen who waited diagonally behind me.
Did she catch the gesture right away? She approached promptly and leaned in close to speak.
"What is it, Young Master?"
"...Hold on. I called you, but isn't this too close?"
"Pardon? This distance is necessary so others can't hear. Many here are active knights or former knights."
Karen spoke calmly, but the proximity was still burdensome to me.
Her breath tickled my ear with every lip movement, and a slight eye shift filled my view with her prim, expressionless face.
I froze momentarily, close enough to count her eyelashes. Then I remembered I was role-playing a tyrant and steeled myself.
A real tyrant wouldn't feel embarrassed—he'd revel in this and tease her back.
Recalling scenes from my childhood visits to my mother's workplace, the Brothel Ace, I spoke.
"Karen, don't be so stiff. Why don't you sit on my lap and act cute?"
"Even in this situation? As I mentioned before, the Young Master currently has no authority to command House Kesef."
"That's why I'm saying it now. And it's not a command—it's a request. A request. I really need this."
"A request, you say?"
"Yeah. In return, I'll grant one of your requests later. If it's possible, that is."
Did the offer appeal? After a moment's thought, Karen nodded.
"If we're exchanging requests... But even if necessary, that's too embarrassing."
"Tch. Too much, huh? How about this instead?"
I whispered an alternative—not as good as the first idea, but decent—and Karen slowly nodded.
Her face remained expressionless, but her cheeks were noticeably redder than usual.
"If it's that much... You must keep the promise."
"Of course! Want me to sign a contract later?"
"No need. I'll trust you this time, Young Master Enoch."
With confirmation, Karen stepped back half a pace.
Then, like the others, she knelt on one knee and bowed her head.
Just half a step away from me.
Due to the short distance, Karen's head naturally rested above my knee.
Her neatly arranged silver hair, shoulder-length, draped over my thigh, and I placed my hand on it as if waiting.
A small, round head felt through my palm. I savored the sensation briefly before starting to stroke.
Rough motions like ruffling hair, but pressing firmly with fingertips now and then—that was key.
Treating her more like a pet than a person.
It wasn't wrong, really—since I was petting like I used to with my old dog, who loved it.
Each touch made Karen twitch visibly, clearly enduring humiliation. I felt sorry... but no choice.
I'd grant a similar request later anyway, so no half-measures—do it right.
Steeling myself, I slid my hand lower, tickling not just her head but her nape.
"Eut...!"
Ticklish, perhaps? Karen covered her mouth, stifling emerging laughter.
Come to think of it, Karen once said House Kesef was quite unique even among Zahav retainers.
Long-time vassals from House Zahav's founding, yet holding no territory or titles. Instead, promised the closest seats.
A lineage handling Zahav's major and minor affairs generation after generation. Lacking power bases, but their honor universally acknowledged.
That was House Kesef.
They followed only the Patriarch's orders and couldn't be compelled until I completed the formal succession—which is why this worked.
Yet here I was, treating their only daughter so roughly. Surely someone would object.
Up to now, it had provoked those seeking to weaken the Patriarch and erode power.
This time, it would provoke House Zahav's loyalists.
And it worked. Soon, a middle-aged man shot to his feet, face flushed red and purple.
"Young Lord! Even if you are to become Zahav's master soon, this outrage cannot be tolerated!"
Bingo!