When they reached the outskirts of the tournament base, Andrew's group and Lusian's parted ways.
As Lusian entered the pavilion, he was immediately met by his mother, Sofia—who was clearly not pleased. Without hesitation, she reached out and pinched his cheek, her expression sharp with worry and frustration.
"Why were you so reckless?" she scolded. "I was worried sick about you."
Lusian remained calm, as always. "I was never in danger, Mother. Everything was under control."
Sofia narrowed her eyes, studying him carefully. She was not easily convinced—especially not when it came to her son. There was something she couldn't quite piece together.
"Then explain this," she said. "Why did you send Umbra to follow Prince Andrew?"
Lusian didn't hesitate. "I was planning to play a prank on that useless prince," he replied evenly. "But when I sensed he was in danger… I stepped in."
Sofia held his gaze, searching for any trace of deception. For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, slowly, she exhaled.
"I hope that's the truth, Lusian."
"It is," he said. "I swear it."
She wasn't fully convinced—but she chose to trust him.
Sofia knew her son well. Adventurous. Calculating. Sometimes dangerously impulsive. But also capable—far more than most realized.
And that… was what worried her the most.
That evening, the king hosted a small gathering at the tournament camp to announce the results and reward the participants. It also served as an invitation: in two days, a grand banquet would be held at the royal palace, marking both the end of the tournament and the opening of the academy's new academic year.
When the final standings were revealed, anticipation turned into excitement.
House Douglas claimed first place with 160,000 points, securing the grand prize of one million gold coins.
The Bourlance followed closely with 146,000 points, earning 900,000 gold.
The royal house, Erkhan, placed third with 143,000 points and 800,000 gold, while House Sneider took fourth with 136,000 points, receiving 700,000.
Further down the ranking:
Kessler: 124,000 points — 600,000 goldDenisse: 117,000 points — 500,000 goldCarter: 109,000 points — 400,000 goldMondring: 107,000 points — 300,000 gold
All remaining participants were awarded 20,000 gold coins in recognition of their efforts.
Relief, pride, and ambition filled the air. Some celebrated their victories. Others were already thinking ahead—to the next tournament, the next opportunity.
And above it all loomed the upcoming royal banquet.
Far from the celebration, deep within the capital…
In a lavish room inside a casino, a man lounged among several women, indulging himself—until a knock interrupted the moment.
"My lord, forgive the disturbance."
"What is it?" the man replied, irritation clear in his tone.
"They're here to see you, sir."
"Who dares interrupt me?"
"Your men, my lord… the ones you sent on that mission."
He stood immediately.
"They're back? About time."
As they walked through the corridors, Ambrosio tread carefully. The man he served had brought him immense profit—both in the Empire and within the kingdom—but he was not someone to be taken lightly.
"My lord… are you well?" Ambrosio asked nervously. "Shall I prepare more servants for you? Whatever you desire—"
(Pathetic bootlicker… If I hadn't secured his comfort, he wouldn't be this obedient. Disgusting.)
"That won't be necessary," Marcus replied coldly.
In a hidden chamber beneath the casino, twelve men knelt in silence.
Waiting.
Fearing.
Marcus Valentine entered.
"Where is Nic?"
"…I'm sorry, my lord. He's dead."
Marcus paused.
"A shame. He had potential." His eyes darkened. "And the mission?"
"…We failed."
Silence.
Then—
"What?!"
His voice exploded through the room.
"You useless trash… you couldn't kill a single boy?! What happened?!"
"The Douglas brat appeared," one of them said, trembling.
Marcus's expression sharpened instantly.
"Where are the others?"
"…We're the only survivors."
A dangerous stillness filled the room.
"You're telling me… thirty-eight Imperial soldiers died—and you still failed?"
No one dared answer.
Finally, one of them spoke:
"My lord… we could retaliate. We could attempt to assassinate Lusian Douglas—"
Marcus's glare cut him off like a blade.
"You're an idiot."
His voice dropped—quiet, lethal.
"What's your plan? Charge five thousand elite soldiers head-on? Sneak in at night just to be caught and tortured? Or maybe try killing him in broad daylight and alert every knight in the kingdom?"
The man lowered his head, shaking.
"Forgive my ignorance, my lord… we await your orders."
Marcus turned away, thinking.
Then—
"Contact the Denisse family. Tell them to halt everything. No movements. Not a single one."
"…Yes, my lord."
"This failure will alert the king," Marcus continued coldly. "And when that happens… they'll send their hunting dogs."
A faint, humorless smile crossed his lips.
"The Douglases."
When he was finally alone, Marcus clenched his fists.
For once—
Luck had turned against him.
And somewhere in the shadows of the kingdom, the consequences were already beginning to move.