After listening to Asa recount how his entire unit was annihilated on the mountain ridge, the knight captain exhaled deeply and bowed his head in contemplation.
Asa sat on a velvet-upholstered chair, his fingers rubbing against the plush, smooth fabric—something he'd only ever seen before, never touched.
The village's old pedant kept his holy scriptures in a box lined with that very same thin layer. At age three, he'd seen an older child merely pinch it between fingers—that hand was beaten so raw it couldn't hold a spoon for three days.
Such a noble, mysterious, and dangerous being—now reduced to being sat upon—left him feeling strangely unsettled, yet undeniably thrilled.
Duke Mullick had gone to the imperial capital for a military council meeting, and he was received by a young knight who claimed to be the duke's aide.
The knight's armor and sword were of the finest quality, bearing the emblem of the Paladin Orders—the same insignia Asa had seen on his captain's attire.
Young, handsome, valiant, with an imposing demeanor and noble status, paired flawlessly with a matching aristocratic air—he resembled the protagonist from the tales bards often sang of in his childhood.
It felt both peculiar and exhilarating that such a figure would sit as an equal, lost in contemplation over his report—a sensation akin to the chair incident, yet magnified tenfold.
"So you alone broke through the encirclement, were pursued, and fought the hunters in the Lizard Swamp…" The knight repeated Asa's account, enunciating each word with deliberate clarity and precision, as if afraid his words might be misheard or misunderstood.
Asa nodded. "That's right." The long journey had left him parched. He picked up the pitcher on the table and poured himself a cup, only to find it contained milk tea.
"Are you certain you were the only one who escaped?" The knight furrowed his brow, fixing Asa with an intense, aristocratic gaze as he slowly articulated each word, as though this were a matter of utmost importance.
Though he'd already confirmed it, Asa took a moment to carefully recollect before nodding again. "Yes. Only me." The milk tea tasted excellent, but the cup was frustratingly small. Asa kept refilling and draining it repeatedly.
Truthfully, he'd wanted to drink straight from the spout, but the ducal mansion's opulence and the knight's piercing stare made him feel too self-conscious.
The knight's brow relaxed slightly, only to furrow even more deeply as he pressed on with heightened gravity, "Then—have you spoken of this to anyone else?"
"No." Asa was quite certain about this. He had been on the move nonstop since emerging from the swamp. Even now, his left wrist was still wrapped in bandages.
Thanks to the healing runes and potions in his pack, they managed to reach the riverbank and float downstream on a dead tree to Bracada. When the local magistrate learned the injured girl was the daughter of Duke Mullick, he immediately summoned every priest and physician within fifty miles.
The broken ribs in Asa's chest had been set and, under the effects of healing magic, were no longer a serious concern—just somewhat fragile. But his left wrist had been shattered so severely that it took an entire day, with the help of butchers and coroners, to extract the bone fragments embedded in the flesh.
After passing out from the pain three times, they finally managed to reconstruct it roughly. An astonishing amount of healing magic and medicine eliminated the pain, but the risk of permanent disability remained. Now, Asa was pinning his hopes on Duke Mullick's wealth and influence, as well as the skill of the capital's priests.
"Then why didn't you report this to the commanding officer of your unit?" The knight continued with patient meticulousness, as if determined to scrutinize every minute detail.
His focused expression resembled that of a child, with a cautious intensity in his gaze, as if afraid the subject before him might suddenly vanish.
"Because I'm not entirely sure which command my unit falls under. I just saw temporary soldier recruitment notices in Bracada and enlisted."
Asa had considered asking about his fortnight's wages—those dozen-odd coppers owed—but glancing at the silver cup in his hand, he swallowed the question. "I asked Miss Yianni… about whom to report this to. She said His Grace the Duke serves as the Empire's Minister of War. I thought coming directly would be quicker."
"Ah, I see. Good, good. Excellent."
The knight's brow smoothed instantly, his relief palpable. His radiant smile matched the brilliance of his golden hair, infectious in its warmth—the very image of most maidens' fantasy suitor.
As if suddenly remembering, the knight inquired, "And Miss Yianni, she's…"
"Unharmed. The Bracada magistrate dispatched an entire caravan for her escort. She should reach the capital in about twenty days."
Yianni's cervical vertebrae fractured under the werewolf's grip, and during the swamp crossing, the injury worsened with slight bone displacement from movement. The priests of Bracada dared not intervene, only applying minor healing spells before immobilizing it with splints and transporting her slowly by carriage back to the capital.
"Mmm." The knight nodded. "On behalf of Lord Duke, I extend gratitude for your heroic rescue of Lady Yianni."
Pausing, he locked eyes with Asa, enunciating each word with deliberate clarity, "Moreover, your decision to report this matter directly to the ducal residence was exceptionally prudent. I believe Duke Mullick will be most pleased when informed."
His cerulean eyes brimmed with unconcealed delight, emphasizing, "Your fortune is remarkable, truly remarkable." The words carried unnatural weight, as though genuinely celebrating Asa's luck.
Yet inexplicably, Asa sensed unease beneath the knight's gleaming gaze—this wasn't benign approval, but rather a glint of malicious schadenfreude. "Just who are you…?" Asa demanded.
"Baron Clovis Erne, Captain of the Second Division of the Paladin Orders, and aide to Duke Mullick." The knight's gaze withdrew, his voice smooth and refined, perfectly matching these noble titles. "Fiancé of Lady Yianni."
"Huh?" Asa was surprised by the knight's final identity.
The knight stood up, his sword-like eyebrows slightly raised, eyes gleaming like blades. Not a trace of smile remained on his face, his expression so stern it seemed as if those features had never been softened by laughter. He barked sharply, "Guards! Seize him."
More than a dozen fully armed guards seemed to materialize from the ground at the hall's entrance, rushing in to surround Asa completely.
Before Asa could recover from his initial shock, he was plunged into an even greater surprise. He stood up and said, "There must be some mistake, I—"
The knight's hand chop gave Asa no time to react, striking precisely against the carotid artery in his neck. Asa immediately collapsed like an emptied sack, limp on the floor.
"Take him to the dungeons and ensure heavy guard - this is a critical spy." The knight's voice carried more menace than his glare, and the guards hastily dragged Asa away. "Saddle my horse and prepare the seal. I bear urgent military intelligence for His Grace at the palace."
For the Duke, this was perilously good fortune. And for himself as well. The knight reached for the teacup on the table only to realize he'd picked up the one Asa had used. When he lifted the pot, it proved empty.
*Clang* - the knight flung the cup aside and pointed at the velvet chair Asa had occupied. "Dispose of this cup, the pot, and that chair," he commanded, adding as he strode through the doorway, "See that none remain when I return."
The ducal household boasted not only efficient servants but swift steeds. Within minutes, the knight passed through multiple checkpoints to reach the military council chamber where Duke Mullick presided.
After hearing the knight's whispered report, the Duke smiled gently and addressed the assembled ministers in equally measured tones, "Pray excuse me, gentlemen. It concerns my wayward daughter - she's been injured during her… escapades."
In the garden outside the grand hall, the knight recounted to the duke every single word Asa had spoken to him in exact detail.
The duke listened intently with narrowed eyes. His small eyes, when narrowed, gave the illusion of a smile. His neatly trimmed mustache, paired with his slightly portly frame and round cheeks, made him resemble a kind, middle-aged merchant who believed harmony begets wealth.
"Your Grace, this matter is truly perilous. Fortunately, this soldier has fallen into our hands. Do you think this indicates a flaw on their side? Should we…" the knight inquired.
The duke's smile remained unwavering as he countered, "If I recall correctly, you've met them before."
"Yes."
"What kind of people did you find them to be?"
The knight took a deep breath, revealing an expression that seemed utterly foreign to his usual demeanor—a mix of defiance and poorly concealed dread, like a stubborn youth recalling a once-terrifying beast. Frowning, he insisted, "But this oversight is undeniable…"
"No one is immune to mistakes or missteps, and no one can control everything. Once a rational analysis has been made, one must trust their instincts and judgment. Even if errors occur, there's no room for regret or hesitation."
The Duke spoke like a teacher instructing a student, patiently explaining to the young knight, "Since we trust that they are far more skilled and efficient than us in handling such matters, we should focus solely on our own responsibilities. If a slip-up occurs, it might be due to uncontrollable factors, like luck—beyond our influence. At least, for now, everything seems fine. Don't you agree?"
"Yes," the knight replied earnestly, listening intently to the Duke's words. Serving under such a superior offered invaluable lessons at every turn.
A trace of concern flickered in the Duke's eyes as he asked, "How is Yianni's injury?"
"Likely nothing serious. The local magistrate dispatched an escort to bring the young lady back. She's already on her way."
The Duke shot the knight a mildly reproachful look and sighed softly before asking, "What did you do with that soldier?"
"Locked him in the city's dungeon, awaiting your judgment."
The Duke pressed, "What do you think my judgment will be?"
"Execution."
The Duke continued, "Where do you believe the danger lies with this soldier?"
"In revealing the circumstances he witnessed to others."
The Duke patiently guided the knight step by step, "Every minute he remains alive and in contact with others increases our danger. Since you already know how he should be dealt with, you must minimize his opportunities to interact with others while still breathing."
"I wished to await your decision, my lord. This matter carries significant weight."
"Do not be overly constrained by protocol. Rules exist to serve practical needs. In any circumstance, your own judgment and rational analysis must take precedence."
The Duke fixed his gaze on the knight, enunciating each word deliberately, "More importantly, you must possess the confidence to trust in your own judgment."
"Understood." The knight bowed his head, responding with forceful conviction.
When Duke Mullick returned to the council chamber wearing a genial smile, the ministers eagerly inquired after the condition of his daughter.
After expressing gratitude for their concern, the Duke proposed resuming their prior discussion.
"Regarding General's request for increased military funding to purge the western orc tribes - I give my full endorsement. The security of our nation and people must take priority. If this requires austerity elsewhere, so be it."
…
Asa groaned awake, rubbing his neck as he found himself sprawled across a pile of moldy straw. A rat scurried across his boots before vanishing into a crack in the dungeon wall.
Looking up, he saw that three walls were built of massive bluestone blocks, with only two slightly larger-than-fist ventilation holes letting in dim light. The remaining side had thick wooden bars, beyond which stood several more sets of bars—this was a frigid dungeon.
Only moments ago he had been in the resplendent halls of the ducal palace, yet now he found himself sprawled in a dungeon cell. The stark contrast made Asa's still-dazed head spin with confusion. He shook his head, struggling to piece together his memories, only to sink deeper into bewilderment.
Could it be that knight suspected some impropriety between me and his betrothed? Or perhaps he discerned I was responsible for her injuries? Asa meticulously scrutinized his own report in his mind—it was truly flawless.
He had polished the swamp incident story thoroughly on his way to the capital. Was this the knight acting on his own authority? Then the only recourse was to speak with His Grace directly.
Suddenly, Asa heard peculiar noises from the adjacent cell. The panting and moaning of a man and woman.
Before he could grasp what was happening, the dungeon door was kicked open with a bang. A skinny man dressed as a jailer rushed in, charging straight to the cell with the moaning sounds and kicking its wooden bars while yelling, "Get the hell out!"
From inside came a few exaggerated moans, then a chubbier jailer emerged slowly, pulling up his pants.
The skinny jailer shouted, "What the hell is this? Didn't we agree I'd go first?"
The fat jailer smacked his lips lingeringly and replied at his own pace, "Who told you to show up so late? You missed the shift change—I got impatient waiting."
The skinny jailer kept bellowing, "Screw you! You never wait so diligently on normal days. If I'm a few minutes late, you bitch for hours. But now you're in no hurry to leave, enjoying yourself here on my time. Why the hell should I clean up after you?"
The fat one remained unhurried. "Relax, what's done is done. No use arguing now. Suit yourself whether you take a turn… Or you could wait till she's released…"
The skinny one grew even more furious. "Go to hell—"
Asa approached the bars and called out to the two jailers, "I demand to see Duke Mullick—" His mind raced, plotting how to explain the situation to the duke.
"Go fuck your mother's cunt!" The skinny jailer spun around and lashed out with a kick, striking Asa squarely in the chest when he was completely off guard.
The sound of cracking bones echoed unnaturally clear in the silent dungeon. Several ribs that had barely begun to heal shattered again from the impact. Asa's chest convulsed as he toppled backward, his skull striking a protruding rock hidden beneath the straw. Darkness swallowed his vision as he lost consciousness.
The two jailers froze at the sickening crunch. They watched motionless as the prisoner collapsed lifelessly. The fat one frantically unlatched the gate, kneeling beside Asa to check for breath. "Shit! He's not breathing!" he yelped in panic.
His trembling hands pressed against the prisoner's chest. "Multiple ribs broken… I don't even feel a heartbeat."
The skinny jailer privately marveled at his kick's lethal force, but blustered with forced bravado, "Stop pissing yourself! Who gives a damn about dead prisoners? Told you my skills were army-grade! Back in my service days, ask anyone who—"
The fat jailer stared at him with terror, voice quivering like sifted grain, "This prisoner… he's a spy just delivered from Duke's manor. Orders said guard him carefully. Baron Klovis himself captured him… said he might come for interrogation later…"
The skinny one was still reveling in the godlike prowess of his lethal kick, glaring defiantly. "The fuck we scared of?"
As if even if the Baron himself came down here, he could just as easily kick him to death too.
After catching his breath slightly, his heart drummed uneasily—after all, with the recent uproar about heretics and spies, killing one might raise suspicions that he himself was a spy eliminating loose ends. And Baron's notorious severity was no joke.
At this thought, the skinny one's voice shrank a notch, "Lemme think this through properly…"
Not long after, just as the two jailers finished setting the stage, Sir Kravis arrived.
"Escaped?" The knight's face turned greener than the moss-stained dungeon walls.
The two jailers clutched their heads and necks, the skinny one gasping as if on death's door, "He said he was badly wounded—begged for a doctor. He was *your* high-value prisoner, m'lord. We feared he'd croak, so we went in to check… Next thing we knew, he knocked us cold and bolted."
To prove their diligence, they pointed at other cells, "Ask any convict here—they all saw it happen!" The dungeon echoed with half-dead murmurs of confirmation.
Clovis's eyes flashed with a murderous glare that could kill directly. Staring at the two jailers, he threw down a command: "Don't move from this spot until I return," then turned and sprinted out of the dungeon.
It wasn't until the footsteps had faded away for quite some time that the skinny man finally caught his breath. With a tone full of disdain, he grumbled, "Putting on such airs! Just because he was born into a better family. If I'd been born into the Erne family, I'd be a general by his age."
He noticed the fat man still trembling uncontrollably, paralyzed by fear from the knight's earlier glare, and felt his own heroic spirit rekindle.
So he patted the fat man's shoulder and said, "See? You wanted to handle the corpse yourself—wasting time and risking exposure. Why not just deliver it to old Sandro? He solves our problems much faster. If you'd done it your way, we'd never have made it in time."
The fat man was still trembling, his words slurred with fear, "That glare of his… it was terrifying."
The skinny one spat as he ranted, "Told you these noble brats love throwing their weight around—all bark, no bite. Just riding on family prestige. If he were some commoner, I'd kick him dead with one foot—" The fat man nodded absentmindedly, still haunted.
Whether it was the one speaking passionately or the one listening intently, both men remained rooted to the spot without moving a muscle.
Not long after—before their legs could even grow sore—Clovis returned to the prison after organizing the Royal Guards' manhunt across the capital.
"Did the prisoner speak with anyone here?"
"Not that we saw…" The thin jailer avoided Clovis' gaze, answering while staring at the wall behind him. The fat one just trembled, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Not… that you saw?" Clovis' voice carried both inquiry and murmured contemplation. The jailers dared not respond.
"Hmm." Clovis seemed to have resolved some internal quandary, nodding slowly to himself as if reaching a decision.
"No man is without error. Even when mistakes are made, the important thing is to remedy them. Regret and blame serve no purpose. Wouldn't you agree?"
The jailers noticed the knight's expression had softened—no longer that terrifying ashen hue, even bearing a glimmer of warmth in his eyes. His words sounded almost like absolution.
They exhaled in palpable relief. The thin one hastily agreed, "Yes, yes! We'll do everything to make it right."
"Good, good. That's the right attitude." Clovis placed his hands on the shoulders of both jailers, making them feel overwhelmingly honored.
The fat one completely lost his fear, thinking this handsome and amiable young noble was even more worthy of reverence than the statues in the chapel. The skinny one also admitted from the bottom of his heart that this rich young man was probably indeed slightly superior to himself.
"Thud." A dull sound reverberated through the dungeon air.
The corpulent and slender bodies collapsed entwined, as if sharing intimate camaraderie, their blood and brains mingling until indistinguishable. From the nearby cells where the scene was clearly visible, gasps of horror erupted.
Sir Clovis frowned with authority, his slow, measured tone reprimanding the rising shrieks like an adult scolding children, "What's all this noise? They merely fulfilled their responsibilities. You all have duties too."
Upon returning to the ducal manor, Duke Mullick showed no significant reaction upon learning of the prisoner's escape, calmly requesting only that the prisoner's personal effects be brought for his inspection.
Sir Clovis watched the Duke's calm demeanor with sincere admiration. This was a man who never revealed his thoughts, yet those slightly narrowed, smiling eyes seemed capable of piercing through the deepest secrets of anyone's heart. This was something Clovis strove to emulate.
Holding the knife carefully in his hands, the Duke narrowed his eyes further. He ran his fingers along the blade, lingering over its edge, then suddenly asked Clovis after a long silence, "What kind of knife do you think this is?"
Clovis examined it closely before replying, "It's not a standard-issue soldier's weapon from any official armory. It was forged in a private blacksmith's shop." He looked again, adding, "By a very skilled blacksmith."
"Correct. Made by an excellent blacksmith indeed. The angle of the blade, its length, the variations in thickness—all are masterfully crafted." The Duke paused, then asked, "Can you discern the relationship between this blacksmith and the one who wielded this blade?"
Clovis studied the knife intently but could find no clues. He had to admit, "I cannot tell."
"This blade is purely utilitarian, every functional aspect is meticulously crafted, yet devoid of any ornamentation—not even the most basic decorative touch. This suggests it wasn't forged for trade, nor even as a gift between friends. It bears the mark of a weapon made for one's own hand."
The Duke pondered briefly before inquiring, "What age would you estimate that soldier to be?"
"Approaching twenty years, perhaps."
"Had he forged this blade himself, he'd have needed to begin his blacksmith's apprenticeship in his mother's womb. The craftsman was surely an elder—likely his own father."
The Duke's deduction filled Clovis with awe. "The iron used in this blade is premium refined ore. How could a common smith's household—one who'd take up mercenary work—possess such quantities of fine ore? Unless…"
"Unless their home stood near ore-producing mountains," Clovis completed the thought. "I shall dispatch men to Kalund for investigation at once."
"Unnecessary. With less than an hour elapsed, our quarry remains within the city walls. Apply thoroughness to the search instead." The Duke set the blade aside. "Where is the chair he sat upon? The cup he drank from?"
"Ah… well… I ordered them discarded."
"Discarded?" Rare astonishment flickered in His Grace's eyes. "Why?"
"…I felt keeping items used by such a person in the manor would be downright sacrilegious."
The Duke stared at Clovis for a long moment. Though knowing His Grace wasn't angry or reproachful, Clovis still felt his spine tingle.
"You're still too young," the Duke concluded with a resigned tone as he withdrew his gaze. Then he issued the command, "Inform the commanders of the Royal Guards. This spy is extremely dangerous. Execute him on sight - no conversations permitted."
"Understood." Clovis bowed and withdrew. He had full confidence in the Royal Guards' efficiency. That soldier was probably already dead by now.
"Why is he still alive?"
Asa regained consciousness, the first words he heard were a complaint - the kind commonly heard in marketplace haggling, when some old hag discovered she'd been sold inferior vegetables or meat.