The golden star reached the zenith of the firmament—three and one-third measures high.
Dawn had not yet broken.
Duke Baron rolled his stiff neck, tearing his gaze away from the endless starry sky to glance once more at the palace square before him. It was the dead of night, and with autumn setting in, the sun would rise much later than usual. Even so, the square was already dotted with nobles clad in luxurious finery, huddling in small groups to converse in hushed tones. This was the usual scene before a court council. Every ten days, the high-ranking officials and nobles of the capital would gather here, waiting for the palace gates to swing open. Then they would file into the hall to deliver their routine reports to His Majesty the King and receive his decrees. In the time before the council began, some would rehearse their speeches meticulously; others would seize the opportunity to curry favor with potential allies. Still, there were those who came unprepared, content to idle away the time with trivial chatter.
But today, without exception, every noble present—whether they were usually preoccupied with state affairs or not—was discussing one thing and one thing only: the disaster that had befallen the Church of the Divine Light the previous night.
In the royal capital, even the smallest triviality could spread like wildfire among the nobility in the blink of an eye, let alone an event of such magnitude. In fact, upon hearing the news, many nobles had scarcely slept a wink, keeping a close watch on the church's movements and speculating about its next move. Of course, the nobles were well-informed about the exact details of what had transpired. The archbishop had issued no gag order, and among the worshippers present at the church that night were several nobles. Thus, they had quickly obtained firsthand, detailed intelligence. And after learning the full story, nearly every noble had been left dumbfounded with shock.
They marveled at Blake's audacity. For decades across the continent, no one had ever dared to storm the Church of the Divine Light, kill its men without hesitation, and extort a massive ransom from it. It was an act of unprecedented boldness. If they had been in Blake's shoes, not one of them would have had the courage to provoke the church. Yet this young man had dealt the church a humiliating slap in the face, trampling its pride into the dirt and taking his audacity to the extreme.
They were equally astounded by Blake's power. To slay two Divine Light Knights who had attacked him simultaneously in the blink of an eye—his strength was beyond all comprehension. What was more, according to reliable reports, almost no one had clearly seen what the young man had done, or even identified the school of swordsmanship he wielded. Yet one fact was undeniable: his strength was so overwhelming, so tyrannical, that resistance was futile.
As for the Church of the Divine Light's response, it had taken everyone completely by surprise. Originally, many nobles had assumed that the church was merely biding its time, that it would immediately send a report to the Holy See and then launch a retaliatory strike. But to their utter astonishment, the church had taken no action whatsoever. The nobles' intelligence networks had confirmed that the church had sent an urgent dispatch to the Holy See overnight, but since then, the Holy See had remained eerily silent. It had not sent a single envoy to protest to the royal family, nor had it issued any statement in response. The church branch in the capital, for its part, seemed intent on burying the incident, focusing all its efforts on treating the wounded. Although countless worshippers had flocked to the church gates after hearing the rumors, hoping to glean some information, the church had kept its doors tightly shut. Not even the archbishop had deigned to appear to clarify the situation or make a public announcement.
Frankly speaking, the nobility and the church had never seen eye to eye. While some nobles dabbled in religion in pursuit of "higher spiritual enlightenment," their piety paled in comparison to that of the common folk. Thus, many nobles secretly rejoiced at the church's misfortune. Of course, the nobility was a class driven by self-interest. Though they relished the church's humiliation, they knew it was only a fleeting pleasure. If the church were to retaliate in earnest, it would be the nobles who would suffer the consequences. So their satisfaction was tempered with caution.
Now, whether they were devout believers or staunch atheists, whether they secretly rejoiced or felt a mix of schadenfreude and anxiety, the nobles all sensed a clear message in the church's silence: they were afraid to provoke this young man. Even after he had killed their men, extorted their gold, and insulted them to their faces, the Church of the Divine Light had chosen to remain silent rather than lash out in anger.
There could be only one explanation for this: the young man was backed by a force so powerful that the church dared not oppose it.
Of course, even the nobles who had reached this conclusion found it hard to believe. After all, on this continent, the two most transcendent powers were undoubtedly the Mage's Guild and the Church of the Divine Light, followed by the great kingdoms of the realm—and now, perhaps, the Sith Empire. But regardless of their standing, these were all ancient organizations and nations with vast memberships and sprawling influence. And who did this young man represent? His status as a noble of Wester was insufficient; while Wester was no small kingdom, it was hardly powerful enough to make the church back down. According to another piece of intelligence, this young lord was closely allied with the Mage's Guild—but that was certainly not the reason for the church's timidity. After all, the two factions were evenly matched in strength. The church would never do something as foolish as voluntarily undermining its own prestige.
So what was it about this young man that had forced the Church of the Divine Light to acknowledge his authority?
The nobles racked their brains, but they could not find an answer. It was true that Blake's strength was formidable—that much they had confirmed. But a single man's power could never explain the church's capitulation. The church's influence spanned the entire continent. If it truly wanted to, it could wear him down through sheer numbers and attrition. Generally speaking, when a power backed down in the face of such provocation, there were only two possible reasons: either the opponent was too weak to warrant a major response, or the opponent was so powerful that it could annihilate the entire church, forcing it to proceed with extreme caution.
But could such a power even exist?
At this moment, the nobles in the palace square were debating this very question, dispersing into small clusters to exchange their views and speculations in private.
"It can't be the Mage's Guild. Even if one of the Guild's Twelve Star Mages had killed someone in the church, the Divine Light Church would never have let it slide. What's more, no matter how close this young man is to the Guild, he is not a mage. It's highly unlikely the Guild would go to such lengths to protect him."
"Could he be the illegitimate child of some archmage, then? There's no shortage of arrogant, spoiled brats among the mage clans…"
"Someone with this level of swordsmanship is a rarity. Besides, none of the Twelve Star Archmages are married—where would they get a child? What's more, this young man is a swordsman. Even if the Mage's Guild has a few secret sword techniques, they could never be powerful enough to kill a Divine Light Knight with a single strike. If that were the case, the Guild would have crushed the church ages ago."
"But he's a noble of Wester… Does anyone know of any family in our kingdom that possesses such power?"
As the nobles chattered away, a clear, crisp bell suddenly rang out. The palace gates creaked open slowly, and another carriage rolled into the square, coming to a stop at the side.
At the sight of this carriage, the nobles involuntarily lowered their voices, their attention snapping to it as one. For the carriage, glowing with arcane light, bore the unmistakable emblem of the Mage's Guild.
The carriage halted beside the square. A coachman dressed in the Guild's livery jumped down from his seat, bowed respectfully, and pulled open the carriage door. Blake stepped out.
Blake's attire was no different from usual. A tailored black tailcoat accentuated his tall, lean figure, and his signature elegant, gentle smile played on his lips. Of course, the longsword at his waist was still there, unchanged. Glancing at the square before him, Blake smiled faintly. He was well aware of the countless eyes fixed on him, but he paid them no mind. He merely raised a hand to adjust his cravat, then stepped aside, extending his right hand toward the carriage in a gesture of perfect chivalry.
A moment later, a slender arm emerged from the carriage, placing itself in his hand. Ophelia stepped out next.
The instant she appeared, the entire palace square fell completely silent.
Unlike Blake, Ophelia was not dressed in her usual scholarly attire today. Instead, she wore a formal evening gown—a flowing white dress that hugged her slender, graceful figure, paired with elbow-length gloves and a matching shawl that added an air of regal elegance. Unlike many noble ladies and princesses, Ophelia had not adorned herself with flashy jewelry or gems. Her natural poise, combined with her beautiful violet hair that shimmered with the luster of life, was more than enough to capture the gaze of every person present.
The younger nobles were transfixed by her beauty, while the older ones stared in stunned disbelief. Of course, they had all heard rumors that Blake was accompanied by a young woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to the late Princess Ophelia. But intelligence reports were nothing more than cold, lifeless words on a page. It was only when the young woman stood before them in the flesh that they felt the air shift, as if the very atmosphere of the square had calmed in her presence. Even the heated discussions of moments ago now seemed distant and trivial in comparison. One could imitate a person's appearance and mannerisms, but this ability to alter the very mood of a room was something uniquely her own.
"Is it really Her Royal Highness Princess Ophelia?"
"By the Divine Light… Am I losing my eyesight?"
"Someone tell me what in the world is going on!"
The circumstances surrounding Ophelia's death had always been shrouded in mystery, and many nobles had harbored doubts about it at the time. But back then, she had been just a princess with no claim to the throne, not a prince. In the end, the investigation had been quietly dropped. However, since King Wester V ascended the throne, many nobles had come to bitterly regret his reign, acutely aware of the vast chasm between him and the late Princess Ophelia. This man was nothing like the wise, just monarch they had hoped for—he was not even half the ruler she would have been. In the years since her death, many had found themselves longing for the princess they had lost, and their doubts about her demise had resurfaced. But she was gone, and the dead could not be brought back to life. And the nobility, as always, had to continue their lives. So eventually, they had chosen to bury their suspicions deep within their hearts, abandoning any hope of uncovering the truth.
But now, Ophelia's sudden reappearance had torn those long-buried doubts from the depths of their souls and laid them bare for all to see.
What in the world was happening?
This was the question burning on the lips of every elderly noble who had known Princess Ophelia—and more than half of the nobles eligible to attend the court council were members of these old, established families.
At that moment, a deep, resonant bell tolled, and the palace hall's massive doors swung open slowly. But no rays of sunlight appeared on the distant horizon.
Instead, the sky was overcast with dark, heavy clouds.
At the sound of the bell, the nobles reluctantly set aside their inner turmoil and filed into the hall. The court council was about to begin.
The magnificent royal palace was no different from usual. King Wester V sat on the throne at the head of the hall, staring down at the assembly below, a vague sense of unease stirring in his heart. The marble floors that usually sparkled with a brilliant luster now seemed harsh and glaring to his eyes. What was more, after the nobles entered the hall, he could not help but feel that the atmosphere had shifted in some strange, intangible way…
And then he saw Ophelia walking toward him.
For a split second, Wester V nearly jumped to his feet. His hands clamped down tightly on the armrests of the throne, his jaw clenched so hard it ached. Only the dignity and responsibility of his crown kept him seated. Even so, he could feel his heart pounding wildly in his chest. Like the other nobles, he had always dismissed the woman as an impostor—a fraud who had somehow disguised herself as Princess Ophelia to swindle and deceive. But now, as she stood before him, all his previous doubts and speculations vanished into thin air. Though he refused to admit it, his instincts screamed at him that this young woman was the very person he had once known so well.
Then his gaze fell on Blake.
Looking at the young man, Wester V finally managed to steady his racing heart. A surge of anger replaced his earlier panic. This damned man was the source of all this trouble! And now he had brought an even bigger problem to his doorstep! No matter how powerful he was, this was the royal capital—his capital! And everyone standing in this hall was his subject!
With this thought, Wester V straightened his back instantly, fixing Blake with a cold, unyielding stare, his lips pressed into a thin line. The traces of panic that had clouded his features moments ago were gone without a trace.
He had grown up.
At that moment, Ophelia looked up at the figure on the throne and sighed softly to herself. The little boy she remembered from her childhood—the boy who had always followed her around, calling her "sister"—was now a grown man. In this instant, Ophelia truly felt the passage of time, the inexorable march of years. Everyone she had loved was gone, and the boy she had once tried to protect had grown up… matured… and become king.
Not a single noble spoke. All eyes were fixed on Blake and Ophelia. The former strode down the red carpet at the center of the hall with a relaxed, confident smile, exuding an inexplicable aura of danger. The latter walked with her eyes slightly lowered, her posture the epitome of royal perfection—noble, elegant, and flawless in every way.
"By your command, we are here, Your Majesty," Blake said, stopping before Wester V. He placed his right hand on his waist and bowed in a perfect noble's salute, his smile never fading. Ophelia did not speak; she merely lifted the hem of her gown slightly and curtsied in greeting.
"Are you Blake Felix? Lord of Twilight Forest?" Wester V's gaze flicked to Ophelia, his heart a jumble of conflicting emotions, before he resolutely turned his attention back to Blake. For some reason, the sight of Ophelia's melancholy eyes filled him with a sense of unease and disquiet.
"We have received a formal protest from the Sith Empire. They claim that you led your forces to attack their border defenses and clashed with their patrols. Is this true?"
At Wester V's words, many nobles frowned in displeasure. Regardless of the facts of the matter, he was their king. While Wester V had clearly intended to phrase his question in an objective manner, his position as King of Wester meant that he could not afford to be neutral—he was obligated to defend his own people. Even if their side had struck first, he should have denied it outright! Yet here he was, parroting the Sith Empire's accusations verbatim. Whose side was the king on, exactly?
"I have no recollection of any such incident," Blake replied with an elegant smile, his answer taking everyone by surprise.
"If we are speaking of border clashes, the only event I recall from ten days ago is this: a Sith Empire scout unit launched a probing attack on my forces and was repelled with heavy losses. Could this be the incident you are referring to, Your Majesty?"
"So according to your account, you did not take the initiative to attack them?" Wester V already loathed Blake, and the young man's casual, dismissive tone only fueled his anger. His question was clearly intended to trap Blake. But Wester V failed to notice that the expressions of his noble subjects were growing increasingly discontented. This was the way a Wester lord should speak! What do you mean "we invaded them"? It was they who came looking for trouble! Of course, there was no concrete evidence to prove either side's claims—it was a case of he said, she said. But Your Majesty, you are not a neutral third party! Instead of supporting our lord's version of events, you are questioning him? What exactly are you trying to accomplish here?
"Of course not, Your Majesty," Blake nodded firmly, his voice ringing with conviction.
"I swear this on my honor. What's more, General Celt can vouch for the truth of my words."
"But according to our intelligence, General Celt did not personally witness how the conflict began," Wester V pressed on, clearly determined to use this incident to humiliate Blake. But his words only served to further alienate the nobles. Did the king even remember which side he was on?
Observing the reactions of those around her, Ophelia sighed softly to herself. It seemed that even the passage of time could not change a person's true nature. She knew her younger brother all too well—once he set his mind on something, he would ignore everything else. And now, he was so fixated on asserting his authority by suppressing Blake that he had lost sight of something far more important: his duty as king.
"Then how do you intend to prove your innocence, Blake Felix?" Wester V demanded.
"I do not need to prove anything," Blake's tone suddenly turned sharp, though his smile remained as soft and elegant as ever. Yet every person in the hall could hear the unshakable resolve in his voice.
"My word is the truth. That is all. I have no need to prove myself, nor do I have any reason to admit to false accusations, Your Majesty."
"Insolence!" Wester V slammed his fist down hard on the armrest of the throne, roaring with fury.
"As a subject of this kingdom, you have a duty to report all military matters to me, and to await my decision! You have no right to stand here spouting empty words without a shred of evidence to back them up!"
Utterly foolish.
Ophelia closed her eyes. She did not need to look to know how displeased the nobles around her were.
But apparently, their king was completely oblivious. Clearly, he believed he had caught Blake in a trap and was determined to press his advantage, to crush his opponent once and for all.
"However," Wester V continued, a triumphant smile spreading across his face, "even though you have no evidence to prove your innocence, as a hero who defended our border fortresses, I will not punish you rashly."
"Here is my decree: from this day forth, you and your troops are to obey my orders without question. Any and all military actions you wish to take must first be relayed to me through General Celt. You are forbidden to act without my explicit consent. Should you dare to defy this command, it will be deemed an act of treason against the crown! Do you understand?"
"Your Majesty," before Blake could respond, Duke Baron could contain himself no longer. The king had never been particularly astute, but he had always been passable. What on earth had gotten into him today? Had his intelligence plummeted overnight?
"Military matters are urgent, and the battlefield is ever-changing. By issuing such an order… are you certain it is wise?"
"What is there to question?" Wester V cut Duke Baron off sharply before he could finish his sentence.
"Even if he spots enemy forces, reports it to General Celt, and Celt then reports it to me—the entire process will take no more than four or five minutes. Can the tide of battle really turn in such a short span of time? It is precisely this kind of recklessness and lack of restraint that has put our kingdom at such great risk!"
At these words, Duke Baron opened his mouth, then closed it again, utterly lost for words. He finally understood: the king's only goal was to put Blake in his place, no matter the cost…
"I have heard your command, Your Majesty," Blake said, much to everyone's surprise. He nodded calmly, showing no hint of anger or resentment. But his next words shattered any illusions they might have held.
"However, I must respectfully decline."
"Why?" Wester V's face darkened instantly, his voice cold and menacing. In response to the king's question, Blake's smile remained as relaxed as ever as he replied.
"It is simple. I stand here today not as your subject, but as the master of Twilight Forest… Do you understand now, Your Majesty?"
Frankly speaking, upon hearing this, not only did Wester V fail to comprehend, but the other nobles were equally baffled. Twilight Forest was part of the Wester kingdom's territory, and Blake was its lord—so he was naturally a subject of Wester. Was there some flaw in this logic that they were missing?
"Allow me to rephrase," Blake shrugged, seeing the confused looks on everyone's faces, and continued with a smile.
"For a long time, Twilight Forest has been a territory entrusted to your kingdom for safekeeping and administration. Now, we have returned. And we are here to reclaim what is ours. My trip to the capital was merely to report this fact as a courtesy—to say hello to Your Majesty, and to thank you for looking after our land for so long… That is all."
"Blasphemy!" Wester V could contain his anger no longer. He shot to his feet, pointing an accusatory finger at Blake.
"Twilight Forest has been an inviolable part of Wester's sacred territory since time immemorial! Who do you think you are, daring to speak such treasonous words!"
"I am beginning to seriously question how you ever became king," Blake sighed, shaking his head. In the blink of an eye, his right hand flipped upward, and his jet-black longsword slid out of its sheath with a sharp *shing*!
*Crack!*
The dark blade plunged into the marble floor beneath his feet without the slightest resistance. Black energy erupted outward in an instant, spreading across the stone like ink on paper. As the dark lines crept onward, a triangular emblem—a sword crossed with a rose—was etched into the floor.
"I stand here," Blake declared, his voice ringing out clearly through the hall, "in the name of the Commander of the Knights of the Apocalypse, to announce that the Knights of the Apocalypse shall return to this continent once more! In accordance with the trusteeship treaty signed between our order and your kingdom, I hereby reclaim the territory that belongs to the Knights of the Apocalypse. From this moment onward, Twilight Forest is no longer a part of your kingdom. It shall be restored to the governance of the Knights of the Apocalypse!"
At these words, the faces of the surrounding nobles turned ashen white. They stared at the young man before them, stepping backward in unison, their bodies trembling uncontrollably.
The Knights of the Apocalypse!
They were back!