"Right-hand man in Deep Coast City, huh?" Riley repeated, lifting his gaze only for a mont before casually returning to his food.
He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin, completely unfazed by the weight of the offer.
"It would be an honor, Duchess. Truly. But... I’m not feeling up for the job."
He paused just long enough for the tension at the table to sharpen.
"Honestly, I’ve grown to like it here in White Bone City. I’ve already settled into the rhythm of this place, and I have plans—important ones. So, thank you for the offer, but I’ll have to decline."
And just like that, he resud eating, picking up his chopsticks as though he were discussing the weather rather than refusing a position powerful enough to make most n kneel.
The silence that followed was thick.
Across from him, Duchess Monique blinked. Once. Twice.
Her lips parted, but no words ca out at first.
Her posture stiffened subtly, the fan in her hand lowering a fraction.
As the ruling pillars of Deep Coast City, she had grown accustod to people begging—begging—for a sliver of the influence she was offering Riley for free.
Yet the man before her had brushed her off without hesitation, without even looking troubled by the decision.
He was either a fool... or a monster with ambitions far too large to fit inside her expectations.
Around them, the banquet hall quivered with murmurs.
"Did—did he just reject the Duchess?"
"He did! I saw it! Is he out of his mind?!"
"If I were him I’d already be kneeling at her feet thanking her! That position is basically a golden ladder to power!"
"A handso face, empty brain... who knew the Butcher was just another brawny simpleton?"
"Are you insane? Keep your voice down! What if he hears you? Do you want your head decorating his gate by morning?!"
So people covered their mouths, whispering behind sleeves.
Others leaned closer, pretending to drink while listening intently.
Nobles exchanged glances—so curious, so stunned, so offended on the Duchess’s behalf.
The tension was palpable, thick enough to taste.
But Riley felt none of it.
He simply continued eating—calm, relaxed, almost serene.
Every movent told the sa story: this was the place he chose.
This was the city where he intended to get his fortuitous encounter.
And no amount of influence, wealth, or prestige dangled before him would shake that decision.
Duchess Monique finally gathered herself.
The flicker of surprise in her eyes softened into sothing far more complicated—interest, maybe even intrigue. She studied him quietly as he ate, as if seeing him anew.
"White Bone City, you say..." she murmured under her breath, barely audible.
And around them, the whispers only grew louder, more restless, more bewildered that the infamous handso butcher had, with complete indifference, declined a position n spent their entire lives dreaming of.
Most of the guests chose to remain silent, quietly savoring the spectacle unfolding before them.
In their eyes, tonight’s banquet had transford into a theater—one they hadn’t paid a single coin to attend.
Why intervene when the drama was richer than the wine being served?
Still, among every crowd, there were always a few restless monkeys desperate to climb the stage and swing at the center of attention.
"If I may intrude, Duchess Flint," a smooth, confident voice called out from behind.
A handso young man stepped forward, his chin lifted with the kind of arrogance only soone used to admiration could possess.
His embroidered sleeves shimred under the chandeliers, and he flashed a practiced smile as dozens of heads snapped toward him.
The mood among the watchers instantly brightened. More participants ant more entertainnt—and the nobles of White Bone City dearly loved entertainnt.
Every eye glittered with anticipation, eager to see what role this newcor intended to play in the rising tension.
But the Duchess?
She looked as though soone had interrupted her mid-sentence with a belch.
"No, you may not," she said, voice cold and clipped. "Please sit down, kind sir."
She didn’t even turn her head. Not one milliter of her attention was offered to him.
It was a dismissal so complete, so brutally efficient, that it felt like the young man had been swatted back into irrelevance with a single breath.
Her thoughts were obvious to everyone: Another fool trying to nominate himself for the position Riley just rejected.
The crowd inhaled sharply. A few winced. Others covered their mouths in poorly hidden amusent.
Humiliation blood on the handso young man’s face instantly.
The color drained from his cheeks, then returned twice as dark—angry, embarrassed, humiliated.
For a heartbeat, it seed like he might speak again, but a glance around the room told him all he needed to know.
Everyone was watching. Everyone was waiting to laugh.
And the Duchess would not entertain him further.
She simply continued gazing at Riley, who remained utterly engrossed in his al—chewing steadily, expression relaxed, as if the entire hall wasn’t hanging on his smallest reaction.
He ate with such single-minded focus, it felt like he was ignoring not just the drama, but the whole world.
That only made the crowd more fascinated with him.
anwhile the handso young man, chest tight and ears burning, forced himself to lower his gaze.
His steps back to his seat felt painfully loud in his own ears, though the room had gone deathly quiet.
He sat down stiffly, wishing he could sink into the floor or vanish under the tablecloth.
Tonight he had hoped to impress the Duchess... or at least show off in front of the elite.
Instead, he had beco nothing more than an extra in soone else’s story—an amusing footnote the crowd would whisper about later with stifled laughter.
And the banquet, now buzzing with renewed whispers, rolled forward without him.
A suffocating silence descended over Riley’s table—one so deep that even the musicians in the corner fumbled and faltered, their lody dying away as if the air itself had thickened.
The nobles nearby sat rigid, their spines straight as spears, eyes darting nervously between Riley and the Duchess.
It was the kind of silence that preceded storms... or executions.
Duchess Flint finally chose to break it.
"Tell , Riley," she murmured, her voice soft but carrying the weight of a guillotine’s blade.
"Do you not understand that I could have your head served on a platter if I so desired? Riley... the Handso Butcher."
Her words slithered across the table like ice, sharp and elegant, laced with lethal authority.
A few gasps rippled around them. A man in the second row nearly dropped his goblet.
Riley didn’t flinch.
Instead, he chuckled—quiet at first, then louder, warm, amused.
He picked up his napkin, wiped his mouth clean with the calmness of a man finishing dessert rather than facing a death threat, and leaned back comfortably in his chair.
He then flashed a carefree grin at the Duchess, unrestrained and almost boyishly charming.
"Duchess, my lovely Duchess," he began, shaking his head with a half-laugh.
"Many n have tried to take my head, you know. Strong n. Famous n. n who bragged that they’d make trophies of my skull."
He shrugged. "All of them failed miserably."
Several nobles swallowed hard. So leaned in despite themselves.
"But if you want my head so badly..." Riley placed a hand dramatically over his chest, eyes sparkling with mischief. "I’d lay down, close my eyes, and let you take it without a fight."
Murmurs erupted. The audacity was unimaginable.
Riley wasn’t done.
"I an—let’s be honest." He spread his arms wide. "If a man must die, better it be under the pretty hands of a beautiful woman... than under the rough, sweaty paws of so stinky man, right?"
He burst out laughing, loud and hearty, completely at ease.
The hall froze.
No one else laughed. They didn’t even dare to breathe too loudly.
He had just said that to the Duchess.
The Duchess who had executed n for using the wrong title... who had nobles whipped for standing too close... who had once ordered an entire family punished because their son had flirted with her favorite maid.
People had been killed for far less than a crude joke about dying at her hands.
Soone dropped a fork. Another person fainted quietly in the back.
The tension snapped.
"THUD! THUD! THUD!"
Heavy boots hamred against the marble floor as over a dozen armored guards surged forward, killing intent flooding the hall like a rising tide.
Their halberds glead under the chandeliers, ready to skewer Riley on command.
Screams and gasps filled the room as nobles stumbled back from the table, terrified to be caught in whatever carnage was about to unfold.
The guards were rely steps away from Riley when—
"Enough."
The Duchess raised her hand.
Instantly, her guards froze mid-stride, muscles straining, their blades re inches away from cutting the air.
A hush fell again.
Duchess Flint lowered her hand slowly, her eyes never leaving Riley.
Her expression was a tangled mixture—annoyance, disbelief, curiosity... and a faint hint of sothing dangerously close to amusent.
It was as if Riley’s idiotic boldness had scratched at a part of her that hadn’t been stirred in years.
The guests looked between them, breathless.
Was she angry? Intrigued? Offended? Entertained?
It was impossible to tell.
But one thing was certain—Riley had just stepped over a line no sane man would touch...
And he was still smiling.
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