Due to an urgent matter, the two female generals had to excuse themselves early, leaving behind only one figure standing vigil—General Clayn, the stalwart protector of the city.
A brooding silence settled over the room, thick as storm clouds. Clayn remained seated, but his face was grim, brows furrowed like a man burdened with too many unspoken worries. His usually sharp eyes seed dulled, clouded by sothing that weighed heavily on his mind.
Damien, seated across from him, narrowed his gaze slightly. The change in the general’s deanor did not escape him.
"What is it, General Clayn?" he asked calmly, his voice even but laced with curiosity. He rarely saw Clayn rattled. Whatever was eating at him must be serious.
Clayn exhaled slowly, as if letting go of a deep and reluctant breath. He leaned forward, folding his gloved hands atop his knees.
"The people... are starting to grow restless," he said gravely. "They haven’t seen the king for far too long. Whispers are spreading in alleyways and marketplaces. I fear if this continues, so nasty rumors might spiral out of control."
He paused, then added with hesitation, "Moreover... the actions of the Church are becoming increasingly difficult to read."
His voice dipped lower at the ntion of the Church, almost as if uttering the words could bring unwanted ears to the chamber.
Damien nodded slightly, acknowledging the weight behind Clayn’s concerns. It was a valid fear. Even during his brief stay in the city, Damien had sensed sothing—an undercurrent of tension in the air. The streets felt quieter, eyes lingered longer than usual, and conversations stopped when soone in uniform passed by. A subtle shift, but not one to be ignored.
"They need so kind of distraction," Damien muttered to himself, fingers drumming lightly against the armrest of his chair.
But a distraction was not a true fix. It would only buy them ti—ti he desperately needed to address the real issue: his father. The king still lay silent and unmoving in his chambers, a fading beacon of authority in a kingdom on edge.
Thousands of thoughts surged through Damien’s mind like a tide threatening to spill over, but amidst the chaos, a decision crystallized.
He stood up with deliberate calm, his posture straight and commanding. His voice, when it ca, was sharp as a blade.
"Prepare for a royal ceremony," he announced. "I have so asures to declare."
Clayn blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in montum, but before he could respond, Damien had already begun to turn and make his way toward the exit.
However, just as he reached the threshold, Clayn rose to his feet and called out.
"Your Highness—wait."
Damien paused, his brow furrowing slightly. His back remained to the general, but there was a faint edge of irritation in the air.
What now?
He looked at the general and gestured for him to speak quickly.
Clayn straightened, his tone firm but tinged with urgency.
"Crown Prince, we’re facing a serious shortage of warhorses. Patrolling the outer forest regions has beco increasingly difficult. We need a new batch as soon as possible. Furthermore..."—his jaw tightened—"...there are growing reports that the Blood Fang are drawing closer to our borders."
"Blood Fang." Damien’s eyes narrowed, a cold gleam flashing within them.
That na again.
Ever since his transmigration, that gang had been a persistent thorn in his side—lurking, scheming, testing his rule from the shadows. He had always been too occupied to deal with them properly.
But now? Now he had the ti... and the resolve.
He would bury them—utterly and without rcy.
With a calm nod, he turned back to Clayn. "Leave it to . I’ll handle both issues—horses and hounds alike."
The general saluted sharply, relief flickering in his eyes before he turned and left.
That night, under a sky glittering with stars, a grand banquet unfolded within the golden halls of the Valthorn royal palace. Velvet curtains swayed gently as warm torchlight spilled across glimring chandeliers and polished marble floors. The aroma of roasted ats, fine spices, and sweet pastries filled the air. Minstrels played cheerful tunes while nobles in luxurious garnts toasted to the future.
Damien stood at the head of it all, regal in dark ceremonial robes trimd with gold, the Valthorn crest gleaming proudly across his chest.
With a commanding voice that silenced the hall, he declared,
"Tonight, I announce the founding of Valthorn Academy—an institute to train the brightest minds and strongest warriors of our kingdom. We will raise future generals, wise scholars, and guardians worthy of our na."
The crowd erupted into cheers. Applause rang like thunder across the banquet hall.
The people believed him. After all, they had already seen the transformative effects of his newly created bank—one that had revitalized trade and brought stability in re weeks. If that was any indication, this academy would not just help them. It would elevate the kingdom to new heights.
As the night wore on, laughter flowed with the wine, and joy echoed through every corridor. Hope—true hope—had returned to the hearts of Valthorn’s citizens.
It wasn’t until the bells tolled past midnight that Damien finally excused himself from the festivities and made his way toward his private quarters.
The corridor was quiet, lined with flickering lanterns casting long shadows on the smooth stone walls. His boots echoed softly with each step.
He furrowed his brows.
"Why haven’t Naomi and Mother returned yet?" he muttered, a twinge of unease rippling beneath his composed exterior.
According to what Damien had heard, Naomi and his mother had only gone to collect sothing from the nearest city. They’d gone alone, save for a few elite guards. It wasn’t unusual.
By now, though, they should’ve already returned.
Damien paused at the window, staring out at the darkened city beyond. The wind rustled through the trees lining the palace courtyard, the moonlight casting silver shadows across the stone walls.
Still, he shook his head and dispelled the creeping concern.
With his mother accompanying her, there shouldn’t be any danger. She was far from ordinary.
Only a group of Gold Rank experts could pose a real threat to them, Damien reasoned. And in such a remote region, where would one even find a team of Gold Rankers lurking around?
His lips curled into a faint smile at the absurdity of his own thoughts. The world wasn’t kind, but it wasn’t always cruel either.
So, he let go of the tension in his chest.
After a short ditation session to calm his spirit and stabilize his Amma, Damien finally lay down. His eyes closed the mont his head hit the pillow.
And for the first ti in a long while... he truly slept.
There were no dreams. No mories from Earth, no visions of war, no political burdens looming in the dark corners of his mind. Just silence.
Even Baron Arctic—usually a restless presence within his spiritual space—remained quiet tonight, as though sensing Damien’s need for rest.
When the first light of dawn began to creep over the eastern hills, Damien still slept.
Only when the sun had already risen high into the sky did his eyes flutter open.
Golden rays filtered through the drapes, lighting up the room with a gentle warmth. Damien stretched slightly, savoring the rare mont of calm. Then, as his awareness fully returned, he sat up with a soft grunt.
But before he could even make it to the wash basin, he sensed soone outside his door.
A familiar aura.
Devrok?
A few monts later, fully dressed and composed, Damien stepped out of his chambers.
There, pacing restlessly outside the door, was Devrok Harrier.
His heavy boots echoed faintly in the quiet corridor. His brows were furrowed, his jaw clenched, and there was a tension in his shoulders that Damien hadn’t seen in days.
The mont Devrok noticed him, he turned sharply.
"Damien," he said, voice low and tight. "We need to talk. Now."
Damien imdiately asked, "What is it?"
Devrok didn’t answer right away. He stood there, unmoving, his gaze distant—as if caught in a storm of thoughts.
Only when Damien’s voice cut through the haze did he blink and finally look at him.
"You’re finally up." Devrok exhaled, his voice low and troubled. "Sister-in-law and mother... they still haven’t returned."
Damien stopped cold. His expression darkened in an instant.
"Haven’t returned yet?"
The question left his mouth in a low growl, but he already knew the answer. A knot twisted in his chest, and a cold sensation crawled up his spine.
Sothing had gone wrong.
He didn’t hesitate. Turning on his heel, he barked, "Tell everything. We’re leaving—now!"
Devrok followed without delay, falling in step beside him as the two marched down the hallway with quick, determined strides.
"They left early morning yesterday," Devrok explained. "They said it would be a quick trip to the trade city of Riverfall. It’s not far—half a day’s ride. They only took a dozen guards."
"That’s it?" Damien’s voice was sharp, his tone rising.
"They didn’t want to attract attention. They went in disguise, kept a low profile."
Damien’s fists clenched.
The palace staff scrambled out of their way as they passed, sensing the rising storm in their prince’s expression. Mana flickered subtly across Damien’s shoulders—his agitation barely restrained.
"When was the last report?"
"Last contact was a ssenger falcon that returned last night. Said they were on their way back and expected to reach before midnight." Devrok’s jaw tightened. "They never arrived."
Damien’s pace quickened.
By the ti they reached the front courtyard, his mind was racing. All sorts of scenarios played in his head—ambush, betrayal, beast attack—but the one thing he was certain of...
This wasn’t random.
If soone had dared touch his family, they had no idea what hell they had just invited into their lives.
"Ready the scouts. I want eyes in the skies and the roads between here and Riverfall combed."
"Yes, Prince," Devrok nodded, already sending out signals to the nearby guards.
"And Big brother..."
"Yes?"
"If they’ve hard even a hair on their heads, I don’t care who they are—rchant lord, rebel, noble, or beast... I’ll burn Riverfall to the ground."
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