A Few Monts Ago, Inside the eting Hall
The atmosphere inside the eting hall was thick with tension. Dim sunlight filtered through the high arched windows, casting long shadows across the marble floor and the heavy wooden conference table that stood at the room’s center like a silent witness to the storm brewing within.
Seated around it were three of the kingdom’s most formidable powerhouses—General Clayn, Iron Fist, and Rebecca. Each wore an expression carved from stone, their faces unreadable yet heavy with unspoken thoughts.
They had all received the devastating news the previous night. General Felix—once the unshakable wall of the southern front—had fallen. But it wasn’t fate that shocked them; it was the manner of his defeat.
Clayn had reacted with imdiate disbelief. His voice had thundered through his quarters as he cursed the ssengers, threatening to shatter their legs if they dared spread falsehoods in the na of the honoured general.
But the soldiers hadn’t flinched. Despite the threat of violence, their accounts had remained unchanged—firm, unwavering.
Unwilling to believe, Clayn had left the northern gate under the cover of darkness, riding with grim purpose beneath the pale moonlight toward the southern outpost.
And what he saw there had chilled him to the marrow.
General Felix—once a living symbol of might and command—was now a broken husk. Limbless. Tied upright to an iron pole like a slaughtered beast awaiting burial.
The blood had dried, the wounds had festered, but the image was branded into Clayn’s mind.
Rumors whispered that the one responsible for this humiliating defeat was none other than the newly awakened crown prince, Damien Harrier.
Clayn had scoffed at first. How could that be? Yes, the boy had perford admirably in the battle against the Armoured Rats, but those were brainless beasts—far removed from the skill and ruthlessness of a seasoned Silver-ranked False Path warrior like Felix.
There had to be more to the story.
Before his thoughts could spiral any further, the door creaked open.
The clack of polished boots echoed in the silence as a tall figure entered the chamber. Damien strode in, clad in a sleek black long coat that brushed his calves with every step. A commanding presence seed to trail in his wake, not loud or overwhelming—just natural. Earned.
He didn’t hesitate. He offered a polite smile, then moved to the head of the table, sitting with the quiet confidence of soone who had already won a war only others were waking up to.
Clayn’s eyes narrowed slightly. The prince’s posture was too relaxed, too self-assured. It wasn’t arrogance—it was certainty that ca from confidence in your own abilities. That alone made Clayn frown deeper.
Iron Fist’s gaze was fixed on Damien from the mont he entered. There was curiosity there, but also calculation. The gears behind her stern face were already turning, asuring the boy—not as a royal, but as soone equal.
Then there was Rebecca.
Fiery, sharp-tongued, and proud, she leaned forward in her seat, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to contain the spark building within her. Her red hair shimred like a fla beneath the light.
With a smirk tugging at her lips, she spoke without any reservations, her voice cutting through the silence.
"Let’s have a duel, crown prince."
Her eyes glimred, her body shifting subtly as if she might leap across the table and throw the first punch right then and there.
Clayn looked scandalized.
This little brat...!
But Damien didn’t seem fazed. Instead, he offered the sa small smile and responded in a calm, steady tone.
Then, addressing everyone in the room, he began to speak.
"All of you might already be aware," he said, his voice steady, commanding yet without bravado, "but let repeat it for formality’s sake."
"Due to unfortunate circumstances, we have lost General Felix. Appointing soone who can guard the southern front is now a matter of urgent importance."
He paused, letting the weight of those words settle over the room like a velvet curtain.
"Tell —do you have a candidate in mind?"
His gaze swept across the table, sharp yet composed. He wasn’t just asking; he was probing—testing their thoughts, their loyalties, their sense of responsibility.
He already had soone in mind, but this was not the ti to act unilaterally. Listening, gauging their reactions—that was the strategy of a ruler, not a re soldier.
Iron Fist nodded in agreent, her brow furrowed.
She didn’t need reminding. The Southern Gate stood dangerously exposed, and without a new commander, it would beco a bleeding wound the Blue Hamr Kingdom would be more than eager to exploit.
Why rely harass the Valthorn Kingdom when you could plunder it entirely?
And yet, Iron Fist knew better. Blue Hamr had always been wary of claiming Valthorn outright. It wasn’t out of rcy—it was strategy. Conquest ca with burdens.
Should they annex Valthorn, the responsibility of defending its borders from the endless beast hordes would fall on them. And that, they didn’t want.
But looting? Pillaging? Reducing the city to a husk that barely clung to survival?
That was well within their plans.
Now that the agenda of the eting had been laid bare, the weight of responsibility settled over the chamber like a dense fog. The air was still, filled with anticipation as one by one, nas began to be offered up for consideration.
"Hmm... Burning Hawk from the Eastern Gate is also suitable," Clayn said thoughtfully, stroking the edge of his chin. "He’s at peak Iron Rank. Given the right push, he could break into Silver soon enough."
Damien remained silent, his expression unreadable. He neither nodded nor frowned.
Clayn glanced at him, hoping for a reaction. But the prince gave him nothing—only the stillness of soone who was listening intently yet withholding judgnt. Taking that silence as quiet disapproval, Clayn continued without pause.
Iron Fist chid in here and there, occasionally offering brief comnts or corrections, but she mostly stayed reserved, watching Damien closely. Rebecca, by contrast, remained entirely silent. She had leaned back in her chair, arms folded, her sharp eyes glinting with a strange sort of interest—waiting, watching, letting the others talk.
Damien didn’t rush.
He waited, letting the list of candidates rise and fall like the tide. Each na was weighed and dismissed in his mind, but he said nothing.
And then—
"Sword Master Anek..."
The na floated across the table like a spark carried on the wind.
A flicker of a smile appeared on Damien’s lips. Subtle, but unmistakable.
Clayn saw it instantly.
That was it. That was the na Damien had been waiting for.
He exhaled softly and leaned forward with a knowing tone. "Sword Master Anek is indeed a capable individual."
Damien gave a short, approving nod.
"Inform him of his appointnt," he said with finality. "During the ceremony to honor the martyrs today, we’ll make the announcent official."
His tone was clipped and decisive.
Then, as if rembering sothing crucial, Damien turned his gaze toward Clayn.
"By the way, General Clayn, I trust the preparations for the ceremony are complete?"
Clayn answered with a solemn nod. "Yes, everything is ready."
A brief smile returned to Damien’s face as the eting progressed smoothly. The tension in the room had started to loosen, the conversation now flowing with more ease.
But just as he was about to bring the eting to a close, sothing caught his attention—a shadow that passed across Clayn’s face.
A flicker of hesitation.
A tightness around the eyes.
Damien narrowed his gaze slightly. "Is there sothing on your mind, General?"
Clayn shifted in his seat. For a mont, he looked like he might deny it, but then he let out a slow, heavy breath—one that seed to carry the weight of weeks.
"This..."
He paused, collecting himself, then finally spoke.
"It has been two months since the soldiers were last paid. So far, they’ve remained disciplined... but discontent is beginning to take root. Impatientce is growing in the ranks."
Iron Fist let out a grunt and looked away. Rebecca crossed her arms tighter but said nothing. All three generals wore similar expressions—equal parts concern and helplessness.
Damien felt his heart skip.
His jaw tightened ever so slightly.
"Two months...?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. This was the first ti he was hearing of such a thing.
It struck him like a slap.
Valthorn’s soldiers were not re conscripts. They were elites, fiercely loyal and battle-hardened. To keep their morale high and ensure their loyalty remained unshaken, the kingdom paid them well—a gold coin a month at minimum, with high-ranking officers even receiving mana stones as part of their compensation.
It was a heavy burden on the treasury, yes—but one deed necessary.
After all, no man would willingly risk his life for scraps. Loyalty demanded respect—and reward.
Damien’s eyes turned cold. His voice dropped to a low, cutting register.
"Why haven’t they been paid?"
The question cracked through the room like a whip.
But the mont he asked it, he noticed sothing... strange.
The expressions of the three generals shifted—subtle, but undeniable. Not fear. Not guilt. Just... discomfort. Hesitation. That silent language only veterans shared when discussing sothing ugly.
His brow twitched. A foreboding chill crept down his spine.
What the hell is this?
He didn’t like the look in their eyes—especially not when all three wore it.
His instincts, honed over years of battle and blood, whispered that sothing unpleasant was coming.
And sure enough, Clayn’s next words were exactly what Damien feared.
They made his shoulders sag ever so slightly.
And forced a quiet sigh from deep within his chest.
Man, this kingdom is just... sigh!
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