The weightless blade slipped from his hand, bewildering every gaze until the air itself grew silent. A shameless laugh broke forth; a burly, dark-haired man clutched his shaking stomach, drawing all eyes into confusion. Victor rolled his eyes in mockery.
"Now you see the distance between me and you."
Diego' s fury swelled. Whispers spread through the training grounds while Richard struggled to regain composure, preparing to offer a warning.
"Your actions amount to declaring an improper bond with the Blood Empire."
His words faltered when the sound of clapping cut across the field. A pale-skinned woman with silver hair flowing elegantly stepped forward, her stride firm as she planted her hands on her hips and rebuked the nobles.
"And what of your own actions, when you were the ones who started it? Is that not the true misconduct? That you allowed yourselves to be undone by the envoy' s psychology is only proof of your own folly—and the Empire' s failure."
"Y-Your Highness…"
Many averted their gaze, eager to let Richard shoulder the blame. Diego bowed his head, fists clenched tight with smoldering resentment.
Princess Retina pointed at him.
"Next month' s judgment shall strip you of qualification. Three months hence, you will march with the wasteland expedition."
She smiled sweetly.
"And tell me, why did you show such discourtesy to the envoy of the Republic of Venn?"
"I did not—I mean…" Diego glanced at Victor' s arrogant stare. "…I acted recklessly of my own will. I accept all blame, including what I did to… Richard."
Even as he spoke, his trembling hands clenched so hard it seemed his bones might snap. Yet he left with a mocking air, ignoring the matter entirely.
Though his actions brought disgrace, the nobles' gazes toward Victor grew heavier with distrust and hostility. It was no surprise—those of talent and noble birth could not bear Diego' s utter defeat. Victor' s deliberate counting upward from one had not been to press time but to protect himself. If he had counted down, they would have expected slaughter, and Diego' s mind might have steeled itself instead. In truth, it was Victor' s test—no, his insult.
He smirked inwardly. When calm returned, training resumed. The princess herself now had to oversee Victor' s regimen to suit his differing physical potential. Morning began with forty laps before noon. When the sun stood overhead, training paused for lunch.
The dining hall was laden with steak garnished with vegetables and egg, finished with mushroom soup, all carefully balanced by nutritionists. Servants wheeled trays of food to Victor' s room for the slaves assigned to him. Half an hour later, he stretched once more and resumed running without pause. This time there was no set goal but endurance—more grueling than any military training he knew.
By evening the nobles dispersed, leaving only Victor and Retina in the fading light. She watched him run until nightfall silenced the birds. His training seemed endless. At last, sweat dripping, he was ordered to rest and join her at the dining hall after bathing.
Shedding his soaked, stifling garments and training armor, Victor lowered his weary body into the hot bath of a silent chamber. Returning to his quarters, he dressed in formal attire. Brian had not yet returned.
"Let nothing have happened," he thought, casting a side-glance at the golden-haired girl licking her hand. He exhaled heavily. Her behavior defied comprehension. Though mindless, she had not wandered off during his absence, nor shown discomfort.
"Does she not even need the latrine?" He examined her closely. "No crumbs on her clothes or face. The servants didn' t feed her—the plates remain untouched." For now, he let it pass. The night held weightier matters arranged by the princess, and questions only Brian could answer. "When he bathes her and changes her clothes, how can it be done so easily?" He recalled the girl licking the slaver' s boot. Obedient, yes, but her vacant mind defied sense. It did not add up.
Victor left his chamber, casting aside these doubts. Only the glow of lanterns above filled his vision, gilding the soulless white castle with false beauty. To him it was a place barren of artistry. "No matter. I won' t exploit another' s identity."
The grand dining doors opened. Chandeliers of brass twisted like roots, glowing magnificently. Servants lined the hall as a familiar steward smiled in welcome. Victor took his seat—an ornate white-and-red cushion upon golden frame—beside the silver-haired princess.
Her black gown clung tight, adorned with a crimson ocean-gem glittering in the light. No patterns marred the dark fabric. It spoke of reverence, elegance, and merciless grandeur—not for mourning, revelry, or triumph, but to embody her very being.
"A negotiation," Victor thought at once. He had seen such settings often, though rarely with this sincerity. Yet beneath it, he sensed deliberate conflict.
The feast was overwhelming: prime beef split and drenched in wine sauce, vegetables neatly arrayed, fruit towers of grapes and apples, pork patties, bread with fragrant rice soup, even a giant fish carved into a fountain of chocolate, its molten blood-like core swirling endlessly.
Retina clapped her hands.
"Everyone, save the envoy, leave."
The hall grew hollow. Victor cut his meat carefully, tasting it.
"A remarkable flavor, Your Highness. Entirely unlike the training fare."
Her true conversation began.
"I' m glad the Empire' s cuisine pleases you. But no need for formality—we are alone, you and I."
Victor poured wine, swirling it lightly.
"Then I shall call you simply Retina."
"Mm. That is easier to hear. Tell me, Victor—what do you think of this place?"
"For me, the city and its grandeur are unmatched. Yet, if I may speak plainly, there is a sanctity here that borders on fear."
"What do you mean?"
"The slave mines beneath the castle. There seem to be many from the Republic of Venn."
She smiled.
"Mostly criminals—illegal fishermen, smugglers, workers without leave. Nothing to worry over. And your training today, how was it?"
"I never thought humans could possess such potential. I hope to rise close to their level."
"And the slaves you chose—are they from the Republic?"
Victor set down his fork, meeting her eyes with cunning.
"One is. One is not."
"I' ve heard you want slaves fit to kill and discard. The Empire has more than enough to meet such a request."
He chewed slower, drawing out his thoughts.
"Does she think such trappings will tempt me?"