Far across the capital, where the air itself seemed to thrum with power, stood the estate of Duke Edgar. It was less a mansion and more a citadel of stark, elegant stone, its banners—a stylized sun rising over a mountain—snapping in the wind with an air of unassailable authority.
In the grand hall, a hall large enough to garrison a small army, Commander Celina and her knights knelt on the polished marble floor. Before them, seated on a throne that was simple yet imposing, was the legend himself.
Duke Edgar, at ninety years of age, was a testament to the preserving power of immense mana. He looked no older than a man in his prime, perhaps sixty. But it was a prime that had been hardened by decades of rule and the ghosts of war. He stood over two meters tall, and even seated, his presence dominated the room. Long, silver-white hair flowed over his shoulders, and his eyes, the color of a winter sky, held a sharpness that missed nothing.
Flanking him were his three wives, each a pillar of his household and a reflection of the empire's complex politics.
To his right sat **Lady Victoria**, his first wife. Her posture was regal, her expression composed and unreadable. A noblewoman from a house as ancient as Edgar's own, she was the mother of his firstborn son and the embodiment of traditional power.
To his left was **Lady Beatrice**, the second wife. Also of high nobility, she carried herself with a palpable pride, her eyes keen and assessing. She was the mother of twins, Leo and Maria, and her ambition for her children was a quiet, constant force.
Closest to him, on a slightly less ornate chair, sat **Lady Sofia**, the third wife. Her demeanor was gentle, her smiles often tinged with a subtle sadness. As the daughter of a minor noble and a commoner, she occupied a precarious space in the hierarchy, a constant reminder of the duke's personal affections clashing with political reality.
Celina bowed her head.
"My Lord Duke. The imperial train has been secured. Lady Alicia of House Luthor is safe in the capital. The bandit leader, a Silver-rank named Godrich, has been executed. The rest scattered."
Edgar closed his eyes for a moment, as if consulting with memories of a time when such threats were commonplace. When he opened them, his voice rumbled through the hall, calm yet carrying the weight of final judgment.
"Bandits growing bold enough to strike so close to the heart of the empire... It is a symptom of a greater sickness. Complacency. We cannot afford it, not when the shadows of the past grow long."
Lady Victoria offered a thin, approving smile.
"As expected, your knights are ever vigilant, my lord."
Lady Beatrice snapped her silk fan shut with a sharp click.
"It is more than boldness. It is orchestrated. To target a marquess's daughter? This was a message. A troubling one."
Lady Sofia wrung her hands slightly in her lap, her voice barely a whisper.
"Perhaps... it is an omen. The darkness never truly left. It only slept."
Edgar's gaze, sharp as a honed blade, swept over them.
"If the past returns to haunt us, then I must be ready. And more importantly, the next generation must be ready." He gave a slight nod, a clear dismissal.
"You have served the empire well, Commander Celina. You may go."
The knights rose and filed out, their armor clinking softly in the vast hall.
***
Later, in a sun-drenched courtyard, Lady Sofia was humming a gentle tune, carrying a basket of fresh fruit toward the main hall. As she turned a corner, Lady Beatrice "accidentally" bumped into her, sending the basket tumbling.
"Oh, my apologies," Beatrice said, her voice dripping with false concern.
"I didn't see you there. You do blend into the background so well."
Sofia simply knelt and began gathering the scattered fruit, her smile never wavering, though it didn't reach her eyes. She was used to such slights. As a half-commoner, she had no powerful family to shield her, and her only protection was the Duke's fleeting affection. She endured it all for the sake of her son, Kent.
Nearby, in a training yard, that son was practicing forms with a wooden sword. Kent, sixteen, was of average height but possessed a lean strength. His face was set in a mask of concentration, each swing precise but lacking the tell-tale glow of mana reinforcement. He was the subject of whispers, even from the servants:
"*Poor boy, takes after his mother's side... such a weak mana core.*"
From the shade of a colonnade, the twins, Leo and Maria, watched with mocking smiles. Leo, broad-shouldered and already radiating a potent E-Rank bronze aura, gripped his own practice sword.
"Look at him," Leo sneered.
"Swinging a stick like a common farmer. It's an embarrassment to the Duke's name."
Maria giggled. "Go on, brother. Remind him of his place."
Leo strode into the yard.
"Kent! Let's have a duel. Show us what that 'raw talent' of yours is worth."
Kent hesitated, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword. He knew how this would end. But the constant mockery, the pitying looks—today, he couldn't back down.
"Very well," he said, his voice quiet but firm.
The duel was a foregone conclusion. Leo's movements were augmented by his mana, making him faster, stronger. He batted Kent's defenses aside with ease, laughing.
"Is that all? No wonder Father barely acknowledges you!"
Kent, sweating and breathing heavily, refused to yield. He focused every ounce of his meager mana, channeling it into one, desperate strike. As Leo lunged, Kent sidestepped and lashed out. The wooden sword, momentarily edged with a faint bronze light, connected with a sharp crack against Leo's cheek.
Leo staggered back, a hand flying to the red welt already forming on his face. The mockery in his eyes vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated rage.
"You little *commoner*!" he roared. He dropped his sword and drove a mana-hardened fist directly into Kent's ribs.
Kent coughed, a spatter of blood dotting the sand as he crumpled to his knees.
"Know your place, trash," Leo spat, raising his fist again.
"Enough."
The single word, spoken with calm authority, froze Leo in place. Commander Celina stood at the edge of the yard, her arms crossed. Her B-Rank aura wasn't flaring, but its pressure was enough to make Leo's own bronze glow flicker. Even he knew not to challenge the Iron Lady.
He glared down at Kent, then at Celina. "This isn't over," he muttered before storming off, Maria following with a disdainful sniff.
Celina's eyes fell on Kent, who was struggling to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth. There was no pity in her gaze, only a cold assessment. She saw the determination in his eyes, the refusal to break even in defeat.
*Softness has no place in this world,* she thought. *Respect and power are not given. They are forged in hardship and pain. Perhaps this boy has the spark to endure the fire. Perhaps not.*
She turned and walked away, leaving Kent alone in the yard, his body aching but his spirit, for the first time, feeling a grim sense of accomplishment. He had drawn blood. It was a start.
***