The nobles' expressions shifted instantly at the little girl's words—and not all of them reacted the same way. The younger nobles stared at the young woman before them with nothing but curiosity and admiration. After all, Ophelia was breathtakingly beautiful, and her violet hair was a mark no one in the royal capital could mistake—it was the signature of the royal bloodline. But the older nobles looked on with a mixture of shock and disbelief, frozen in place as they gazed at her, unable to form a single coherent sentence.
Sensing their stares, Ophelia's expression flickered with a momentary stiffness—but she quickly composed herself. Offering the girl a gentle smile, she helped her to her feet and stepped back.
"I'm glad you're unhurt. Goodbye now," she said, nodding at the child before turning to follow Blake. But just then, an elderly noble stepped forward from the group, striding toward her. Hastily removing his top hat and clutching it to his chest, he dropped to one knee before her, his eyes blazing with emotion as he looked up at her face.
"Her Royal Highness Princess Ophelia! You've returned! You've finally come back to us!!"
"I… I'm not—"
Ophelia was utterly dumbfounded by the old man's dramatic gesture, at a loss for words. But she quickly regained her wits, stepping back to Blake's side and pulling her cloak up to shield her face from view.
"I'm sorry, sir, but you've made a mistake. You have the wrong person."
"No! I have not made a mistake! You *are* the princess! There can be no doubt!" the old man insisted, his voice growing even more impassioned.
"I never believed you were dead! I knew you would come back to us one day! And now you're finally here!!"
"…Lord Blake…"
Overwhelmed by the old man's fervor, Ophelia hung her head, reaching out to clutch Blake's sleeve tightly. Though her face was hidden beneath the cloak, Blake could hear the faint tremor in her voice— a telltale sign of the emotions she was desperately trying to suppress.
"It's getting late… We should—"
"It's time for us to go," Blake cut in, wrapping his hand around hers and leading her quickly onto the train. The old man remained on one knee, his gaze fixed on Ophelia's retreating figure.
"Your Highness! We are counting on you! Please know this—no matter what happens, we will stand by your side!!"
His shout was loud enough to draw the attention of everyone nearby. Curious eyes turned toward the scene, wondering what all the commotion was about. After all, everyone in the royal capital knew that the current king had no heirs—and thus, no one could rightfully be called "princess." So who was this elderly noble addressing with such reverence? And why was he so overcome with emotion?
Seeing the growing crowd of onlookers, a middle-aged man stepped forward, his expression uneasy. He hurried over to the old man and gently helped him to his feet.
"Father, you're letting your emotions get the better of you. You must be exhausted from the journey. Let us return home at once and rest. There's no need to make a scene here…"
"Nonsense!" the old man snapped, glaring at him and yanking his arm free.
"I may be old, but my mind is still sharp! My memory hasn't failed me yet! It seems *you* are the one who has forgotten! Why, you met Her Highness no fewer than eight or ten times in your youth! Can you truly not recognize her face?!"
"But… but it's been thirty years," the middle-aged man stammered, unable to refute his father's words. Still, he pressed on, mustering up his courage.
"Even if the princess were still alive, she would be far older than this young woman appears now…"
"Princess Ophelia is no ordinary mortal! She cannot be judged by the same standards as the rest of us!" the old man huffed, taking the cane a servant offered him.
"And if that is not proof enough for you—explain her hair! Since the day the late Princess Ophelia passed, has there been a single soul in the royal family with such pure, untainted royal blood?!"
"I… I have no answer for that," the middle-aged man admitted, at a loss for words. It was true—ever since the kingdom's beloved "flower" had vanished, the royal family had never again produced an heir with the telltale violet hair of pure Wester blood. King Wester V had no children, and while his distant relatives had offspring, none of them bore any trace of the royal lineage's distinctive features.
What was more, King Wester V was a mediocre ruler at best. Though he had not yet driven the people to the brink of despair, the kingdom's fortunes had been steadily declining for years. Whispers abounded in the capital that the glory days of the Wester royal family were long gone—and now, standing before them, was a young woman who looked exactly like the late Princess Ophelia, with hair as violet and luminous as the legends described. It was impossible to deny the truth any longer.
But how was this possible?
Before the middle-aged man could puzzle it out, the old noble rapped his cane sharply on the ground, his expression turning grave as he issued his command.
"That's enough! The rest of you may return home! I am going back into the capital!"
"Father!" the middle-aged man exclaimed in alarm.
"You only just arrived! Why on earth would you—"
"I have matters of great importance to attend to! Now go home! If you wish to accompany me, then hurry! I will not wait for your dawdling!" With that, the old man cast a complex glance toward the train car, then turned and strode back onto the train, leaning heavily on his cane. The middle-aged man sighed in resignation, shot a nervous glance around at the curious onlookers, and quickly followed his father onto the train.
A clear bell chimed, and the train pulled away from the station, speeding toward the royal capital. Blake sat by the window, sipping the refreshments provided on board as he gazed leisurely at the passing scenery. Ophelia, however, was in a deep funk, huddled under her black cloak, not uttering a single word.
"Surprised?" Blake finally broke the silence.
"Yes…" Ophelia replied with a bitter laugh, nodding slowly.
"I thought that after thirty years, even if I hadn't been completely forgotten, the memories would have faded… I never imagined things would turn out like this."
"Is that not a good thing? It just goes to show how great your influence truly was."
"That is not what I am worried about," Ophelia said, her voice laced with unease. She glanced toward the door, where the Royal Capital Guard soldiers were murmuring among themselves, casting frequent glances in their direction. Even though they were in a private compartment, and it was unlikely anyone outside could overhear their conversation, the soldiers' expressions were clearly conflicted.
"I have a terrible feeling that the kingdom is heading toward dark times."
"Oh? And what makes you say that?" Blake asked, his eyes narrowing with interest.
"Because of what happened just now," Ophelia said, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"It is true that I did some things that made me popular, and I proposed policies that benefited all social classes. But I was never particularly close to many nobles. If my memory serves me correctly, that old man was once an official in charge of the capital's infrastructure. I only met him a dozen times at most. There is no reason for him to remember me so clearly… yet he recognized me instantly, without a shadow of a doubt. That worries me deeply. People do not cling to the memory of someone unless they are yearning for something they have lost. If the kings who came after me had ruled wisely and well, the people would never remember me so vividly—especially here in the capital. After all, this makes sense in the border regions, where life is hard. But when even the citizens who enjoy the blessings of the Mana Wellspring and live comfortable lives in the capital are clinging so fiercely to the past…"
Ophelia trailed off, letting out a long, heavy sigh.
"I am truly afraid of what the future holds… or rather, I never imagined events would spiral out of control so quickly."
"Is that the judgment of a princess?" Blake asked, not turning away from the window. His words hung in the air, casting an awkward silence over the compartment.
After a long pause, Ophelia shook her head slowly.
"I am no longer a princess, Lord Blake."
"Would you be interested in reclaiming that title? I could help you," Blake offered casually.
"…I do not know," Ophelia replied, hanging her head and avoiding his gaze.
"I really do not know, Lord Blake. I thought I had left my past behind me completely… but now…"
"It does not matter," Blake cut her off gently.
"You have time to think. Trust me—you will find your answer."
Blake said nothing more for the rest of the journey, and Ophelia remained lost in her own thoughts, staring blankly into space. But the train paid no heed to its passengers' turbulent emotions, chugging steadily onward as it entered the royal capital.
Through the crystal-clear window, Blake could see the city's distinctive skyline clearly. Every Wellspring city had its own unique characteristics, shaped by the nature of its Mana Wellspring. For example, Oruth's City of Eternal Night owed its name to the fact that its Wellspring emitted a surge of mana under the cover of darkness. Wester's royal capital was no different. As Ophelia had told him before his arrival, this place was known as the **City of Winds**. The constant flow of mana from the Wellspring generated a perpetual breeze that swept through every corner of the city. These were usually gentle gusts—but according to Ophelia, in times of invasion, the Wellspring could activate its defensive protocols, summoning a raging storm to enshroud the entire city and repel attackers.
This, however, only served to lay bare the city's fatal weakness in Blake's eyes. Since this was a Wellspring city defined by the power of wind, and the Sith Empire—according to Judy's report—boasted a Gifted Knight who could manipulate wind, the royal capital would be doomed the moment war broke out. In fact, its fall might be even swifter than anyone could imagine.
After all, the power of elements and the power of conviction were both absolute.
To accommodate the constant winds, the architecture of Wester's royal capital featured sleek, streamlined designs. From the train, the entire city looked like an intricate tapestry woven from silk ribbons—elegant and beautiful. Whether tall or short, nearly every building lacked sharp corners, instead featuring smooth, curving lines that intertwined and spiraled upward. The royal castle at the city's heart was particularly striking: three silver spires rose from the ground, twisting and coiling around each other in a fluid, ribbon-like formation that embodied the city's wind-inspired aesthetic. Of course, this was just the view from afar; up close, one could truly appreciate the castle's immense size and imposing grandeur—the undisputed heart of the capital.
Blake, however, cared little for these symbols of royal authority. Instead, his eyes darted instinctively to the sides of the silver-spired castle, quickly spotting two buildings he had expected to see.
One was a towering, obsidian-black spire, with four or five smaller towers clustered around its massive central shaft. Magical light flickered across its surface, weaving complex, beautiful, and mysterious patterns in the air. Opposite it stood a structure of similar height—a simple, conical building that was far plainer than the magnificent mage tower beside it. Yet its gleaming white exterior still drew the eye of many passersby.
Some things never change, no matter the era, no matter the country, Blake thought to himself, tearing his gaze away from the scenery outside. These were the headquarters of the **Mage's Guild** and the **Church of the Divine Light**. In most Wellspring cities—unless the ruling power favored one faction above the other—this was the standard arrangement: royal power, arcane power, and divine power coexisting side by side, tangled in a web of complex, tedious, and often volatile relationships.
That said, these tangled relationships could be *extremely* useful—if one knew how to manipulate them.
A faint, triumphant smile tugged at the corner of Blake's lips. This would be child's play for him… he had already made up his mind. If that fool of a king dared to lay a finger on him, he would not hesitate to stir up chaos in the capital and turn it upside down. After all, he had done similar things countless times before—it would be nothing more than a little side entertainment. Of course, this would only happen *after* he had taken care of his real business. The chaos would just be a bonus.
After two hours of travel, the train glided silently to a halt atop a tall tower. A soft knock sounded at the door of their compartment, and the Royal Capital Guard soldiers who had escorted them boarded the train.
"Your Excellencies, we have arrived at the royal capital. Please follow us. We will escort you to the guest palace, where you will await an audience with His Majesty the King."
Blake had no idea what the guards had discussed among themselves during the journey, or what conclusions they had reached. But their demeanor was noticeably more respectful than before. Initially, their politeness had seemed forced—nothing more than the perfunctory courtesy required by their duty, laced with a hint of indifference. Now, however, their deference was genuine, evident not just in their words, but also in their meticulous adherence to protocol.
"Very well. Lead the way," Blake said, standing up from his seat. Ophelia quickly adjusted her cloak, ensuring it still covered her face, and followed closely behind him.
As soon as they stepped off the train, a gentle breeze brushed past them—warm and invigorating, a pleasant caress against the skin. So the City of Winds lived up to its name, Blake mused. Ophelia, clearly prepared for this, pressed a hand firmly against her cloak to keep it from being blown open and revealing her identity.
Unlike the station outside the city, the royal capital's magical train station was located dozens of meters above the ground. This presented no obstacle, however. A large, floating disc—big enough to carry fifty or sixty people—hovered silently in the center of the platform, ready to ferry passengers safely down to the ground below.
This was yet another marvel of magical technology, crafted by the mages of the guild. Unfortunately, like all such wonders, it would become nothing more than useless scrap metal the moment it strayed beyond the Mana Wellspring's influence.
As Blake and Ophelia exited the train, the floating disc was just descending to pick up a new group of passengers. They were forced to step aside and wait for the next trip. It was then that Blake glanced around casually, his eyes flicking toward a nearby crowd. He smiled faintly, then leaned down to speak to Ophelia.
"It seems you have quite the devoted following."
"Hm?" Confused by his cryptic remark, Ophelia followed his gaze—and her eyes widened in surprise. Among the crowd stood the elderly noble who had recognized her earlier. He was staring directly at her and Blake, and when he noticed their gaze, he did not look away. Instead, he waved enthusiastically and bowed deeply to Ophelia, his gesture full of reverence.
How did he manage to follow us here? Ophelia thought, a mix of surprise and resignation washing over her. She quickly turned away, avoiding his gaze.
"Please do not jest, Lord Blake. This is a very serious matter."
"I assure you, I am taking it very seriously," Blake replied—though his amused expression told a different story.
"But—"
Blake never got to finish his sentence. At that moment, the floating disc rose back up to the platform. The Royal Capital Guard soldiers who had been waiting nearby stepped forward immediately, opening the barrier to clear a path for them.
But just as Blake and Ophelia were about to step onto the disc, four men emerged from the crowd of passengers who had just disembarked. They wore long, pristine white robes, their faces hidden beneath hoods that cast their features in shadow. Without a word, they stepped forward and surrounded Blake and Ophelia.
"What is the meaning of this?!" one of the Royal Capital Guard soldiers demanded angrily, sensing that something was amiss. But the four robed men paid him no heed, their hooded gazes fixed squarely on Blake.
"Are you Blake Felix, Lord of Twilight Forest?" one of them asked, his voice cold and authoritative.
"I am," Blake replied with a faint smile, inclining his head in a polite noble's bow before asking, "And who might you be?"
"We are Special Inquisitors of the **Church of the Divine Light's Holy Tribunal**," the man announced, his voice ringing out clearly for all to hear. "Blake Felix—you stand accused of the murder of a regional bishop. In the name of the Church of the Divine Light, we order you to surrender your weapons at once and accompany us to the church to stand trial!"
A gasp rippled through the crowd gathered nearby.