He did not respond to her comment about "causing a disturbance," merely nodding slightly: "Thank you for your trouble."
The smile in Sa Melis's eyes deepened, and she turned to lead the way.
The guards did not stop them this time.
Passing through the archway, the scenery of the inner courtyard became even more secluded.
Exotic flowers and plants were fragrant, artificial streams babbled, adorned with fountains and white jade sculptures.
The fragrances in the air were also more expensive.
Occasionally, men and women dressed in luxurious clothes could be seen whispering in the pavilions, but their numbers were far fewer than in the outer courtyard, and the atmosphere was more "elegant" and secretive.
"My name is Sa Melis," the woman walking ahead said naturally, "I suppose I'm someone who... helps manage some affairs in this garden."
"Judging by your demeanor, you don't seem like an ordinary traveler or sailor. Are you from across the Narrow Sea? Or further east?"
A natural conversation starter, a natural probe.
Aegon's steps did not pause; his gaze calmly swept across the depths of the courtyard, where the golden light spot on the system map was now close at hand.
He replied indifferently, "Just passing through."
Sa Melis's steps paused almost imperceptibly.
She had anticipated many replies, but "Just passing through"? Such a perfunctory answer—he couldn't even bother to invent a fake name?
She couldn't help but turn her head, sizing up the young man beside her again. Black clothes, silver hair, a tall and straight posture, walking with silent, steady steps.
There wasn't much expression on that handsome, almost inhuman face; his purple eyes were deep, showing only cold scrutiny when he looked around.
Facing her beauty and proactive conversation, his reaction was calm to the point of indifference.
This man... something is very wrong. And he is very dangerous.
"It seems you are someone who prefers solitude."
She quickly adjusted her expression, her smile flawless, and pointed to a fork in the road not far away. "This way leads to the 'Moonlight Corridor,' where there are fewer people and the scenery is quiet. Or, perhaps you'd prefer to see the livelier 'Hall of Joy'?"
"This way will do." Aegon stopped at the fork, his gaze fixed on the quieter path. "I wish to walk alone."
Sa Melis was completely stunned.
Separate? After she proactively offered to accompany him, he actually requested to part ways?
She had always been confident in her charm and skill; in Lys, countless nobles yearned for her favor.
Yet this man before her, from the moment he appeared, had shown no interest in her looks, ignored all her conversational probes, was stingy even with his name, and now was explicitly trying to ditch her?
A faint sense of frustration and a stronger surge of curiosity welled up in her heart.
But she concealed it well, though the smile on her face became somewhat subtle: "Of course... please feel free. Although the garden isn't large, the paths are winding. If you require guidance, you may call a maid at any time."
"No need." After Aegon finished speaking, he nodded slightly to her, turned directly, and walked toward the Moonlight Corridor, the hem of his black robe cutting a clean arc as he turned.
Sa Melis stood rooted to the spot, watching the tall figure disappear without hesitation into the shadows of the corridor, her smile slowly fading.
She lightly scraped the silk folding fan in her hand with her fingernail, light and shadow flickering in her eyes.
"Silver hair, purple eyes, black clothes, a sword-carrying attendant... just passing through?" she murmured to herself, a playful curve forming on her lips. "It seems the 'special' guests arriving at the garden today aren't limited to just one pair of siblings..."
...The ceiling of the Moonlight Corridor was entwined with glowing vines, appearing as if moonlight was streaming down even in the daytime.
In the small courtyard deep inside, there was a circular pool containing a damaged stone statue, the style resembling a Valyrian relic.
Aegon walked to the edge of the pool, temporarily setting aside the tumultuous feelings stirred up by the unexpected news.
The check-in location had been reached.
The system interface automatically unfolded before his eyes, the golden light spot perfectly overlapping his current position.
[Check-in location detected: Lys, Perfume Garden. Initiate check-in?]
"Yes."
[Check-in successful! Drawing reward...]
[Congratulations on obtaining: Maegors Gift.]
There was no radiance, no strange phenomenon.
Only a cold, heavy "sense," like a black gemstone, abruptly branded itself deep into his consciousness.
Maegors Gift?
Aegon frowned and lightly touched it with his mind.
Boom—!
A massive torrent of information, stained with the smell of rust and blood, violently broke through the defenses of his consciousness, pouring in madly and grinding into every inch of his muscle memory.
It was the sword. Chopping, blocking, stabbing, slaying—the feedback of resistance as the blade cut through armor, bone, and flesh, the absolute instinct for muscle tension, footwork, and breathing adjustment when facing any enemy or terrain.
It was the horse. The ferocious charge of man and beast united, the subtle control of balance when the warhorse reared and turned sharply, the absolute precision of a lance aimed at a shield gap, the cruel art of turning a mount into an extension of slaughter.
It was the dragon. Vague, yet imbued with the cold dominance required to control the colossal beast—diving, climbing, maintaining balance amidst fire and gale, briefly connecting one's will to the mount.
It was close combat. The viciousness of elbowing a throat in a grapple, the agility of rolling to evade upon falling, the crunch of fingers breaking when disarming barehanded, the madness of trading injury for life and life for life in desperation.
Ferocious. Brutal. Efficient. Precise.
Every memory was saturated with blood and killing intent, devoid of flashiness or redundancy, containing only the cleanest, most direct art of war aimed straight at destruction.
"Ugh..."
Aegon groaned, his body swaying as he grabbed the edge of the pool. His temples throbbed, his vision blurred momentarily, and countless flashing images of swinging swords, charging warhorses, and spraying blood intertwined in his mind.
It wasn't pain, but a bloated feeling of being forcibly "filled." It was as if a body trained for over a decade had been stuffed with another person's lifelong honed combat instincts.
The torrent gradually subsided, settling into a part of himself. Clear information emerged in his mind:
Maegors Gift—The combat techniques forged by Maegor Targaryen the Tyrant through a lifetime of killing.
No forms, no moves, only the instinct to kill.
Aegon gasped, slowly straightening up.
In the depths of his purple eyes, a cold light flashed and vanished, returning to the stillness of a deep pool.
Maegor Targaryen. Maegor the Cruel.
The world only remembers his tyranny as king, but who remembers... the Trial of Seven? When the battle neared its end, Maegor was the only one left on his side, while the opponents still had two men.
He entered the fray with his sword, fought two against one, and slew those two highly skilled knights.
Clean, decisive, and without suspense.
History books glossed over it.
But only those truly knowledgeable could glimpse the terrifying combat ability, hidden by the name of Tyrant, from those few words describing Maegor.
Ilyon "Bright Flame"? Duncan the Tall? Daemon Blackfyre?
Aegon slowly clenched his fist, feeling the new, cold, and violent power surging from the depths of his muscle memory.
He had a feeling that, strictly in terms of pure skill in battlefield combat and survival in desperate situations, Maegor... was definitely no inferior to any of them.
This was one of the combat power ceilings of the Targaryen family.
And now, this ceiling-level combat technique had become a part of him.
The most obvious supplement was horsemanship.
As a Mercenary struggling in the lower strata of Essos, a warhorse was a luxury.
All his experience came from fighting on foot; riding was limited to basic transportation.
This was a fatal tactical weakness.
Now, the memories of controlling a warhorse to charge, flank, and coordinate attacks were crystal clear, as if practiced thousands of times. He could even "feel" the solidness of the stirrups beneath his feet and "predict" the warhorse's muscle exertion and next point of landing.
The weakness was perfectly filled by an incredibly hard steel plate.
Aegon closed his eyes, took a deep breath of the damp floral fragrance and ancient stone dust in the courtyard, and slowly exhaled.
When he opened his eyes, there was no longer any ripple in them.
All shock, comprehension, and assessment were completely contained.
He flexed his knuckles, hearing a faint sound. Outwardly unchanged, inwardly transformed.
This "Gift" was more suited to his current needs than ten sets of Valyrian Steel armor, a ship full of gold, or even certain magical artifacts.
Power never betrays.
Especially power that has become instinct.
He cast a final glance at the broken Valyrian stone statue in the pool, turned, and retraced his steps.
His steps were still steady.
But if a top warrior were present, they might glimpse a trace of extremely subtle precision and refinement—the hallmark of a peak predator—in the spacing of his ordinary steps, the minute posture of his body, and the angle of his gaze.
Aegon passed through the Moonlight Corridor and returned to the main path.
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