Chapter 29: Boring Banquet

The night curtain hung low, the palace ablaze with lights.

Abel stood in the shadows at the entrance to the banquet hall, tugging at the collar of his formal attire for the umpteenth time.

It was too tight, so tight he could hardly breathe.

The outfit Julius had prepared for him was impeccable: an ink-green velvet coat, with the Noct family’s golden blade emblem embroidered on the collar and cuffs, paired with a soft white silk shirt underneath, straight black trousers, and polished boots that gleamed.

In the mirror, he looked handsome and upright, a far cry from his usual scruffy wandering knight image.

But this clothing, for Abel who was accustomed to freedom and ease, felt completely like a straitjacket—no matter how he wore it, it was uncomfortable!

“My knight, are you nervous?” 

Sutis’s voice came from beside him.

The little angel had changed into a new outfit tonight as well:

No longer the gothic dress, but a dainty and exquisite white formal gown, the hem adorned with tiny pearls, her emerald-green long hair braided into a complex updo, pinned with a silver hair ornament.

At the moment, she was standing on tiptoe, curiously gazing toward the brightly lit hall, her eyes full of sparkling stars.

“Not nervous.” 

Abel stubbornly denied, clearing his throat.

“I’m just… not used to it.”

“But you’re sweating.” Sutis tilted her head, puzzled.

“A lot of sweat.”

“…”

Abel wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, inwardly cursing his brother for the hundredth time.

What happened to coming together? What happened to “I’ll be there”?

Earlier at the marquis mansion’s entrance, Julius had patted his shoulder, giving a meaningful smile: “Your brother suddenly remembered some urgent matters to handle.

You go ahead; I’ll follow shortly.”

“Big Brother! You—”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be too late.” Julius winked.

“It’s a good chance for you to practice your social skills.

Remember, you’re the second son of the Noct family—don’t embarrass us.”

Practice? Practice my ass!

Over these years wandering the continent, Abel had learned how to cut people down with a sword, how to survive in the wilderness, how to identify poisonous mushrooms—but he hadn’t learned how to fake smile at banquets, how to compliment someone in three different ways without repeating, how to twirl in the dance floor without stepping on a lady’s feet!

Now, with Big Brother absent, he had to face a hall full of wolves, tigers, and leopards alone.

Screwed.

“Young Master Abel.”

Butler Sebas appeared behind him at some point, saying in a low voice: “It’s time to enter.

Everyone is waiting for you.”

Abel took a deep breath, straightened his back—and nearly passed out from the collar choking him.

“Let’s go.”

He stepped into the banquet hall.

Instantly, all voices lowered a notch.

The light from the crystal chandeliers cascaded down like a waterfall, illuminating the entire hall in splendid gold.

The air was filled with the sweet, cloying scent of mixed perfumes and fine wines.

Nobles in luxurious attire chatted in groups of three or five, but when Abel’s figure appeared at the door, everyone’s gazes turned toward him in unison, as if coordinated.

Then, they collectively smiled.

Not ordinary smiles, but those meticulously calculated, perfectly arched “noble smiles.”

In Abel’s view, like weasels eyeing a tasty chick.

Cold sweat instantly broke out on Abel’s back even more.

He wanted to retreat, but Sutis had already taken his hand, bouncing inside: “Wow! So pretty! Are those sparkly things gems? Can I eat them?”

“No, you can’t!” 

Abel hurriedly pulled her back.

Too late.

People were already approaching.

“Sir Abel! Good evening!”

“The hero’s arrival truly honors us!”

“This must be Miss Sutis? How adorable!”

“May I have the honor of sharing a drink with you?”

The crowd surged forward.

Abel was surrounded like a spinning top, mechanically nodding, smiling, accepting wine glasses, saying “thank you,” “you’re too kind,” “I don’t deserve it.”

His brain spun rapidly, trying to recall the social pleasantries he had learned as a child, but all he could remember was one line—

“Have you eaten?” 

“Yeah, nice weather.”

…Saying that in this setting would probably get him labeled an idiot.

“Sir Abel seems a bit unaccustomed?” 

A gentle voice sounded.

Abel turned his head and saw Archbishop Sephilia approaching gracefully.

Tonight, she had changed into a deep blue long gown, making her skin appear even fairer, her orange-red long hair loosely pinned up, with a few stray strands hanging by her neck, adding a touch of languid charm.

Behind her followed Aiko.

The golden-haired saintess candidate wore a light pink formal dress, her hair braided into an intricate floral crown, her azure eyes timidly gazing at Abel, cheeks slightly flushed.

“Archbishop.” 

Abel let out a sigh of relief—at least Sephilia was a “familiar,” and strangely, he felt no tension facing her.

“Relax a bit.” 

Sephilia chuckled lightly.

“Banquets are meant for enjoyment.

Come, I’ll introduce you to a few people truly worth knowing.”

She naturally linked her arm with Abel’s, her movements elegant yet carrying an undeniable insistence.

Abel stiffened for a moment but didn’t dare pull away.

He felt two gazes piercing his back.

One from not far away—Princess Prim was standing amid a group of nobles, holding a wine glass, her water-blue eyes coldly fixed this way.

Tonight, she wore a silver-white off-shoulder long gown, a blue sapphire necklace from the royal heritage around her neck, her pink curls piled high, revealing her slender neck.

Stunningly beautiful, but the chill in her eyes was freezing.

The other from right beside him—Sutis was puffing her little cheeks, her emerald eyes glaring at Sephilia’s arm linked with Abel’s, as if she might pounce and bite the next second.

Abel’s forehead started sweating again.

“This is the Duke of the Eastern Border, who controls a third of the kingdom’s granaries…”

“This is the Admiral of the Navy, whose fleet commands the entire west coast…”

“This is…”

Sephilia navigated the crowd like a fish in water, leading Abel through and introducing him to one heavyweight after another.

Abel could only mechanically follow, nodding, shaking hands, exchanging meaningless pleasantries.

He noticed these big shots’ attitudes toward him were subtle—warm on the surface, but with scrutiny and calculation hidden in their eyes.

They were assessing his value, probing his stance, scheming how to pull him into their camp.

So tiring.

“Sir Abel.”

Another voice sounded, this time with a hint of nervousness.

Abel turned his head and saw Aiko had sidled up to him at some point.

The little saintess twisted her hands nervously together, her azure eyes looking at him as she said softly: “Um… would you like something to eat? I noticed you haven’t eaten at all…”

She pointed to the long table not far away.

It was laden with exquisite desserts: cream puffs, fruit tarts, chocolate fountains, golden-baked mini cakes…

Abel was indeed hungry.

He hadn’t eaten since the afternoon, and now smelling the food’s aroma, his stomach growled uncooperatively.

“Thank you.” He said sincerely.

Aiko’s face flushed even more; she scurried to fetch a plate, her movements a bit clumsy, nearly bumping into a servant.

Sephilia watched her back and sighed lightly: “This child still needs more practice.

From now on, I’ll leave her in your care.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” 

Abel said perfunctorily—how could he not know this child’s nature?

Kind? 

On the surface, yes, but the rule of “pink on the outside, black on the inside” was ironclad in this Myanmar North 2D game!

Recalling those outrageous statements from Aiko and Ingrid’s partnership, Abel felt his blood boil just thinking about it.

“…I hope she can be of use.” 

Sephilia said faintly, but her gaze toward Aiko held a rare trace of gentleness.

At that moment, the music stopped.

From the high platform at the front of the hall, the herald struck the golden bell:

“His Majesty the King has arrived—!”