A delegation arrived.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Your Majesty,” said a knight from the Kingdom of Bers.
Behind the speaker, the delegation stood with chests puffed out, displaying an audacity unfit for the presence of the King of Mosul.
They showed none of the respect due to an allied king.
How dare they…
Tolland gritted his teeth at their insolence, but took no action. Confronting them would only bring loss.
Though outwardly equal, his position was not on par with the King of Bers.
The knight, acting as Bers’ proxy, demanded half the sacrificial offerings—an outrageous request. Yet Tolland couldn’t refuse. Not yet.
For now, he needed the King of Bers, his forces, and Hokhma’s blessings.
To break free from the Emperor’s grasp, their aid was crucial.
His rebellion couldn’t end as a fleeting, easily crushed uprising.
To become a respected great power, he had to endure temporary humiliation.
“…Yes, I’m pleased to meet you too. Make yourselves comfortable.”
The King of Mosul played the role of a benevolent, merciful ruler.
It was second nature, a lifelong act.
Despite the rage boiling within, such pretense was as natural to Tolland as breathing.
“Thank you for your hospitality. I’d love to stay, but we must follow our lord’s orders.”
“I understand. The King of Bers is fortunate to have such loyal knights.”
Tolland provided the delegation with the finest rooms and treatment, ordering his steward and servants to offer the highest hospitality.
Each knight was attended by at least one maid, with pages ready to assist at a moment’s notice.
Yet, despite these constant eyes and ears, Tolland gleaned no useful information—not even a hint of a weakness in the King of Bers.
The knights were as tight-lipped as if their mouths were sewn shut.
The King of Bers trained them well. Infuriatingly so.
Regardless of his mood, preparations to send the “gifts”—the sacrificial offerings—to Bers proceeded smoothly.
Beastmen locked in the dungeon were loaded onto prisoner transport wagons.
Their foul, compost-like stench was doused with water, treated like pig filth.
Seeing this, the delegation’s leader spoke to Tolland.
“That’s not good. Bring cloth. They must arrive in Bers alive.”
“…Understood.”
At the representative’s words, Tolland willingly had the beastmen washed, dried, and fed. The knight then fell silent.
Though they’d be killed eventually, there was a difference between sending corpses and living beings to Bers.
Through prior offerings to Hokhma, Tolland knew the living were more effective.
It was foolish to assume the King of Bers didn’t know this too.
If he was to send gifts and bow, it was better to do it thoroughly. Tolland ordered the beastmen fed well and warmly clothed.
“Your Majesty, the prince has arrived.”
“What is it?”
Late at night, Steward Regart reported.
“I have a request, Father,” said Garland, entering without permission, his face brimming with the confidence Tolland once had when facing the Demon King’s Army—tinged with slight arrogance.
His victory over the heretics’ leader had filled him with boundless confidence.
Confidence, arrogance, hubris—they could be poison, tripping up their bearer, but they were also growing pains every youth experienced.
Tolland decided to watch his son’s growth quietly.
Above all, Garland was his heir, the future King of Mosul. A touch of arrogance wouldn’t hurt.
Still, advice was necessary—as a father, ruler, monarch, and king above all.
“Son, confidence is vital, but excess will trip you up. Unless you want trouble early on, keep confidence but shed arrogance. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father. But… I came because I couldn’t wait to see you.”
Tolland looked at his son. Garland’s eyes held pride and affection—feelings of father-son closeness never felt before.
He knew Garland had always admired him, aspiring to be like him, but affection, respect, or love had been faint.
Initially, Garland hesitated to forsake Elon, but now he was transformed, fully devoted to Hokhma.
Tolland was proud.
“What do you want?”
“I heard Bers has an amusing game—a colosseum with special gladiators.”
Where had he heard that? Tolland glanced at Regart, but the young steward only shook his head.
It didn’t matter where the story came from.
“I’ve captured a fine slave. Rough and dangerous, but isn’t that ideal? I’ll present him as a gladiator before the King of Bers, dedicating the victory and glory to you, Father.”
“For me? Not yourself?”
“I’m still lacking to ascend the throne. You’ll see—he’s a champion. Bring him in!”
Creak… The office doors opened.
A massive mobile cage, barely fitting through, was brought before Tolland.
Lifting the black cloth revealed a tiger beastman, larger and fiercer than any Tolland had seen, bound in unbreakable chains despite being caged.
“He’s called Surabar. With him, I’ll elevate your honor, Father.”
***
The time had come. Supplies were loaded, and the Bers delegation prepared to return.
An unplanned addition joined them: Garland Hamilton, the legitimate heir of the King of Mosul.
“Your Highness.”
At Medeya’s honeyed voice, Garland turned.
She approached with maternal affection and concern, as if she were his true mother.
Adjusting his cloak embroidered with a goat—Mosul’s symbol—she smoothed his shoulders and caressed his cheek.
To an outsider, she’d seem a queen consort worrying for her departing son.
“I wish you a safe journey.”
Protective spells and emergency enchantments shimmered over Garland’s clothes, cloak, and armor.
Not permanent, but they wouldn’t fade in mere days.
Garland bowed, thanking her kindness.
“Go. Show the King of Bers the gift you’ve prepared,” Tolland said, swallowing his next words: It’ll be quite entertaining.
He patted his son’s shoulder in encouragement.
From a distance, he eyed the King of Bers’ loyal minions waiting.
The delegation had brought prisoner wagons for the sacrifices.
Disguised as merchants, their cloaks couldn’t hide the steel and swords peeking through, nor the razor-sharp killing intent.
Tolland knew the number of sacrifices was hard for Bers to procure, explaining their care.
Having achieved the swordmaster realm he’d long sought, Tolland suspected the King of Bers hid power greater than appearances suggested—beyond a swordmaster, surpassing even the divine blessings seen in the Demon King’s War.
“Don’t keep them waiting. Be cautious with your words before the King of Bers. I trust you, but don’t be too arrogant.”
“I’ll do as you say. Farewell, Father, Mother.”
Garland mounted his horse.
At his side was a guardian knight, ready to protect him or sacrifice himself.
His large, sturdy frame impressed Tolland—a fine meat shield for an emergency pick.
“Take care.”
The King of Mosul and his beloved queen watched the procession to Bers long, very long.
***
Garland Hamilton, the sole heir of the Border Count—no, the King of Mosul—hadn’t betrayed Elon or Mosul’s citizens.
He nearly did.
At the critical moment, Morik sought him out and spoke plainly.
“I will betray His Excellency.”
“Why tell me, Sir Morik?”
“I need your help. To strike the King of Mosul at the decisive moment with the most dangerous weapon. I need the aid of his most trusted ally.”
“Betray my father? Me, of all people?”
“…Yes.”
The former Border Count, now traitor Tolland Hamilton, must pay for his crimes.
Listening to the old knight’s calm words, Garland made his choice.
If he couldn’t escape his own sins, he’d willingly bear the blood and act for justice, even if it was hypocritical to lessen his guilt.
Morik spoke.
“Garland will help us. You could blame him, Surabar, but even with his aid, rescuing the woman you seek may be impossible. His help is indispensable.”
“…I know. To infiltrate the Kingdom of Bers safely, we need him.”
“Captain, your hand’s bleeding.”
Surabar, head bowed, realized he’d been clenching his fists, his sharp, weapon-like nails piercing his palms.
Would losing himself to rage be better, or maintaining reason despite it?
What was best for him was unclear.
But Surabar had a reason to stay rational.
Jasmine, the queen cherished by all, had been abducted.
He must want revenge, to kill.
To burn Tolland Hamilton, his son Garland, the soldiers who took Jasmine, and the Kingdom of Bers alive.
But he had to endure.
The time for vengeance was merely delayed.
The captain looked at me, then at Morik—the key allies needed to rescue Jasmine.
“Tell me what I must do.”
His voice sounded like a scream.