In the reception hall of the city lord’s mansion.
Von Brunswick sat in a high-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, the tip of his boot tapping in the air.
The black tea in front of him remained untouched, a thin oily film forming on the surface.
Sunlight streamed in through the window, casting sharp contrasts of light and shadow across his well-maintained face.
The city lord sat across from him.
He was a fat man in his fifties, bald, with a triple chin and a sheen of oily sweat on his forehead.
His fingers kept rubbing the carved patterns on the armrests of his chair, the friction polishing the lacquer to a shine.
“Lord Von.”
The city lord’s voice carried a cautious, probing tone.
“That Orlando you mentioned—we did receive a wanted notice here. But the portrait…” He hesitated.
“It was rather abstract. My men couldn’t identify him.”
“That’s your problem.”
Von didn’t look at him. His gaze fixed on some point outside the window.
“The Imperial Royal Gendarmerie’s wanted notice has been posted in Rantesti City for three days. Three days, and a traitor has been coming and going through your city gates, and you haven’t even gotten a glimpse of him.”
He turned to look at the city lord.
A smile hung on his lips, but his eyes held none.
“Your governance, my lord, surprises me.”
The city lord’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
He picked up a handkerchief from the table and wiped his forehead.
The handkerchief was silk, embroidered at the corner with his name’s initials, now wrinkled and damp from sweat.
“Lord Von, you must understand. Rantesti City sees at least a thousand merchants, travelers, and refugees pass through its gates every day. Our city defense force—you know its strength—barely a few dozen men. It’s simply—”
“I don’t want excuses.”
Von pushed aside the saucer.
The porcelain scraped against the marble tabletop with a harsh sound.
“I only want results. Catch the man, and I’ll credit you. Fail to catch him—”
He left the sentence hanging, letting the second half dangle in the air.
The city lord’s face turned pale.
Von withdrew his gaze and looked out the window again.
In the courtyard, the fountain sparkled under the sunlight, droplets splashing against the stone carvings at the edge, shattering into thousands of tiny beads.
‘This fat fool doesn’t understand.’
He thought to himself.
‘Orlando Dellfort. That commoner’s son. That magicless waste. Two years ago in Skyreach City, he should have died there. He and Elenora activated the teleportation array and left.’
‘He should have died.’
‘But he didn’t.’
‘And now he’s come back.’
Abandoning teammates.
In the Imperial Dragon-Slaying Corps, that was a crime even more disgraceful than treason.
Noble honor.
The Brunswick family’s prestige.
His Majesty’s trust.
His engagement to Elenora—though she had never once looked him in the eye, her head full of that commoner—but an engagement was an engagement, a political marriage between the Brunswick family and the Church.
If Orlando came back alive, everything would shatter.
So he had pinned the charge of “treason and collusion with the enemy” on Orlando.
A dead man’s mouth stays shut forever.
As long as Orlando suffered an “accidental death” before being captured, the truth would never see the light of day.
He knew full well that convicting someone privately was a serious crime.
Imperial law stated clearly: anyone who executes another without trial faces the same penalty as the crime they fabricated.
If it ever came to light, the charges against him would be no lighter than Orlando’s.
But he didn’t care about any of that.
Compared to the humiliation of having his abandonment of teammates exposed by Orlando, he would rather gamble on this.
Gamble that the city lord’s efficiency was low enough.
Gamble that the gendarmes were blind enough.
Gamble that Orlando would be “killed on the spot” before capture.
Noble honor outweighed the law.
“Lord Von.”
The city lord’s voice pulled him back from his thoughts.
“There’s one more thing. That Orlando—wasn’t he on the same dragon-slaying team as you back then? You must know him better than we do. Could you perhaps provide some—”
“Enough.”
Von stood up.
“I don’t want to hear any more excuses. Within three days, I want to see Orlando Dellfort’s head—or your resignation. The choice is yours, my lord.”
The city lord’s lips trembled.
Nothing came out.
A knock sounded at the door at that moment.
The city lord looked as if he’d been granted a reprieve.
He quickly called out, “Enter!”
The door swung open.
A figure stood at the threshold.
A black cloak covered them from head to toe, the hood pulled low, the entire face hidden in shadow.
The fabric was not ordinary black cloth—it was a heavy, light-absorbing material.
When light struck it, it seemed to fall into a swamp, reflecting nothing.
Where the face should have been beneath the hood, there was nothing.
Not empty.
Black.
A black mist writhed slowly in the depths of the hood, as if alive.
The edges of the mist constantly shifted shape, occasionally revealing a patch of pale skin before being swallowed again.
You couldn’t make out the person’s features—only felt that within the mist, a pair of eyes were watching you.
Very cold.
Von’s brow furrowed slightly.
He recognized that cloak.
A member of the Winter Night Church.
That sect from the Tsardom of Ulsx that worshipped frost and night—archenemies of the Angelic High Light Church.
Having one of their people show up in the city lord’s mansion of an Eldron Empire city was unusual in itself.
But he had no interest in meddling with matters concerning Ulsx now.
“Reverend.”
The city lord stood up, his fat face squeezing into an ingratiating smile.
“Is something the matter?”
The cloaked figure took a step forward.
The foot landed on the carpet without a sound.
“Nothing much.”
The voice came from the black mist.
Low, steady, like a stone sinking into deep water.
“Our nobleman died unexpectedly.”
The city lord blinked.
“Nobleman? In Rantesti City?”
“An underground tavern. Last night.”
The voice from the mist carried no inflection.
“The Grand Duke and the Guard will need an explanation.”
Von stood by the window, watching coldly.
An Ulsx noble dead in an Eldron city-state, and the Winter Night Church came to demand an explanation from the city lord.
Tedious political squabbling.
Right now, he only wanted to catch Orlando—he had zero interest in these northern barbarians’ problems.
The city lord rubbed his hands together, fresh sweat beading on his forehead where he had just dried it.
“Well… Reverend, taverns are places where fights break out all the time. When you say the nobleman died unexpectedly, what exactly—”
“An explosion.”
The black mist spat out two words.
“The entire tavern collapsed. Eight Ulsx citizens, all dead. The leader was the second son of the Vishkoff family.”
The city lord’s face turned very ugly.
The Vishkoff family was a notable noble line in Ulsx.
Not top-tier like the War Bear Clan, but among the human nobles, they carried weight.
The second son dead in an underground tavern in Rantesti City—if this wasn’t handled properly, it would become a diplomatic disaster.
“I’ll send men to investigate immediately.”
The city lord’s voice dropped half a tone.
“I will give the Grand Duke and the Guard a satisfactory explanation.”
“Very well.”
The black mist turned slightly.
The eyes hidden within seemed to sweep across Von, still standing by the window.
Then the figure stepped back, retreating into the shadow outside the door.
The door closed silently, as if it had never been opened.
The city lord slumped back into his chair, pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his sweat, his hands shaking violently.
Von turned from the window, picked up his coat from the back of the chair, and draped it over his arm.
“Three days.”
He left those two words on the table.
Then he walked out without looking back.
Meanwhile, on the other side.
“Quit stalling.”
Wei’s voice came from behind him.
She was holding a bundle in her arms.
She tossed it at him.
Orlando caught it by reflex and looked down.
A waitress uniform.
Black and white color scheme, a lace headband, a white apron.
And a wig—long, dark brown hair with softly curled ends.
Orlando held the uniform up and looked at Wei.
She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a glint of amusement in her red eyes.
“Why this?”
“Collecting intelligence requires subtle methods.”
Wei tilted her head, white bangs sliding across the corner of her eye.
A grin tugged at her lips.
“Besides, it saves me some bombs.”
Orlando looked down at the women’s clothing again.
Black and white.
Lace.
Apron.
Wig.
He looked back at Wei.
“You’re serious?”