It was noon in midsummer, the sun blazing overhead.
For once, the streets of Hawk Town were bustling. Carriages adorned with noble crests lined the narrow lanes, barely leaving space between them. Now and then, a fine steed trotted past, weaving between the traffic.
There hadn't been a major war in over a century, and the nobility had grown soft and indulgent, preferring the comfort of carriages over the saddle. But a few old-school lords still insisted on riding themselves.
Baron Angor was one of those men.
Flanked by his eldest son Joudra and three knighted retainers, Angor rode his warhorse—part beastkin and bred for battle—past the sluggish carriages, overtaking them with ease. Just as they left the town's edge, a striking figure on horseback came into view ahead.
The horse was a sight to behold—silver-white from mane to hoof, its gleaming coat almost blinding under the sunlight. Its muscles rippled with every stride, thick legs like four polished columns, each knee capped with pale yellow spurs. Faint traces of electricity danced over its body like serpents.
A Tier-2 Magic Beast — Lightning-Horn Silver-Eyed Steed.
And the man atop it? Viscount John.
"Viscount John, it's been far too long," Angor said, urging his horse to match pace. "You've still got the same commanding presence."
"The same to you," John replied coolly. "Though I'd say your constitution surpasses mine. At your age, I doubt I could still ride in armor."
"Haha!" Angor laughed heartily, seemingly oblivious to the sarcasm. "I can't compare to your wealth and power, so I've no choice but to rely on steel to prop up my dignity."
"But I must say, coming here in formalwear was unwise. Commoners fear power, not kindness. A mongrel like Rus—lucky enough to inherit a barony—can only be subdued through strength!"
John's sharp nose twitched slightly. He nudged his steed with his knees, and the beast subtly increased its pace.
Angor followed with smug satisfaction.
John was more than ten years younger, held a higher rank, and was the stronger fighter. Not to mention, he'd seized Shanjin Town, the most prosperous part of Hawk's Reach. So to gain the upper hand in even a minor exchange was sweet indeed.
Soon, the full silhouette of Eagle Keep came into view, and a tinge of envy flickered in Angor's eyes.
The castle sat squarely aligned north to south, wrapped in sturdy walls on all sides—80 meters long, 65 meters wide. A five-meter-wide moat guarded the outer perimeter.
Its black granite walls rose five meters high, fortified yet elegant. The battlements and arrow slits atop the walls hinted at serious defense. Once the drawbridge was raised, it became an impregnable fortress.
The centerpiece, however, was the seventeen-meter-high main tower. Its elegantly curved stonework and pointed spire gave it a seductive allure—almost sensual. With a magic crystal cannon mounted atop it, not even a 5,000-man army could breach it.
Compared to this, Ironforge Keep, Angor's own fortress, was almost pitiful—cramped, half the size, and built on hilly terrain. Its central structure barely rose ten meters.
How could such a magnificent stronghold end up in the hands of a filthy lowborn like Rus?
A booming voice pulled Angor from his thoughts.
"Approaching Eagle Keep—lords, please dismount and proceed on foot!"
Looking ahead, Angor saw two rows of soldiers standing rigidly on either side of the drawbridge, with another group standing in formation on the bridge itself. Altogether, only about thirty-something men—but their appearance and bearing gave Angor pause.
They wore simple brown leather armor, the kind not flashy enough to be new, but smooth and well-kept from regular use and maintenance.
Under the sweltering sun, each man gripped his spear with unwavering hands. Their eyes were wide open, bodies straight as boards. Though sweat poured from their foreheads, their feet were planted like tree roots.
They didn't look like men—they looked like statues. Like clay guardians.
And yet their chests still rose and fell.
That commanding voice had come from a curly-haired young man among them.
These are Rus's soldiers?
He trained this bunch of peasants to this level—in just a month?
Let's see how real they are.
Angor spurred his horse forward and pointed his riding crop directly at the young man's face.
"You dare block my path?" he barked. "Do you even know who I am?!"
"Your identity is irrelevant to me," the young man replied without fear. "You are approaching Eagle Keep. Dismount and proceed on foot."
Angor actually laughed. "You've got guts, I'll give you that." He tightened his legs and urged his horse another step forward. "And what if I insist?"
Though well over sixty, Angor's frame was still broad and imposing. Even without activating his Battle Aura, his presence alone made it clear—he could charge at any second.
The young man hesitated and stepped back two paces.
Angor smirked. Exactly as expected. Just for show.
Lowborns are always lowborns—dress them up however you like, they're still lambs waiting to be sheared.
But his smugness vanished in an instant.
"ENEMY APPROACHING!"
The young man's shout shattered the silence, and suddenly, the entire unit snapped into motion.
The soldiers reorganized into two tight rows, spears leveled shoulder-high, transforming within seconds into a solid wall of iron. The drawbridge was now fully sealed behind a hedge of spearpoints.
So fast!
From behind, Viscount John watched, deeply impressed.
At fifty-five years old, he had seen his fair share of soldiers—mercenaries, bandits, even elite forces like the Empire's Iron Legion and the Knights of Light from the Church.
But not a single one of them could form a formation this fast.
Even his own prized Snow Maple Regiment, though superior in gear and individual skill, couldn't match this level of discipline.
Just moments ago, John had regretted not donning full armor for the occasion. Now, he was silently thankful—and prepared to enjoy the show.
Angor, meanwhile, was caught in an awkward limbo. Advancing looked like madness; retreating would mean humiliation.
Madman! That Rus must be behind this!
These private soldiers wouldn't dare raise their weapons against a baron unless they had Rus's explicit approval.
But how dare he?
A mongrel! A thug with a title!
How DARE he bare his teeth at me?!
And yet, despite his rage, Angor couldn't deny one simple truth:
This tactic worked.
As Baron of Ironforge, Angor—no matter how strong—still had to play by the rules of nobility.
To show up to a funeral fully armored was already pushing boundaries. Charging forward without announcing his name, only to be blocked at spearpoint, was something he couldn't exactly complain about.
If he attacked now, it would be tantamount to declaring war on Hawk's Reach.
And while he didn't fear war, in today's political climate, a declaration of war was a slap in the face to the royal court. Even if he razed Hawk's Reach to the ground, it would only make him the villain—and someone else would reap the rewards.
Could that little bee have calculated all this? Is that why he set this up so perfectly?
No. Impossible. Absolutely not!
"Baron," Joudra stepped up behind him and whispered, "This is still Donald's funeral…"
Angor shot his son a glare full of bitter disappointment.
Dismounting now would be admitting defeat. It would hand Rus the spotlight on a silver platter!
His jaw clenched. He slowly raised his arm, about to order his knights to charge—
Then a voice, clear and composed, rang out.
"Well, well. And here I was wondering which distinguished guest had arrived. Baron Angor—it's you."
The voice belonged to a dark-haired man dressed in a noble's formalwear.
The baronial uniform was made of wool, dyed a clean sea-blue. Its chest was open slightly to reveal a white silk shirt beneath. Gold and silver embroidery danced across the cuffs and lapels, elegant and tasteful. On the left breast was an eagle mid-flight, wings spread and beak open in a cry of triumph. Its eye, made from carved amber, sparkled with piercing intensity.
Not everyone could pull off such attire. But on Rus, it fit perfectly—highlighting both his bearing and natural charisma.
He stepped past the human wall of soldiers and spoke in a scolding tone, "How could you treat a guest like this? He's no enemy—stand down at once!"
"Yes, my lord!" the young man—Simon—was the first to shout. "Return to post!"
In rhythm, the soldiers broke formation and split into three tidy rows, returning to their positions without a hitch.
The tense atmosphere vanished like mist. Rus placed a hand on his chest and offered a textbook-perfect bow.
"My apologies, Baron Angor. I hope you weren't too startled."
Angor's cheek twitched. He wanted nothing more than to slap Rus into the ground—but in the end, he gritted his teeth, took the offered step down, and dismounted.
Walking up to Rus, he sneered, "Baron Rus, your drill work is impressive. They look good enough to send to a public bathhouse in Monne City."
In this world, "public bathhouses" often offered more than just a wash—services for both men and women, with some establishments even preferring handsome men to female staff.
A mistake on Angor's part—because Rus had spent years navigating Monne's underworld. In terms of sharp wit and verbal sparring, the seasoned baron was no match.
"Oh, so bathhouse training is the key to military discipline. That explains what I've been missing," Rus replied with a friendly smile. "By that logic, your soldiers must be trained to bathhouse standards. No wonder your territory's revenue is so strong."
Angor's giant nose flushed bright red. "You've got quite the tongue."
"Thank you," Rus said with a charming grin. "Rhetoric is, after all, a required skill for nobles."
Nobles continued to arrive by the minute. Murmured chatter had already begun to swell. Angor, sensing the tide turning against him, snorted and stalked into the castle.
"My apologies, Baron Rus," Joudra said in a low voice. "My father... he's always been like this. I hope you won't take it personally."
"Something happen?" Rus asked with a raised brow.
Joudra hesitated, gave a polite nod, then turned and followed his father.
From the side, Viscount John had been watching everything unfold, and his opinion of Rus shifted ever so slightly.
Anyone can put on a show—but those soldiers weren't for show.
The fact that they dared raise spears against a titled noble proved one thing: they had both courage and discipline. It was only a matter of time before they became real soldiers.
Say what you will, but in terms of soldier training, Rus had passed the bar.
"Viscount John," Rus said, his smile fading as he bowed respectfully. "Thank you for attending my uncle's funeral."
That, too, surprised John.
Rus had just one-upped a senior baron and could have easily basked in the moment. But instead, he showed humility, restraint—and even a touch of grief.
This wasn't the behavior of some two-bit street thug. It showed judgment. He clearly knew who he could afford to offend—and who he couldn't.
Now John began to understand why Donald had chosen Rus as his heir.
The boy had noble blood in his bones.
John dismounted, handed his reins to a retainer, and stepped forward to return the bow.
"Baron Donald was an honorable and upright man. And from what I see, you carry his legacy. May House Claydon rise to greatness again under your leadership."
"Thank you for your kind words," Rus replied.
The two men fell into pleasant conversation.
Meanwhile, Angor was seething.
He had narrowly avoided disaster, yes—but John had seen the whole exchange and no doubt found it amusing.
I came here to intimidate him with force… and got intimidated instead. Outrageous!
Fine. If strength didn't work—then I'll use etiquette!
All Rus needed was a single misstep—some tiny breach of noble decorum—and Angor would seize the moment to raise a scandal and ruin the funeral. That would teach Rus a proper lesson:
Some people are not to be trifled with.
But when Angor entered the castle hall, his heart sank.
The carpets had been swapped for solemn black, exactly as funeral protocol demanded. The tables and over a hundred chairs were made from respected purple sandalwood, known for its noble status. White linen tablecloths softened the dark tones, keeping things refined without veering into extravagance.
The main table—closest to the casket—was slightly elevated, clearly marked for the guest of honor. No room for ambiguity.
Then Angor's eyes lit up. He found his opening.
Next to the main table were rows of crystal-clear wine glasses, elegant and perfectly crafted—thirty silver apiece, no problem there.
But the wine?
No labels.
As a seasoned wine connoisseur, Angor could tell at a glance: this wasn't top-shelf stuff. In fact, he recognized it—Flowing Amber, a cheap table wine.
To serve such low-quality wine at your uncle's funeral, to deceive guests by pretending it was premium—it was an insult to nobility!
A petty reason to cause trouble? Maybe. But so what?
Rus was a former thug. Angor was a true-blooded noble baron.
A slow grin curled across Angor's face.
He could already see the scene in his mind: the toasts being raised, Rus standing tall, just as the mood reached its peak—
—and then he, Baron Angor, would smash his glass on the floor, exposing Rus's fraud, tearing his noble mask to shreds.
He would turn this entire coronation into a joke.
With a satisfied hum, Angor found a seat, set his helmet on the table, and rubbed his massive nose. He turned to Joudra and whispered:
"Son, pay attention. In a moment, I'm going to show you exactly how the Warton family makes an impression."