BOOM—
Mid-May arrived, and with it came the rainy season in the Province of Nord. Thick storm clouds stretched across the skies, blanketing most of the region. Thunder snaked and crashed within the heavens, echoing like the roar of a dragon.
John Ota Luke reclined in a plush fur-lined chair, the fire roaring in the hearth as it battled the lingering dampness in the air.
As the Lord of Snow Maple Territory and a Viscount of the Empire, John was fifty-seven years old.
But as a Fourth-Tier Ice Knight, his body defied his age. His energy remained formidable, his hair still a healthy brown. Though time had softened his skin somewhat, his sharp, hooked nose stood proudly, leaving a deep impression on all who met him.
"Viscount," the butler announced, pushing open the door and stepping forward to place a letter on his desk. "A letter from the Griffith family."
John kept his eyes closed. "Read it."
The butler deftly sliced the wax seal with a letter opener and began reciting in a steady, ceremonial tone:
"To the esteemed Viscount John Ota Luke,
With deep sorrow, I inform you that Baron Donald Ota Griffith passed away suddenly from illness on the 2nd of May, Lumen Year 1193.
As the heir of House Griffith, I extend a sincere invitation for you to attend his funeral and my formal investiture, to be held on June 1st at Eagle Keep, Hawk's Reach, in the Province of Nord.
Yours faithfully,
A&G
R.A.G."
When the butler finished, John finally opened his eyes and sneered. "Hah. I thought that thug-turned-baron might surprise me—but no, just a dull, formal document."
"It was likely written by Gordon," the butler noted.
"Of course it was that old Gordon. That little street rat probably can't even read." John tossed the blanket from his lap and sat up. "Pitiful, isn't it? The once-proud Griffith family, a legacy a thousand years old, now left to a low-born hooligan."
"Shall I write a response, then?" the butler asked carefully. "Shall I inform them you are occupied with pressing affairs and unable to attend?"
John waved a hand. "Not so fast. Let me think…"
The butler waited patiently. He had served the Luke family for thirty years and knew his lord well. John called it 'prudence,' but others might have called it indecisiveness.
"What's the word from Angor's side?" John asked suddenly.
"This letter only just arrived," the butler replied. "Judging by the distance, the Warton family likely received their copy around the same time."
John nodded slowly, thoughts beginning to coalesce.
The downfall of House Griffith hadn't started with Donald, but under his watch, the decline had accelerated to its peak. That collapse had greatly benefited the neighboring Luke family.
Today, Griffith lands were split three ways. The most prosperous section—Shanjin Town—belonged to John.
Though the contract only granted him a lease, the term lasted fifty years. With forty remaining, that was more than enough time to entrench his rule there.
Donald hadn't been a particularly shrewd opponent, but he had at least been a competent noble. Even when he was mentally compromised—likely by some magical affliction—he had divided the territory carefully, leaving room for future reclamation.
Otherwise, he wouldn't have insisted on renting Shanjin Town for a whopping twenty thousand gold coins, while leasing the other two parcels to the Warton family.
Now, all that careful planning was about to be undone.
John had never held women in high regard. But even he had heard of Elaina's cunning and business acumen. He had always viewed her as the biggest obstacle to fully controlling Shanjin.
And yet… now House Griffith had fallen into the hands of a thug?
"Little Bee." John snorted with amusement.
He didn't know how Rus had defeated Elaina, but the nickname told him enough—it was likely something less than honorable.
Women were still women, after all—meant to be conquered by men.
I must've overestimated Elaina, John mused. If she's that kind of woman, well... this old blade isn't dull just yet.
"Will you attend in person, my lord?" the butler asked.
"I will. Send a letter confirming it. I'll be there," John said with a smirk. "I hear the Little Bee has been training his own private soldiers. I'd love to see them for myself."
"And if I don't show up, the kid might buckle under pressure from Angor and hand Shanjin over to the Warton family."
Outside, a bolt of lightning slashed across the sky, flooding the room with blinding white light. A deafening peal of thunder followed.
That thunder rolled all the way to the Warton estate.
Unlike John's quiet study, the Wartons' meeting hall was crowded and loud. Every man of the family had gathered.
At the head of the room sat a man clad in dull iron armor. His neck was thick like a bull's, and beside him lay a metal helm, its exaggerated nose guard shaped to match the face of its owner—Baron Angor Ota Warton.
His nose was so large, it made him look like a lion.
A Third-Tier Earth Warrior, Angor was sixty-five years old. But his temper still burned like fire. He crushed the invitation in his hand and hurled it into the fireplace.
"Bah! The world is going to hell. Any stray dog can call himself a noble these days!"
"Father, I think—" began a man with a nose nearly as prominent, though his was disfigured with angry red patches. This was Joudra, Angor's eldest son.
But before he could finish, Angor cut him off with a shout. "This is the meeting hall. How many times have I told you—use my title here!"
"Y-yes, Baron!" Joudra recoiled, a grown man of thirty-five shriveling like a scolded pup. "Baron, I just think... you shouldn't underestimate Rus."
"I've met Lady Elaina many times. She's not someone who can be easily manipulated. If Rus managed to wrest the inheritance from her, he's not to be taken lightly."
"Bullshit!" Angor slammed a fist on the table. "You've been bewitched by that Elaina bitch, haven't you? Speaking nonsense like that in a council meeting!"
"Please don't be angry, Father," said a younger man seated on Angor's right. His hair was a fiery red, and he spoke calmly. "My brother only said that out of concern for the family."
This was Mark, Angor's youngest son, twenty years old. Unlike Joudra, he had inherited their mother's brilliant red hair rather than the family's trademark giant nose.
Technically, using "Father" in this setting broke Angor's earlier rule—but the fierce old baron showed no sign of anger. In fact, his tone softened.
"Hmph. Concern for the family, or just for himself?"
Joudra lowered his head, swallowing the resentment on his face.
He and Mark were both Wartons by blood—but Angor's favoritism was blatant.
Joudra was fifteen years older than Mark. He'd been raised from childhood as the heir to the family name, trained with the harshest discipline.
Since the age of six, he had been forced to master noble etiquette, history, culture, weaponry, and battlefield tactics. The slightest misstep earned beatings from Angor. Praise and affection? He never once received either.
Joudra had once believed his father was simply old-fashioned and unable to express love.
But that belief had shattered the moment Mark began to grow up.
From a young age, Mark had always been the one to receive the most affection from their father. Even when he was five or six years old, Angor would still cradle him in his arms.
There had even been a few occasions when Mark had run up onto the training platform while Angor was drilling soldiers. If Joudra had done that, he'd have been beaten black and blue.
But instead of scolding, Angor had laughed, lifted Mark into his arms, and proudly introduced him to the soldiers as his son.
At just fifteen, Mark was given a Tier 2 Divine Blessing Potion—a targeted one that specifically awakened Earth Battle Aura. It cost a staggering 1,500 gold coins. When it failed the first time, Angor even bought him a second vial without hesitation.
In contrast, Angor himself had only received his first divine potion—a non-targeted Tier 1—at the age of twenty, and didn't successfully awaken his power until he was twenty-five.
Yes, Joudra had approached Elaina for his own benefit. With their father's blatant favoritism toward Mark, Joudra had long abandoned the hope of inheriting the title.
Instead, he sought to marry Elaina. That way, he could secure a path to becoming the true power behind Hawk's Reach.
But am I not part of the Warton family too?
"Father, Joudra is still part of the family," Mark said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He knew just how to win Angor's approval. "Besides, it's the rainy season now—prime time for chaos in the Blood Highlands."
"What if we had our private troops dress up as bandits and attack Eagle Keep? Wipe out House Griffith once and for all. With them gone, our two leased territories would be absolutely secure. No future successor would dare get any ideas."
"Hahaha! That's my boy!" Angor roared with laughter. "Now that's the Warton family spirit!"
But then, his expression sobered. "As clever as it sounds, that plan's all teeth and no tongue. We're nobles, not common bandits."
Not that Angor particularly cared about noble morality—but the current state of the kingdom didn't allow him such recklessness.
Over the past century, the royal family had worked tirelessly to weaken the nobility's power, tightening the issuance of noble titles. In a hundred years, barely a handful of new titles had been granted—while well over a hundred had been revoked.
The Warton family was only a low-ranking barony. If they carried out Mark's plan, even if they succeeded, the royal dogs in the Noble Council would come down on them like a pack of wolves. They wouldn't stop until the Wartons were stripped of land, title, and honor.
"Then what's your plan, Father?" Mark asked.
Angor's eyes gleamed. "The Little Bee's been training soldiers, hasn't he? Then we'll show up with our elite forces and give him a proper 'congratulatory gift.' Let him see exactly what kind of opponent he's up against."
"Brilliant as always, Father!" Mark praised loudly. "That low-born mutt has never seen soldiers as elite as our Ironforge troops. He'll piss himself from fear!"
"And once we've scared him a bit, he might just offer up Hawk's Reach—and that whore Elaina—without a fight!"
Angor shook his head. "No, son. Not us. Joudra will come with me this time. You'll stay here and keep training. It's time you sharpened your skills."
"But—" Mark started to object, then quickly lowered his head, wearing just the right amount of wounded disappointment. "I understand, Father."
He knew exactly what Angor was thinking.
Joudra was older. He had his own loyal followers and was the legitimate heir. If left in Ironforge while Angor was away, and something happened to his father, Joudra could immediately claim leadership.
Mark's little show of disappointment wasn't about leaving—it was a performance. A ploy to stir guilt and earn a reward.
Sure enough, Angor said, "Don't pout like a child. You're a grown noble now. Fine. When I return, I'll grant you command of your own knight-lead."
Mark immediately lit up. "Thank you, Father!"
BOOM—
Another thunderclap tore across the sky, and the rain outside grew heavier.
Within the veil of that pounding storm, riders galloped through the roads of Nord Province like blood coursing through arteries.
They were mercenaries, riding day and night to deliver invitations—one to every noble family that had once had ties with House Griffith.
The unrelenting thunder was like the overture to a grand drama, resounding across the land to announce one thing:
House Griffith was returning.
And yet, even the thunder couldn't drown out every sound.
In the courtyard of Eagle Keep, a sharper rhythm rang out.
"Thrust!"
"Thrust!"
"THRUST!!"
In the pouring rain, Rus's private soldiers continued their drills. Determination and resolve burned in their eyes.
At Erik's command, they braced with wide stances, gripping their spears with both hands as they practiced a single movement, again and again.
Lunge. Lunge. And lunge again.
Their spearheads cut through the downpour, splitting the rain into shimmering mist, so that from a distance it looked as if they were training in a veil of fog.
No one dared to lose focus—for Rus stood with them in the rain, spear in hand, enduring every drop beside them.
After the five-hundredth thrust of the day, Rus lowered his spear and straightened up.
"Stand at attention!"
Swish.
All thirty-six soldiers snapped to position in unison. Their boots struck the soaked ground with such precision that the splash sounded as one.
Two weeks of training had begun to show results.
Rus's voice boomed: "WHO ARE WE?!"
At the front, Simon raised his head proudly and bellowed:
"THE EAGLE GUARD!"
"WHAT IS OUR CREED?!"
"DEFEND OUR HOME! LOYALTY TO THE BARON!"
"WHO IS YOUR BARON?!"
"LORD RUS!"
"GOOD!" Rus spun his spear with force and shouted, "Now—someone wants to laugh at you! Laugh at me, RUSS! WHAT DO YOU SAY TO THAT?!"
For a brief second, there was silence.
Then, a crack of thunder split the sky—
And Simon stepped forward:
"KILL!"
The shout was deafening:
"KILL!!"
"KILL!!!"