The air inside the secret chamber was so heavy it felt like it could be sliced with a knife.
Lux glanced at the hand on her chest, then looked up at Rus, her expression icy.
"What exactly are you doing?"
In that instant, Rus's instincts—sharpened from years of surviving the streets—kicked in, and he remained unexpectedly calm. Locking eyes with Lux, he replied with righteous conviction:
"Chest compressions. CPR."
His gaze was so sincere, his voice so composed—he could've been mistaken for a knight administering life-saving aid to the wounded.
For a moment, Lux nearly believed him…
…If only his hand had stopped moving.
There's a saying: If you do something for 10,000 hours, you become an expert.
If that's true, then Rus was without a doubt a master when it came to women.
And true expertise lies in muscle memory—performing intricate techniques effortlessly, almost unconsciously.
Like now.
Rus wasn't even trying, yet his hand was operating with disturbingly practiced ease.
So when Lux's gaze dropped to that very hand again, the look on Rus's face could only be described as… tragically awkward.
"Uh… this is part of the resuscitation technique. If I stop now, you'll pass out again!"
"You dare defile a priestess of the God of Light? Unforgivable!" Lux raised her hand and began chanting:
"Oh great Lord of Light, grant me your power to strike down this wretched—"
A radiant glow like the morning sun burst from her hand—Tier-2 Divine Spell: Judgement Light!
But just as she was about to finish the last few syllables—
Her voice cut off. Her arm went limp like a noodle.
She had fainted again.
"…What the hell just happened?"
Rus stared at his now-free hand in a daze. "Wait, was I actually giving CPR just now?"
Yeah, no way.
Judging from Lux's pale complexion, she'd passed out from blood loss.
Fortunately, as a Tier-2 priestess, her physical resilience far exceeded that of normal people. She wouldn't die anytime soon.
And honestly, her being unconscious was for the best. If she woke up and saw Donald's corpse, things would get much worse.
Without missing a beat, Rus got to work rearranging the scene.
He dressed Donald in a full formal suit—gloves, wig, socks—the whole ensemble. Then he dragged a chair to the corner, slumped the body onto it, and used his rapier to shred Donald's chest and abdomen into an unrecognizable mess.
The room was dimly lit. Unless someone got up close, they'd never notice how abnormal the body really was.
Next, he carefully positioned Lux on a second chair and even smoothed out the wrinkles in her robe.
After reviewing his plan once more in his head, Rus finally unlocked the chamber door with the only key.
Half an hour later, Rus returned—leading two men into the room.
He walked ahead of them. The one directly behind him was built like a bear, clad in full plate armor, a round shield strapped to his back, and a heavy broadsword hanging at his waist. A thick brown beard peeked out from between his helmet and chestplate.
But the most striking thing about him was his face—specifically his eyes. His left eye was huge, fierce, like a tiger's. His right eye, however… looked like someone had gotten lazy while sculpting it, leaving only a peanut-sized indentation.
Most people had uneven eyes. This guy had "big eye, tiny-tiny eye."
He was Erik Davinson, Captain of the Guard at Hawk's Keep. A Tier-1 Heavy Armored Warrior—and the man who had escorted Rus back from Moen.
The man at the rear appeared to be in his sixties. He had snow-white hair, a lined face, and the calm gaze of someone who'd seen many seasons come and go. A golden monocle rested on his right eye, making him look quite a bit like Gandalf.
This was the steward of Hawk's Keep—Old Gordon.
"Rus, what happened to Baron Donald?" Erik asked gruffly. "We've come this far—surely you can tell us now?"
Rus didn't answer. He simply pulled out the key and opened the door. "Please. Step inside, gentlemen."
"Hmph." Erik grunted and marched forward, bumping Rus on purpose as he passed.
Old Gordon, in contrast, bowed politely and gave Rus a courteous nod before entering.
"What the hell happened!?" Erik roared the moment he saw Donald's body. He drew his sword and pointed it straight at Rus. "By the God of Light—what did you do to the Baron!?"
Boom.
The chamber door closed behind them.
Rus strolled in calmly. "It's not what I did to him…"
"…It's what you did."
Erik froze. "What… what the hell are you talking about?"
Rus circled around him and stood beside Lux. "Erik Davinson, Captain of the Guard. You've served in Hawk's Keep for fifteen years—and never once been knighted. Resentment built over time."
"You earned the Baron's trust… and then stabbed him in the back."
"You're trying to frame me!?" Erik snarled, sword now pointed at Rus's throat.
The chamber wasn't large. Even in full armor, Erik was confident he could subdue Rus in five seconds flat.
But what moved faster than his sword—was Rus's.
His crossbow was aimed squarely at Lux's temple. His rapier pressed lightly against his own throat.
"You were caught in the act by me and Priestess Lux. In a panic, you decided to silence us both. You tried to kill us too."
Erik's sword suddenly felt very heavy in his hands.
He looked at Rus—at those calm, steady hands—and felt cold sweat pour down his forehead, dripping into his beard.
A baron murdered under his watch was already damning. But if the priestess and the heir died too?
He would become the prime suspect.
And both the Church and the Empire would come down on him with everything they had. His family would be dragged down with him.
"You bastard!" Erik's voice trembled. "I had no reason to kill the Baron!"
"Oh, but you did." Rus's tone was as calm as ever. "You struck a deal with Baron Donald's second wife, Elaina Claydon. You kill him, her son Weston inherits the title, and in return—she knights you."
Erik felt a chill shoot up his spine.
Because that story… made too much sense. It was exactly the kind of rumor people would believe. And once it spread, he'd never be able to prove otherwise.
"I… I didn't do it! I would never!" Erik growled. "I'm going straight to the Noble Council—I'll expose your lies!"
But before he could move—
A flash of red.
Blood.
Rus had moved the rapier's edge—just enough to cut the skin of his neck.
That single drop of blood froze Erik in place.
Rus meant it. He was willing to die—and take Erik down with him.
"You lunatic!" Erik hissed. "You're insane!"
"What do you want from me!?"
Rus finally smiled. "Now that's the right question."
He turned his attention to Gordon, who had remained silent the entire time.
"Mr. Gordon, would you do me a favor?"
The old steward bowed. "At your service, my lord."
"Please draft a statement," Rus said. "In Erik's voice. It will say that he admits to killing Baron Donald Alta Claydon out of greed, after accepting a deal from Elaina Claydon."
"I didn't—!"
"And you, Erik," Rus interrupted, "You're a Nord, aren't you? Born and raised?"
"What of it?" Erik snapped.
Rus met his eyes. "Swear on your ancestors. Swear loyalty to me—and sign that letter."
"So long as your loyalty remains firm… that confession will never see the light of day."
Erik licked his dry lips.
"…But I still have one other option."
"You're right," Erik said bitterly. "I could kill you right here and escape immediately."
Rus nodded calmly. "You're a Nord warrior, trained by the Imperial military. I have no doubt you could make it through the Hawk Mountains and vanish into the Blood Highlands."
"But…" he added, voice tightening, "can your eleven-year-old son and eight-year-old daughter handle that kind of journey? Could they survive the brutal conditions of the Blood Highlands?"
Erik's jaw clenched. A vein throbbed on his temple as his lips twitched in rage.
"Despicable! Shameless! Bastard! Madman! Demon!"
Old Gordon stepped around him and offered a neatly prepared document to Rus with both hands.
"My lord, please review this."
Rus skimmed it, then nodded with satisfaction. "Now then—Sir Erik, if you would be so kind as to sign it."
Erik stared at the page, his expression contorted. He didn't want to surrender… but he couldn't abandon his children. Gritting his teeth, he removed his gauntlet, dipped a quill in ink, and signed his name.
The moment the pen left the page, it felt like something had been wrenched from his soul.
Thud.
He dropped to one knee. Drawing his blade across his palm, he smeared the blood across his face and declared:
"By the ancestors of the Nords, I, Erik Davinson, pledge my loyalty to Rus Claydon. I swear unwavering allegiance. I will not leave his side."
"Well said." Rus sheathed his rapier and holstered his crossbow, then placed a hand over his heart.
"I, Rus Claydon, accept your oath. From this day forward, so long as your loyalty holds, I will ensure you are rewarded with the honor, glory, and wealth you deserve."
Erik rose in silence, his face dark.
Rus didn't mind. He stepped over to Donald's corpse.
"Now that you've sworn loyalty, there's something you deserve to see."
With that, he gave the body a slight push. Donald's stiff corpse toppled over with a dull thud.
"You—!" Erik began to shout—then stopped cold.
His eyes widened as he saw the unnatural, almost translucent skin. Skin no human should have.
Rus walked over, patted his shoulder, and said quietly, "Yes. I killed Donald. And now you understand why."
Erik's eyes were full of confusion. "But… why?"
Now that he knew Donald had ties to a dark god, swearing loyalty to Rus didn't weigh on his conscience anymore. He was a Claydon retainer—serving the new heir made sense.
But what he couldn't understand was why Rus went to such lengths. If killing Donald was justified, why all the deception? Why risk everything to manipulate him?
Rus said, "I know you have questions. But this isn't the time for answers. I need you to fetch a stretcher. We must move Priestess Lux to a guest room."
Erik didn't understand, but Nord warriors had one virtue: if they didn't get it, they didn't overthink it.
They just followed orders.
At least for now, his family was safe.
Together, they carried Lux to a guest room. As Rus left to take care of other things, Erik couldn't hold back his curiosity.
He grabbed Gordon's arm.
"Old Gordon, what the hell is going on? Why did Rus—er, Lord Rus—do all that?"
"Lord Rus," Gordon corrected gently. "With Baron Donald deceased, Rus is the first in line to inherit the title. You must address him as the baron."
"…Right. Lord Rus." Erik said awkwardly. "But seriously—what's the point of all this?"
Gordon adjusted his monocle. "Let me ask you something. If you were a bystander and stumbled upon Donald's corpse… what would you do?"
"I'd… report it to the Church," Erik said after a pause. "But—"
"That's enough," Gordon cut in smoothly. "You already know the Church's attitude toward dark cults and forbidden gods. If this were reported, the Claydon family's noble title would likely be revoked."
"Lord Rus is cautious. He didn't know how you would react—so he forced your loyalty first, ensuring the secret stayed buried."
Erik's eyes widened with understanding. "So that's why… But then why tell me the truth afterward?"
Gordon smiled faintly. "Because Lord Rus is wise."
"If your oath came only from blackmail, you'd be a ticking time bomb—full of resentment and waiting to explode."
"But by telling you the truth, he replaces resentment with clarity. Now you serve him knowing the full picture."
Erik scratched his head, still processing. "He's cunning… no, damn cunning."
"Not cunning," Gordon said, eyes gleaming with pride. "Wise."
"After generations of decline, I believe… under Lord Rus's leadership, the Claydon family will rise again."
Just then, Rus's voice called out, "Mr. Gordon, I need your help with something."
He had overheard the conversation—and it only deepened his understanding of the two men before him.
Gordon, loyal steward of the Claydons for nearly forty years—sharp, composed, and discreet. He knew what to say, what to leave unsaid, and how to guide people without alarming them.
By steering Erik's thoughts toward the Church, Gordon had kept him from realizing the real reason Rus had to secure his loyalty:
With Donald dead, Erik was now the only remaining superhuman in Hawk's Keep.
Rus might be the primary heir, but he wasn't the only one. Donald's stepson, Weston, still had a legitimate claim.
And whichever side Erik chose—that side would likely win.
That's why Rus had gambled everything to secure him.
Sure, Rus had another option—dispose of Donald's body quietly, give up the claim, and slink back to Moen to live as a gutter rat again.
But why the hell should he?
In this world, the gap between noble and commoner was astronomical—as if they weren't even the same species.
Nobles enjoyed wealth, power, influence, and women. They owned the very concept of prosperity.
And commoners?
They were the prosperity to be owned.
Rus had no intention of crawling back into the gutter. This barony was his, and he would claim it—no matter what.
"Yes, Lord Rus?" Gordon approached and bowed.
"Come with me," Rus said. "I need to know—what kind of woman is Elaina Claydon?"
Because she… was the biggest threat standing between him and his new title.