The gates swung open as Joudra and two knights carried Angor away in a hasty retreat, under the watchful eyes of all the gathered nobles.
For the Warton family, this was nothing less than a total defeat.
Angor had misjudged his opponent and launched an offensive out of wounded pride. Even when things went south, he could have salvaged the situation with minimal cost. But his obsession with pride and control led him to ruin everything.
Years of reputation and influence—gone in a single afternoon.
And everything he lost, Rus gained.
The more volatile, arrogant, and irrational Angor had appeared, the more composed, courteous, and noble Rus seemed in contrast.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Rus's voice rang out, instantly drawing everyone's attention. "As your host, I apologize for the unfortunate scene earlier. As a token of goodwill, after the ceremony, I'll be gifting one bottle of Angel's Tear to each attending household."
Viscount John chuckled. "Oh? Is that to say today's tasting is already over, Baron Rus? Surely you're not so stingy? We've barely had time to savor that remarkable wine."
A ripple of warm laughter followed. Angor's unexpected outburst had left little time for anyone to enjoy the drinks.
Rus smiled. "Of course not. There will be food served shortly. Please—enjoy at your leisure."
Soon, servers moved out long tables, and maids began presenting dishes. A buffet-style banquet, the latest trend among the aristocracy, officially began.
Out of courtesy, nobles came up to exchange pleasantries with Rus—chitchat ranging from family ties to old battlefield lore: "Your grandfather once fought beside my great-grandfather in the War of Shadows," or "My ancestor once competed with yours for the hand of Lady So-and-So."
Whether these tales were true didn't matter. What mattered was talking—getting a foot in the door. One never knew when such a connection might prove useful.
Yet most nobles only lingered briefly with Rus before moving on.
The real crowd gathered around Elaina—particularly the noblewomen.
Men of noble birth tended to avoid discussing trade directly—too crude, too unbecoming of "gentlemen." But noblewomen? Their conversations were "harmless" chats. Just gossip, of course. Certainly not negotiations over bulk wine prices.
The banquet carried on into the evening. Some nobles left, their estates nearby. Others, whose homes were farther away, chose to stay the night.
After a long day, Rus finally returned to his chambers, poured himself a glass of wine, and leaned against the windowsill, sipping in solitude.
Just as he raised the glass to his lips—a knock.
"Come in," he said calmly.
The door creaked open, letting a cool breeze drift through. Rus turned his head—and froze.
It was Elaina.
Gone was the mourning dress from earlier. Now, she wore a flowing white chiffon gown, its sheer fabric fluttering in the evening breeze. Her bare arms and delicate ankles peeked through the cloth, catching the moonlight.
She approached slowly, graceful and fragrant, and sat beside him. Her cheeks were rosy from the wine, her eyes clear and gleaming, warm with emotion.
Rus drew a long breath—then turned his back to her, leaning against the wall. "Auntie... I suggest you leave. I don't have much self-control."
Elaina giggled. "Oh? And what are you going to do—rip off my dress and throw me on the bed?"
"You think I wouldn't?" Rus suddenly turned and leaned in close, his eyes burning with unrestrained desire.
His gaze slid over her brows, her eyes, her nose, her lips—then drifted downward into the soft valley of her chest before rising again. His face inched closer.
Just before their lips could meet, Elaina abruptly stood. "Tch. Shame. I'm not that interested."
She walked to the table by the window, poured herself a drink, and took a sip—then frowned. "Why is this just Flowing Amber? Not Angel's Tear?"
"I like it. What's it to you?" Rus snatched the glass from her hand and drained it. "Now either strip down and lie on the bed, or get the hell out."
Elaina's brows twitched in irritation. "Rus, you're such a bastard."
"I can still do worse," Rus sneered. "Like pinning you up against the window and letting all of Hawk's Reach see just how impressive their new lord really is."
Elaina stared at him, furious. "I overestimated you. Clearly."
She moved to the door and paused. "Thirteen noble houses expressed interest in Angel's Tear today. Within two weeks, you need to prepare three hundred bottles. I'll supply the ingredients. You handle the rest."
Bang. The door slammed shut behind her.
Rus didn't turn around. He simply stood there, staring at the moon through the window, lost in thought.
Damn nobles.
Today was a major victory—he'd crushed Angor's offensive, secured Joudra's promise, and Angel's Tear was now in high demand.
And yet, he felt no joy.
Especially when he recalled those so-called "casual conversations" from earlier:
"Baron Rus, I heard you were raised in an orphanage. What was that like?"
"Tell us—what's life like among the rabble of Monn City?"
"Baron Rus, they say your nickname is 'Little Bee.' How did you get that?"
Clang.
The silver goblet in his hand slammed against the windowsill, flattening with a dent.
"Ask your damn mothers," Rus muttered, venom lacing his voice.
Those nobles, all smiles and etiquette, had looked at him not as an equal, but as a curiosity—a talking monkey, someone from the gutter who had miraculously climbed up.
Their tone, their questions, even their interest—it all screamed the same thing:
"What a quaint little success story. How lucky he is to stand among us."
Rus hated it.
But there was nothing he could do—not yet.
He looked at his open hand and sighed. "Still too weak."
Power. Rank. Honor. Influence. Wealth.
He had none of it.
In terms of class, he was a commoner—no supernatural strength. With the help of the Eye of Truth, he could clearly see: nearly every noble present today was at least Tier One Awakened.
In terms of forces, he had only thirty-six private soldiers and Erik, his lone Tier One.
As for reputation and standing—he was a baron of a backwater fief, with only eight hundred subjects. Some knights had more.
And wealth?
Ninety gold coins in his vault.
A fortune to him. But to the other nobles? That was the cost of a single formal outfit.
And at the root of all this? Gold.
Without money, there could be no awakening.
No army.
No business expansion.
No freedom.
But at least—he had a lever now.
He looked out across the darkened lands of Hawk's Reach. The town lay still under night's cover—but across the river, lights twinkled from three settlements.
Especially Flashgold Town, gleaming like a crown of fire.
Defeating Angor had been satisfying. Joudra's promise had sounded sincere. But Rus didn't believe for a second that the Warton family would just hand over the Eagle's Beak Quarry and the Thousand Needle Forest without a fight.
No. Not unless Angor died tonight and Joudra inherited immediately.
The promise meant nothing.
What Rus really wanted—was Flashgold Town.
Four to seven hundred gold in tax revenue annually. The largest market town within a hundred miles.
If he could reclaim it, Hawk's Reach would have steady income, more recruits, more strength.
And, most importantly, he could start rolling out his next product—without needing to rely on Elaina anymore.
Then—another knock.
"Come in," Rus called casually, smirking. "If you're here to strip, I do hope it's in lace—"
He choked on the rest of his sentence.
Because the one walking in was Erik.
The towering man, nearly two meters tall, looked flustered and disoriented. His peanut-sized eyes were wide with alarm.
"Ahem. You didn't hear anything," Rus coughed, rubbing his nose. "Now—what's the emergency?"
"Um, no—uh—yes, there is, Baron Rus!" Erik fumbled his words for a few moments before managing to collect himself. He stepped forward and handed Rus a sealed envelope. "A letter for you."
Rus took it and immediately noted the wax seal—H&S. His brow twitched. He tore it open and found only a single line:
Come alone to the "Eagle's Wing" Inn in Flashgold Town. Immediately. Fail to arrive, and suffer the consequences.
"Who delivered this?" Rus asked.
"A cloaked fellow, very secretive. At least Tier Two in strength," Erik replied respectfully. "He insisted it be given directly to you."
"Did his cloak have green markings, like snakeskin scales?"
"Exactly, my lord."
Rus's eyes darkened. "I see. Erik, come with me."
The two left the castle and made their way to the Eagle's Wing Inn on the other side of the river in Flashgold Town. Once at the door, Rus turned.
"Wait here for me."
Erik looked puzzled but didn't argue. His loyalty was instinctual—commands were to be followed.
Rus felt the weight of his wrist crossbow, ensuring it was loaded, then pushed the inn's door open.
The smell of pine logs burning mixed with the scent of meat and cheap wine. The bald innkeeper looked up briefly, then lowered his head again.
"You brought a tail," came a low voice from behind.
Rus didn't flinch. "I'm a baron. Of course I have an escort. But I came in alone, didn't I? Is that a problem?"
"Follow me. No tricks."
The man stepped in front—a brown cloak with green-scaled trim.
Eye of Truth activated.
A bright emerald aura lit up beneath the man's cloak. Two points pulsed at his waist and on his finger.
Tier Two Storm Swordsman.
Enchanted longsword. Enchanted ring.
As expected.
The inn had gone silent. Rus followed the man up the stairs to the inn's farthest room.
At the door, the man opened it and stepped aside. "In."
Rus paused briefly, scanning for traps. Then he entered.
Inside, a young man with neatly parted blond hair lounged casually on a sofa, bathed in a warm golden glow. Tier One Light Knight.
Magic glowed at his feet, waist, fingers—and a shimmering blue light pulsed at his throat from a magical necklace.
High-grade enchanted equipment.
Behind him stood another man, identical to the one outside, save for a beard. Twins, perhaps.
Despite the oppressive aura, Rus swaggered in, pulled out a chair, and sat across from the blond man without invitation.
The man's eyes flashed with irritation. "Rus, did I say you could sit?"
"Oh, my apologies," Rus said coolly. "I didn't realize that as a baron, I needed permission to sit—in my own territory."
"Impudent!" the bearded guard behind him reached for his sword. "Do you know who you're speaking to?!"
Rus popped a grape from the table into his mouth. "Of course. Hyde Slater. Son of Count Tyron. Not the most favored one, not the most trusted either."
That shut the man up.
Hyde's posture straightened. "How do you know who I am?"
"Easy." Rus pointed to the man behind him. "That cloak—Typhoon Fang standard issue. Elite private guards of noble houses. And anyone who can command two of them, whose initials are 'H.S.'—well, I'd say the options are limited."
"Tch. A little cleverness—that's the kind of survival instinct rats learn in the gutter." Hyde sneered. "Since you're so smart, why don't you guess why I brought you here?"
He slid a finger across his neck threateningly. "Guess wrong, and—"
Rus instantly went into an exaggerated panic: "Oh, my noble Lord Hyde! Forgive my arrogance, pardon my insolence! Say the word and I shall serve at your feet!"
Hyde's smug grin widened—
—then dropped the next instant when Rus's face went cold.
"You really thought I'd say that, Hyde?" he said flatly.
Hyde's face paled. "You insolent little—do you know what you've just said?! That's a direct insult to the Slater family!"
"Very intimidating," Rus clapped slowly. "If it came from Count Tyron himself."
"You—!" Hyde's face flushed crimson. He snarled, "You're not afraid I'll—"
"Kill me?" Rus leaned forward. "Do it, then. I dare you."
Hyde's breath caught.
He couldn't.
Yes, he was a noble. But he was one of nine children, with seven brothers and two sisters. His father might protect him—or not. His siblings certainly wouldn't.
Killing a legally appointed baron in his own territory? Even if the Empire didn't care, his siblings would circle like vultures.
"I won't kill you," Hyde growled. "But I have plenty of ways to make your life a living hell."
"Oh?" Rus blinked innocently. "Like what?"
"Like—" Hyde froze. Then blinked.
Because he couldn't think of anything.
Attack the Claydon family's economy?
What economy?
Sabotage local industries?
What industries? Some farmland and a few pigs?
Kidnap his relatives?
Which ones? Elaina? Visdon? Rus might throw a party.
Hyde realized with dawning horror—he had no leverage.
Not a shred.
"So… is there anything else?" Rus stood, stretching. "If not, I'll be on my way."
Somehow, in mere minutes, Rus had completely taken control of the conversation.
Hyde finally muttered, "I do have business."
"I want you to give up the barony. Turn the title over to me. Don't worry—you'll be well compensated."
He clapped twice.
One of the guards returned carrying a large wooden chest. He set it down between them and opened the lid.
A golden glow filled the room.
"Five thousand gold. Should be enough, yes?"
Rus let out a low whistle. "That's… impressive."
Then he shut the lid.
Hyde scowled. "What are you doing?"
"I'm saying your offer's too low."
Hyde slammed the table. "Don't be ridiculous, Rus! You're just a rat from the gutter—a slum dog who lucked into a title. And now you actually think you're nobility?"
Rus stared at him coldly, then stood.
Hyde sneered. "Bloodrain Heights is about to enter its rainy season. Raiders will flood down the mountains. Feudal lords are duty-bound to defend their territory!"
He raised his voice as Rus walked to the door:
"You'll be back here in a month, begging me to take your land!"