EVERARD GYRFALD
RACE: Human
STRENGTH: 81 GRADE: A-
AGILITY: 78 GRADE: B+
ENDURANCE: 82 GRADE: A-
COMBAT POWER: 76{B}
INTELLIGENCE: -/24 GRADE: S-
(Active/Passive) (Passive)
MANA MASTERY: 88 GRADE: A+
MANA ENHANCE: -/88
(Active/Passive)
BATTLE FORCE: 76/87
(Active/Passive)
GRADE: { B / A+ }
INNATE SKILL: Sword Saint {S-}
PLOT RELATION: Responsibilty STATE: 92%
Among the four commanders leading the Imperial Regiments, Everard stood apart—not just for his victories, but for his origins. Unlike his peers, he had no noble blood running through his veins. Born without a title or inheritance, he clawed his way up the ranks with sheer skill, relentless dedication, and a brilliance so undeniable that it shattered centuries of tradition. In an empire where nobility was a requirement for glory, Everard was the exception—a generational genius who forced the world to bow before his results.
Voices rose in protest when he was named commander. The nobles secretly demanded adherence to tradition, to lineage. But every argument crumbled before his record.
Every war he led ended in decisive victory. No failure. No compromise. Just results. The Falcon Regiment, under his command, became a legend. Every soldier was handpicked by Everard himself. He saw potential where others saw dirt, and if he deemed someone worthy, they were welcomed into the Falcons—not by birthright, but by merit. Rank, respect, and authority followed. No discrimination. No favoritism. Only ability.
Unlike the other regiments sworn to the Empire, the Falcons swore loyalty to one man—Everard. This unshakable devotion made rivals abandon even the thought of replacing him. His leadership was absolute. His inner circle—Serena, the brilliant tactician from a low-ranking baron house, and the three elite unit heads: Marshal, Fastolf, and Maurice—had never known defeat under his banner. Any operation led by these five was not just expected to succeed; it was treated as a certainty.
Everard's achievements eventually left the Emperor with no choice. When he requested noble status, it was granted—almost. A commoner could not be made a Duke outright. The Emperor, bound by his own pride and politics, offered a condition: marry a noblewoman, and the title would be his.
Everard hesitated. For years, he had shared his dreams, battles, and heart with Serena. They were more than comrades—they were bound by love and promises whispered between the chaos of war. Telling her the Emperor's condition weighed heavily on him.
He expected her to recoil in pain. Instead, her eyes shimmered with tears as she grasped his hand and whispered through a trembling voice, "Everard, the dream you've fought for all your life is right in front of you. Why are you hesitating? Why didn't you accept it right away?"
Her voice cracked, but her resolve didn't waver. "We promised to stay together until death. I don't care if I'm a servant in your castle, staying by your side is all I want."
Everard's heart clenched—not in anger at her, but at himself. At that moment, a vow was made in silence. No matter what the world said, no matter what the Empire expected, Serena would be his Duchess—the rightful one. The noblewoman he would marry for the title would never be unloved, but she would never eclipse the woman who stood by him long before power and glory were even within reach.
Together, they'd earned this future—and Everard would make sure they claimed it, side by side.
But Everard's decision, noble as it seemed, shattered someone else's dream.
Priscilla Guesclin—only daughter of Viscount Guesclin—had been raised with the promise of greatness. Her family, known for their centuries of discreet service to the Empire, stood on the brink of ascension. After the war, plans were in motion to elevate their house into a duchy. That was, until Everard's request for nobility disrupted everything.
The Emperor, ever the tactician, extended a shrewd offer: the Guesclin family would receive their duchy—if Priscilla married Everard. Eager for elevation, the Viscount agreed, but demanded compensation for the change in plans. The arrangement was made in sealed rooms, inked in promises and political gain.
Yet, Priscilla never became Duchess.
Instead, Serena, the tactician of the Falcon Regiment, was publicly named as Everard's Duchess. The Empire watched in stunned silence. No one dared question the Emperor. No one would challenge Everard. So they turned their quiet fury toward Serena—the woman who stole what was meant to be Priscilla's by right.
What made it worse was the Guesclin legacy. They were no mere viscounty. Beneath the mask of scouts and informants, they operated Ashen—a covert unit sworn in blood to serve the Emperor directly. Assassins cloaked in whispers and shadows. Their existence was known only to the highest echelons, and their loyalty was absolute.
But even the most loyal blade can tremble when ambition is denied. The thread connecting the Guesclins to the dukedom had been severed. And all that remained was resentment, humiliation, and the bitter knowledge that a single woman—Serena—had become the symbol of their stolen future.
And the Ashen do not forget.
If Everard had known Guesclin was eyeing the position of duchy, he would never have made the request. He sought recognition, not to steal someone else's ambition. But the damage was done. Though Falcon Regiment was thrice as strong as Ashen in open combat, this wasn't a war won with swords.
Ashen didn't fight battles that ended in one generation—they hunted, waited, and struck without warning. Even among elites, their unit locations were unknown. That was the kind of secrecy they thrived on. No decisive massacre could end it. No retaliation could reach them.
And now, Everard had unknowingly made himself their enemy.
Years passed, and under Everard's leadership, the Falcon Duchy thrived across the lands once won by his sword. Peace settled over the territory, and with it came the most joyous moment of his life—Serena, his beloved, gave birth to a son. The child, a symbol of their hard-fought love, bore Everard's crimson eyes and Serena's golden hair. The entire duchy rejoiced.
Everyone, except one.
Priscilla Guesclin, Everard's second wife, had quietly wished for Serena to birth a daughter. That way, if she bore a son later, he would be the first male heir—and with that, the right to succeed the duchy. But fate did not favor her. Serena's son, Hugo, was the firstborn, and his claim was undeniable. Years later, Priscilla gave birth to a daughter. Her hopes died silently, just as she knew Everard would never father another child with her. Because Guesclin could no longer pressure him for a grandchild. The line was sealed.
Hugo grew bright and bold—brash like his father, but with a heart wide open. His eyes sparkled with curiosity, his voice carried laughter, and his presence commanded attention even as a boy. He treated nobles and servants alike, judging none by rank. Serena watched him with a mother's pride, though she feared his inherited recklessness.
But peace was an illusion.
Priscilla had not forgotten her family's lost future. And the Ashen, silent and patient, began to move.
Everard, ever vigilant, sensed the coming danger. He assigned Seraphina, a gifted Falcon soldier, to serve as Serena's maid—her real duty was protecting Serena and Hugo. Meals were inspected. Castle guards rotated with Falcon elites. Still, nothing escaped Serena's gaze. She confronted Everard.
And for the first time, she learned the truth—the Ashen had already infiltrated. Their true target wasn't Everard or even her.
It was Hugo.
For the Ashen, this wasn't about politics—it was revenge. To them, she had stolen what belonged to the Guesclin name.
Serena's composure shattered. For the first time, she raised her voice against Everard. "You know they'll never stop. As long as Hugo bears the Falcon name, he'll be hunted. You can't protect him forever."
Everard's answer was steady, unshaken. "Serena, you are the Falcon Duchess. He is my son. My heir. I won't abandon my promises—not to you, not to him. Even if it costs my life."
Serena's heart cracked, torn between love and fear. So she made a decision.
She began to distance herself—from Everard, and from her son.
Every step away was agony. Her love didn't fade, but her resolve hardened. She acted cold, especially in front of Priscilla or the servants. She forced herself to become a stranger. One day, the burden broke her. Hugo, still clinging to her with childlike joy, was struck by her trembling hand.
She screamed at him. Words no mother should ever say.
"I regret you were ever born! If I see your face again, I'll end myself!"
The blow didn't hurt as much as the words did.
Hugo froze. His smile vanished. He ran to his room and locked the door. He didn't cry—he just stared. The light in his eyes dimmed. The warmth he once carried turned cold. His voice, once filled with playfulness, grew sharp. He began to speak with weight far beyond his years.
He feared Serena. Feared Everard. His sister ignored him. His world had shrunk into silence.
And the Falcon heir, once destined to shine, now walked in shadow.
Serena's efforts may have seemed futile to others, but it was her alone who forced the situation into a fragile stalemate. Refusing to gamble with her son's life, she appointed Clara—trained by Seraphina herself—as Hugo's personal maid and silent protector.
Time and again, assassination attempts failed, leaving the Ashen frustrated and agitated. But Serena's estranged bond with Hugo offered the enemy something they hadn't expected—breathing room. A broken relationship meant a weakened shield. And with Hugo withdrawn and vulnerable, the Ashen saw no reason to risk their blades just yet.
Instead, they stepped back—watching, infiltrating, sharpening their knives. If the stalemate ever broke, they would be ready to strike where it hurt most.
As a tactician, Serena knew well—corner a beast too tightly, and it lashes out with deadly force. But if granted just enough room, it pulls back, waiting, watching, biding its time. That was the key. She gave the Ashen breathing space, not out of mercy, but strategy—to make them hesitate, to force a stalemate. Assassination attempts reduced, their blades held back in favor of infiltration. It wasn't peace, but it was survival.
Yet while her mind played the long game, her heart crumbled.
Every time she remembered the venom she spat at Hugo—the child who only wanted her warmth—agony gripped her. The look in his eyes haunted her. The guilt never left, festering beneath her composed exterior. The world saw a tactician who held the enemy at bay, but inside, she was a mother drowning in regret.
Watching his family fall apart, Everard regretted becoming a duke with every fiber of his being. But the title couldn't be undone. The castle, fortified with Falcon soldiers masked as guards, was the only safe place left for Serena and Hugo.
He bore no hatred for Juliet, his daughter with Priscilla. But he couldn't look at Priscilla without guilt or bitterness. Yet, for Juliet's sake, he kept his resentment silent.
So, he fought.
He pushed the Falcon Regiment beyond its limits, forging it into one of the Empire's top three powers. Every decision, every march, every drop of sweat—was for Hugo. He ensured no one dared question his son's right to succeed him. Hugo would inherit not just a title, but an empire of strength too great for even the Ashen to touch.
Everard, alongside his ministers, searched tirelessly for new ways to wield Falcon's military strength—not just to protect, but to expand the duchy's influence across the world. It became clear they couldn't challenge the Griffin Vale Duchy head-on, a territory that had long monopolized trade with the Empire and other duchies.
So, they chose another path—one paved with strategy instead of swords.
They secured vital trade routes, offering unmatched protection under the banner of the Falcon Regiment. Merchants and nobles alike began to favor routes guarded by Falcon soldiers, trusting their promise of safety.
This silent conquest through commerce reshaped the balance of power.
Even if the duke's seat changed hands, Falcon's reach would remain—undeniable, unshakable. A legacy built not just on strength, but on lasting impact.
He forgot to rest. Forgot to live for himself. His days were spent building a future Hugo could safely walk through—and a home Serena could breathe freely in again.
But Hugo, broken and cold, had grown to hate everything. And though Everard hoped he still clung to the Falcon insignia, a growing fear gnawed at him: What if this shattered boy ascended too soon? What would happen to the people?
He tried everything. Spoke. Waited. Reached out.
But Hugo and Serena never returned to the warmth they once held.
Still, Everard continued his unrecognised efforts, thankless war—fighting not for glory, but for the chance that one day, his son and wife might smile again.
EVEN AT THE EXPENSE OF BLOOD CONTRACT WITH A DEMON.
Despite the weight of running a duchy, Everard reserved one morning each week for breakfast with his family. Just a small gathering—nothing grand. He longed to see Serena smile again, to catch a glimpse of Hugo.
But Hugo never came. And Serena sat across from him with hollow eyes and emotionless words. Her presence felt more like duty than warmth. Still, Everard held onto hope.
Week after week, he waited.
He watched the door, always expecting it to open again. It never did. The silence of his absent son, the coldness in his wife's gaze—they sank into him like stone. The table meant for joy became a place of quiet heartbreak.
Yet he never missed a gathering. He sat there, pretending not to notice the emptiness beside him, the untouched plate, the distant stare. Each moment carved into his soul, but he refused to let go.
Because hope—however small—was all he had left. And some part of him still believed that one day, the door would open… and his son would walk through it.
Serena and Everard—walking separate paths, making opposite choices—were both driven by the same unshakable desire: Hugo's safety and a future where he could live free, untouched by the shadows that haunted them.