The clouds on the horizon blazed crimson as the sun dipped low, painting the spring evening in fiery hues. A lavishly adorned carriage rolled slowly along a road in the southern Cote Province of the empire. Crafted from the finest materials, its deep, noble black frame bore intricate carvings and gilded flourishes—every detail proclaiming its owner's exalted status.
Most striking was the family crest emblazoned upon it: a ring of irises twining around two crossed longswords, their hilts crowned by a coronet wreathed in flames.
To a noble versed in heraldry, this emblem was staggering. Few families in the empire could boast two crossed swords—a mark of producing at least one Imperial Marshal in their lineage. The crown atop signaled royal blood ties—an audacious claim of prestige.
Flanking the carriage were twenty mounted guards, clad in light armor. Their polished steel gleamed, their longswords hung sharp and bright, yet their demeanor clashed with their finery—heads hung low, spirits visibly sapped.
Mard sat beside the coachman, idly chewing a grass root. He glanced at the darkening sky, sighed deeply, then leaned down to tap the carriage window. "Young Master Duwei, should we find a place to rest? It's getting dark."
Inside, Duwei looked up from his reading, interrupted. He slid the window open, peering at the sunset. "Alright."
Mard nodded briskly. At that moment, a horse galloped from ahead, its rider—a young family guard in light armor—slightly winded. "Steward, sir! There's a small town up ahead. Looks like our only spot to rest tonight."
Mard, still unaccustomed to "Steward, sir" despite his rise from stablehand, tipped his hat to the earnest knight. "The master says we'll stop there."
Gazing at the youth's loyal, resolute face, Mard sighed inwardly. Simple lad.
This retinue accompanying Duwei back to the Rowling ancestral lands numbered just these twenty guards.
For the eldest son of Raymond, Deputy Commander of the Imperial General Staff and the empire's second-ranking military figure, to travel with only twenty guards, a "steward," and a coachman was laughably sparse.
In the capital, noble households brought throngs of servants and guards for mere countryside picnics.
These twenty knights were "carefully selected"—a bitter irony. Everyone knew Duwei had fallen from grace. The family's future rested on his younger brother. Though unspoken, it was clear: he'd been stripped of "heir" status.
Following a master banished to tend ancestral fields promised a bleak path. Ambition burned in every heart—none wished to waste their lives trailing a useless lord to some backwater.
Knights especially dreamed of staying in the capital, where valor might catch the earl's eye and catapult them to glory. When word spread of escorting Duwei home, all shirked the duty. No one wanted to squander their prime years babysitting a disgraced noble over farmers.
The chosen twenty were the unlucky dregs: some too unskilled for greater roles, others loners shunned by peers, a few young and naive—easily swayed or simply clueless.
Eyeing the scout knight, Mard pegged him: Young, green, and dim—yet to grasp we're exiles.
Since leaving the capital, morale had sagged. Only Duwei remained unruffled.
Banished or not, he'd never uttered a complaint. Each day, he sat in the carriage, engrossed in books hauled from home, speaking little, his manner mild.
Snapping from his musings, Mard barked an order to hasten the pace. The ex-stablehand turned steward kept a decent outlook. Banished or not, I was just a lowly groom before. This is thanks to the young master. Even as an exiled 'steward,' a few extra coins a month is real enough!
Patting the solid coin pouch at his chest, a grin spread across Mard's face.
Hmm, Cote Province is in the south—southern girls have soft skin, petite frames. Maybe old Mard can snag a wife here.
Giantwood Town, the only settlement for miles, housed a few hundred souls. Its sole tavern bore a blunt name: Giantwood Tavern.
Being the only game in town, business was steady. Cheap booze, cheap roast meat, cheap women—even society's dregs craved some joy, didn't they?
As Duwei's convoy rolled up, he lifted his head, closing his book. He snuffed the carriage lamp and stepped out, glancing at the rusty iron sign swaying in the breeze. From within came a clamor, warm light spilling through the windows.
His party's entrance drew every eye. A squad of light-armored knights barging into a cramped tavern was hard to miss.
Duwei entered last. The knights had already cleared a space—securing a clean table and forming a protective ring around him.
The tavern's patrons sized him up, this half-grown youth.
Tall for his age—thanks to Rowling martial stock—Duwei was still slight. His fine attire, edged with lace at collar and cuffs, screamed nobility. His red hair, a vivid Rowling trait, stood out starkly. Yet his pale face, slender build, and quiet air—book clutched in hand—cast him more as a frail scholar.
The knights hauled in luggage while Mard tossed a few gold coins. The tavern keeper swiftly prepped rooms and sent hands to tend the horses.
Duwei endured the barrage of curious stares.
"Oh! Look! A noble lord!"
"A noble lord? Here in our dump?"
"Boss, save that chair he sat in—might fetch a pretty penny!"
After a brief hush, the din resumed, all tongues wagging about Duwei's crew. A fancy noble in a cheap tavern in this nowhere town? A rare sight indeed.
A few garishly painted women, shoulders and cleavage bared, tried sidling up to him. Mard, ever dutiful, shooed them off.
In the scuffle, two stumbled aside, spitting rural curses at Mard. He shrugged them off. A drunk lurched over, slurring, "Ha, my sweet, what's that kid got? Let your ol' man treat you right!" He grabbed a woman's rear, and she giggled, melting into his arms.
Duwei's face stayed calm. He sipped his drink, frowning only slightly at the pointing and chatter.
The listless knights, stewing in cheap liquor and perfume fumes, privately mourned their prospects.
Ugh, if only we'd stayed in the capital's dazzling whirl!
Then—bang—the tavern door swung open. Three men and a woman strode in, dust-stained and finely clad—clearly outsiders like Duwei's group.
The room fell silent as every man's gaze locked onto the woman.
Eighteen or nineteen, she had long chestnut hair and a striking face—raw, aggressive allure radiating from her. Her snug leather armor, a rich blue etched with odd runes, hinted at high-grade beast hide. Below, scandalously short pants bared her full, pale thighs, a dagger strapped to one. A curved blade hung at her waist, a sleek bow and quiver of silver arrows slung across her back.
Duwei instantly clocked the arrows' pure silver gleam—a lavish extravagance.
Her shapely legs became the tavern's obsession. When she bent slightly, her armor's neckline flashed a glimpse of creamy cleavage, sending two nearby drunks' cups crashing to the floor, eyes bulging.
Her companions: a bull-like brute in heavy armor, a shield strapped to his back, scars and bulging muscles marking him a power warrior; a lean, sharp-eyed man with a longbow, black bowstring, and iron ring on his finger—an archer; and a third figure who seized Duwei's full attention.
A man in a plain gray robe, unremarkable save for cold, glinting eyes. His simplicity made him fade into the background—yet a silver leaf badge gleamed at his chest.
The locals might miss it, but Duwei—and his seasoned Rowling guards—knew it well.
This last man was a mage. A mere first-rank, silver-leaf novice by Magic Guild standards…
But a certified mage nonetheless.
After studying the badge, a thought sparked in Duwei's mind…