The banquet continued in full grandeur — music swelling, dancers twirling, nobles laughing far too loudly to mask their nerves. Oliver slipped away from the group for a moment, weaving through the crowd to refill his wine. He preferred the quiet edge of the hall, where there were fewer eyes and fewer suffocating politics.

He had just taken a sip when a mellow, confident voice spoke from beside him.

"Beautiful night, isn't it?"

Oliver turned slightly.

A man dressed in deep crimson and black stood there, posture immaculate. Tall, refined, sharp eyes like polished obsidian — and a smile that looked gentle on the surface but cold beneath. Gold embroidery traced his coat, forming the crest of a blazing phoenix.

The Eldest Prince. Crown Prince Arkan Hestia.

A man who could change the fate of the kingdom with a single command.

Oliver bowed slightly. "Your Highness."

"No need for formality," Arkan said, smiling like an elegant serpent. "Tonight is a celebration. We are all allies here, aren't we?"

Oliver said nothing, simply waiting.

Arkan continued, swirling his wine. "I have been observing your party, Oliver Shaw. The adventurers who returned from Evergrove alive." His smile sharpened. "And I must say — you have caught my interest."

Oliver's eyebrow twitched. Caught interest? That never meant anything good in politics.

"I have made some inquiries," Arkan continued conversationally. "You completed multiple high-risk missions in Valtaines territory. Your name has reached even the capital. You hold the favor of Count Valtaine himself. Quite impressive for a mere C-rank adventurer."

Oliver kept his voice polite. "I think you overestimate me, Your Highness. I am just an adventurer doing his job."

The prince laughed lightly. "Modesty is admirable. And pragmatic." His eyes turned sharp. "You understand your place well."

Something cold slithered through Oliver's spine.

Then Arkan leaned closer, voice silk wrapped around steel.

"So I will speak directly. Leave the princess's side and join mine."

Oliver stared.

Arkan continued smoothly. "I already hold the majority faction in the court. Nobles, knights, and merchants stand behind me. Unlike my dear sister, I command the future of this empire."

He sipped his wine, then lowered his voice.

"If you serve me instead, you will receive wealth, status, and opportunities beyond anything she can give."

Oliver let out a small breath, trying not to let irritation show.

"I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding. I'm just a C-rank adventurer. I doubt I'm valuable enough to—"

Arkan cut him off with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Oh, I'm not after you."

Oliver's grip on the glass tightened.

"I want your S-rank companion."

Isolde.

Arkan's eyes gleamed with predatory interest.

"A mage like her could shift military power instantly. I want her in my Royal Knight Legion. If she serves me, I'll grant her noble status — and personally take her as my exclusive guard. A great honor."

Inside Oliver, a fire roared.

For a split second, he saw himself smashing the prince's perfect teeth across the floor. His blood boiled, fists trembling at his sides.

No. Not here. Not now.

Punching a prince meant execution.

He forced a breath, unclenching his hands.

Then he smiled thinly.

"Isolde decides her own path. I don't own her. If you want her loyalty, ask her yourself."

Arkan froze for half a heartbeat, taken aback by the calm response.

Oliver lowered his glass, voice steady.

"As for me, Your Highness — you are barking up the wrong tree."

He bowed slightly — perfectly polite, perfectly controlled.

"Now, if you'll excuse me. I have other company waiting."

And without waiting for permission, Oliver drifted back toward the banquet hall, adjusting the collar of his dark formal coat. The moment he slipped through the archway, muffled voices behind him sharpened, low yet venomous.

The prince stood where Oliver had just left him, his expression twisted with suppressed rage. But when footsteps echoed in the corridor, his façade sharpened instantly into a refined noble mask.

From the shadows stepped William.

Tall, broad-shouldered, smug grin curled at the corner of his mouth, his hands tucked casually into his pockets as if he owned the palace.

"So he's quite arrogant for someone of such a low status, isn't he, Your Highness?" William said, amusement dripping from every word.

The prince turned, feigning pleasant surprise.

"Oh? Hero William. I didn't realize you were standing there."

William shrugged, gaze drifting toward the banquet doors.

"It was getting suffocating inside. Too many nobles licking boots. I stepped out for fresh air. Didn't expect to witness such… entertainment."

The prince chuckled lightly, waving a dismissive hand.

"Merely a small matter."

William's eyes sharpened, voice suddenly harder.

"A commoner turning down a prince is hardly a small matter."

A beat of silence.

The prince exhaled, expression tightening ever so slightly.

"I would deal with him myself, but he currently has my father's favor. He saved Elisha and brought her home alive. I can't lay a hand on him openly."

William clicked his tongue.

"I never said anything about harming him directly."

The prince's gaze slid sideways.

"…Oh?"

William's lips stretched into a cruel smile.

"He's joining the dungeon expedition, isn't he? Accidents happen in dungeons. People die all the time."

Slowly, the same cold smile curved across the prince's face.

"Yes. Of course. Dungeons are unpredictable. A fall… a monster… a misplaced spell."

He lowered his voice.

"No evidence left behind."

Their laughter echoed quietly, twisted and satisfied.

Then the prince asked, casually:

"But tell me, Hero William — why bother? Did that man offend you as well?"

William's eyes narrowed, darkness pooling beneath the surface.

"He didn't need to. His existence alone pisses me off."

He clenched his jaw.

"A nobody, walking around with three stunning girls glued to him."

His fist tightened.

"His face… the way he carries himself… it reminds me of someone I hate more than anyone."

The prince nodded slowly, understanding the unspoken venom.

"Then it's simple. When the expedition begins… we let fate decide."

"Fate," William repeated, grin widening. "Yes. Fate."

With that, they clinked glasses taken from a nearby tray, the crystal ringing like a death knell.

Hidden behind a marble column at the edge of the hall, Oliver paused briefly before stepping fully inside the banquet's buzzing lights.

He didn't hear their final sneer.

But something in his chest tightened — an instinctive warning of storm clouds gathering.

And far across the room, Isolde's gaze flicked briefly toward the corridor.

Her smile didn't reach her eyes.

*****

The atmosphere in the grand hall swelled with noise. Laughter, clinking glasses, rising music from the enchanted orchestra — the night was reaching its peak.

Oliver returned to the main hall with an expression carefully smoothed over, though the irritation from his exchange with the prince simmered beneath the surface. He found his party again — Isolde casually swirling wine in her glass, Ariana chatting with Sophia and Amy, and Seraphine observing a floating chandelier crystal with deep fascination, the glowing reflection flickering in her silver eyes.

The arrival of desserts signaled the final stage of the banquet. Plates of crystalline fruit, glazed sweetmeats, and mana-infused pastries were carried around by servants with silver trays. Nobles loosened their posture, the tense politicking of earlier settling into merrier tones.

Princess Elisha was conversing animatedly nearby, noble daughters surrounding her; yet her gaze drifted to Oliver the moment she saw him return. A tiny crease of worry flashed across her expression, but when he gave a reassuring nod, she smiled faintly and returned her focus to the crowd.

The heroes, meanwhile, had drawn a massive crowd again. Daniel basked in the glow of admiration, dramatizing his raid on the Eravilis Dungeon. Jason laughed loudly about decapitating ogres, William bragged about slaying a wyvern in one strike. The noble girls sighed adoringly.

The orchestra paused — then shifted into a bold, triumphant melody.

The Master of Ceremonies stepped forward.

"Ladies and gentlemen! The banquet reaches its climax! Raise your glasses!"

Goblets rose.

"Tomorrow begins the march toward the Velanthris Dungeon! The greatest expedition of this generation! May the gods watch over our warriors, and may history remember their triumph!"

Cheers erupted.

"To victory!"

"To the heroes!"

"To the Princess!"

"To the expedition!"

Glasses clashed; the hall shone with brilliant light.

Fireworks burst outside the palace windows — bright arcs painting the night sky.

Oliver watched silently, wine glass still in hand.

Isolde bumped his shoulder gently. "What's with the long face? Already regretting agreeing?"

He chuckled. "No. Just… wondering what's waiting inside that dungeon."

Ariana smiled, excitement shining in her eyes. "Ancient magic! Lost archives! Knowledge that predates kingdoms!"

Seraphine spoke calmly, her voice soft and metallic. "Probability of death: moderate. Probability of unforeseen outcomes: high. Anticipation: pleasant."

Isolde burst out laughing. "Look, even the golem is excited."

Seraphine tilted her head. "Correction: humanoid autonomous construct. Not golem."

Oliver smiled despite himself.

For a moment, the four of them stood silently together, united by warmth against the coldly glittering hall around them.

Then the orchestra shifted — signaling the end.

The King rose, raised his hand, and issued the closing words.

"Rest well tonight, brave ones. Tomorrow, the path to legend begins."

And with that, nobles began to disperse. Carriages were called. Lights dimmed.

The banquet was over.

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