The sound echoed sharply, like a whip against marble.

Avin froze mid-step, his eyes widening at the sight before him.

Two people stood in the center of the gilded room—well, one stood, and the other lay on the ground. The one standing had his polished boot pressed cruelly against the head of the other, whose hands were clamped desperately over his ears as though to muffle the humiliation. His face was already bruised, skin purpling beneath the cheekbone.

The standing man leaned forward slightly, his blond hair catching the golden light like threads of molten sunlight, and smirked.

"How did you even get up to this stage while being so weak, huh, commoner?"

His voice carried a cold, casual cruelty—like this was a game he had played before. He shoved the other's head with his boot, and the man on the ground groaned faintly in pain.

"Was it because you cheated?" The smirk deepened. "Tell me, did you buy your way in? Or just steal your way up?"

Without waiting for an answer, he kicked the prone figure in the stomach. The man curled up instantly, gasping and clutching himself, cheeks swelling as if about to vomit.

Avin's jaw tightened. "What the fuck is this…" he muttered, stepping fully into the room, his eyes narrowing at the scene.

The blond noble—tall, sharp-featured, wrapped in arrogance as naturally as his silk coat—slowly turned at the sound of Avin's voice.

When he saw him, his expression shifted to something smug, almost gleeful. "Ah… you must be Avin," he said, brushing invisible dust from his lapel. He walked toward Avin with a deliberate, languid confidence, snatching his coat off a nearby couch and draping it over his shoulders with a flourish.

He stopped a few paces away, extended a hand as if he were granting Avin a divine honor. "I'm sure I need no introduction," he said, his voice smooth, the smile on his lips rehearsed.

Avin stared at the outstretched hand for a moment, then at the man's face. The silence stretched. Then, with his usual calm, he said flatly, "Give one anyway."

The noble's hand hovered awkwardly in the air. His smile faltered. "What?"

"An introduction," Avin repeated, his tone unyielding. "I need it."

For a heartbeat, the man just stared, his brows drawing together in confusion. Then he gave a short, nervous chuckle. "I was never told you'd be funny." The chuckle swelled into laughter, loud and hollow, echoing off the gold walls.

Avin didn't move. His expression stayed perfectly blank. "I was never told anything about you," he replied evenly. "So—will you introduce yourself or what?"

That wiped the grin right off the noble's face. His laughter cut short, replaced by a look of disbelief and irritation.

"You're trying to say…" he said slowly, stepping forward, "that you don't know who I am?"

Avin tilted his head slightly. "Am I obligated to?"

The question landed like a slap. The noble's jaw tightened, and for a moment, his façade cracked enough to reveal the pride and fury simmering underneath.

He sighed through his teeth, running a hand up through his golden hair, pushing it back from his forehead as if steadying himself. "I was told you were weak," he said finally, his voice low, venomous. "I didn't know you were this arrogant as well."

Avin exhaled quietly and looked away, his patience unbothered. "Like I said," he murmured, "I wasn't told anything about you."

Of course, that wasn't entirely true.

As he looked at the man now, something stirred in the corner of his mind—a flicker of memory, a vision borrowed from the Original Avin. He saw flashes: a conversation about the royal bloodline, the northern empire's sons and heirs, one in particular who shone brightest. Blue eyes. Golden hair. That flawless, self-assured face.

The generic fantasy prince archetype.

So that's who this was. A prince—probably of this very empire. And judging by his arrogance, one who had never been told "no" in his entire life.

Avin could have ended it right there. All he had to do was bow, speak the man's title, show the barest ounce of respect, and this would all be over.

But no.

That wasn't who he was anymore.

Not after the boy in the forge. Not after breaking those invisible shackles. He wasn't going to kneel or play by anyone's script.

And besides… it was far too easy to make people like this angry.

He smirked faintly, the smallest curve at the edge of his mouth.

The noble—the prince, though Avin hadn't said it aloud—looked at him, his face twitching with barely contained rage.

"You don't want to spoil that handsome face by frowning too much, now do you?" Avin said, voice light, almost playful.

That did it.

A flicker of fire flared in the prince's eyes. His breathing sharpened. His hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword.

Avin's inner thoughts, however, were somewhere else entirely."These people are so easily ragebaited," he thought, mildly entertained. "If they had social media, this world would've already destroyed itself."

He actually snorted at his own thought, a soft chuckle escaping before he could stop it.

The prince's head snapped up. He'd taken the laugh personally, of course. They always did.

Avin's amusement only deepened when the prince's trembling hand gripped his sword. He looked genuinely ready to ignite the entire room over nothing but wounded pride.

The tension spiked. Mana prickled faintly in the air. Avin shifted his stance, preparing himself—

"His Majesty, Beric vo—"

The voice came from the side. Theo. Calm, but commanding enough to slice through the rising tension.

The prince—Beric—turned sharply toward him, his glare almost murderous, but Theo kept his composure.

"His Majesty Beric," Theo continued smoothly, "the fourth prince of our Northern Lands."

Avin blinked, his heart sinking slightly. Oh. Great.

He stumbled back half a step and gave a nervous smile, scratching his cheek. "Ah. The fourth prince. That explains the entitlement."

He sighed softly and straightened. "Sorry for not noticing you, Your Majesty," he said, lifting a hand as if gesturing toward his bruised, battered self. "As you can see, I'm not in the best state."

Beric studied him, his eyes still sharp with annoyance but his breathing slowing. The edge of his temper dulled as he drew his hand off his sword.

"Ah," he said finally, his voice returning to that aristocratic smoothness. "You were distracted because you were beaten up so much."

Avin's eyelid twitched. "Sure," he said flatly.

As Beric turned his head aside, Avin exhaled slowly, secretly dreading what this partnership would mean for him.

Why am I paired with this emotional brat? he thought, his eyes flicking briefly toward Theo as if seeking silent divine explanation.

Theo, of course, said nothing.

The golden room stood quiet again, the tension hanging like smoke in the air—thick, shimmering, and just barely beginning to fade.

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