Lucas blinked once.

"…Wipe it?" he asked, his tone flat, making sure.

Silvara gave a brief nod. "With a damp towel."

Lucas rubbed his cheek. "I'll go ask Liona for a towel."

He had barely taken a step—

"I'll do it," Silvara cut in quickly.

Her voice was firm. "Sit down. Don't move."

Lucas stopped, then gave a small nod. "…Alright."

He went back and sat on the edge of the bed, his back slightly stiff, both hands resting awkwardly on his thighs. Why am I obeying her so easily? he thought.

Silvara stepped out for a moment.

Events moved in separate rooms and distant minds, yet all of them quietly leaned toward Voss, where small decisions were already shaping consequences no one could fully see.

Meanwhile, in a dark room—

Kuyiras was bound to a heavy chair, iron shackles gripping his wrists and ankles. His clothes were stained with dried blood, yet the cocky grin still lingered on his face.

Valeric Rosevelt stood before him.

Silent.

The air felt oppressive.

"You involved a member of the Rosevelt family," Valeric finally said, his voice low. "Explain."

Kuyiras chuckled. "That bastard? He came to me first."

Valeric's eyes narrowed. "Aldric."

"Yeah. Him." Kuyiras sneered. "Wanted dirty work done. Thought bandits could be used and then discarded."

Valeric's hand clenched.

"Release me!!!" Kuyiras continued, his voice growing louder. "I needed revenge. My father was killed."

"By whom?" Valeric asked coldly.

"A man with a crimson arrow—no, wait." Kuyiras laughed. "Different colors. Silver, green, black. Funny, isn't it?"

Valeric let out a short chuckle.

"That's what you're chasing?" he said. "You're far too weak to face the Shadow of the South."

Kuyiras froze.

"…You know that name."

"Of course," Valeric replied calmly. "Even if you are Ras Al'Ghaureth's son, you won't be capable."

Kuyiras's grin cracked.

"Then answer me," he snapped. "Why wasn't I killed? Why did that arrow only destroy the wooden stake embedded in my chest?"

Valeric stepped closer.

"Who knows," he said coldly. "Perhaps the life he chose as a backwater noble is worth more to him than a desert wretch like you."

Valeric stared at Kuyiras for a few more seconds.

Empty.

No remorse. No intelligence. Just the foolish arrogance of someone who thought himself important.

"Waste of time," Valeric muttered.

He turned and walked out without waiting for an answer.

The iron door slammed shut behind him with a heavy clang.

In the cold stone corridor, Valeric pulled out a sheet of paper.

"That stupid bandit… to think he allied himself with that vermin."

The seal immediately caught his attention.

The Rosevelt crest.

But… wrong.

The lines were too rigid. The pressure in the wax was inconsistent. A forged seal.

His eyes scanned the contents of the document.

Agreements. Supplies. Payments.

And one name that made his jaw tighten.

Aldric.

"That bastard…" Valeric whispered.

His hand clenched, slowly crumpling the paper.

He exhaled sharply, restraining the anger rising in his chest.

Why wasn't Aldric executed?

Violation of Imperial Law. Collusion with bandits. Abuse of a great family's name.

It should have been enough for execution.

But it wasn't.

Life imprisonment.

Valeric lowered his gaze to the forged seal again.

A forged seal.

A symbol of neatly packaged rot. Not the failure of one man—

but a system deliberately left to leak.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

"…Is this kind of Imperial rot," he murmured softly,

"what made the Shadow of the South quit from his resolve?"

Power, resentment, and compromise tangled beneath stone corridors, leaving truth fragmented, responsibility diluted, and justice delayed just enough for rot to settle deeper inside institutions.

Valeric stopped in his tracks.

The stone corridor faded from his mind, replaced by another memory.

—

That night—

the village still reeked of smoke.

Torches burned everywhere. Soldiers moved swiftly, securing the remnants of the bandit attack. Outside a half-collapsed building, Valeric stood facing a middle-aged man. His robe was simple, his expression calm.

Baron Aleric Voss.

"Funny, isn't it," the Baron said with a light smile. "Our names are similar. Valeric. Aleric."

Valeric gave a faint snort. "I've only just noticed."

The atmosphere was… relaxed. Too relaxed, considering what had just happened.

Valeric inclined his head slightly. "Allow me to apologize. This chaos—especially Aldric's actions—has left your son badly injured."

The Baron waved it off. "It's fine. That boy is stubborn. He's alive. That's enough."

Valeric exhaled, then his expression hardened.

He went straight to the point.

"Shadow of the South."

The Baron froze for a fraction of a second—then chuckled softly.

"It's been a long time since I last heard that title," he said. "I thought you had all stopped using it."

"Why did you stop?" Valeric asked bluntly.

"Why abandon the struggle for the Empire's glory… and choose to live as a fringe noble?"

The Baron's smile faded, replaced by a weary gaze.

"I'm tired," he answered honestly.

"The Empire keeps expanding. More territory. More victories. But who truly benefits? Only a handful of nobles."

He turned toward the ruined village.

"Even my decision to live quietly is still interfered with," he continued.

"I was impoverished in subtle ways. Constant interference. Trade routes suppressed. It's hard to develop Voss territory when other nobles keep tightening their grip from behind the table."

Valeric frowned. "Then why not return? Fight for the Empire again."

The Baron looked at him for a long moment.

A look that held no anger—only pity.

"Your eyes haven't seen the stains of the Empire yet," he said softly.

Valeric frowned. Before he could ask further, the Baron patted his shoulder.

"I'll take my leave now," he said with a friendly smile.

—

The memory ended.

Is this one of those stains of the Empire? Valeric thought.

-----

Meanwhile, far from Voss territory, within the structure known as the Central Cathedral.

Far from the noise of violence, careful observers began to notice anomalies, sensing that something mundane carried weight capable of unsettling trade, doctrine, and balance.

Ravena stood alone in a silent research chamber.

Light from the stained-glass windows slanted down onto the stone table before her, reflecting off a neatly arranged row of glass jars. Inside them—slices of tomatoes, each placed under different testing conditions.

The bandit attack in Voss territory…

The information continued to circle in her mind.

She let out a slow breath.

"That foolish Young Master's field…" she murmured. "Is it really safe?"

Ravena lifted the first jar.

Inside, tomato slices were submerged in low- to mid-tier mana parasites. Under normal circumstances, plant flesh would blacken within minutes.

But not this one.

Its structure remained intact. The red color had barely changed.

"Even when immersed in mana parasites," she whispered, "the tissue holds… and even neutralizes them."

She set the jar down and picked up the second.

The tomato… was still fresh.

Several days had passed since the mixture. No wilting. No rot.

"Interesting," Ravena said quietly. "Even black mana from swamp bats doesn't immediately corrupt it."

She lowered the second jar.

Then the third.

No mana. No preservatives. Just ordinary tomato slices left on their own.

Yet the decay was… slow. Far slower than that of normal plants.

Ravena narrowed her eyes.

"This isn't a coincidence," she said softly.

Her gaze shifted between the three jars.

If that field were destroyed—

If Voss territory truly fell into the wrong hands—

"…the Central Cathedral would lose something extremely valuable," she murmured.

Ravena set the last jar back down.

"If only I arrive faster than the rat from the merchant guild," she thought. Her jaw tightened.

-----

Manor, Lucas's Room

While everyone else was burdened by heavy thoughts and clashing pressures—

Lucas simply sat still on the edge of the bed.

Silent. Empty. Staring at the floor.

The door opened softly.

Silvara entered carrying a tray. On it—several damp towels, neatly rolled, more than a few. She closed the door, walked over, and sat on the chair beside Lucas.

"Take off your coat," she said curtly.

Lucas flinched slightly. "I—I can do it myself. You don't need to worry."

Silvara clicked her tongue quietly.

"Don't be stupid," she said flatly. "You have a lot of bandages. Your wounds aren't dry yet."

Lucas opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"But—" He swallowed. "Fine. I'll handle the lower part myself."

"Don't," Silvara cut in quickly.

Her tone was sharper this time. "There's still a gash from Aldric's blade. He used mana. If it gets infected, it's dangerous."

"Infected?" Lucas frowned. "What are you talking about, it's alrea—"

He stopped.

His brows slowly drew together.

Lucas looked down.

His trousers… were intact.

No tear. No cut marks. Even though he clearly remembered Aldric's blade making contact.

He slowly turned his head toward Silvara.

While distant forces aligned and strained unseen threads, the quiet of a single room narrowed everything, turning attention inward, where one unanswered moment demanded truth.

"…Silvara," he said carefully. "Yesterday… who changed my pants?"

Silvara froze.

Her hand, reaching for a towel, stopped midair.

"…I—" she hesitated. Her voice dropped. "I did…"

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