Silas came to a complete stop.

He adjusted his posture, then gave a light bow—polite, measured.

"Yes," he replied calmly. "I did visit that field earlier."

Aldric crossed his arms over his chest. "What were you doing there?"

Silas smiled faintly. "Just making sure of one thing," he said smoothly. "That small merchants weren't being inconvenienced by the Young Master's behavior."

A brief silence followed.

Then Aldric laughed.

Not a friendly laugh—more like a heavy mockery.

"Hah."

He lowered his head slightly, staring at Silas from beneath the shadow of his helmet.

"You're like a lizard," he said flatly. "There's no way you'd care about tiny flies that become your prey."

Aldric snorted. "Don't lie."

Silas let out a short laugh as well. His voice was low, controlled.

"If that's how it sounds to you, I don't mind," he said, still courteous. "But my intentions remain the same, and…"

He lightly tapped his chest. "I merely wish to pray—may the Saints bless you in your duel, Sir Aldric."

Aldric stared at him sharply for several seconds.

A gaze heavy with pressure.

Silas bowed once more. "I'll take my leave."

He walked away without waiting for a response.

Behind the thin smile on his lips, his thoughts raced.

…Don't cause trouble with House Rosevelt. It could become a problem for the guild.

At the same time the two men were having their brief exchange, someone was watching from a distance.

Boran.

The black market merchant stood slightly off to the side of the road, his position inconspicuous, as if he were just another one of Aldric's followers. From the corner of his eye, he kept observing.

He muttered quietly while staring at Aldric's back.

"Come on, Sir Aldric… you're a knight. Why do you always go looking for trouble?"

Boran's gaze then shifted—to the metal pin on Silas's chest.

The Merchants' Guild pin.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

…I shouldn't have gotten involved with Sir Aldric in the first place.

His thoughts moved quickly, bitter.

He slowly raised his left hand, almost by reflex—then stopped midway.

Images from the past surfaced.

A fake personal seal. Foolish confidence. And the decision to sell the Stone of Staboyonaz to Aldric.

Boran's face tightened.

Damn it…

I thought that seal would make my name soar higher.

His hand moved inside his coat. The motion was hesitant, as if reaching for a pocket.

Suddenly, his eyes widened.

…Shit.

He flinched slightly, then immediately let out a long breath, restraining himself.

I forgot—my coat only has a pocket on the left side… he thought in relief.

With his right hand, he reached into the left side of his coat. His fingers touched something familiar.

Folded paper.

He gripped it tightly while drawing a deep breath.

Even if that seal is fake…

I can't afford to lose this document.

---

Lucas stood near the stack of baskets, pointing to them one by one.

"Silvara. Anya. Line each basket with these leaves. Use them as padding."

Anya turned her head, confused for a moment.

Lucas immediately crouched down and picked up a basket. He placed a broad leaf inside, smoothing the corners quickly and neatly.

"Like this."

"Oh."

Anya nodded at once. "Got it!"

She copied him seriously, her tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.

Silvara watched the scene with a displeased expression.

"…I'm a knight," she said coldly. "Why do I have to do work like this?"

Lucas didn't even look back.

"Faster to just do it than stand around complaining."

Silvara clicked her tongue.

"This is pointless. Menial work like—"

Lucas stopped.

He straightened up.

Then… cleared his throat loudly.

"Ooo—Silver Knight," he said in an exaggerated tone.

"Behold the Iron Knight before you."

He pointed at Anya, who was diligently arranging the leaves.

"With her skillful hands, she performs tasks without seeking reward. She does not look down on any mission, no matter how trivial."

"Truly competent."

"Truly noble."

Anya immediately looked up, eyes sparkling.

"Hehehe…"

"Of course. I am a skilled knight."

Lucas regarded her with mock reverence.

"O Iron Knight," he asked dramatically,

"Is the Silver Knight lazy for refusing to do it?"

Anya thought hard, then answered innocently.

"I don't know, Young Master…"

"Maybe she doesn't intend to be the best lad for you."

Silvara froze.

A vein pulsed at her temple.

She looked at Lucas.

Looked at Anya.

Looked at the baskets.

"…Tch."

Without saying another word, Silvara grabbed a stack of leaves and began lining the baskets with quick, rough movements.

Lucas smiled faintly.

Anya went back to work, letting out small giggles.

Soon, the field was filled with the sound of leaves being arranged—

and the ridiculous atmosphere Silvara was forced to endure.

Not long after, Silvara spoke up while continuing to line the baskets with leaves.

"You've already made a deal with the Merchants' Guild, right?"

"Yes," Lucas replied shortly.

Silvara paused for a moment, then turned to him.

"In that case, you'll need your personal seal."

Lucas fell silent.

A moment later—

"…Shit."

The realization clicked immediately.

This was a medieval setting.

He turned quickly.

"Where is my personal seal?"

Silvara grinned, her expression turning oddly exaggerated—clearly deliberate.

"Ooo, Young Master," she said in a theatrical tone.

"How careless of you."

She shot a glance at Anya.

Anya stopped working and looked at Silvara, confused.

…It seems Miss Silvara wants me to nod?

"Un," Anya replied obediently, giving a small nod.

Silvara continued, satisfied.

"Your personal seal is currently in the Baron's possession."

Lucas frowned.

"The Baron?"

"Yes," Silvara replied, her tone returning to flat.

"The Baron who confiscated it before."

She neatly placed another leaf into a basket.

"He said he didn't trust a Young Master he deemed incompetent."

Lucas let out a quiet sigh.

"…Makes sense," he muttered without emotion.

The leaves kept being arranged.

And just like that, another problem was added.

---

Silas sat alone in a quiet room on the upper floor of a Merchants' Guild–affiliated inn, sunlight still filtering through the window. It was barely past noon.

He adjusted his monocle, dipped his pen, and began writing.

With this… He thought, a thin smile forming.

The ink moved smoothly across the parchment.

"If—"

The ink paused for a fraction of a second—then continued.

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