“......”

Kachian tore his eyes away from the Emperor and Empress, who hadn’t even greeted him, and raised his chin as he surveyed the room.

They called it a chamber, but it was large enough to be called a hall. Seats shaped like gallery benches were arranged in three tiers around the perimeter, like a courtroom rather than a room in the imperial palace.

And every single one of those seats was filled.

Figures of the Emperor’s faction who until now hadn’t even been able to attend noble assemblies. The senior clergy dispatched from the Grand Temple who resided in the palace shrine. The elusive Chief Mage of the Imperial Court. Behind them sat Imperial soldiers wearing the crests of the two leading generals of the Empire—Gerald Mucker and Gino Bodelli—etched proudly onto their chests.

“They really brought everyone.”

Not everyone present was loathsome.

He could see familiar faces from the aristocrat faction seated in the audience. There were people from the four great ducal houses—Apeto, Ta-in, and Hern—and, most importantly... someone wearing a tie bearing the Diarca crest.

The moment Kachian saw the man with sandy blonde hair tinged with dark green, his eyes turned cold.

Kiorne la Diarca!

The Duke of Diarca hadn’t come—but his eldest son had. If the future Duke had come, there was nothing more to see.

He hated to admit it, but a wave of relief passed through him. He straightened his back further. As a sense of ease and confidence filled him, his eyes finally landed on another person in the far corner, seated away from Kiorne.

A man half-hiding his face under a hat like someone guilty of something. Only a glimpse of his hair and the bridge of his nose could be seen—but Kachian knew who it was.

Kiole la Diarca’s here too.

Since returning from the South, Kiole hadn’t shown his face to Kachian. If he had, Kachian would’ve personally kicked him out, so he figured the man had enough sense to stay away.

But whatever had happened in the meantime, Kiole looked nothing like his usual self. Dressed in clothes no different from a commoner’s, sitting slouched and separate from the aristocrat faction and Kiorne—it was almost laughable how pathetic he looked.

Probably being punished again by his father for whatever he pulled in the South. So obvious. That’s why he can’t even sit near his brother.

While Kachian had been training at the Diarca estate to become Crown Prince, there had been a few formal encounters with the Duke’s children. Though the meetings were ceremonial, they were enough for him to understand the atmosphere of House Diarca.

The Diarca family looked down on anyone who worked like an ordinary person. None of them lifted a finger. They mocked the Duke of Ta-in for blowing his fortune on trade investments. They scorned Theorado van Ta-in, the sword-obsessed leader of the Imperial Guard. Apeto, who ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) sent at least one child per generation to the temple to become a priest, was also a laughingstock. And as for House Hern—they were viewed as little more than crazed animals obsessed with breeding, not even worth discussing.

Among these aristocrats who would never sully their hands with “mundane work,” Kiole la Diarca stood out. He alone made noise playing knight. Though he was legally the Duke’s legitimate son, once Kachian found out that he was called a bastard behind his back, everything made sense.

Without the Duke’s flimsy protection, that idiot would’ve been dead long ago.

Kachian’s opinion of Kiole la Diarca hadn’t changed in the slightest. Every time the Duke of Diarca watched Kachian learn tactics quickly and half-joked, half-sighed, “If only Kiole had been as competent as Your Highness,” that belief only deepened.

That fool, lucky enough to be born into House Diarca, had now been discarded even by the father who once protected him.

Kachian turned his gaze away from the now-worthless Kiole and stared boldly forward. There, as if they were the stars of today’s show, sat two men in the seats just below the Emperor.

The Duke of Peleta, reclining with ease, unconcerned by the tension in the room.

And beside him, seated upright in stark contrast, the monster of the Cavalry.

The moment Kachian saw their faces, his eyes ignited with fury and hatred.

How dare they.

Even the Duke of Diarca had begrudgingly acknowledged the Duke of Peleta’s appearance.

Kachian still remembered the day he first met him.

It was some time after he’d already become Crown Prince. One day, after the Red Stone had fallen from the sky, the Duke had suddenly appeared in the palace without warning. Kachian had been struck speechless at the sight.

He didn’t need to be told his name to know—he was Kishiar la Orr, the Duke of Peleta. The legendary figure he’d only heard about. No one else could possibly look so unreal.

Everything the Duke of Diarca had described and commanded Kachian to emulate—all of it ended with this man. He had the kind of dreamlike beauty that made one doubt their own eyes. Tall and majestic. Hair and eyes so flawless they seemed identical to the Founding Emperor, even if one were to replicate them with magic. His movements were impeccably graceful.

He was the living ideal of an Orr imperial prince.

Back when he’d seen childhood portraits left in the palace, he had assumed they were exaggerated. But seeing him in person, the paintings seemed like cheap fakes by comparison. Kachian, who had never once considered himself lesser than anyone in terms of appearance, had experienced true shock for the first time. And yet, that shock didn’t last long.

Because he quickly realized that beneath the perfect shell, Kishiar was nothing like his exterior suggested.

A man who loathed the countryside of Peleta, flitting from party to party, never even meeting with the Emperor and Empress. A reckless hedonist who gave absurd answers to questions, mingled with dangerous individuals, and had no concept of restraint.

The Duke of Diarca had once described him as, “A clever child once, but after he returned from convalescence, he became foolish. For him, perhaps a blessing.” The smirk that followed hinted that Diarca’s own hand had played a role in Kishiar’s so-called illness.

Whenever Diarca feigned concern while mocking Kishiar, the man would smile as if genuinely touched and wave it off. He never rejected the charming courtesans Diarca sent, nor the poisoned food they carried.

He claimed to screen them for danger, but in truth, none were rejected. Only those from the aristocrat faction made it into his bed. The gossip surrounding Kishiar’s supposed escapades—disseminated daily through Diarca’s operatives—was the juiciest topic in high society.

They whispered that the beautiful prince was a pitiful impotent. That once in bed, he could do nothing, only weep drunkenly. Among the aristocrats, Kishiar la Orr was the punchline of the most beloved jokes. He seemed to try to hide his impotence, while fools who didn’t know better believed he was some great libertine. But that was it. Even Kachian, who hated him, knew the real truth behind the rumors.

He was everyone’s laughingstock. A clown who lived only for pleasure and indulgence.

How could such a man be a royal of the Orr Empire? He might be a bit better-looking, but ultimately, he was no different from Kiole la Diarca—no, worse than that idiot.

Even a man so stunning he looked like the Founder’s likeness was nothing before the Duke of Diarca.

The Emperor, sick and reclusive since Kachian became Crown Prince, was the same. So was the Empress, who struggled to fulfill her duties alone in his place but remained powerless.

Kachian thought he had made the right choice in aligning with the Duke of Diarca. But he never intended to be used for life. He wanted to become a man like the Duke of Diarca—not a dancing puppet like the Duke of Peleta.

That’s what I believed...

Then what the hell was this?

When had he started looking down on me with that arrogant face?

It was probably...

Kachian recalled the moment Kishiar had said, “I will gather the Awakeners into an organization.” In that ballroom, surrounded by nobles, speaking as if he were playing general at a drunken party.

No one had taken his words seriously.

No one—except Kachian, who, beyond the flush of drink and the slurred tone, had seen a strange gleam in his eyes.