Two days had passed since the reopening of the mines. The Ravengard Duchy, once cloaked in silence and decline, was now bustling with life. The vassals moved about with visible cheer, their faces lit with a long-lost hope. Deep in the mines, the rhythmic clang of pickaxes breaking against rock echoed like a melody of revival. Lines of carts rumbled out from the dark tunnels—some filled with jagged stones, others glittering with veins of unrefined ore. The air was thick with dust, sweat, and the scent of industry.
Amid this industrious hum, a black carriage adorned with a noble crest rolled into view. A silver sword pointing downward was engraved at its center—a symbol well-known by those who toiled nearby. Four knights, clad in gleaming armor, flanked the carriage. The workers paused only briefly to glance at their way before returning to their tasks. They knew who it was.
As the carriage approached the Ravengard manor, the gates creaked open. Knights stationed at the entrance gave formal greetings, stepping aside as the wheels rolled over the polished stone path. The vehicle came to a slow halt before the grand entrance. One of the men accompanying the guest swiftly dismounted and opened the carriage door with practiced grace.
From within stepped a middle-aged man. His white shirt was pristine beneath a double-breasted cyan coat embroidered with fine threads. He had grey hair combed back with precision, and his pale skin bore the wear of years spent among nobles and courts. His demeanor exuded confidence without arrogance.
The man handed his expensive coat to a waiting maid at the door and strode through the hallways of the manor with familiarity. The scent of aged wood and lavender lingered in the air as he made his way to the living room. There, Kaisel was already seated with a cup of tea, his gaze calmly fixed outside the window.
The man opened the door and entered. At that moment, Kaisel spoke without turning his head.
"It's been a long time since we met, Marquis Benedict. I thought you'd be like the rest—never setting foot here again."
The man was Marquis Michael Benedict—one of the last remaining nobles who still maintained friendly ties with the Ravengards. His family had risen to the rank of marquis generations ago, thanks to the unwavering support of the Ravengards. In his youth, Michael's life had been saved by Kaisel's father during a border skirmish, a debt he never forgot. While other noble houses turned their backs on the declining Duchy, distancing themselves like vultures after a feast, only the Benedicts remained loyal—offering aid from the shadows, away from the prying eyes of the court.
The man—Marquis Michael Benedict—smiled faintly, a trace of old camaraderie glinting in his eyes.
"How could that ever happen?" he said with a chuckle. "The Benedict family stands today because of the Ravengards. I'll stand by your side until the end. Besides," his eyes glinted with curiosity, "the Duchy seems quite lively. When did you hire knights?"
Kaisel placed his cup down gently and replied, "Knights aren't the only thing. The mines were reopened two days ago."
Benedict raised an eyebrow, stunned. "You reopened the mines...? Well, well..." he chuckled again, shaking his head in disbelief. "I suppose the Ravengards are rising again. With the mines running, your house's finances will stabilize soon enough. But don't forget about us Benedicts when you reclaim your glory, alright?"
Despite his carefree demeanor, Benedict was no fool. He was a man well-respected among the nobility, known for his wit and war-hero bloodline. His foolish act was merely a mask, one that few could see through.
Kaisel sighed and leaned back. "Enough with the praise. You didn't come all the way here for tea and flattery. Speak. What brought you here?"
Benedict smiled, leaning slightly forward. "You'll receive an invitation today. From the Empire."
Kaisel's eyes narrowed slightly; he already knew what the letter was about. He had received word days ago through his informants stationed within the empire. Hidden among merchants, servants, and even minor officials, they had already reported the preparations being made in the capital. The whispers of the ceremony had reached him long before the letter arrived.
He said calmly, "It's not the Emperor's birthday yet."
"Still six months away," Benedict confirmed. "This invitation is for the Crown Prince's announcement ceremony."
Kaisel said nothing at first, his face expressionless. Then, after a beat—
"Are you not going to offer me a seat?" Benedict asked, half-joking.
Two seconds of silence passed.
"Sit," Kaisel said at last.
Suppressing a hint of irritation, Benedict kept his smile and sat down across from him. Kaisel poured another cup of tea and passed it to him.
As they sipped in silence, a knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," Kaisel said.
Anton entered, his presence respectful and composed. He bowed slightly toward Benedict.
"Marquis Benedict. It's been a while," he greeted.
"Young Lord Anton," Benedict said with a hearty laugh. "You've grown."
Anton turned to Kaisel. "Brother, a letter has arrived. It bears the imperial seal."
Kaisel took the envelope, broke the wax, and read it silently. His eyes scanned the contents quickly.
"In two months," he murmured.
"Yes," Benedict confirmed.
Anton furrowed his brows. "What's happening in two months? What does the letter say?"
"The announcement ceremony of the Crown Prince," Kaisel replied.
Anton looked shocked. "So... are you going to attend?"
"The Ravengard family hasn't set foot in the capital for seven years."
For a moment, silence filled the room again. Then, the corners of Kaisel's lips curled into a faint smile. The air shifted—growing heavier, colder. Both Benedict and Anton felt an invisible pressure settle over them.
"Of course I'll attend," Kaisel said. "It's about time I reminded them... that the Ravengards are still alive."
---
Far away, in the heart of the Empire, a bright room buzzed with activity. In a hall lined with desks, scribes and investigators were hunched over documents and ledgers. On the far wall hung a small flag, bearing the insignia of a golden shield with elegant engravings and a pair of wings on either side—the mark of the Inquisitorial Vanguard.
This organization handled the Empire's most sensitive investigations.
In one of the private offices, a young woman sat at a desk, surrounded by towering shelves of reports and grimoires. She looked no older than twenty-five. Her uniform was a deep blue, detailed with golden trim, and a gold badge with the same crest gleamed on her chest. She wore crisp white trousers, boots polished to shine.To her left, a tall ornate clock ticked softly in the background, its steady rhythm filling the quiet moments between pages turning.
She was reading through a disturbing report—an incident involving a drug that had spread among the populace, causing mass deaths. Her name was Laura.
A knock came at the door.
"Madam Laura, I've come to report," a man's voice said from the other side.
"Come in."
A middle-aged man stepped inside. He wore the same uniform as Laura, though his badge was silver. Upon entering, he stood straight, placed his right hand into a fist against his chest, and bowed.
"Marshal Harold," Laura said, "did you find anything?"
He straightened. "Nothing substantial. We've only learned that the drugs were distributed through street thugs. They were spreading rumors that it would awaken one's mana or expand their capacity. Unfortunately, even the distributors were affected. We couldn't track any higher source."
Laura's eyes narrowed slightly. She whispered under her breath, "...just what was the real motive?"
"The death count has reached 98," she continued grimly. "Ninety-eight lives, and some are still suffering from backlash. Even some minor nobles were involved."
The man remained silent for a moment. Then, with a slight hesitation, he said, "Ma'am, there's a rumor circulating… Some say a group tried to smuggle something during the chaos. Could they be the ones behind it?"
Laura's gaze shifted to him, sharp and unwavering. "If this was meant to serve as a distraction," she said coldly, "then it's far too excessive. Why would anyone cause this much death just to divert attention? It's not logical."
She leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping lightly on the desk.
"According to the alchemists, the drug is composed through a highly intricate process. The ingredients used aren't just rare—they're costly. Such expense and effort just to cover up a smuggling operation? That doesn't add up. There has to be something more behind this."
Her eyes narrowed. "Where did you hear this rumor?"
The man stood straighter, placing a clenched fist against his chest in formal salute. "Some thugs, deep in the slums. They were overheard talking about it in a hidden bar—a place where the dregs of the criminal underworld gather. Our informant picked it up."
The slums, abandoned by order and memory alike, had long become a cradle for filth, blood, and whispered sins.. A place where the desperate, the damned, and the dangerous mingled freely. Smuggling, trafficking, and dark dealings flourished there, all under the silent influence of the black market.
Laura's expression remained unreadable as she spoke in a calm, authoritative tone.
"Investigate the rumor. Thoroughly. Sweep through every alley, every corner of the slums if you must. I want everything we have, no matter how small."
"Yes, ma'am." The man bowed once more, hand to chest, then turned and left the room with practiced steps.
After he left, silence returned to the office. Laura leaned back in her chair, thoughts swirling. Her fingers tapped the desk rhythmically.
"A sacrifice...?" she muttered. "Could it have been that?"
Her gaze drifted to the wall to her right. Pinned there were old papers—evidence of noble murders from four years ago. 132 deaths. A wanted poster hung beside them, the face blank, marked only with the word: Unknown.
Her cold eyes lingered on it.
To be continued.