The white-armored knights of Ruberius and Linden stood just beyond the bend of the Halon River, staring at the battered warehouse across the misty water.
Just like Sebastian had predicted, the place crawled with forest bandits and a handful of low-level mages. The guards roamed in loose patrols, pretending to be nothing more than bored workers, trying to keep the locals from growing suspicious.
Before departing with Sevine, Sebastian had handed over full command to Linden—the strongest man left behind for the raid.
"Sir, when do we move?" one of the knights asked, his voice low but tense behind him.
Linden narrowed his eyes, studying the rhythm of the patrols one last time. His gloved hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.
"We wait until the mages are distracted," he murmured. "Even low-level spells can kill a man without magic."
Battlefield experience had taught Linden to respect even the smallest threat. One wrong move out here, and they'd be dragging bodies back across the river.
The five strongest knights of Baterville weren't picked for their skill with a blade alone. They had to think fast, lead faster—and know when to cut losses.
Only one man had ever mastered all three: Jayden Winchester, Baterville's Supreme General. A living legend. A man every soldier dreamed of following into battle.
Linden drew a slow breath. Timing was everything.
"Now!" he barked.
The knights surged forward in perfect formation, crashing through the tree line and charging the warehouse from three directions. Steel flashed in the moonlight. Their sudden assault trapped the bandits and mages like cornered rats.
Caught off guard, the mages fumbled their spells. One tried to raise a shield too late; another collapsed under a knight's blade before he could even mutter a word. Just as Linden had planned—hit fast, hit hard.
He knew mages' greatest weakness: they needed time to chant. No time, no magic.
The bandits roared in panic and rushed to fight back with rusty swords and battered axes. Some of them, judging by the way they held their weapons, had seen real battles before.
The white-armored knights found themselves overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Fifteen against almost fifty.
This is bad, Linden thought grimly as he ducked a wild axe swing and drove his sword through a man's chest. They're not just common thugs. They've fought before.
Blood sprayed across the grass. Severed limbs and weapons clattered to the dirt. The forest echoed with the screams of the wounded.
"Who the hell are these guys?!" a bandit shouted.
"Son of a—"
SLASH!!
Before the bandit could finish, Linden's blade cleaved through his arm. The man fell, shrieking, blood spurting from the stump.
"ARRRGHH! MY ARM!!"
Linden wiped the blood from his cheek with a quick, practiced motion.
"Wait for me,My Lady" he muttered under his breath.
Without hesitating, he sprinted toward three more bandits charging at him with raised axes. Linden slid into position, then launched himself upward. His sword cut a deadly arc through the night air.
The battle raged on. They managed to bring down half the enemy force—but the survivors fought like cornered animals, desperate and vicious.
It wouldn't be long now. Victory was close.
Then—
BOOM!!
A deep, rumbling explosion split the air. Red smoke bloomed over the trees like a bloody flower.
Linden's head snapped up.
"Shit. They're calling reinforcements!" he shouted.
Somewhere in the chaos, a hidden mage had loosed a signal spell.Within minutes, more enemies flooded into the clearing. Twice as many. Maybe a hundred strong.
Linden scanned his battered knights. None had fallen—but they were drained, bent over with exhaustion, armor scuffed and dented.
We can't win this.
Even if he personally took down ten more, it wouldn't matter. The others would be crushed.
The reinforcements weren't green recruits either. These men knew how to fight. Some of the enemy mages, though still low-level, hurled small fireballs and weak area spells that exploded dirt and smoke all around them.
If Jayden Winchester were here, Linden thought bitterly, what would he do?
"Sir! Your orders?" a knight gasped. "We can still fight!"
Should I risk it? Linden hesitated, heart hammering in his chest.
No. He wasn't the Supreme General. His instincts weren't perfect. A gamble would only get them all killed.Retreat was the only option.But how? They were boxed in from every side.
One of the enemy mages stepped forward, clutching a heavy staff. His mouth moved rapidly, weaving a spell.
Linden recognized it instantly.
"Estras magic! Everyone, scatter!" he roared.
Estras was a mid-tier area spell—deadly, fast, and brutal.
The mage's spell was already locking onto the exhausted knights. They wouldn't dodge it in time.
No. No!
Linden's body moved before his mind caught up. He sprinted toward his comrades, arms outstretched, desperate to shove them out of the blast.
It was stupid. Reckless.
But loyalty didn't ask permission.
BBAMMM!!!
The spell exploded.
A boulder the size of a horse tore free from the earth and hurtled toward the knights.
"Nooo!!"
Too late.
The massive stone slammed into the group, throwing up a thick cloud of dust and debris.
Linden dropped to his knees. His head bowed low in defeat.If only I'd been faster. If only I'd seen it coming.He dug his hands into the dirt, cursing himself for failing them.
Then—a voice, clear and commanding:
"Raise your head, soldier."
Linden froze.He lifted his gaze, blinking through the dust.
There, standing tall in gleaming black armor, his massive sword braced against the ground, was Jayden Winchester—the Supreme General of Baterville.
The man every knight dreamed of following.
Hope flared in Linden's chest like a second heartbeat.
Fifteen minutes earlier.
Jayden Winchester pulled the reins of his horse, slowing to a stop at the edge of the Halon River.The investigation was over.
The mystery behind the missing children of the southern villages had been solved, and now it was time to return to the Winchester estate in eastern Baterville.
He exhaled slowly, watching a handful of children laugh and splash at the river's edge, unaware of how close they'd been to real danger.Just a little longer, he thought.
One last sweep for information.A few questions to the local kids who spent their afternoons tangled in the wild banks of the Halon.
But then—
the ground trembled.
BAMM!!
A thunderous explosion split the sky.
Children screamed, scrambling to hide behind Lionix, one of Jayden's knights. Tears stained the girls' cheeks as they clutched at his armor.
"Sir," Lionix called over his shoulder, voice low but urgent, "there's red smoke rising from the forest!"
Jayden turned sharply, eyes narrowing at the blood-colored plume spiraling into the sky across the river.He knew exactly what it meant.
A distress signal.Someone was calling for help—and fast.
"Do we intervene, Sir?" Bertholdt asked, already reaching for the reins of his mount.
Strictly speaking, it wasn't their jurisdiction.
Their mission was complete.
But Jayden Winchester had never been the kind of man who turned his back on a call for help.
He swung into the saddle.
"We're going."
"Yes, General!"
The knights mounted swiftly, their warhorses thundering across the shallow Halon, hooves kicking up plumes of water and mud.
They rode hard, weaving through the trees toward the growing chaos.It didn't take long to find the source—the red smoke still curling above the treetops—and the brutal scene below.
Jayden's gaze sharpened.
A massive stone boulder, conjured by enemy magic, was hurtling through the air—straight toward a group of battered white-armored knights.
They wouldn't survive.
Without hesitation, Jayden barked an order:
"Lionix! Protect them—NOW!"
His voice cracked across the battlefield like a whip.
Lionix vanished in a blink, teleporting to the doomed knights just seconds before impact.
He raised a single hand, magic flaring like wildfire.
"Ivanum Shield!"
A shimmering forcefield burst into existence.
The boulder smashed against it with an earth-shaking crack, disintegrating into harmless shards of rock and dust.
The knights behind Lionix staggered but lived.
Meanwhile, Jayden swung off his horse, his boots hitting the dirt with a thud.He stalked forward, his massive sword resting casually against his shoulder.
He recognized the battered figure kneeling in the dirt, head bowed low.
Linden Matteo.The Panther of the West.
Fifth-ranked among Baterville's greatest knights.
"Raise your head, soldier," Jayden said, voice steady and commanding.
Linden looked up, his face smeared with dirt and blood, but his spirit still burning.
"Can you still swing that sword?" Jayden asked quietly.
"I can, General," Linden rasped, forcing himself to stand. He snatched up his fallen blade, fists tightening around the hilt.
Jayden's mouth curved into something almost like a smile.
"I don't know what kind of mess you and Ruberius' men stumbled into... but it looks like you could use a hand."
Without waiting for a reply, Jayden turned to his knights.
"Clear the field."
And like a storm unleashed, they moved.
Jayden and his men tore into the bandits and mages with a ruthlessness that bordered on beautiful.Steel flashed. Blood spattered the trees.The enemy barely had time to scream before they fell.
In less than ten minutes, it was over.
The survivors—those who hadn't lost a hand, a leg, or the will to fight—threw down their weapons and surrendered, faces white with terror.
The forest fell eerily silent, broken only by the ragged breathing of the wounded.
The ground was littered with bodies.
Jayden wiped his blade clean on a dead bandit's cloak, then sheathed it with a soft click.
He crossed the clearing to Linden, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"You owe me an explanation," he said, voice low but not unkind.
Linden nodded stiffly, still catching his breath.
While the mop-up began, Jayden ordered Lionix to tend to the wounded, his magic weaving through shattered bones and torn flesh, knitting them whole again.
It was a victory—but one that tasted of blood and exhaustion.
»»——⍟——««
The group led by Linden, along with the knights clad in white armor, had completed their part of the mission—with the unexpected assistance of Jayden Winchester and his three men.
But what about Sevine and Sebastian?
At this moment, the two of them remained in hiding, waiting for their black rats to emerge from the orphanage building.
The meeting inside was taking far longer than either of them had anticipated.
Sevine leaned back against a tree trunk, visibly bored. She had considered climbing the tree for a better vantage point but quickly abandoned the idea after a glance at her impractical clothing.
Beside her, Sebastian was preoccupied with adjusting a strange pair of gloves—thin, elegant, and riddled with tiny sockets across the knuckles.
"What's that? Your gloves look... weird," Sevine remarked, arching a brow.
Sebastian barely glanced at her before returning to his task. With deliberate care, he inserted small, marble-like stones into the sockets, each one catching the moonlight faintly.
"You've never seen magical equipment before, have you, Lady?" he said casually, once he was satisfied with the fit.
Sevine shook her head with a candid innocence that made him smile faintly.
"These stones," Sebastian continued, "are the result of a collaboration between House Darconer and Count Levis."
Sevine's confusion was so plain on her face that Sebastian couldn't help a quiet sigh.
"They're called magic amplifiers," he explained patiently. "They can either magnify or suppress the flow of magic."
"Oh..." Sevine's eyes widened in quiet wonder. "It must be nice... to be able to use magic."
There was a wistful note in her voice.
Of course, the world was never fair.
Not everyone was born with the gift.
Sebastian caught the longing beneath her words. His smile turned a little bitter.
Lady Darconer, it seemed, saw magic through rose-colored glass.
"If you're such a brilliant royal magician, why do you still need those amplifiers?" Sevine teased, her voice sharp with skepticism. "Not confident enough in your own power?"
Sebastian chuckled without the slightest hint of offense.
"This is simply... a precaution," he replied, fastening the last stone into place.
He didn't bother explaining the truth: that the amplifiers weren't there to enhance his magic, but to restrain it — to prevent the wild surge of mana that roared beneath his skin from tearing him apart.
The original novel of this world had never bothered to explain the pasts of side characters like Sebastian.And so, Sevine remained unaware of the boy he once was—ostracized, feared, left to drown alone in a torrent of overwhelming magic.
He had once spent years locked away in his own room, hating every part of himself... until a certain someone had dragged him back into the light.
"Lady Sevine," Sebastian said suddenly, voice quieter, "aren't you afraid of magic?"
Sevine frowned slightly. "Afraid? Why would I be?"
"Because magic," Sebastian murmured, almost to himself, "can kill."
"Well then," Sevine said simply, "don't use it to hurt people. Use it to protect them."
Sebastian froze.
For a moment, he simply stared at her—expression unreadable, almost fragile.
"What's with that look, Glasses?" Sevine huffed, crossing her arms.
"Lady..." Sebastian breathed. "If there were a magician... a truly powerful one... who chose to use their power for good—would you... like them?"
"Of course," Sevine replied without hesitation. "I like good people."
She said it so easily, so earnestly, as if kindness was the most natural thing in the world.
And she didn't even notice how, at that very moment, Sebastian Ruberius turned away slightly, ears burning red.
»»——⍟——««
The black rat—Sevine and Sebastian's hidden spy—pressed its tiny body against the cold stone wall, ears twitching as it listened intently.
Beyond the wall, muffled voices revealed that the envoys from the northern faction had finally arrived at the orphanage gates, their heavy cargo wagon laden with offerings supposedly sent by Winchester.
The door to the meeting room creaked open.
Startled, the rat scurried into a shadowed corner of the adjacent room, peeking through the narrow gap between the door and the wall.
From there, it witnessed Viscount Martin stepping forward to greet two men dressed in the muted garb of northern representatives.
"I'm pleased you arrived right on time, with everything in order," Viscount Martin chuckled, his handshake firm, his smile brimming with smug satisfaction.
"You know," said one of the envoys, "deceiving Inspector Ruberius is no easy feat. But thanks to your advice, we slipped right through."
He offered a short bow, his voice lined with genuine admiration.
It had been Viscount Martin's cunning suggestion that saved them: he had proposed they create a decoy cargo wagon.
A wagon filled not with true offerings, but with crates of rotting food bought for a pittance in the capital—sealed tight to discourage inspection.
The real offerings had long since been rerouted elsewhere.
When the crates were eventually distributed among the southern populace, it would still appear—at least to the watchful eyes of the inspectors—that Winchester's gifts had been faithfully delivered.
Viscount Martin waved off the compliment with mock modesty.
"Ah, don't praise me too much. If anything, we owe this success to the cooperation of Priests Gregory and Armen."
The two priests he mentioned were once trusted figures appointed by the Northern Temple to oversee the monthly shipments.
Once.
Viscount Martin's poisonous whispers had slowly corroded their faith.
The sweet lure of gold had proven far more powerful than vows or duty, until both priests willingly turned their backs on everything they once believed in.
What had begun as a momentary slip had now festered into a profitable, long-term conspiracy.
"As per your request," one of the envoys continued, "we also acquired several crates of cheap wine during our journey."
"And," his companion added with a crooked smile, "we've carefully relabeled the bottles with the Winchester brand."
At that, Viscount Martin burst into delighted laughter.
"Splendid!" he exclaimed. "For this, I'll double your bonuses. Consider it my personal thanks."
Visions of raining coin and overflowing ledgers danced in his mind.Soon, his fattened pigs—the oblivious southern nobility—would squander their wealth in desperate bids for prestige, never realizing whose pocket they were truly filling.
"You must be weary after such a long journey," Martin said, his voice thick with hospitality. "Allow Isabella to attend to you."
At the mention of her name, the rat's whiskers twitched.
Isabella—the matron of the orphanage—was no mere caretaker.She was also Viscount Martin's secret mistress, bound to him by far more than duty alone.
»»——⍟——««