Presley raised an eyebrow at Lucien's sudden confidence, but waved it off with an exaggerated sigh, like a schoolteacher indulging a child's tantrum. He straightened the already-stiff collar of his tunic with a flick of his fingers, pretending dignity while clearly trying to save face.
"It recently came to the news that my liege actually had an ancestral claim to this land," he declared, with the smugness of a noble actor mid-performance.
"One that spans over his family's legacy for generations—unbroken, sacred," he added, his tone swelling with theatrical flair, more bard than messenger. Each flourish of his hands, each overly practiced gesture, stoked the slow-burning fury in Lucien's gut.
Lucien's voice cut in, calm but laced with venom.
"Oh…?"
He leaned forward ever so slightly.
"That's barely any reason for Duke Brent to revoke my lands."
He tapped his fingers against the polished surface of his desk—once, twice, thrice—each strike a fraction harder than the last. A rhythm of restrained fury. His eyes never left Presley's face, gaze sharpened into a predator's focus, watching the messenger squirm without realizing it.
Presley's lip curled. His eyes narrowed with open disgust, as though Lucien had just spat on a holy relic. He drew back as if even sharing the same air was offensive.
"I'm shocked—shocked—by your disregard for such a sacred matter!" he barked, dramatically clutching at his chest like a theatre knight. "This land is rightfully his! A piece of heritage!"
With a flourish, Presley produced a rolled parchment from his inner coat pocket, snapping it open like a magician revealing his final card. The document was pristine—ink crisp, wording elegant—and stamped with the crimson seal of the Holy Church of Sylenae. The symbol gleamed faintly in the morning light, a sunburst behind a sword.
"We've already completed the necessary paperwork and even sought the church's blessing. My liege's claim has been validated—righteously and legally," Presley said, with the smug satisfaction of a man who thought the game already won.
Lucien chuckled—a dry, hollow sound—and reached for the half-finished glass of wine on his desk. He swirled it once, the crimson liquid catching the firelight, then took a slow sip.
"And what happens," he said, licking the bitter taste from his lips, "if I don't?"
Presley's grin widened, teeth flashing in a sneer just shy of insulting.
"I'm sure you're not dumb enough to actually do that."
Lucien tilted his head slightly, like a wolf studying the weakest point in a hunter's armor. His grip on the glass tightened—subtly at first—until faint cracks spiderwebbed across its surface.
Presley chuckled, watching the tension build like a man toying with a snake he thought too defanged to strike. He sat straighter, emboldened by Lucien's silence, mistaking fury for hesitation. Every second he acted brashly was another he believed he had the upper hand. Power, after all, was perception.
But before another word could leave his smirking lips—
CRASH.
The wine glass flew, hurled with precision. It shattered against Presley's face with a violent splash, red liquid splattering across his cheeks, tunic, and the sacred document still clutched in his hands.
"You—bastard!"
Presley stumbled back, dripping, stunned, his voice rising into an undignified squeal.
"What's wrong with you!?"
Lucien stood. The legs of his chair scraped loudly against the floorboards, the sound like a blade being drawn. His frame, once relaxed, now held the weight of old rage barely chained.
"This is my message," he growled, voice cold and cutting.
"If he wants my lands…"
His eyes gleamed with murderous intent, the firelight catching the depths of crimson within.
"Then he must spill blood for it."
A breath passed, heavy with finality.
Lucien's voice darkened with fury, the weight of his words carrying the gravity of the situation.
"Tell him I said to go shove his head up his ass, will you?"
In my first life, I bowed to the church and lost everything. But in this second life? I will reclaim it all—by blood, if necessary.