At the Rothschild family house, a white-haired man with a regal aura sat in a richly furnished office. A deep purple carpet stretched across the marble floor, and historic paintings lined the walls, each one whispering the long legacy of the Rothschilds.
"Patriarch, the head of the Vandemire house has requested to see you," a maid reported, bowing low.
"Let him in," Luke Rothschild replied, eyes never leaving the documents spread before him.
Moments later, the door opened and in strolled a red-haired man with a lazy grin, his hands clasped behind his head.
"Luke, my old friend, I missed you~."
Luke watched Leon plop into a chair without the slightest courtesy. Not that Leon ever had any.
"Leon, what are you doing here?" Luke asked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"What, a man can't visit his bestest friend in the whole wide world anymore?" Leon pouted, twirling a pen he'd swiped from the desk.
"Make it quick. I have work to do." Luke's expression didn't shift an inch.
Leon sighed, theatrics abandoned. "Fine. It's about the tournament."
That drew Luke's attention. His brow twitched, just slightly. Leon almost never got serious.
"What about it?" he asked, folding his hands beneath his chin.
"The Crimson Blades have been moving strangely."
Luke set his glasses aside, sharp obsidian eyes glinting in the light. "The Crimson Blades? Why now?"
"How should I know?" Leon shrugged. "It's not like I'm part of their little cult."
"Then how do you know?" Luke's tone was calm, measured. "And don't tell me it's 'intuition.'"
"Hey! My intuition saved the Ashcroft family more than once!" Leon huffed.
"I am grateful you saved my wife's family," Luke replied, stacking his papers neatly. "But don't expect me to believe it was a gut feeling."
Leon pouted again. "I hope you fall down the stairs and twist your ankle."
"An SS-rank cultivator doesn't get hurt from stairs, Leon."
"Tsk. Just wait. I'll break through and beat you someday."
Luke didn't rise to the bait. "Tell me about the Crimson Blades."
The playfulness drained from Leon's face. The air itself seemed to grow heavier.
"As you know, those bald freaks appeared a hundred years ago and nearly tore this kingdom apart."
"I don't need reminding," Luke said quietly. "I buried enough soldiers to remember."
"They didn't just terrorize villages. Some infiltrated high-ranking offices, almost collapsing the kingdom's economy."
Luke's expression darkened. "We had to call on the last prince to fix that mess."
"That kid's a monster," Leon muttered, shuddering at the memory. "Smiled like an angel while gouging out a spy's eyes with his bare hands…"
Luke said nothing.
Leon leaned forward. "Back to the point. Before each of their major strikes, there's a pattern. First, huge orders of enchanted, rune-bound, and soul-forged gear. All anonymous. All prepaid."
Luke blinked, realization dawning. "I see…"
'His observation is as sharp as ever,' Luke thought, watching the redhead, who was now grinning like a child with a secret.
'No wonder he became Patriarch of the Vandemire family… though the way he got there…'
---
Luke's mind wandered briefly.
In most great houses, the seat of Patriarch only went to heirs who achieved SS rank. If two siblings managed it, they were sent to Maelvrax, the dwarves' conjured dimension, to duel for succession.
But Vandemire was different.
When the old Patriarch died, Leon was only a B+ rank. A feeding frenzy broke out as rivals vied for the throne. Duels were announced to decide the next head, though in truth, sabotage and "accidents" thinned the numbers long before the stage. The elders only scoffed: "If you're weak enough to fall for it, you're not fit to rule."
The house seemed doomed. Until Leon returned from an expedition, suddenly A-rank.
What he found made his blood boil—guards drinking on duty, maids gossiping freely, training grounds in ruin. His family was rotting from within.
So Leon fought back—his way.
Competitors found dead in their beds. Cultivators ambushed mid-breakthrough, left crippled. By the time the duels began, Leon's path was cleared. One by one, his "matches" vanished or resigned in shame.
In the end, he was pitted against an S+ rank general. A slaughter in waiting.
But on the day of battle, the general wept, resigned, and fled the stage. His excuse? "I'm… not feeling well."
And so, with his trademark grin, Leon won the seat of Patriarch—without ever lifting a finger.
Thirty years later, Vandemire was flourishing under him, and Leon himself had climbed to A+. Behind the smile was ruthlessness, but no one dared deny his success.
---
"Luke! LUKE!"
Luke blinked back into the present, Leon glaring.
"You spaced out again," Leon grumbled.
"…My apologies. Could you repeat the Crimson findings?"
"…Shameless," Leon muttered flatly. Still, he summarized. "They order weapons, strangers settle quietly in the kingdom, crime rates rise… then? Boom. Major incident."
Luke nodded grimly. "And it's happening again."
"Exactly."
A long silence followed, until Luke exhaled. "I'll send my men. You can organize them however you like."
"That's for the best."
"…Anything else?" Luke asked, puzzled when Leon lingered.
'Is he waiting for assignments?'
Leon smiled slyly.
'No, it's probably—'
"My real reason for coming," Leon interrupted, beaming, "is for you to ask Miriam to marry my son."
Luke's composure finally cracked. "What?!"