It was a pitch-black sphere, barely a few centimeters across, yet it made the blond middle-aged Heroic Spirit's blood run cold.
Pure darkness, crushing density, absolute mass, and an unmistakable sense of mortal danger…
Insignificant though it looked, if the seals binding that orb were undone, it wouldn't just be Trifas—it might erase all of Romania from the face of the Earth.
Not a simple explosion like a nuclear weapon, but a core of gravity itself, condensed enough to devour everything. Cold sweat beaded his brow, and even he staggered back two steps, his Noble Phantasm—the "Lord of Execution"—already surging to be unleashed.
Yes. He was that man, Romania's famed "Little Dragon," Vlad III. And even standing upon his own soil, he felt he had no right to stand against that sphere.
"Kazikli…"
Murmuring the True Name of his Noble Phantasm, the Voivode prepared to strike first—when a desperate cry rang from the distance.
"My lord, please stop!"
A black car screeched to a halt nearby. Stumbling out of it came Darnic, who rushed forward in a panic, his face tight with alarm at the standoff before him.
"Oh? Darnic. Is this your counsel to me?" Vlad turned his head, and just like that, the black orb vanished from Rhodes' hand, as if it had never existed.
"Yes, my lord. The boy before you is one of our Yggdmillennia Clan's most gifted prodigies in generations." Darnic bent low, groveling, and hurried to explain. "Rhodes is our clan's pride. I beg you forgive his offense."
"…Is that so?" Vlad lowered his gaze. The murderous gleam in his eyes shifted into something else.
Unlike the vampire of legend, the man hailed as "the great hero of Romania's independence" was, at least, an upright politician.
"I will not apologize to him," Rhodes said coldly. "If you think you can survive that, then we can continue our fight, Your Highness."
"Ah…" Darnic winced at Rhodes' brazen, bullheaded act, but he pressed on, bowing ever deeper before Vlad. "My lord, I beg you—show mercy."
"No need, Darnic." Vlad's lips curved faintly as he stepped forward, coming to stand before Rhodes. His face carried a hint of guilt.
"It was my error," he said earnestly. "Had I not appeared suddenly at your back, there would've been no misunderstanding. In the battles to come, we must support one another. Let's put this behind us, yes, Lord Rhodes?"
Gone was the high-handed arrogance he showed Darnic. In its place was a weary but kind smile, as though he were some gentle herbivore.
"Put it behind us?" Rhodes echoed, his face now lit with a dazzling smile. "Truly magnanimous of you, Voivode Vlad."
Two foxes, old and young, had reached an unspoken agreement. What had been a clash of blades moments before now looked like a polite conversation.
"Good…" Though he didn't understand what had just happened, Darnic seized the chance to press his own agenda. "Since the Voivode favors Rhodes so, why not have him replace Caules as a Master in this Holy Grail War?"
"A fine suggestion. I would—" Vlad began smoothly, but Rhodes abruptly cut him off.
"Patriarch Darnic, I only returned to the clan out of necessity, seeking refuge. How could I claim such a precious Master's seat? Wouldn't that feel a bit… indecent?"
He wore a smile of false humility, sincere only on the surface.
"Let Caules remain Master. If the clan requires my strength in other ways, I'll never refuse—of course, only when conditions permit."
"Uh…" Darnic's face flickered. At first, the words "never refuse" lit his eyes with joy, ready to press Rhodes into the role. But then came "when conditions permit," and his smile froze, recognizing the boy's slippery cunning.
Clearly, Rhodes had not survived the Clock Tower on skill alone. His political instincts rivaled—perhaps even outstripped—Darnic himself, the so-called man of "eight tongues."
But Darnic was no fool either. Within a second he ignored the qualifying words, as if Rhodes had already pledged his loyalty unto death. He clasped Rhodes' hands warmly, playing the gracious host.
"More importantly, Patriarch Darnic, I'd like to request some material to improve our odds in the Holy Grail War."
Rhodes withdrew his hand with a chuckle. Gone was the polite humility—now he bared the lion's appetite.
"Oh? What is it you need?" Darnic asked, surprised. Rhodes adopted a mask of feigned embarrassment.
"I need fragments of the Lesser Grail. I believe you gathered some after the Third War, did you not?" His voice was light, casual, as if he were asking for nothing at all.
"You—" Darnic froze, instinctively about to refuse. But Vlad raised a hand to stop him.
"Of course. Such things in your hands are no waste. Let Darnic's past efforts see purpose. I look forward to seeing your strength in battle, Lord Rhodes."
Generous with another man's treasure, Vlad spoke without hesitation, calm and magnanimous. By contrast, Darnic's face had gone pale as chalk.
"As expected of Romania's Voivode—truly decisive." Rhodes' smile was warm, but his eyes glittered with understanding.
There was no doubt: Vlad Tepes was playing a game. Whether to bind Rhodes into servitude or lure him into some deeper snare, he was playing his own routine.
But Vlad had no idea that this boy who looked eighteen was, in truth, an old driver from Akina Mountain—the kind who drifted through every trick and scheme long before anyone else caught on.
This particular "generous statesman" routine? Rhodes had seen it all before. Worn it out, even. Not worth more than a smirk.
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