As they helped Charles into his obsidian top, woven with threads that caught the lantern light like starlight, Borris walked back into the room. His cloak was dusted from the wind outside, and his expression was hard to read but carried a hint of smugness.
"The deal's finalized," he reported. "We secured the West Hill estate."
He paused, letting the weight of it land.
"It's a beast, Charles. High-tier manor. Old imperial grade. Five reinforced vaults—each locked with layered blood seals and null-space wards. There's a private array tower with working leyline access. The underground dueling ring? Unused, not since a noble lost an arm settling a love triangle during a sword dance."
Charles raised an eyebrow, lifting his arms so Rob could clasp the mantle around his shoulders.
"Functional arm?"
Borris shrugged. "Mostly. They still duel one-handed for drama."
"Excellent. Go on."
"The estate has three guest wings. Each has private kitchens, soundproof rooms, and full enchanted insulation. There are three servants' halls below, all linked by hidden corridors. Four barracks can house five hundred elite troops. And the training grounds…"
Borris's voice brimmed with pride. He pulled a scroll from his satchel and flicked it open.
SIGMA responded immediately, projecting a shimmering three-dimensional map into the air above the war table. The estate unfurled in blue-white light—like a fortress carved from ambition and precision.
"There are three separate fields," Borris explained, pointing at each.
"The first is open and flat for footwork and formation drills. The second is a spellcasting field, with barrier pillars, auto-respawn targets, and channels for extra elemental qi. The third is a terrain-shifting course for mounted combat, including incline simulators and wind tunnels to test beast speed."
Charles arched an eyebrow, impressed despite himself.
Borris wasn't finished.
"There's a full stable complex for both ground and flying mounts," he said.
"This includes high-capacity feed channels, temperature-controlled rooms, grooming enchantments for all species, and recovery wards for magibeasts. The entire facility is reinforced for durability and designed to be easily expanded if needed. And yes…"
He tapped twice on the edge of the projection.
The image shimmered—and revealed a pristine underground wing branching out from the main stables.
"…the first hundred Stormhowl Sovereign Stallions arrived this morning. Checked, soul-tethered, immaculate. More than mounts; they're status."
Charles gave a low whistle. "And here I thought I'd have to go dragon-back everywhere like some theatrical warlord."
Rob muttered from the corner, fiddling with his new pair of dual-elemental bracers, "I'd still recommend it for shock value. But nothing beats arriving on a stallion that can summon thunder with its hooves and kick holes through enchanted steel."
"Rear courtyard beside a mana-threaded garden: rare trees, koi ponds filtering qi, and Dawnstone lanterns. Perimeter charms stop surveillance and hostile sigils for two kilometers."
He tapped again.
The map zoomed out, revealing a wide area of open land around the estate.
"All of it sits on flat, fertile land rich in dormant leyline veins. We could add a research annex, tower, infirmary, beast cradle, or even a teleportation plaza. All ours."
Silence fell for a breath.
Then Charles smiled, slow and sharp, like a king looking over his new lands.
"Now that," he said, "sounds like a home."
He turned toward Rob, who was now attempting to adjust his bracers using only wind pressure and one smug eyebrow.
"And the guards?"
Borris gave a nod, folding the scroll away with crisp precision.
"Five hundred elite recruits. Vetted from Duranth, Velmora, and select borderland mercenary guilds. All signed, soulbound, and uniformed. Anya had final say on temperament and training aptitude. They're already rotating through the barracks in shifts."
Charles gave a low hum of satisfaction.
"A home, an army, and horses that look like they were bred by thunderstorms and bad intentions."
He glanced back at the projection and then to his team.
"Good work, Borris." Charles's voice was dry.
"When I told you to get me a base of operations worthy of my name, I didn't expect a royal fortress with attached scenery."
Borris grinned. "Excellence is the minimum when it's for you, Lord Charlemagne."
Rob grunted. "Sappy. But accurate."
Charles turned to the mirror, fixing the cufflinks on his velvet-black coat.
"Well then," he murmured. "prepare yourselves."
He met their eyes in the mirror, his gaze shining behind the dark glow of the Umbra Nocturne mask.
"We've built our house."
He adjusted the lapel, straightened his posture.
"Time to show them why shadows are the best thrones."
"Have SIGMA triple-encrypt the foundation glyphs, overlay with shadow wards, and begin seeding our covert array marks. Every corridor, corner, and koi pond—under our seal before dawn."
"Already initiated," Borris confirmed. "And the Masquerade?"
He slipped into the coat. Fastened the collar. Fitted the mask across his face—its runes lit briefly, then dimmed. His hair was brushed back, falling in sleek silver waves over one shoulder.
"I plan to make an entrance," he said. "And a statement."
When he turned to face them, the room went completely silent.
He didn't look like a young lord anymore.
He looked like a ruler shaped by darkness and storm, with an elegance that no court or empire could hold back.
His silhouette stood out: a high-collared obsidian overcoat. Crimson runes and qi-conductive threads lined the fabric, sweeping down like a crow's wing.
Underneath, a charcoal vest with imperial sigils fit him well—elegant but ready for battle. A steel-gray shirt. Ember-gold thread at the cuffs. Midnight-black trousers. Polished boots. Everything was sleek and mysterious.
It was modern fashion mixed with noble war attire — sharp, regal, and striking.
His silver hair shone with blue highlights under the spelllight. The Umbra Nocturne mask, made of black glass and starlight enchantments, covered his face and gave him an air of mystery and power. But what showed beneath the mask drew even more attention.
His jawline was sharp and strong, showing both authority and a hint of danger. It had the calm of a storm waiting to break.
And his lips…
Full. Precise. Just shy of a smile. It was a smirk that made maidens ache and spies falter. Lips that carried the weight of unspoken vows and wicked promises. Each breath from them was a silent challenge. Dare to dream what it would feel like… to be kissed by this man? Once? Twice? Until every sense blurred into longing?
He didn't just enter the room; he owned it.
His presence alone was enough. The room fell quiet. Awed by his striking appearance.
He seemed like a prince from a legend, a ruler marked by storm and shadow.
Everyone in the room knew: this was not just a man to admire.
He was someone you felt compelled to follow.
He was Charlemagne Ziglar.
And the room stayed silent, waiting for his signal.
Rob let out a low whistle. "You look like you're about to close a million-gold deal and assassinate someone in the same sentence."
"I might," Charles replied, smoothing his cuffs. "Depends on the wine."
He stepped forward, brushing lint from Geo's shoulder as if bestowing a knighthood.
"You've got one hour to refresh," he said to the room. "I want all of you dressed. Impeccably. I won't have my entourage looking like third-tier auction rejects in front of Velmora's highest table."
Borris grunted. "Already have my suit pre-enchanted. Earth-element trim. Makes me look like a walking fortress."
"Excellent," Charles nodded. "Stand next to me. Intimidate the weak."
Diana raised her brows. "What if I intimidate the wealthy instead?"
"I'm counting on it," he said with a faint grin.
Rob kicked his feet up. "What's the dress code again? War criminal chic or demon banker glam?"
"Whichever says 'we brought both diplomacy and death,'" Charles replied.
Geo blinked. "Um… I own one robe."
Charles turned, cloak flaring behind him.
"You'll borrow mine," he said, eyes glinting. "And you'll walk like you belong there. Because you do."
Geo swallowed hard and nodded, face flushing.
Wendy watched it all with crossed arms and a barely hidden smirk.
"You always did like turning banquets into battlegrounds."
Charles fastened the last button on his cuff. The runes flared briefly, then vanished into sleek black silk.
"And tonight," he said, "I'm going masked not because I need to hide—but because it's more fun when they don't know whose empire is stepping on their neck."
He turned toward the door.
"Let's go."
Three Hours Later at Celestia Grand Pavilion, Tre Sorelle Velmora
The banquet hadn't even begun.
But the night already had its main event.
And it wore a mask.
Procession of the Shadow Sovereign
The first sign that something big was coming wasn't thunder or music. It was silence—a strange, expectant quiet that settled over West Hill Estate, as if everyone was waiting for something to happen.
Then the gates opened, and everything changed in the most elegant way possible.
Fifty elite guards rode out from the estate, dressed in formal uniforms and mounted on powerful Stormhowl Sovereign Stallions. The horses had obsidian coats streaked with silver qi veins, and their eyes flashed with blue lightning.
Behind them came five perfectly aligned carriages, looking as if they belonged on a fashion runway. There were no flashy family crests—just a faint shimmer of House Ziglar's sigil on each side, only visible if you looked closely.
It was subtle, mysterious, and carried just enough of a threat.
The lead carriage, Charles's personal ride, was reinforced with dragonbone, shadowsteel, stealth wards, and enough spatial enchantments to be a small fortress. It was pulled by four Stormhowl stallions, each more impressive than the last.
This was not a nobleman's procession.
This felt like the crowning of a storm.
Velmora was a city used to strange sights: fire dancers, spirit-beast parades, and nobles with odd fashion. But when the hoofbeats reached the cobbled plaza of the Lotus Isles Hotel, everyone paused.
People froze mid-sentence. A pastry chef dropped his spirit tongs. A cultivator tripped over his own qi. Somewhere, someone audibly gasped just from seeing the carriage rims.
The carriages stopped in perfect sync outside the hotel's main entrance. The wind was still, mana lanterns flickered, and someone who sneezed was quickly hushed.
And then the carriage doors opened.
Out stepped Charles.
Obsidian overcoat trimmed with dark crimson runes. Steel-gray shirt with ember cuffs. Charcoal vest laced with imperial flair. His Umbra Nocturne mask rested elegantly over his face, and that signature silver hair—kissed by iridescent blue—framed him like the storm itself had decided to start modeling.
He didn't walk.
He glided, with the kind of casual intensity that said, I run an empire before breakfast and flirt with death before dinner.
Behind him came the rest of the team: Wendy in her midnight elegance that screamed "stab first, flirt later".
Diana looks like an alchemical goddess on her day off.
Borris radiating "mercenary chic" in formal armor.
Anton and Alvin are arguing about enchantments.
Geo blinking like a wide-eyed sage-in-training.
And Rob, whose shirt was half-unbuttoned on purpose and gave zero apologies.
The staff quickly stepped aside as he passed.
Charles didn't even pause to bask in their awe. He nodded once—minimalist power move—and let the guards usher his crew into their designated carriages.
And then they were off.
If Velmora hadn't figured out that something dangerous was afoot, they certainly realized it now.
The Stormhowl Sovereigns didn't gallop; they made their presence known. Each hoofbeat echoed loudly. Their coats shone, and their riders, dressed in black formal guard uniforms, looked more like an elite squad than simple escorts.
Civilians peeked out of windows.
Merchants froze mid-haggle.
Even local nobles stepped aside, cloaks fluttering, eyes wide.
They'd all seen processions before. Lavish ones. Loud ones. Pretentious ones.
But this one?
This procession didn't ask for attention. It made everyone fall silent.
As they crossed into the upper city, people whispered as if a legend were passing by. Somewhere, a young noble fainted after realizing he was still using regular stallions like a peasant.
Across the plaza, a merchant wept at the realization that his family crest had been embossed in the wrong, overbearing font.
And all the while, Charles sat alone in his enchanted fortress-carriage, a miniature Nimbus curled beside him, radiating smug dragon energy like a scaly cat that just barbecued a mouse.
He said nothing.
But the city spoke for him.
"Did you see that mask? That's the Young Lord of House Ziglar."
"They say he bought West Hill overnight."
"I heard he rides a dragon to breakfast."
"I heard he is the dragon."
As they approached the Celestia Grand Pavilion, the tension in the air grew.
Tonight was the masquerade.
And the main event had arrived, ready to make an impression.