The clouds on the horizon blazed crimson as the sun sank behind the hills. On this spring evening, an ornate carriage rolled slowly along a road in Cote Province, the southern region of the Empire.
The exquisite four-wheeled carriage was crafted from the finest materials. Its dignified, noble dark-black body, delicate carvings, and gold-gilded patterns all spoke of the owner's lofty status.
Especially the family emblem emblazoned on it!
A ring of irises coiled around the blades of two crossed long swords, while a crown hovered above the hilts, shrouded in raging flames…
To any noble well-versed in heraldry, this emblem would signify extraordinary prestige! Among all the families in the Empire, few bore two crossed swords on their crest — they meant the family had produced at least one Imperial Marshal in its history. The crown above symbolized a blood tie to the royal family!
Ten armored guard knights rode on each side of the carriage, mounted on steeds with knightly swords at their hips. Their armor was polished bright, their weapons gleaming — yet in stark contrast to their fine gear, the knights all wore gloomy, defeated expressions.
Mad sat beside the coachman, chewing idly on a blade of grass. He glanced at the darkening sky, heaved a deep sigh, then leaned over and rapped on the carriage window.
"Young Master Dwight, should we find a place to stop for the night? It's getting dark."
Inside the carriage, Dwight looked up from his reading, pulled open the window, and glanced at the setting sun.
"Very well."
Mad acknowledged at once. Just then, a horse galloped up from ahead. A young family knight in light armor panted slightly and called out:
"Master Steward, there's a small town ahead. It seems our only choice for tonight."
Mad, once a stable hand, still struggled to get used to being called "Master Steward". Yet the honest man tipped his hat to the young rider.
"The master has spoken. We'll rest there for the night."
Watching the young knight's loyal, resolute face, Mad sighed inwardly. *Such a naive young man.*
Only twenty family knights had been assigned to accompany Young Master Dwight back to the Rollin ancestral home.
As the eldest son of Count Raymond, the second-most powerful military figure in the Empire, Dwight's journey was shockingly modest — just twenty guards, one "steward", and a single coachman.
The retinue was far too shabby.
Any noble household in the Imperial Capital would bring dozens of servants and guards even for a simple outing.
And these twenty knights had been "carefully selected".
Everyone knew Young Master Dwight had fallen completely out of favor. The family's future lay with his younger brother. Though unspoken, all understood Dwight had been stripped of his title as family heir.
Following a master exiled to guard ancestral lands meant a bleak future. Everyone craved advancement; everyone wanted to stay in the prosperous Imperial Capital. No one wished to waste their life in a remote backwater with a disgraced master.
Especially the knights. Who wouldn't want to remain in the capital, to win the Count's favor and rise through the ranks? So when the assignment to accompany Dwight was announced, everyone dodged it. No knight wanted to waste their prime years tending to farmers alongside a worthless master.
Unsurprisingly, the twenty who ended up chosen were the unlucky ones — either incompetent, socially isolated, or young, gullible fools.
Mad had already sized up this young scout: naive, simple-minded, and completely unaware their party was being sent into exile.
Since leaving the capital, spirits had been low. The only one who remained calm and unhurried was Young Master Dwight himself.
Despite being exiled, he had not uttered a single complaint. Every day, he sat in the carriage reading books brought from home, rarely speaking, and always gentle toward others.
Putting aside his thoughts, Mad shouted orders to quicken the pace. The former stable hand, now steward, held a simple philosophy. What did it matter if he was exiled? He had once been a lowly stable boy — his position now was thanks to the young master. Even an exiled "steward" earned several more gold coins a month. That was what counted.
Patting the coin purse at his chest, Steward Mad broke into a smile.
Cote Province was in the south, after all. Southern girls were said to have delicate skin and petite figures. Maybe old Mad could find himself a wife here.
---
Giantwood Town was the only settlement for miles around. With several hundred households, it had just one small tavern — simply named **Giantwood Tavern**.
As the only tavern, business was steady enough. Cheap ale, cheap roasted meat, cheap prostitutes… even the lowest classes needed small pleasures in life.
When Dwight's party arrived outside the tavern, he closed his book, extinguished the carriage lantern, and stepped out.
He looked up at the rusted iron sign swinging in the wind, the noisy chatter coming from inside, and the warm lights glowing through the windows.
Their entrance drew instant stares. A group of armored knights filling the small tavern was hard to miss.
Dwight entered last. By then, the knights had already cleared a space and a clean table, forming a protective circle around him.
The tavern patrons stared at the young half-grown boy.
Dwight was fairly tall, born to the martial Rollin family, yet his frame was slender. His fine court dress, trimmed with lace at the collar and cuffs, marked him as nobility. Aside from his striking red hair — the signature of the Rollin bloodline — he seemed quiet and bookish.
Pale-faced, slim, and silent, he held a book in his hand.
The guards began unloading luggage. Mad tossed a few gold coins to the tavern keeper, who at once prepared clean rooms and saw to the horses.
Dwight endured the curious, judgmental stares around him.
"Oh! Looks like we got ourselves a lord!"
"A nobleman? Out here?"
"Boss, you oughta keep the chair he sat on — might sell it for a fortune!"
After a brief hush, the tavern erupted again, everyone whispering about the strange party. A finely dressed nobleman in a run-down tavern was unheard of in these parts.
A few painted, scantily dressed women tried to approach Dwight, but Mad quickly shooed them away.
The prostitutes cursed at Mad in crude village slang, but he paid them no mind. A drunkard immediately latched onto them.
"Hey, sweethearts, what's a little lord got on me?" He squeezed one woman's bottom hard. She giggled and melted into his arms.
Dwight remained calm, sipping his wine quietly. He only frowned slightly at the pointing and murmuring.
The guards were listless, bemoaning their lost futures in this stinking, perfume-heavy dive.
If only they could stay in the capital's glittering world!
Just then, the tavern door crashed open.
Three men and a woman stepped inside. Dust-covered and expensively dressed, they were clearly outsiders, just like Dwight's group.
The tavern fell completely silent. Every man's gaze locked onto the young woman in the group.
She was about eighteen or nineteen, with chestnut-brown hair and a strikingly beautiful face — the kind that held an aggressive, irresistible allure. She wore tight-fitting leather armor of fine quality, dyed deep blue, etched with strange patterns, made from some magical beast's hide. Her lower body was even more eye-catching: short trousers that bared her full, snow-white thighs. A dagger was sheathed at her thigh, a curved sword hung at her waist, and a delicate small bow was slung over her shoulder, its quiver filled with silver arrows.
One glance at the bright silver told Dwight they were made of pure silver — an extravagant luxury for arrows.
The woman's shapely thighs instantly became the center of every male gaze. When she bent slightly, the low-cut leather armor revealed a glimpse of creamy cleavage, making two nearby drunkards drop their mugs in shock.
Her male companions were striking too.
One was a bull-like brute in heavy armor, carrying a thick shield — clearly a powerful warrior, his face fierce, his bare arms rippling with muscle and scars.
Another was tall and lean, sharp-eyed, with a longbow over his shoulder, black bowstring, strong fingers, and a black iron ring — clearly an archer.
But the last man caught Dwight's full attention.
He wore a gray robe, his features ordinary, yet his eyes glinted with cold sharpness. His dress was so simple that most patrons barely noticed him.
But Dwight stared.
Beneath his robe, pinned to his chest, was a badge shaped like a silver leaf.
The locals did not recognize it, but Dwight did — and so did the more knowledgeable Rollin guards.
This gray-robed man was a **magician**.
Only a Level 1 Mage, the lowest rank, marked by a single silver leaf…
But that silver leaf badge was proof of a genuine, Magic Guild-certified magician.
After staring at the emblem for a long moment, a single thought flashed through Dwight's heart: