The sun sank over the horizon of the Vayne March, not with a poetic golden hue, but with a deep, bruised crimson like an open wound.
Its fading light swept across cobblestone streets filled with thousands of hollow, sunken eyes.
The scent hanging in the air was no longer that of toasted bread or winter firewood, but the stench of stale sweat, road dust, and desperation rotting into rage.
At the city’s main gate, the congestion had reached its boiling point.
Hundreds of refugees from surrounding villages and starving city folk were crushed against rows of stalled merchant wagons.
In the midst of the chaos, a lavish carriage plated in silver and gold forced its way forward.
It bore the crest of Count Hadrick, a minor noble known as a loyal sycophant to Lord Bastian and a major donor to the Central Church’s Altar.
”Out of the way, you starving filth!” shouted a driver in a dapper uniform, cracking his whip at the crowd.
“Make way for the carriage of His Excellency Count Hadrick!
If you so much as scuff the paint on this carriage, your lives wouldn’t be enough to pay for it!”
The sound of the whip lashing through the air triggered a roar of fury from the masses.
However, before that anger could explode into anarchy, a disturbance appeared right under the noses of Hadrick’s tall stallions.
A man sat casually on an empty wooden crate blocking the middle of the road.
He wore the clothes of a traveling knight—garments that had lost their original color, with patches on the elbows and leather boots that seemed intimately familiar with mud.
Instead of being threatened by the carriage nearly trampling him, the man was preoccupied with crunching on a sour green apple.
This was Duke Alaric Varentis, the Fang of the South, still fully committed to his “shabby knight” persona.
”Hey, beggar!” Hadrick’s driver barked, bringing the carriage to a sudden halt that made the horses neigh loudly.
“Move your filthy backside or I’ll let these wheels grind you into pulp!”
Alaric slowly looked up.
He didn’t stand.
He simply wiped the traces of apple juice from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, then twirled the core between his fingers.
”Shh…
calm down, friend,” Alaric said in a relaxed tone, almost a lazy whisper.
“Your horses look more civilized than your master inside.
Poor things, forced to run through streets full of hungry people.
You know, a stressed horse can suffer a sudden heart attack.”
”How dare you!” The carriage door swung open violently.
Count Hadrick stepped out, his face flushed red.
His potbelly, wrapped in expensive silk, wobbled as he pointed a finger laden with gem-encrusted rings at Alaric.
“Do you know who I am?
I am a close ally of Lord Bastian!
I have the authority to hang you from this gatepost right now!”
Alaric chuckled.
The sound of his laughter was almost ridiculous in the midst of the tension, but there was something in it that made the hair on the onlookers’ necks stand up.
”Lord Bastian?
“It really is a small world, isn’t it, Count…
what was your name?
Hadrick?
A fine name, pity the owner is so noisy.”
”Attack him!” Hadrick ordered hisD two spear-wielding private guards.
The guards lunged forward, but just as the tips of their spears came within an inch of Alaric’s chest, the air around the gate seemed to freeze.
It wasn’t ice magic, but an invisible, crushing pressure—as if the sky had suddenly collapsed onto the shoulders of everyone present.
Alaric didn’t make an offensive move.
He simply offered a thin smile while sliding his hands into his pockets.
Yet, passively, he released a mere drop of his Disaster Class aura.
Thud!
Both guards instantly dropped to their knees.
Their faces turned blue, their lungs seemingly refusing to inhale.
Hadrick’s luxury horses began to foam at the mouth and collapsed to the ground, shivering violently as their animal instincts scented a top-tier predator they could not hope to oppose.
”W-what have you done…?” Hadrick stammered.
His knees shook uncontrollably.
He felt as though a giant dragon was standing before him, staring at him as if he were merely an insect accidentally stepped upon.
”Me?
I haven’t done anything,” Alaric replied casually.
He stepped forward, passing the gasping guards, and stood directly in front of Hadrick, who was now huddled in the mud of the street.
“Just a reminder, Count.
In a starving territory, flaunting wealth is like smearing honey on a hornet’s nest.
Do you want to leave here alive, or should I let the people decide your fate?”
The crowd began to surge forward, seeing the noble who had long oppressed them now trembling in fear before a shabby knight.
Whispers began to ripple: “Look, that man dared to stand up to Hadrick!”, “He’s defending us!”
From atop the fortress walls, Azura Vayne stood with her arms crossed.
Beside her, Arthur gripped the hilt of his sword anxiously, while Aurelia was busy recording the coordinates of the masses below.
”Your Grace, should we send in the troops?” Arthur asked.
“If that stranger incites the riot further, we won’t be able to control the gate.”
Azura didn’t answer immediately.
Her sea-blue eyes were locked onto the figure of the shabby knight “playing” down below.
[System: Notification Alert!]
[Aura Analysis: Disaster Class detected.
Target: Duke Alaric Varentis.
Status: Chilling like a boss.]
He’s totally flexin’ in public with that ‘casual but lethal’ vibe.
His intimidation score just hit 99/100, only slightly losing to you when you snapped Bastian’s fingers.
Seems like he’s either setting the stage for you, or he’s just bored out of his mind.]
”Leave him,” Azura said softly.
Her lips thinned into a line of cold calculation.
“He’s cleaning up the trash for us.
Count Hadrick is a parasite who funds Malachi.
If Alaric destroys his reputation in front of the people, that’s one problem solved without me having to soil my hands.”
”But the people are starting to throw stones, Stepmother,” Aurelia warned.
Sure enough, a stone flew and struck the side of Hadrick’s lavish carriage.
The sound of the impact was like a bell signaling the start of a war.
Clang!
Another stone hit the helmet of one of the castle guards below.
Church provocateurs tucked within the crowd began to scream, “Look!
The castle guards just stand there while nobles oppress us!
They are all the same!
The Bloody Demon and her allies must fall!”
”Arthur, instruct the troops to hold their positions.
No one draws a sword or fires an arrow,” Azura commanded with absolute authority.
“Aurelia, make sure you record the faces of every merchant taking part in that crowd.
We need a target list for tonight’s debt collection.”
Azura stepped forward to the edge of the balcony, letting the cold winter wind play with her bluish-silver hair.
From below, in the middle of the escalating anarchy, Alaric looked up.
Their eyes met.
Alaric, who had just made a Count wet his pants, offered a gesture that was highly disrespectful for a Duke.
He raised the remains of his green apple toward Azura as if giving a distant toast, then gave her a ridiculous wink.
”He really is an annoying man,” Azura murmured, though in her heart she acknowledged that Alaric’s presence had successfully shifted the mob’s focus from storming the gates to watching a high-class drama.
”Why is he helping us?” Aurelia asked, puzzled.
”He’s not helping us, Aurelia,” Azura replied coldly.
“He’s just making sure his ‘investment’ isn’t destroyed before he has a chance to take his profit.”
The mob was now truly beginning to explode.
Stones were flying more frequently.
Below, Alaric nimbly dodged the projectiles without losing his relaxed smile, as if he were standing in a pleasant drizzle rather than a riot of starving people.
”Tonight is going to be a very long night,” Azura whispered.
She turned toward the darkness beginning to shroud the Vayne territory.
“Arthur, prepare the shadow team.
We’re going to show Master Galt what it means to lose everything you own in the blink of an eye.”