The room fell totally silent as Merope and Felt stood in the center, surrounded by dozens of pairs of eyes waiting for an explanation regarding the arrival of the sixth candidate they had never heard of before.
Marcos, the chief commander standing tall beside the council of elders, stepped forward a pace, his voice ringing firmly across the room.
“Then, Knight Reinhard van Astrea,” he said, “please tell us how you encountered the 5th and 6th royal candidates.”
Reinhard stepped forward from his position, stopping near Felt and Merope, bowing briefly toward the council before answering.
“Yes,” he said, “before I tell the tale, allow me to place this Dragon Stone into their hands, to prove they are the true dragon candidates.”
He produced a small, glowing stone from inside his cloak—its surface smooth, dark purplish like a starlitless night, pulsing gently as if having its own heartbeat.
Reinhard approached Felt first, holding out the stone to her palm.
The moment Felt’s fingers touched the stone’s surface, bright red light flashed for a moment, radiating from between her fingers before dimming back into a soft pulse as before.
Several elders nodded in satisfaction, noting something down on the sheets they held.
Then, Reinhard turned toward Merope, holding out the stone once more.
Merope stared at the stone for a moment, her heart racing—not out of fear, but from something deeper, a premonition she couldn’t explain, as if the stone itself had been waiting for her for a long time.
She extended her hand, and the moment her fingers touched the cold surface of that stone—The exact same red light burst from the stone, shining brightly between her fingers, identical to what had just happened with Felt.
For a second, the room fell into a different kind of silence—no longer suspicion, but a sort of collective relief spreading slowly among the council.
Some exchanged brief glances, nodding shortly, as if that light’s reaction adequately answered the doubts lingering since the start of the meeting.
Yet beneath his calm exterior, Reinhard watched the red light radiating from Merope’s hand with deeper attention than anyone else in the room—because only he knew, among all present, how many questions remained unanswered behind light that simple.
Marcos nodded in satisfaction upon seeing the validation, then turned back to Reinhard.
“Very well. Now, tell us.”
“Then, I shall explain how I found Felt-sama,” Reinhard answered, bowing briefly before beginning.
He recounted briefly—how he met Felt in a capital slum district while the girl was caught red-handed stealing the Dragon Stone belonging to another candidate, and how that encounter led to a battle with a fugitive known as the Bowel Hunter.
Several elders nodded, clearly already familiar with the tale from prior reports, though listening closely to the details delivered by Reinhard.
“I see,” Marcos said after Reinhard finished.
“Then, what about this sixth candidate of ours?”
The entire room seemed to hold its breath together, all eyes now shifting fully from Reinhard to Merope standing quietly beside him.
Reinhard glanced briefly toward Merope—shortly, yet enough to ensure the girl was ready to hear her own story told before so many people—before turning back to face the council, his voice calm as usual though choosing his words carefully. You are reading on novelping . com, the official source.
“I found her about two weeks ago,” Reinhard began, “in a small village on the eastern frontier, far from the capital.”
He continued, recalling that day one by one—how he received reports about chaos in that village, and how, upon arrival, what he found was neither a monster nor a criminal as anticipated, but a strange girl who had just woken from a long exile, surrounded by villagers panicking because her face resembled something from ancient legend.
“She remembered nothing of herself,” Reinhard continued, “no name, no origins, only faint memories of waking in old ruins. The villagers nearly harmed her before I could intervene.” He paused briefly, choosing not to mention the detail about the Authority of Vainglory he had witnessed in the forest—a secret he still strictly guarded, even before the council.
“I brought her to the capital, and there Felt-sama gave her a name—Merope.”
Several elders whispered softly hearing the tale, while others watched Merope with a mix of curiosity and vigilance they couldn’t entirely hide.
“And what about her identity as the witch’s sister?” asked one of the elders, his voice cautious, “does she herself know which witch she originated from?”
Merope, who had only been listening to her own story told like someone else’s fairy tale, finally found her voice, stepping half a pace forward.
“No,” she answered, honest as usual, though her voice shook slightly before so many pairs of eyes staring down.
“I don’t know who I was before either. All I know is… I want to prove I am no threat to anyone.”
She took a single breath, straightened her shoulders, and continued, her voice now steadier than before.
“But I will prove it,” she said, looking straight at the council without blinking, “if I truly am a witch, then I shall become a good witch.”
Those words dropped into the silent room, carrying weight far greater than her voice’s volume.
Some elders exchanged glances, some appearing touched by the unexpected resolve from such a tiny figure, while others still harbored wariness not easily broken by a mere promise.
Marcos stared at Merope for a long time, noting the glint in her eyes that didn’t waver a bit despite her voice trembling earlier—something rarely encountered, even among seasoned candidates.
“Brave words,” he said finally, his tone non-committal as to whether it was praise or warning.
“We shall see if your actions match your words later, Merope-sama.”
Before Merope could reply, another voice shattered the silence that had just formed.
“Allow me to interrupt.” A middle-aged man with a curled mustache, wearing a civil official’s uniform, suddenly stepped forward from the line of onlookers.
His steps were calm yet calculated, his eyes narrowing to evaluate Merope from head to toe much colder than the curious stares of the council moments before.
Reinhard, standing not far from Merope, stiffened slightly at the voice—subtly enough to pass unnoticed, yet clear enough to anyone who knew him well that this man’s presence boded ill.
Marcos turned to the man, his eyebrow slightly raised.
“What is it?”
The mustache-wearing official stopped a few paces from Merope, bowing briefly to the council before straightening up, his voice heavy and formal.
“Before we proceed further in accepting this candidate,” he said, “I feel there are several matters needing deeper clarification—matters which, in my view, have not been fully addressed by the Knight’s tale.”
“Your Excellency the Sword Saint,” he said, “did you say our fifth candidate was found in the slums of a poor district? And you also said the sixth candidate is a witch’s sister? And she also said she wants to be a ‘good witch’?” He paused, shaking his head slowly as if unable to believe his own string of sentences.
“This… this is truly hard to believe. Are you truly certain there has been no mistake in this search?”
That question dropped into the room like a spark onto dry straw.
Several elders who had started to soften grew tense again, exchanging doubtful glances, as if the suspicion they had suppressed now found fresh reason to rise.
Reinhard stared at the mustached man without flinching, his face remaining calm despite a cold tone rarely heard in his voice.
“What is it you actually wish to convey?” he asked, short and direct, lacking the usual polite padding.
That counter-question, simple as it looked, momentarily silenced the man—clearly not expecting the Sword Saint to challenge his suspicion directly instead of defending himself with a lengthy explanation.
Yet that silence didn’t last.
The man straightened his shoulders, choosing not to back down despite Reinhard’s glare being enough to make most people in the room shrink away.
“That is why I had both of them hold the Dragon Stone,” he replied, his voice rising slightly, full of forced conviction, “to convince everyone here that what I brought are genuine candidates. Do not tell me you doubt that the Dragon Stone is fabricated?”
That insinuation clearly aimed to flip the blame—as though questioning the candidates’ authenticity equated to questioning the Dragon Stone itself, a sacred symbol trusted by the entire kingdom for centuries.
The room plunged into a different kind of tension this time, many pairs of eyes alternating between Reinhard and the mustached man, waiting to see who would yield first in an argument now feeling far more personal than mere formality.
Yet those words themselves, once out of his mouth, seemed to hit the official as to how dangerous they were—accusing the holiness of the Dragon Stone amounted to questioning the Divine Dragon’s will itself, an offense punishable as treason.
His face paled instantly.
He stammered to pull back his words, but it was too late—the whole room had heard him clearly.
The official trembled.
He hurriedly backed away into the line of onlookers, not daring to utter another word to save his neck from the charge of treason.
Miklotov, the oldest representative of the Council of Elders, cleared his throat loudly to calm the situation.
His authoritative old voice echoed, breaking the tension.
“Please calm down, everyone. We are here to carry out the Divine Dragon’s will, not to hurl baseless accusations,” he said, his eyes sweeping the room with authority tested over decades of leading the council.
“The Dragon Stone has provided its answer clearly. Both candidates are legitimate.”
“Thank you, Reinhard,” she whispered softly, audible only to the man beside her, a small yet sincere smile gracing her face—simple gratitude toward someone who, once again, stood up to defend her unasked.
Reinhard didn’t answer with words, just a brief nod and a fleeting look conveying more than any long sentence could—and for Merope, that was more than enough.
…..
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