The atmosphere inside the grand hall of Gimle Palace suddenly plunged into a solemn silence.
The ethereal ice orchestra music that had previously played softly gradually faded, replaced by the heavy echoes of marching steps from the palace honor guards standing tall at every white marble pillar.
Upon his white lion throne, King Gyo stood up with his majestic, gracefully trailing robes.
An authoritative smile was etched across the ruler of the Dukedom’s face, though a sharp political calculation lay hidden behind his gaze.
He raised his right hand, signaling all the guests to focus their attention.
However, the gazes of the high-ranking nobles present were not solely fixed on the king upon his throne.
Their attention was fractured, drawn toward the rows of delegates from the great factions of the outside world standing in the honorary corners creating a magnetic field of psychological tension that transformed this birthday celebration into a power-play stage fraught with hidden agendas.
From the eastern side, near the window—where trade was controlled by the wealth faction—the representative of the House of Crestwood stepped forward with a subtle, inscrutable smirk.
Representing his father, a ten-year-old eldest son named Cassian Crestwood was present, sporting a slim posture and wearing a silk robe woven with gold threads that shimmered under the ice crystal illumination.
His slanted eyes narrowed sharply like a venomous snake eyeing its prey, radiating sly intelligence and limitless profit calculation.
Behind him stood two massively built guards with savage auras ready to crush anyone, along with a fifteen-year-old young maid with an exceptionally pretty face carrying a silver-wrapped souvenir box—a girl whose every movement was strictly monitored as the keeper of the young master’s information secrets.
To Crestwood, political alliances were not about loyalty, but rather a trade commodity they would only side with the faction promising the greatest financial reward.
Shifting toward the western faction’s ranks, which directly bordered the barbarian lands of Skadi, the atmosphere abruptly grew much heavier with the scent of bloodshed and burning hostility.
The House of Systrim sent their eighteen-year-old son.
The towering, solidly built youth, reaching a height of 1.9 meters, stood like a pillar of steel coral, wearing a formal party gown that looked rigid and completely mismatched with his muscular frame.
He was Porelius Systrim, the eldest son of the Western Duke.
Behind him, three elite frontline guards—western border war veterans accustomed to tearing through Skadi’s troop formations stood tall with their hands constantly resting on the hilts of their massive broadswords.
There was no sly smirk on the Systrim youth’s face there was only the cold gaze of a hardline soldier looking down upon the vile intrigues of the palace nobles.
Unlike the opportunistic Crestwood faction or the power-hungry Vallière faction, the young Systrim cast a brief glance toward the corner of the room where the Silver Family stood.
Their gazes implied a strong solidarity.
As fellow guardians of the northern and western borderlines, the House of Systrim and the Silver Family were bound in a close alliance of friendship.
They both harbored a deep-seated hatred toward the Vallière faction—especially after Vallière’s foul intrigues were proven to have systematically eliminated and destroyed two previous ducal families in order to monopolize the Dukedom’s throne.
The western faction’s presence here was not to bless tonight’s vile engagement, but to serve as a reminder bastion that the blood of knights would not stand idly by if the Vallière faction tried any dirty tricks again.
Not far from the corner of those faction envoys, the attention of the palace nobles was once again sucked toward the row of representatives from the Baronia Kingdom.
Unlike the border factions reeking of blood or the Crestwood faction radiating an aura of deceit, the Baronia representatives exuded an aura of prosperity and warmth that contrasted sharply with Gimle’s freezing winter.
Thanks to their geographical location surrounded by warm volcanic valleys, the kingdom had become the center for producing exotic spices, fire gems, and the finest forged steel on the continent.
Representing that prosperity, a ten-year-old crown princess named Princess Zlata Baronia was present. New chapters come out on g.com first.
The young noble girl with golden-blond hair and bright blue eyes walked gracefully clad in a thick maroon silk gown layered with warm Baronia wool embroidery, radiating the charm of a smart and confident young aristocrat.
The presence of the little princess amidst this whirlpool of adult political intrigue did not look fragile in the least.
Surrounding her, ten elite Baronia soldiers clad in Adamantine plate armor engraved with volcanic fire-tongue patterns marched neatly to form a perfect defensive formation.
Those sturdy veteran guards held magical spears with cores channeling surging volcanic heat energy, their gazes fiercely alert with high discipline, ensuring not a single person or malicious threat dared approach the princess within the perilous hall.
However, the tension in the hall reached its peak when the attention of the guests was pulled toward a corner of the room occupied by the delegation from the free city of the Yedikule Republic.
Representing the most feared criminal cartel dynasty, Tsar Kosovo—the son of Grand Bey Tarik, ruler of the Free City of the Yedikule Republic—stroked forward with an arrogant stride that disregarded palace rules.
The twenty-year-old youth from the Kosovo family was the living definition of a street-fighting monster; his body was covered in brutal slash scars, his wild gaze drenched in blood, and his killing instinct radiated densely with every breath he took.
He wore no noble silk robes, but rather a dark leather coat lined with iron chains typical of a black market ruler.
Behind Tsar walked three elite giant-bodied guards with sharply curved weapons and blank, fearless eyes—the finest mercenaries bought with piles of Yedikule blood coins.
Tsar Kosovo’s presence in this sacred royal hall delivered the clear message that the boundary between honorable nobles and the underground criminal syndicate had now completely collapsed.
Upon the throne, King Gyo narrowed his eyes, realizing the presence of these contradictory predatory factions, while in the corner of the room, Edward, Sir Raymond, and Aiden prepared themselves to face the storm of intrigue ready to erupt at any moment.
Not long after the tension subsided following the arrival of the external faction envoys, the ice-layered double doors at the far end of the main hall creaked open once again—not with the heavy steps of rough soldiers, but accompanied by a cold gust of wind carrying the scent of blood and a chest-crushing oppressive aura.
The House of Vallière—the most ambitious and dangerous faction in the heart of the Dukedom Kingdom—entered the room with triumphant strides.
At the forefront walked Julian von Vallière, the mastermind behind all the palace’s foul intrigues, flashing a subtle, deadly smirk beneath his luxurious silver-white cloak.
On Julian’s left stood a monstrous creature that shattered common sense—a demi-human with a muscular physique towering twice the size of a normal human.
Unlike general demi-humans in the southern region whose physical forms still closely resembled humans—adorned only with a pair of animal ears and an elegant tail, or those resembling humans but capable of shifting fully into beast forms—this creature was a brutal genetic aberration.
It was born from a forced, vile mating between a ferocious tiger beast from the Southern Continent and a human slave, producing a hybrid form far closer to a wild monster than a human.
Its body was covered in whip scars and dense muscle layered with rough white fur, its sharp fangs protruding from a low-growling jaw, and its glowing yellow eyes radiated a killer instinct devoid of reason.
Meanwhile, on Julian’s right stood a mysterious man who was a third-generation demigod descendant named Greeg, bearing magical burn scars across one of his eyes.
The arrival of the House of Vallière not only turned the hall’s atmosphere freezing cold but instantly sparked low murmurs among the external faction delegates.
Each faction leader, with their predatory instincts, instantly gauged the threat brought by Julian and the monster guard at his left side.
At the eastern corner, Cassian Crestwood narrowed his snake-like eyes, staring sharply at the snow-tiger hybrid standing beside Julian.
With a calculating whisper, he glanced at the massive, fierce-looking guard behind him.
”Hey…
tell me, if you had to fight that white-furred monster alone, what are your chances of winning?” Cassian asked without shifting his gaze.
The muscular, menacing-looking guard swallowed hard, the muscles in his neck tightening.
“If alone, Young Master…? I wouldn’t be able to last three strikes. The pure killing instinct of that creature is beyond the level of an ordinary soldier. That is a brainless killing machine.” The subtle smirk on Cassian’s face instantly vanished; in his mind, Vallière’s political bargaining power had just leaped far above his estimations.
Shifting to the western corner, Porelius Systrim and his three elite frontline guards clenched their fists until their knuckles cracked.
Those war veterans instantly placed their hands on the hilts of their massive broadswords, standing on full alert.
Meanwhile, in the corner where the Silver Family stood, the atmosphere suddenly tightened.
Sir Raymond, who had just been neutralized from the Curse Ritual Magic, was slightly startled, his eyes widening sharply as he observed the man on Julian’s right—the third-generation demigod descendant named Greeg, whose one eye was destroyed by magical burn scars.
Sir Raymond’s veteran instincts knew full well how dangerous the destructive aura radiating from Greeg was, far surpassing even the threat level of the tiger hybrid monster.
Beside Duchess Freya, Edward stood tall with the gallant and flawless posture of a knight.
His posture radiated the dignity of a resilient military noble family leader.
Even so, traces of tension were clearly visible on his face, and his eye sockets narrowed sharply as he recalled past tragedies involving previous ducal families at the hands of the Vallière faction.
Edward’s gaze never left the figure of Julian von Vallière.
Behind Aiden’s small body standing calmly near her, the toddler recorded every detail of the energy, positioning, and potential threat within the hall as if reading the movement patterns of a boss in a highest-difficulty game.
However, a vastly different reaction was shown by the factions in the other corners.
In the Baronia Kingdom camp, the ten-year-old little princess, Princess Zlata, stood calmly without a shred of fear on her face.
The ten elite Adamantine plate-armored guards surrounding her maintained a stable formation, channeling a calming wave of spiritual fire techniques—showing that Baronia’s prosperity and steel discipline were not easily shaken merely by a monster’s bluff.
Even a small, grating, raspy chuckle broke the silence from the delegation of the Yedikule Republic.
Tsar Kosovo—the savage, cold-blooded youth who inherited the throne of the underground cartel—was completely unfazed by the killer aura emitted by the Vallière camp.
He snorted dismissively with a wide smirk, revealing his sharp teeth.
To Tsar, who was raised atop piles of corpses and the dirtiest street-fighting arenas of the eastern border, the giant white-furred beast did not look like a grim reaper at all.
In his eyes, the white-furred creature twice the height of a normal human was merely a breathing training punching bag.
Crossing his arms within his dark leather coat that jingled from wrapped iron chains, Tsar leaned toward one of the massive elite guards behind him.
His voice whispered low, yet filled with arrogant and cruel confidence.
”Hey…
look at that thick white fur,”
Tsar’s smirk widened, his wild eyes flashing with full challenge.
“That stupid beast from the southern lands thinks he’s king of the jungle just because of his size. If I stepped into the middle of that marble floor right now, I could crush his ribs and make that creature bow at my feet in just five to seven solid blows. No more.”
The giant guard behind him only nodded rigidly and expressionlessly, accustomed to the young master’s madness.
In the Yedikule underworld, Tsar was indeed famous as a wild street-fighting monster who never knew the word retreat—a reckless and dangerous anomaly now standing freely among the sacred nobles of the Dukedom without a shred of respect.
The presence of factions with such contrasting reactions—ranging from Crestwood’s cunning calculations, Systrim and the Silver Family’s military alertness, Princess Baronia’s elegant calmness, to Tsar Kosovo’s insane arrogance—transformed the main hall of Gimle Palace into a boiling cauldron ready to overflow at any moment.
And amidst that vortex of predators, the foul engagement ritual involving poor Princess Rebecca was officially locked within the deadly grip of the House of Vallière.