Chapter 10
In his youth, Kite had been nothing more than a doll to his mother, handled and shaped according to her whims. Sarayen had given birth to him with a singular, consuming obsession: he would be Emperor. To secure his path, she dragged him from one corner of the high court to another, desperate to catch the eye of anyone with influence. Kite’s own desires were never part of the equation. Yet, until he grew old enough to understand the weight of her ambition, he had loved her blindly. She was, after all, his mother.
He had done everything in his power to earn Sarayen’s favor. By the time he realized the sickness of it all, it was already too late. He had already incurred the deep, venomous hatred of his eldest brother and the first heir to the throne, Carly.
When Sarayen finally succumbed to illness, she left Kite entirely exposed. Alone and unprotected, he became the primary target of Carly’s cruelty. While Kite was still a mere boy, his brother banished him to the brutal fringes of the empire, forcing him to face savage barbarians and ravenous monsters. Not a single day passed where his life wasn’t dangling by a thread. There, on the blood-soaked borders, he fought a solitary war for survival—until, by a stroke of fortune, he crossed paths with Seren.
For years, Kite knew only the rhythm of the battlefield. The endless seasons of slaughter left him with chronic insomnia and a deep-seated distrust of humanity, but they also forged him into a warrior who accumulated undeniable, staggering military achievements.
No one had imagined the small, fragile prince would survive, let alone conquer. No one knew that a prince pushed to the brink of death possessed an transcendent, almost terrifying genius for the sword.
Carly did everything in his power to bury Kite’s victories beneath a mountain of censorship, but truth is a stubborn thing. The Empire was a nation built on military might, and before long, the martial officers began to look upon Kite with growing admiration.
When Kite first noticed the shift in allegiance, his immediate reaction was exhaustion. He had no desire to build a political faction, nor did he want to stoke Carly’s paranoia further. Back then, Carly had seemed like an insurmountable mountain—a man who could order his execution at a moment’s notice.
But I was wrong about him, Kite thought.
Carly may have been born first, but he was a fundamentally weak man. It was that very weakness that made him hyper-vigilant, unable to trust even his own flesh and blood. Fearful that his young son, Leonhardt, would one day usurp his throne, Carly had spread vile rumors about the boy and locked him away.
Seeing his brother’s cowardice laid bare, a realization struck Kite: Why should I fear a man like that?
From that moment on, Kite began to change. He aggressively gathered allies, consolidated his power, and expanded his influence. Yet, just as he was poised to strike the final blow against his brother, fate intervened. Carly died.
It was an absurdly mundane death—a fall from his horse during a routine hunt. Naturally, the court refused to believe it. The kingdom whispered that Kite, blinded by greed for the throne, had murdered his own brother. Everyone braced for his triumphant march into the capital to seize the crown.
Instead, Kite stayed his hand.
“I have no desire for that seat,” he had muttered.
The memory of those who had debased themselves, tearing at each other like rabid dogs for the throne, still left a bitter taste in his mouth. Rather than taking the crown, Kite pulled his imprisoned nephew, Leonhardt, from the dark and placed him upon the throne, stepping back into the shadows to rule as the boy’s guardian.
Since then, he had played the part the world expected of him. To ensure people believed he was entirely unsuited for the throne, he occasionally used an excessive, brutal hand to settle matters.
But violence wasn’t his only weapon. His mother had blessed him with striking, ethereal features—and it would be a waste not to use them.
Kite turned his gaze toward the maid, letting a heavy, sorrowful look wash over his face.
Instantly, the maid stopped. Her frantic backwards retreat—reminiscent of a terrified squirrel—came to a sudden halt.
Beauty, Kite noted with inward amusement, is a universal currency.
Are you kidding me?
Evelyn was discovering a side of herself she never knew existed. Apparently, she was completely powerless against a beautiful face looking vulnerable. She knew exactly who this man was, and she knew the horrific rumors detailing what he was capable of, yet her retreating legs locked in place.
How could a person even look like that? He possessed a flawlessly sculpted brow, eyes deep and clear as alpine lakes, a perfectly straight nose, and lips flushed with a soft crimson.
“……I’m hungry,” he murmured, his voice laced with a faint, dejected pout.
Evelyn’s heart gave a violent thump. Good heavens, a masterpiece of a man like that shouldn’t have to go hungry! Her rational mind screamed at her to snap out of it, but her traitorous heart refused to listen. Slowly, almost magnetically, she began to edge forward.
“You… you won’t strike me, will you?” she asked tentatively.
“I don’t strike the weak,” Kite replied softly.
Evelyn’s mind flickered. By Swordmaster standards, ninety-nine percent of the population is ‘weak.’ A sudden memory flashed in her mind—the rumor that he had casually snapped the legs of a young duke.
“To be precise,” Kite amended, as if reading her thoughts, “I do not lay a hand on anyone who hasn’t been trained in the arts of combat.”
Relieved by the clarification, Evelyn took a few more steps forward. “You truly mean no harm?”
“I swear it.” Kite offered a warm, gentle smile, radiating absolute sincerity.
Evelyn approached him like a mouse lured by cheese sitting square in the middle of a trap. Finally, she stood right beside the tray.
In a flash of movement too fast for the eye to follow, Kite’s hand shot out, snagging the fabric of Evelyn’s clothes and pulling her sharply toward him. As her balance broke and her body pitched forward, instinct overrode panic. In one fluid motion, Evelyn drew a concealed dagger from her skirts, cleanly sliced through the gripped fabric of her uniform, and executed a flawless tactical roll across the floor to re-establish her distance.
When her mind caught up to her body, she was standing firmly by the doorway once again.
“A maid, you said?” Kite let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, his eyes locked on her.
“I am a maid,” Evelyn insisted, smoothing down her ruined skirts.
“And maids move like that where you’re from?”
“My grandfather taught me a bit of self-defense.”
“You call that self-defense?” Kite’s brow twitched. She had just executed a maneuver that would take a seasoned knight years of grueling drills to perfect. He wasn’t buying it for a second.
“It is self-defense,” Evelyn said, doubling down. “My grandfather always lamented that with this meager skill level, I wouldn’t even be able to beat a common street thug.”
“What kind of neighborhood did you grow up in?”
“Far out on the borders,” Evelyn answered honestly.
Kite merely stared at her, utterly unconvinced.
To evade the strike of a Swordmaster and claim she couldn’t even handle a common thug—it was absurd. Kite found himself deeply curious about this maid’s grandfather. What kind of monster raised a granddaughter to move like a shadow assassin?
“There are thugs of that caliber on the borders? If they’re that strong, they’re wasting their talents in petty crime,” Kite scoffed. He glanced at the tray. “Well, it seems you won’t be assisting me with my meal after all.”
The maid’s voice no longer trembled. The sudden shift to cold composure sent a faint, intriguing chill down Kite’s spine.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Mary,” she replied smoothly.
“That’s a dog’s name.”
It was a glaringly obvious alias, but it was clear the maid had no intention of handing over her real identity. Then again, considering they had successfully abducted a Grand Duke of the Empire, caution was to be expected.
The maid offered a polite, shallow bow, pulled the door shut, and vanished into the corridor. Kite was left alone with the food.
He picked up the goblet and took a small, cautious sip. As a Swordmaster whose physical body had achieved the absolute peak of human evolution, he possessed a natural immunity to most toxins. Combined with the rigorous poison-resistance training of his youth, he felt secure enough to test the drink.
“Well, look at that,” he muttered. “It’s actually good.”
There was no trace of poison or sedatives. In fact, it was exceptionally well-made—cool, sweet, with a sophisticated hint of bitterness that perfectly suited his palate.
“What on earth did they put in this?”
He moved on to the stew. Though it had gone lukewarm, the meat was beautifully tender and slow-cooked to perfection. Torn and dipped with the fresh bread, it was delicious. At the very least, he could rule out starvation as their method of execution.
Having finished his meal, Kite took a more detailed look around his surroundings.
How bizarre.
For a cell designed to contain a Swordmaster, the ambiance was entirely wrong. The iron bed frame was bolted heavily into the floorboards to prevent it from being used as a weapon—a detail perfectly suited for a dungeon. But everything else contradicted it.
The mattress and linens resting atop the iron frame were plush, pristine, and incredibly soft to the touch. The color palette was a warm, inviting pastel yellow, trimmed with delicate lace. The pillows were equally luxurious. A short distance away stood a bookshelf lined with dozens of novels, clearly intended to keep him entertained during a prolonged stay. Even the attached washroom, though cramped, was meticulously clean and stocked with high-grade scented soaps and various amenities.
Leaning back, Kite began to wonder if the motive behind this kidnapping was entirely different from what he had initially assumed.
Meanwhile, across the city, Seren stared grimly at the clock ticking on the wall.
Kite had stated quite clearly that he was going to dismantle an information broker’s nest, but half a day had passed with no word. Sensing danger, Seren had quietly sent scouts to investigate the area, but they had returned empty-handed. There wasn’t a single trace left behind.
“Aren’t you worrying a bit too much, Vice-Commander?” Alex asked, leaning against a pillar.
Lessen shot him a sharp, venomous glare. “Lord Kite has a continent’s worth of enemies. It is entirely reasonable for the Vice-Commander to be concerned.”
“Sure, but is there anyone out there actually stronger than Lord Kite?” Alex countered, shrugging.
“There are two other Swordmasters alive in the world,” Lessen snapped.
“Yeah, and one is a retired old man with one foot in the grave, and the other has never beaten Lord Kite in a duel.”
“Your capacity for critical thought is profoundly shallow,” Lessen groaned, rubbing his temples.
Alex bristled, his temper flaring. “Hey! I’m just stating facts!”
“You’re stating half-truths!”
As the two knights began to snarl and close the distance between each other, Seren’s patience finally snapped. She brought her open palm down on the wooden table with a deafening CRACK.
