Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Pioneer

At the entrance to the Stevenson family villa, three or four lovely maids tending to the front yard greeted their young master with smiles. Carlos alighted from the carriage and immediately noticed that the number of night watchmen at the gate had increased significantly. Their faces no longer bore the usual slack expressions; instead, several men with long rifles stood atop the high towers, their eyes scanning the surroundings with vigilance.

Sensing something was amiss, Carlos kept silent and followed the two maids into the house. He walked with his head lowered, completely unaware that the maids ahead of him had suddenly come to a halt. When he finally raised his head in confusion, he was met by an elegant, silver-haired nobleman who stood directly before him, wielding a feather duster. Without warning, the man struck Carlos sharply on the backside.

“Ow!” Carlos cried out, clutching his behind and leaping into the air with a howl reminiscent of a hungry wolf, his face contorted in astonishment, his mouth agape in an oval.

Mory Stevenson said coldly, “You dare meddle in the affairs of other races, even going so far as to recruit a dismissed, untrustworthy Sword Hall follower? Just how capable do you think you are to command a five-star swordsman?”

Carlos pressed his hand to his smarting backside, his lips twitching. “It’s just that we’re so short-handed. Sending the elves and beastfolk away wasn’t only to help Master Du Buyi—I also wanted to seize the chance to gather some rare herbs in the Rodney Mountains.”

Mory appeared behind his son like a wraith. Carlos quickly retreated two steps, only relaxing when he saw that his father was no longer brandishing the feather duster.

Mory circled his son slowly, eyeing him with suspicion. “I hear you’ve promised the title of apprentice knight to two people. Are you planning to rebuild the Order of Knights?”

Carlos, long accustomed to his father’s uncanny intelligence, answered candidly, “Why not? If we leave so many knighthood titles unused, chaos is bound to follow in the town, is it not?”

“Hmph! What do you know?” Mory shot his son a sideways glance, huffed, and strode off toward the inner rooms.

Carlos watched his father’s retreating figure through clenched teeth. This, he thought, was nothing but an act of personal vendetta.

Hissing, he reached back to rub his sore backside fiercely, glaring at a nearby maid—clearly new and still shaken by the commotion between master and young master. “Go fetch some ointment for wounds,” he ordered. “Apply it for me.”

From the second-floor balcony, Dericht suddenly whistled and teased, “Oh my, has your rear blossomed? Shall I help you with the ointment, little brother?”

“Get lost!” Carlos shouted, covering his face and fleeing into the guest room off the main hall.

When lunch was ready, Carlos appeared at the dining room door, walking stiffly, trailed by a blushing maid. He sat down gingerly, using only one side, while Dericht, full of sympathy, helped him to a slice of steak, his eyes darting from Carlos’s backside to the maid’s flushed cheeks.

Seated at the head of the table, Mory ate unhurriedly. Dericht dared not tease aloud, but cast his brother a meaningful smile. Mory ate little and soon set down his knife and fork. Glancing at Carlos, who was ladling soup, he remarked, “You truly are a charitable nobleman. I wonder if that elf and beastman will remember your kindness.”

Carlos stiffened slightly and lowered his head. “That doesn’t matter,” he replied.

After the sumptuous meal, as the brothers left the table, a butler quietly informed them that Mory awaited them in his study to deal with official matters, and several maids entered to clear the table. Carlos nodded. Dericht wiped his mouth with a napkin and grinned slyly. “Perhaps Father is arranging a marriage for you. Our family has always been somewhat lacking in heirs.”

Carlos shot him a glare and ignored his older brother’s jest.

In the study, Mory slowly lifted his head from the desk, the matter of the Thinwood City mine purchase weighing heavily on him. Forcing a smile, he said, “Carlos, you’ll be thirteen this year. The family has been urging me constantly. Ever since they learned the concentration of your bloodline, those old men from the central provinces have been sending messengers every half year, urging you to return and prepare for the inheritance ceremony. My drawer is nearly overflowing with their letters.”

Here, “the family” did not refer to the Stevenson branch itself, but rather to the principal house above them—the ancient Four Seasons Old Gods family, the House of the Winter Moon.

Carlos hesitated in silence. He knew that the House of the Winter Moon, as an ancient lineage of the Four Seasons Old Gods, was an enormous family network, and the Stevensons were but a cadet branch. How vast the main line of the Winter Moon truly was, Carlos could scarcely imagine.

He only knew that even when his father’s generation held the title of hereditary duke of the empire, they had not been incorporated into the main family’s genealogical records. Only those with a sufficiently high concentration of the Old God’s blood were truly recognized by the Winter Moon—a unique trait that preserved their ancient heritage.

Dericht beamed at their father. “Father, isn’t the ceremony only permitted at fifteen? Why are those people in the city in such a hurry?”

Mory shot him a glare. “It takes months to reach the central provinces from here. One must make preparations early.”

Carlos suddenly looked up. “Aren’t there steam airships?”

Baron Mory Stevenson laid down his quill, retrieved a sheet of family-crested stationery from the drawer, and handed it across the desk, his brow furrowed.

“East Cyprus is currently at war with the Black Iron Dwarven clans on the border. All government airships have been dispatched to the front lines. Civilian flights departing from Cyprus have been suspended because of the conflict.”

Carlos was taken aback. “When did this happen?”

Mory sighed, his aged face briefly shadowed with sorrow. Rising, he approached an ancient suit of armor—its patterns archaic, its inscriptions profound, its aura cold and heavy with the weight of history, making the baron feel almost suffocated.

This armor, recorded in the history of the Luminous Empire, was left by the Stevenson family’s founder. It served as a perpetual reminder to each successor that the Stevenson bloodline was that of the empire’s pioneering heroes.

Pioneers—what a legendary title. As their successor, Baron Mory felt a pang of melancholy. But he soon rallied, heartened by the thought that he had fathered a son with high-purity Winter Moon blood, a child coveted even by those venerable elders of the central provinces.

Baron Mory looked solemnly at Carlos. “You needn’t worry about anything else. After the snows end this winter, you must set out for the central provinces. If you are truly interested in the knighthood, then use your will to arm a new knightly order—let your brother Dericht assist you.”