Chapter Thirty-Eight: Comfort

Baron Mori turned around, his expression complex as he gazed at the son he regarded as the hope of the family. His eyes brimmed with both pride and shame. Ever since Carlos underwent the bloodline test at the age of seven, his path had been destined to be filled with thorns.

He watched as his once idle son gradually matured. Baron Mori felt a surge of unspeakable relief. He knew, on countless nights, this youngest son ceaselessly practiced the spiritual summoning technique of puppet magic. The pocket watch gifted to him, a domain artifact, paired with Baron Mori’s own, served as a mother-and-child set, allowing the baron to clearly sense how much Carlos sacrificed for the legacy of the Winter Moon bloodline and to master summoning arts.

Carlos was observant, and he clearly noticed the emotions in his father’s eyes, though he pretended not to. He curled his lips into a casual smile and said, “Charles is leaving town today to join the Hunter Squad. Even someone like him, who has never been taught combat and only knows to train his muscles and brute strength, yearns for the world outside. As the heir of the Stevenson family, I am especially happy for the opportunity to study in the Central Province, though I find it hard to part with Saltwell and you, Father.”

Mori nodded, “Carlos, I am glad you feel this way. As the offspring of pioneers, you are destined for an extraordinary life. And Dericht, as your elder brother, you’ve been back from the wilderness for quite some time—it's time to shed your laziness and help Carlos form a competent knight order. When the Stevenson family’s knight order returns to the Central Province, it must not disgrace the wisdom of our ancestors. That is your duty.”

Dericht was momentarily stunned, then solemnly struck his chest in agreement, his eyes resolute.

Carlos smiled, his expression meaningful. “I think my brother should go with me to the Central Province. The Sword Pavilion Academy there suits him well.”

Baron Mori was thoroughly surprised, for Sword Pavilion Academy was one of the three finest academies in the Central Province, yet it existed to train followers of the Sword Pavilion. Graduates became Black Hats, and nobles seldom deigned to study there.

True aristocrats sought positions in parliament and the church—those were the centers of power the nobility coveted. Thus, every year, admission to Sword Pavilion Academy was fiercely contested among the commoners.

A noble like Dericht, should he attend, would likely become the academy’s primary enemy, stirring endless turbulence.

Though baffled, Baron Mori did not immediately object. He asked in confusion, “Of course, if Dericht so wishes, whichever academy he applies to, once the purchase of the Xilin City mine is settled, I will support him.”

Dericht was even more delighted upon hearing this, casting a grateful look at Carlos.

Carlos merely smiled. Dericht’s fondness for the Sword Pavilion stemmed from his experiences in the wilderness.

Seventeen-year-old Dericht had lived alone in a world teeming with beasts and hunters for six years.

During the earliest—and harshest—days in the wilderness, he was accompanied by a Black Hat who hunted fugitives alone. That follower of the Sword Pavilion taught Dericht his first lessons in wilderness survival, becoming, in essence, his lifelong mentor.

Sadly, the revered Black Hat ultimately died in the wild, his body riddled with gunshot wounds, not beast’s claws.

This story Dericht shared only with Carlos; their father, Baron Mori, knew nothing of it.

Baron Mori looked at his harmonious, affectionate half-brothers, his already gentle gaze growing softer still.

Men are always like this—showing strength to the cold world, reserving tenderness for their children.

He placed his hand on the shoulders of Carlos and Dericht in turn, saying, “Compared to me—a useless noble who even lost the family’s ducal title—my sons will not disappoint the world.”

Carlos was about to speak softly, but Mori suddenly scowled and glared, “Does a father need comfort from you two rascals?”

Then, the silver-haired noble waved his hand with his usual authority, “Go on, now. I have affairs to attend to.”

Carlos and Dericht left the study, instructing the steward to fetch a bottle of fine brandy from the cellar. Grant had already prepared the carriage and waited in the front yard.

Carlos stood at the villa’s entrance, looking at the carriage, and asked his elder brother, “Why have the night patrols near our home increased lately?”

“Father fears those competing for the Xilin City mine might play tricks. When you leave, take extra patrollers. It’s a troubled time—better to be cautious.”

Carlos’s gaze sharpened; he nodded.

“Seems we must hasten the formation of the knight order, otherwise we’ll remain passive,” he said.

Dericht sighed, “We’ve always had qualified candidates for the knight order, but Father disbanded the old one and hasn’t rebuilt it. Letting such strength go unused—haven’t you wondered why?”

Carlos was momentarily taken aback; he had considered the matter before.

The most likely reason was that, after being demoted to this impoverished, remote place, Father had no need for a knight order—the territory was too small and barren.

Yet, it seemed there was more to it.

Carlos looked at Dericht in confusion. “What’s the real reason?”

Dericht gazed upward at the sky, dimmed by a thick layer of smog. The wild wind howled, and even at noon, the sun’s true visage was obscured.

He shook his head, uncertain, and met Carlos’s eyes. “I’m not entirely sure. It seems somehow tied to your mother. Father may have sworn, for your mother’s sake, never to rebuild the knight order for himself.”

Carlos furrowed his brows.

“My mother?”

He murmured, and deep in his mind surfaced the visage of a noble, gentle, and beautiful woman.

A name lay buried deep within his memory—Seviara Taylor.

His mother’s disappearance was a source of confusion and pain in his childhood. Now, after Dericht’s mention, Carlos felt that time truly could intensify longing.

That great maternal figure was fading from his mind.

The cause of all this was Father Mori’s persistent silence—never uttering a word to Carlos about his mother.

In time, it was forgotten.

Carlos had matured greatly; he bore no resentment toward Baron Mori for this, understanding that for a man who endured demotion from duke to baron and never fell, maintaining silence must conceal unspeakable sorrows.

If the knight order was connected to this matter—

Carlos suddenly felt an even greater urgency to build a powerful knight order.