Chapter Nine: The Banquet

The battle ended with remarkable swiftness. The lumbering black-armored knight, trapped in the cramped space, was expertly entangled by Grant using a severed piece of reins from his warhorse. With his legs bound, the knight—built like a mountain—crashed heavily to the ground and could not rise again. What awaited him was the merciless fading of life.

Carlos brushed the mud from his face and, spotting their Corman on the roof, signaled to him. Corman took a single stride and leapt down, landing easily and steadily with bent knees. Carlos grasped the hand Corman offered and asked, “How are things outside?”

Corman wore a look that suggested, “Do you doubt me?” “They were merely a diversion,” he replied. “Once you were lured from your squad, they retreated, leaving behind a few sacrificial pawns. They vanished quickly into the twisting alleys.”

Carlos nodded, silent for a moment. “It seems someone in the city is not pleased with my arrival.”

Corman neither confirmed nor denied it. Soon, the apprentice knights’ search party appeared at the end of the passageway. Seeing Carlos and his companions, they hurried over and formed a protective circle around him.

This ambush was a severe test for the inexperienced apprentice knights. Dwarf Maclin sternly reprimanded them—not for their initial panic, which led to chaos and cost five lives and nearly ten injuries—but for a more fundamental failure.

“As sworn knights of the Stevenson family, pledged to loyalty and protection, you lost sight of the one you were meant to guard—your master, young Carlos—placing him in grave danger. This is a complete betrayal of the knightly virtues you are to uphold daily: guardianship and loyalty.”

Maclin, on the open grounds of the Swordmaster Port manor, angrily spat his rebuke into the faces of the apprentice knights. Carlos sat inside the hall, watching the training yard through the window, and felt a newfound confidence in this company forged by blood and ordeal.

The black-armored knights’ equipment was impressive—not something any common mercenary band could afford. Not only were the costs high, but such armor required the skill of master smiths to forge. Carlos gazed at the sword leaning against the table. The black cloth wrapped around it had slipped halfway, revealing the blade. The craftsmanship was superb: the scabbard shimmered bronze, adorned with intricate frost-flower filigree. Through the hollowed pattern, the blade gleamed like a silver star, sparkling with snowflake-shaped brilliance—a beautiful yet practical knight’s sword.

Carlos gathered the captured arms and equipment, intending to arm those apprentice knights who had distinguished themselves in combat. Truth be told, these black-armored knights fought well, but their skills as supply captains were even more remarkable. He planned to have the captured armor and weapons refurbished—recoated and recolored by artisans, for the black hue did not suit his taste.

It was not only the apprentice knights who sought reward—the three hunter brothers had performed admirably in the battle. After their journey to the Rodney Mountains with Anderson, their courage had grown, even if their abilities had not. Working together, they dispatched three archers of equal skill. When they handed over the archers’ equipment, their eyes fixed unblinkingly on the sets of black knight armor, faces alight with excitement and expectation.

Conrad, the portly hunter, stood awkwardly in the room where the spoils were collected, his dry lips twitching. Carlos had assigned him to guard the captured items. The black heavy cavalry armor captivated Conrad, stirring his spirit.

Attended by a servant of the manor, Carlos dressed formally and stepped onto the second-floor balcony. The nobles of Swordmaster Port were gathering for tonight’s banquet. As the territory of the Stevenson family, the city’s nobles were expected to pay their respects to the lord.

Officially, the lord was Duke Mori Stevenson. But with Mori likely fallen at the front, Carlos, his youngest son, was the de facto successor. Should Carlos fall victim to an assassin as well, all the local nobles would be eligible to compete for the lordship.

Carlos understood this significance. Still, he had no intention of attending the banquet as the new lord of Swordmaster Port. Until he received certain news about his father, Duke Mori, and his elder brother, Driet, he preferred to keep hope alive for a miracle.

The banquet began. After the opening courtesies, a small incident occurred. A handsome, somewhat disheveled middle-aged man appeared at the hall’s entrance, late to the event. For a local noble to arrive late to the first banquet hosted by the heir of the former lord was ill-advised.

Bayon was the head of the Seans family. His family, holders of a knighthood, was an old lineage in Swordmaster Port, with ancestors once elevated to the rank of count. Among the nobles present, such a pedigree was considered distinguished.

However, as Bayon entered, several nobles did not hesitate to mock him openly.

“The fool has arrived.”

“Ha! The one who, after the defeat at Blackstone Fortress, declared his ambition to seize the lordship of Swordmaster Port?”

“Yes, and to think he dares attend the banquet.”

“Hush! Rumor has it young Master Stevenson was ambushed by assassins upon entering the city—perhaps Bayon’s handiwork. Bold, indeed!”

“Hmph. Even if the Stevenson family falls, the Seans family won’t take their place.”

Amid the clinking of glasses and laughter, Bayon approached Carlos’s table and offered a respectful apology, “My lord, I am sorry for my tardiness.”

Carlos smiled unconcernedly, eyes narrowed as he corrected, “No matter, but I am not the lord—Swordmaster Port’s lord is my father, Mori Stevenson.”

Opposite them, a pair of deep blue eyes watched intently, as if oblivious to everything else.

Bayon was clearly surprised by Carlos’s reply, hesitating before forcing a dry laugh.

A portly, well-dressed middle-aged noble approached, raising his glass and laughing loudly with pointed intent, “Young Master Stevenson, this Bayon is no ordinary man.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow and asked, “Oh? What makes Bayon so remarkable?”

The portly noble raised his glass in a respectful toast, took a sip, and smacked his lips before turning to Augusta, now commander of the Steam Guard Legion, who sat quietly beside Carlos. “Lord Augusta, surely you know something of this?”

Feigning mystery, the portly noble was met with indifference. Augusta, a towering man, still bore a bandaged injury from today’s ambush, tapping his hand on the table without even raising his head.

The portly noble masked his embarrassment with a dry laugh.

Carlos noted his expression, then unexpectedly smiled, “Are you, sir, accusing Bayon of orchestrating today’s ambush against me?”

The portly noble’s wrinkles tightened as he stared at the young heir of Duke Stevenson, a strange and unexpected look flickering across his face.

Beside them, Bayon, who had remained silent, closed his eyes for a moment, his lashes forming a sharp arc at the edge.