How did Aria end up here? Wasn’t she in the north? And when did she return to Albion?

Lupin seemed startled. After all, a young woman had just blocked his blade.

“Who are you?”

The ancient black sword in Aria’s hand radiated an unnerving chill. Like her stern face, it carried an aura that kept others at bay.

Holy Templar swords were forged from special steel, blessed and preserved by the Church for generations. Yet Aria’s antique blade exuded something strange—something that seemed to nullify the Church’s holy artifacts.

She didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze lingered on Boka before she spoke: “You’ve already won.”

Her terse words were a clear warning to Lupin: the outcome was decided. There was no need to kill, especially not here, in this theater full of spectators.

“This is my affair. None of your concern.”

“Him.” Aria hesitated. “My friend.”

Boka felt a ripple in his chest. Aria was claiming him as her friend to protect him—staking her ground. Anyone who harmed Boka would have to go through her first.

“I don’t care who you are,” Lupin retorted, unmoved. “You’ve broken the knights’ code. Be prepared for the consequences.”

He swung his steel sword at Boka again. *Clang!* Aria blocked it once more.

The force was immense—Lupin knew that well. But he hadn’t expected her to parry it one-handed, her stance unwavering.

Aisha finally exhaled. The magic surging within her settled and faded. Yet the theater remained icy from her earlier spell; thin frost coated damp surfaces. Thankfully, the crowd’s excitement had drowned out her ancient chants. But why was this woman defending Boka so fiercely?

Percy gasped for air, then trembled anew at Aria’s appearance. Anything tied to her filled him with inexplicable dread.

“Ian! Ian! Is Sister Aria going to kill Master too?! What do we do?! What do we do?!”

The knight captain had no patience for Percy now. His nerves were taut, like others who knew the truth: they feared the last descendant of the Agnes Family.

“Step aside,” Lupin growled lowly, “or you die.”

“Refused.”

Though beautiful, she was no ordinary woman—and clad in knight’s armor. Lupin held nothing back.

He gathered his strength and slashed at Aria.

Boka saw only a flash of cold steel. Their blades clashed in a dizzying flurry, the ringing filling his ears.

Lupin seized a split-second opening and struck for Aria’s shoulder. She raised her left hand, pivoted off his force, and in the same motion, lunged for his chest.

*Clang!*

The metallic shriek echoed. Lupin, gripping his sword with both hands, staggered back several feet.

The theater erupted in wild cheers. No one expected the Agnes Family’s young mistress to be such a swordmaster—especially against Angora’s strongest knight!

Lupin’s shock hardened into fury.

Boka’s neck stung. He touched it—blood soaked his fingers. Lupin’s blade must have grazed his skin earlier.

Aria noticed too. After a pause, she stepped forward and pressed her silk handkerchief to the wound.

The Agnes heiress remained silent, but the gesture froze Boka completely.

*This handkerchief must be poisoned...* he thought.

“Ian! Ian!” Percy yanked his sleeve. “Sister Aria cut Master’s neck! He’s dying! We’re doomed!”

“Shut up.”

Mia’s fingers dug into Percy’s cheeks before he could react.

“Ow! Ow! Let go, ugly!”

Her brother was unbearable. Like the silent King Gill, she only wanted to watch. *Why would Aria go this far for him?*

“Have you accepted it?” Lupin frowned. Her voice surprised him—she’d spoken first since stepping in.

“The price of your life.” She turned, calm but icy.

Those who knew Aria understood: silence was her nature. Yet even with her expression unchanged, Boka felt her rage sharper than anyone.

Lupin froze. Slowly, he grasped her meaning. This young woman had just declared death upon a Holy Templar.

Their brief clash proved her skill—delicate wrists wielding explosive strength. But Lupin hadn’t even used half his power.

“Do you know who you’re challenging?”

Aria tilted her head slightly.

“Carcasses.” She replied calmly.

“...What?”

Even Albion’s Thirteen Knight Captains respected Lupin. Aria’s words weren’t arrogance—they were pure insult.

*Snap!*

She tore off her silver gauntlet and threw it at Lupin’s feet.

“Pick it up.”

Gasps swept the theater. Whispers exploded. Aria had just thrown a knight’s gauntlet at Angora’s envoy.

“Oh?” Lupin smirked. “You’ve given me legal grounds to kill you.”

Ian felt his pores prickle. Aria had issued a duel to Angora’s envoy.

This wasn’t about them anymore—it was between kingdoms.

Lupin raised his Holy Templar sword, stepping deeper onto the stage.

“I’ll carve that arrogance off your face.”

He knelt on one knee to retrieve the silver gauntlet. Before all these eyes—as Angora’s envoy, as a Holy Templar—he would wash away his shame in this woman’s blood.

Suddenly, figures dropped from the upper seats onto the stage.

Lupin looked up. Seven knights stood there—including Ian. Colorful emblems adorned their shoulders: the highest honor granted to Albion’s elite.

All seven Knight Captains had entered the fray.

Ian strode straight to Alastor and snatched up Aria’s gauntlet before he could.

“What is this?” Lupin demanded. “Ian.”

“A misunderstanding,” Ian said smoothly. “Consider it part of the show, Alastor. Let it end here.”

“You think it’s that simple?” Lupin sneered. “She insulted Angora’s envoy!”

Ian clapped his shoulder. “Alastor, show some chivalry. She’s Miss Aria of the Agnes Family.”

“...Her?”

Lupin’s gaze flicked back to Aria. Her grandfather was Duke Clar—the minister who’d triggered the Seventh Great War, dooming Nellos. His influence in Albion rivaled only King Gill’s.

If he picked up that gauntlet and killed her... this wouldn’t be about knightly honor anymore. By blood, Aria was nearly royalty. Without Ian’s intervention, his actions today might shatter the fragile peace between kingdoms.

“Miss Aria,” Ian said, “whenever you wish to duel me, I’ll welcome it.”

Aria hesitated.

“Hmm.”

She nodded at last, sheathing her black sword.

Ian had crossed paths with her before. His intervention surely carried King Gill’s silent command.

“How are you?” she asked. “Unharmed?”

“Huh?” Boka blinked. “You’re talking to me?”

“Mm.”

“I-I’m fine,” he stammered. “Just... a little sore.”

He still feared her. Last time he’d pruned her garden, her icy glare had frozen his blood. Now, her concern made him deeply uneasy.

“I quit.”

“What?”

“The gardener position.”

“Oh... that. Right.”

*Why not say it all at once?* Boka’s heart pounded. Had she found out about his botched gardening?

“Why?” she asked.

“Xinxi’s shop is busy. I need to help her.”

“Xinxi? A woman?” She tilted her head.

“Y-yes.”

“Who is she?”

“X-Xinxi! I just said!”

...

An awkward silence stretched between them.

Boka’s stomach twisted violently. Darkness blurred his vision. He clutched his abdomen, doubled over, and vomited uncontrollably.

His guts felt knotted, writhing in agony. He collapsed to the floor.

*Of course!* Boka realized. *She really poisoned the handkerchief...*

His vision dimmed. Consciousness slipped away.

In the audience, Aisha felt the same sickness—but her magic had dulled it.

Her mind raced faster than Boka’s.

*Ah. That spoiled meat in Xinxi’s soup this morning...*