"Get out!"

The richly dressed woman shrieked at him.

He kept his head down, motionless, standing alone. He couldn’t speak—not even in his heart could he find a single reason to argue back.

He was this family’s bastard son. His mother had merely been a seamstress who bore him after an affair with the household’s master. Though the man had visited them often, three years ago he’d been sent to quell border wars—and never returned.

Just days ago, his sickly mother had also passed away. Now he was utterly alone.

—*Go to them, child. You cannot survive alone.*

Those were her final words.

So he’d come here, to the Alastor estate, clutching his father’s token.

No one doubted his bloodline. He looked too much like the man. And that was precisely why Lady Desirée raged—she couldn’t stomach her husband’s betrayal, nor this boy’s existence.

His half-siblings watched coldly. His arrival wasn’t just a scandal; it threatened their inheritance.

"Did you hear me?!" Desirée’s voice tore through the hall. "Get out! Back to wherever you crawled from!"

He bit his lip hard, tears streaming down his face.

*Go back? Where?*

To his mother’s old shop? His uncle had thrown him out yesterday, claiming it for his own family.

The streets? At his age, he’d be snatched by slavers or traffickers within days.

But it didn’t matter. Anywhere was better than here.

Wiping his tears, he lowered his head and walked toward the door.

*Once I step outside, I’ll never belong here again,* the boy thought.

"Wait."

A hand caught his wrist.

He turned to see a girl—three or four years older, her face pale but smiling gently.

"What’s your name?" she asked softly.

"Lupin..." His voice cracked.

"Your mother’s surname?"

He nodded.

She brushed his cheek lightly, as if confirming something.

"Then from today on, you’re Lupin Alastor."

Every face in the room shifted.

"Catelia!" Desirée’s shriek turned shrill. "Have you lost your mind?!"

"Mother," Catelia said without turning, "he’s my brother. Just like the others—Father’s child."

"He’s *not*! A whore’s bastard doesn’t deserve the Alastor name!"

"He looks like Father."

Catelia leaned close, inhaling near Lupin’s neck.

"Even his scent... it’s the same."

"Catelia! This isn’t the time for your whims!"

"No, Mother. *You’re* the one who needs to hear that." Catelia lifted Lupin’s bangs. "He’s innocent. *We* owe him care. We’ll raise him."

She handed a letter to Desirée.

"Father’s final letter mentions him. He anticipated your reaction. If he died in battle, he ordered this boy brought home."

"Catelia, you—!"

"Shutting Lupin out? If word spreads, the Alastor name will be ruined."

Servants had witnessed everything. Secrecy was impossible. Desirée’s choice was clear: be branded a bitter shrew, or play the gracious lady. She had no real option.

"Fine! Catelia, he’s *yours* now!"

"I’ll take responsibility."

"See that you do!"

Desirée stormed upstairs, furious.

The siblings exchanged uneasy glances.

"Catelia, what have you done?" a boy muttered.

"I’m protecting my brother. To me, Lupin is no different from you."

The boy left without reply.

Catelia wiped Lupin’s tears with her sleeve.

"Stop crying. Be strong—*men* are strong. Understand?"

He nodded weakly.

"...That letter? I forged it just now."

"Eh?"

"Heh. My handwriting’s almost identical to Father’s."

From that day, Lupin entered the Alastor household. Thanks to Catelia, the unwanted bastard received the same education as his siblings: history, literature, the family’s swordsmanship, even magic. His talent shone—especially in blades and spells. A true prodigy. Yet this only deepened their resentment.

Catelia had been frail since childhood, but still shouldered his care.

And Lupin? He adored her.

To him, Catelia wasn’t just a sister—she was his entire world.

Let the others glare. As long as *she* was there, it was enough.

Six years later, Lupin had grown tall and striking, his swordsmanship unmatched. The bastard son became the family’s pride.

He won the annual tournament, earning knighthood at a young age—Angora’s celebrated prodigy.

But he felt no joy. Not even a trace.

Because Catelia, who raised him, had just married at twenty-two.

In Angora, women married when duty called.

Desirée had arranged her union with a renowned knight-captain in the capital.

Lupin could do nothing. He was powerless—just like that day at the Alastor gates, reduced to tears. His heart ached; his soul screamed. But Catelia was his elder sister.

The night before her wedding, Catelia summoned him to her room. She fussed over him like a child—reminding him to eat well, to dress warmly when traveling. Soon she’d leave the Alastor home forever, becoming another man’s wife.

"Do you love him?" Lupin asked.

"What a question. He’s my husband."

She smiled.

Those words shattered him.

His hidden feelings—like a furnace drowned in the ocean—were doomed to fade.

Catelia had always seen him only as a brother. No matter how brilliant he became.

On her wedding day, Lupin left Angora. He needed solitude. Time to let his burning heart grow cold.

He trained relentlessly across foreign lands, seeking masters and mystics, hoping exhaustion would erase her.

But the sharper his sword grew, the clearer Catelia’s memory became.

When he practiced, he’d see her sitting quietly at the edge of the courtyard, watching.

The farther he roamed from Angora, the deeper the ache. After two years, he couldn’t bear it—he raced back to the capital like a madman.

*Even if we can’t be together... I must tell her how I feel.*

But in the capital, he heard the news:

Catelia was dying.

He knew of her illness—it was manageable with medicine. Why this sudden collapse?!

He rushed to her bedside, demanding answers. She only gazed at him tenderly, silent.

Later, he learned the truth.

Her husband.

Angora’s knight-captain. Even after she conceived, he’d kept mistresses. One drunken night, he beat her—causing a miscarriage, then a decline that left her bedridden.

Lupin’s soul ignited with rage.

No one harmed Catelia. Not even gods would be spared his blade.

He found the knight-captain outside the royal palace after a council meeting. Lupin calmly removed his glove and threw it at the man’s feet.

Yes—the crowd laughed. A young knight challenging Angora’s finest? But the laughter died the instant their blades clashed. Everyone froze, eyes wide with terror.

When they blinked back to sense, Lupin stood holding half a head. Brains and blood stained the stones.

One strike.

He carried Catelia away from Angora.

During his travels, he’d met Dragonfolk—their healing arts were legendary. He knew where they hid. They were Catelia’s last hope.

After a long journey, he brought her deep into the forest.

He begged the Dragonfolk to save her. He’d pay any price—his life, his soul—just to see her smile again.

But they refused.

Even when he knelt sobbing in the mud, they wouldn’t relent.

He stayed three days and nights. Catelia grew weaker.

*Take me home.*

Her hand brushed his cheek. Time seemed to rewind.

*Back to Angora. Bury me beside Father.*

She smiled faintly.

Lupin held her tight, voiceless with grief.

*My brother... let’s go home. I don’t want to stay here... It’s so cold...*

Her hand fell limp. When Lupin looked up, her eyes were closed forever.

...

Lupin sat on the palace wall, gazing at the twin moons. Eight years had passed, yet the memories burned fresh. That day, he’d sworn to exterminate every Dragonfolk. But after their strange ritual, they’d vanished—like smoke. Until now. In Albion. He wouldn’t miss this chance.

Footsteps sounded below.

Lupin dropped from the wall onto the grass.

"How goes it?"

"Nearly ready, Master Lupin," the young knight replied.

"Once Percy Pendragon dies, the minister can force the King to march." The tall knight added, "His policy toward Albion is far too soft."

"Is that so?"

"Albion swallowed Nellos already! If we wait, we’re next!"

"Pity the plan changed. Right, Jerry?"

"Yes, Master."

"What?! New orders from the minister?!"

The tall knight gasped—a sword erupted from his chest. Jerry’s blade.

"No. *Our* orders changed."