The white stone castle complex stood atop a slightly elevated plateau. As far as the eye could see, the land stretched flat in every direction—a vast plain. This was Yilisong, capital of the Holy Varnishel Empire (in the Empire’s ancient tongue: *Land Blessed by Gods*).

A lone rider galloped up the gentle southwestern slope, hooves clattering against the stone-paved road. Heads occasionally peeked out from houses lining the route.

The knight wore light armor beneath a surcoat, a banner slotted into a holder on his backplate. Its emblem: a boot.

"...A Divine Messenger."

"Wonder what trouble’s brewing now..."

Two drunkards stumbling out of a roadside tavern muttered as the rider passed.

The knight slowed before the inner city’s fortified gate at the hilltop. A guard captain stepped forward, arm raised. True to expectation, the rider reined in ten paces away. The captain flinched as twin hooves stamped before him, kicking up dust that stung his throat.

"Damn it! State your business!"

"Can’t you see my uniform?"

"Hmph! Arrogant bastard... Standard procedure! I check badges, not clothes!"

"Tch... Here! (He tossed a iron identity tag.) Open the gate *now*! Delay this dispatch, and you’re dead!"

"Right! Sorry! You lot upstairs—raise the portcullis for the messenger! Snap to it, idiots!"

The captain fumed inwardly. With the tag verified, he had no excuse to stall—so he took his frustration out on the rookies.

"Hmph..."

The knight’s cold snort echoed as he passed through the lifted gate. He took the emergency route—a path forbidden for loitering—and sped unimpeded to the innermost castle gate.

"Halt! ...Tch. Let him through!"

"What a nuisance."

Grumbling, he tucked away his badge and hurried inside. Following memory, he reached a chamber bustling with aides clutching scrolls and document satchels.

"Reporting! Nightingale Twenty-Four, urgent military dispatch! Priority SSS! Time-critical!"

"Hand it over!"

"Yes, sir!"

Fifteen minutes later, identical reports landed before Duke Ciseph, Duke Keane, Her Imperial Majesty Empress Ilaine Vallemieux Saint Varnishel, the Chancellor, Speaker Capobrinos, Marshal Elinorlund, Crown Prince Sanok, and Princess Cameron.

---

The ancient Throne Hall, steeped in solemn grandeur, retained its sacred aura. A crimson carpet ran from the throne’s dais to the great doors opposite. Marble statues—heroes of antiquity and mythic warriors—stood in alcoves flanking the carpet at measured intervals.

This was the *Glorious Court*: supreme authority of the Holy Varnishel Empire.

The throne itself—crimson velvet over a golden frame, studded with pearls and gems—sat empty.

Beneath it lay three wide steps, each accommodating three to four people. Court officials in formal regalia stood precisely positioned upon them.

"Duke Keane... You’ve come for *that* matter too?"

Duke Ciseph spoke.

One of the Empire’s two great dukes, Ciseph governed the southern coastal territories—including two of the famed Seven-Star Ports. Though the Empire practiced constitutional monarchy within the royal demesne, ancient feudal traditions still ruled the noble houses’ lands. Laws varied by region, unified only during wartime.

At over fifty, Duke Ciseph appeared a vigorous forty. His flawlessly preserved skin bore no wrinkles. His slightly worn attire lacked the flamboyance of nobles who commissioned new wardrobes monthly. Only the purple sash across his shoulder marked his rank; without it, he might pass for a down-on-his-luck aristocrat. His kindly face smiled like a benevolent uncle.

Underestimating him would be fatal. This smiling man had crushed rebellions by executing ten thousand rioters. He’d purged nobles opposing the Empress with ruthless efficiency—a blood-soaked executioner nicknamed "Viper" and "Smiling Tiger."

"Duke Ciseph... I only just learned of it. Sounds... intriguing."

Opposite him stood a youthful noble. Golden hair cascaded over shoulders; sapphire eyes held starlit depth. His porcelain skin and delicate frame lent an androgynous grace that often mistook him for a girl. Navy-blue and white admiral’s uniform adorned him, epaulets and collar insignia marking him as Naval Commander-in-Chief—second only to the Marshal. Barely twenty, Duke Keane was nobility’s most celebrated beauty.

Rumor held that a drunken lord once called him "the most beautiful man." That lord vanished from high society overnight. Among nobles, it was taboo to specify *man*—Duke Keane was simply "the most beautiful person."

Born to an ancient naval dynasty, Keane inherited his title at twelve after his father’s death. The legendary Admiral Vagari—dubbed "Dragon General"—had led fleets from the frontlines, his exploits inspiring generations of soldiers.

Keane surpassed him. Where his father charged with brute courage, Keane commanded with strategic brilliance, crushing foes through overwhelming coordination. His impossible victories—outnumbered, outgunned—defied naval orthodoxy.

Early in his command, veteran admirals scoffed at his youthful, delicate appearance. Petitions flooded the Empress demanding his removal. Yet she stood firm. Within two years, Keane won seven major sea battles, purged pirate strongholds, and unified the fractured navy. He disarmed his critics with humility, praising their past deeds while never mentioning their slights. The two rebellious admirals eventually knelt at his doorstep in apology. Keane lifted them gently, praising their service—winning over even the most stubborn old salts.

No courtier dared underestimate this beautiful duke.

For noblewomen, however, Keane’s personal life fascinated more than his tactics. Whispers of his church visits, tea rituals, landscape paintings, flower gardens, and beloved pets made them sigh: *He’s utterly adorable!*

Brilliant. Charismatic. High-born. Beautiful. Gentle. *Perfect.*

This adoration became his torment. Every dawn, his mansion gates overflowed with servants shoving marriage proposals into his mailbox. Matchmakers ambushed his carriage, shouting details of noble heiresses—down to their birthmarks and measurements. Keane endured it all without violence, devising ever-crazier escape routes.

*Perhaps my tactical genius was forged dodging these matchmakers...* he’d joke bitterly.

As the two dukes exchanged murmurs, a long trumpet blast silenced the hall.

All nobles bowed toward the throne.

A soft *swish*—silk brushing carpet. Then slow, measured footsteps.

"Rise, my lords. Hmph... I’m just an old woman. No need for such stiffness."

"Your Majesty’s grace..."

Heads lifted. Humble gazes met the elderly figure on the throne.

An ancient woman in black court gown sat regally. Wrinkled eyes held sharp clarity. Silver hair was pinned immaculately beneath a heavy, jeweled crown. Though her back bent with age, the Imperial Ring glittered on her gnarled finger, alongside rings signifying feudal lordships. A scepter topped with a massive aquamarine rested in her grasp. A crimson velvet cape, edged with white fox fur and fastened by golden chains, draped over her shrunken frame.

Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Ilaine Vallemieux Saint Varnishel—Sovereign of the Holy Varnishel Empire.

Beside her, the two Crown Princes faded into insignificance.

The red-haired First Prince slumped in his seat, a slight paunch straining his tunic, his face slack with boredom.

The brown-haired Second Prince kept stealing glances at Duke Keane, his infatuation barely concealed.

"*Ahem*... My lords," the Empress began, her voice thin but firm. "I’ve received troubling reports."

"Regarding the... Undead incidents. Share your counsel."

"Your Radiance..."

A portly, balding minister heaved himself forward, jowls trembling.

"This is mere superstition. Tales of Undead are ancient—but since the Gods descended, Dragons, Undead, Demons, Sirens, and Sprites were all eradicated by the Divine Races."

"Furthermore, due to the holy artifacts bestowed upon humanity by the gods, most non-humans—elves, merfolk, beastkin, and other demonic minions—have long since retreated from human lands to remote wilderness after our wars. This incident is likely a smokescreen fabricated by certain parties..."

"I object!"

A slender noble stepped forward. "The farmer’s testimony described hordes of Undead—not just one or two. We all know cursed creatures and dark monsters still linger, but they’re rare and weak. Such a massive emergence signals something ominous brewing."

Supporters of the stout noble and the slender one clashed, faces flushed, veins bulging like coiled ropes on their necks.

"Silence."

The Empress’s whisper cut through the din. One had to admire their hearing.

"Duke Westerfield," she murmured, "you seem to have thoughts?"

"Your Majesty... my old mind draws blanks. Perhaps Duke Kein could speak? Youthful minds are sharper than mine... hah..."

Kein gave Westerfield a slight, grateful nod.

"Duke Kein," the Empress prompted. "Your analysis?"

"Indeed. Without eyewitness accounts, I’d need to examine physical traces to confirm—but the fall of the ancient assassin guild Shadowblade is verified. Though diminished, they thrived for centuries. Their stronghold? A labyrinthine underground palace. Armies couldn’t breach it. Countless hidden exits made sieges futile. Traps and tunnels let them outlast us indefinitely. Since they avoided imperial conflicts unless threatened, we tolerated their existence..."

"But now they’re eradicated—by Undead. As a soldier, I assess threats militarily. Undead phasing through walls nullify Shadowblade’s defenses. Assassins lose all advantage in frontal assaults. Thus... the Undead incursion is genuine."

"Thank you, Duke Kein. Age dulls the mind; we rely on sharp young minds like yours."

"Merely my duty, Your Majesty. This incident involves one intriguing figure: a foreigner."

"Count Dracula Joe Shuya. From the distant Wallachia Kingdom beyond the seas. Though a kingdom, not an empire, their coinage is exquisitely minted—suggesting national strength surpassing ours."

"Continue, Duke Kein."

"He arrived at Purple Rose Harbor and bought lavish goods—a gilded carriage, a grand manor—yet hired few servants."

"A foreign spy? Or hiding his true identity?" The Empress’s clouded eyes flashed with sharp clarity.

"Unlikely. He claims to expand his family’s trade here, bringing only his own retainers."

"Reasonable." She slumped back, the frail elder once more.

"Though... his retainers bear the bearing of seasoned soldiers. Elite ones."

"Natural," Duke Westerfield interjected. "Duke Kein, as a naval commander, you know ocean voyages demand armed escorts. No fault there."

"Your wisdom is noted, Duke Westerfield. Further: Count Dracula attended Admiral Euris’s ball. When assassins struck, he intervened—saving the Admiral. For this, he was granted a viscountcy."

"A man of honor," mused the Empress. "Risking his life for a stranger... defying Shadowblade’s terror... Chancellor Akma, draft an edict. Elevate him to Imperial Earl—honorary rank. Reward righteous deeds."

The bald noble bowed, whispering orders to his aide.

"Your Majesty may not know—he vowed to eradicate Shadowblade for public safety."

"...And Shadowblade fell. By Undead hands. Coincidence? Or is Dracula entangled with them?..." Her voice thinned with fatigue. "Duke Kein, I entrust this investigation to you. All shall assist you. Deliver the earldom edict to him regardless—his actions thus far merit reward."

She waved a frail hand and departed. The court bowed deeply.

"Duke Kein," Westerfield approached, "Undead or not—your military mind sees what ours miss. If legions couldn’t breach that palace but Undead did... such power cannot be ignored."

Westerfield’s eyes narrowed, smiling faintly. "Fortune favor you. The Marshal often names you his successor... but haste breeds missteps."

Kein returned the smile. "I’ll proceed with caution. Your counsel is valued."