The nobles of the Holy Vanelshire Empire’s capital had recently found life brimming with amusement—all thanks to a foreign gentleman from a distant land. This nobleman, Dracula Joe Shuya, kept delighting them with fresh and astonishing antics.

First, he’d disciplined unruly, degenerate nobles with a loving whip. One such noble youth later confessed:

*"Count Dracula is a noble of true virtue. His lashes made me realize my past ignorance and depravity. I shall reform... become a proper noble once more... and whenever I falter again, I’ll seek Count Dracula’s guidance—and his whip—to clear my confusion."*

Then came whispers of the Count’s attendance at the prince’s banquet, circulating widely in elite circles.

*"What can I say? We’re buddies, right? I was there that night... I’ve tried Tears of the God of Love before—I know how potent it is. I braced myself hard, but His Highness and the Count showed incredible restraint... In the end, the prince yielded with humility. A true monarch’s grace—he surrendered victory within his grasp to Count Dracula."*

Finally, news broke of the prince being reprimanded by the Empress. Though he returned without rage, shutting himself away to reflect, a noble who probed his mood reported:

*"His Highness said losing to Count Dracula Joe Shuya brings no shame. The man’s willpower is extraordinary—even at full strength, he couldn’t match it. He urged everyone to uphold noble virtue: don’t scorn foreigners. He deeply admires Count Dracula’s fortitude..."*

Thus, gossip about Dracula Joe Shuya became dinner-table chatter. Gentlemen joked over wine; ladies whispered behind feathered fans while sipping tea. Servants overheard fragments, then traded rumors at street corners. Within days, nearly the entire capital knew Count Dracula’s name.

Wild tales about the Count multiplied. Noble debutantes suddenly found this foreign aristocrat utterly fascinating. Blushing, they’d pull pink stationery from books, lightly crumple it with perfumed hands, then dip quills in ink. With tender strokes, they penned heartfelt verses of affection... before sending trusted servants racing to deliver the fragrant letters to the Duke’s manor.

—

In Duke Kein’s parlor, the Duke dumped an armful of perfumed letters before Dracula.

*"Here. All for you."*

*"What are these?"*

*"Love letters. From those debutantes."*

Dracula stopped Greenland from storming out to eliminate certain people with a glance. He unfolded one letter. Neat script read:

*—To the Beloved Count Dracula Joe Shuya, Miss XX’s Admiration... (omitted)—*

*This isn’t right... Not the path I expected. Things are spiraling... I merely whipped a few fools, won a bet—I’m still troubled by that prize. Now these absurd love letters? In another world, I’d be thrilled. But here... What to do?*

*"Keane, what should I do?"*

*Ha! So even you need help?* Duke Kein smirked inwardly, delighted.

*"Simple. Visit each lady at the addresses listed."*

*"...! Over a thousand letters? All require visits?"*

Keane studied him, amused. For the first time, he saw past the Count’s icy facade—a man unused to showing emotion. *I’d have panicked too, back when I received endless invitations and love notes.*

*"Kidding. Just write personalized replies. Politely decline them. These ladies aren’t serious—they’re bored. Writing twenty such letters a year is normal for them."*

*"I see... Understood. Faglas, handle it."*

*"Hold on! You must write them yourself!"*

*"Why?"*

*"Etiquette. A noble never shirks duty."*

*"...Fine. (Sigh... Shirking duty. True. I can’t avoid this. Let’s begin!)"*

Grateful for his skeletal body’s endurance, Dracula studied calligraphy samples, mimicked a style he liked, and mastered it within hours. Borrowing Keane’s study, he spent a day drafting replies to nearly a thousand letters.

A former hobbyist novelist, he wielded words skillfully. Unburdened by fatigue or headaches—his undead mind razor-sharp—he freely borrowed verses from another world’s poetry and ballads, crafting vivid, heartfelt rejections.

*This guy... did he just copy one reply a thousand times? If those ladies compare notes and find identical letters, his reputation will plummet.*

Concerned for his friend, Keane secretly opened a few replies. Satisfied, he resealed them and ordered servants to deliver all thousand.

By the next day—and the day after—Dracula Joe Shuya’s name was etched into every debutante’s heart. A thousand uniquely tender replies, penned in elegant script... all delivered within days. Such impossible dedication proved his excellence.

But on the fifth day, they learned Count Dracula had left the capital for Purple Rose Harbor. The ladies dabbed their eyes with handkerchiefs, sighing, and treasured his replies in their favorite keepsake boxes.

For reasons unknown, Mary remained in the capital. After exchanging polite farewells, Dracula departed with Faglas and Greenland.

*"...The capital. Quite amusing."*

—

At Marshal Eleanorund’s estate...

The Empire’s highest military commander, Marshal Eleanorund, had snow-white hair and beard. Without his piercing gaze and commanding aura, he might be mistaken for a frail old man. In his study, he read a book while a young officer ranted nearby. The Marshal merely glanced up occasionally to show he was listening.

*"Sir! The Navy is the Empire’s backbone! Its Admiral must be loyal, capable—"*

*"Hmm..."*

Misreading the Marshal’s indifference as agreement, the slick-haired officer puffed his chest, boasting of his own merits while belittling Duke Kein.

*"Finished?"*

The Marshal closed his book and removed his spectacles.

*"Yes, sir."*

The officer stood tall, awaiting praise for his rehearsed performance.

*"Then go stand by the mirror. Yes, that one... Do you see yourself? Good. Once you’ve had enough, get out of my sight. I refuse to look at the wretch in that mirror—he makes me sick to my stomach."*

*"But... Grandfather!"*

*"What did you call me? Hah... Get out! Now! Vanish!"*

Marshal Eleanorund surged to his feet, his commander’s aura exploding. He jabbed a finger toward the door. The officer fled without looking back.

*"Hmph... Worthless. That spineless coward wants to be Admiral? Can’t even defy his superior..."*

The Marshal shut the door, shook his head, and retrieved a book from a cabinet. He opened it to a small portrait tucked inside: an armored, strikingly handsome man beside a lady holding a child. After a long look, he closed the book.

*"I can’t blame them. It’s my doing. I orchestrated it all—their personalities, their paths... Their arrogance, their incompetence... all by design. But how else could I destroy mighty Vanelshire? How else honor my true homeland? Forgive me... Though you’re not my blood from the woman I loved, you are my heirs. One day, you’ll understand... why I did this."*

A figure materialized in the room as if from thin air. The Marshal turned, unsurprised.

*"The Kingdom’s new gadget? Short-term invisibility?"*

*"Yep, old man. How’s your health?"*

*"Hmph... I’ll last till the plan’s end. But my only true grandson—how is he?"*

*"Him? He serves the Kingdom well. Soon he’ll execute our long-planned takeover of the Fire Eagle Duchy. Your grandson may become Archduke... or even King when the Kingdom unifies this continent."*

*"Heh... May it be so. I’ve given my life to my nation. If my grandson becomes King, I’ll die content... What’s his name?"*

*"Elfa. Exceptional. Raised among assassins—strong. Carries your blood... a sharp lad."*

Had Del Sira been present, she’d have slaughtered them both. For Marshal Eleanorund was speaking to a man cradling a silver spear—Saint Lancer Cabel.

*"I loathe this work... Sacrificing for those vile rituals... Is it worth it?"*

*"I don’t serve them. I serve my homeland. Were the items delivered? Any flaws in the plan?"*

"Hmm... almost there. Just waiting for the kingdom to launch the final step... The Feather of Light Knights are ready..."

---

The misty harbor of the White Oak Kingdom...

As the northernmost port on the continent, this harbor was often shrouded in fog. Yet no other terrain in the region suited a port, forcing people to settle for this spot.

A ship with fog-dispelling capabilities sailed into the harbor. Armored guards on the dock rushed to catch the ropes thrown from the vessel, securing them to bollards. Lanterns signaled the ship’s crew, indicating the dock’s distance and length to prevent collisions.

Soon, the ship halted. A gangplank lowered. Several warriors in armor and white surcoats stepped ashore. Their leader wore only lightweight white clothing—no armor, just a silver rapier at his waist. Slender and petite, he seemed almost girlish, yet lacked feminine curves. His wheat-colored arms were bare beneath rolled-up sleeves. White gloves covered his hands. A white cloth wrapped his head, with a trailing veil obscuring his face. A white cloak draped his shoulders, matching his cloth shoes and trousers. Among the group, he stood out most—impeccable and strikingly clean.

The white-clad youth’s eyes were narrow and elongated, rimmed with black kohl that lent a hint of allure. But the sharpness and killing intent in his gaze betrayed a formidable warrior.

"Ah... welcome... welcome, honored knights from afar... We’ve prepared hot baths and fresh, delicious food... If you need anything else... well, of course, we’ll provide it. To ensure your satisfaction..."

A priest in ceremonial robes approached the dock to greet them.

"Understood! Lead us there quickly."

A burly, armored man carrying a two-handed greatsword stepped past the white-clad leader to reply.

"I’m Skonnard, deputy commander of the Feather of Light Knights. This is our commander... Address me for all matters. Our commander dislikes speaking. I handle everything."

The priest blinked in surprise, then nodded vigorously, glancing at the white-clad figure. *So the knight commander is this short, armor-less kid?* He’d heard their order was the kingdom’s strongest force—their commander hailed as its greatest sword saint. *Whatever. These martial idiots probably fried their brains training. My orders are just to host them. As long as they don’t threaten my interests, I’ll let them be... As for the commoners... tsk... let them riot if they want.*

"Ah, Deputy Commander Skonnard, greetings. And... Commander, greetings. I am High Priest Leon, the region’s chief priest. Seek me or my deputy for any needs... This way, please..."

High Priest Leon led the eleven knights away. Only the commander remained on the dock, staring blankly at the churning sea through the misty veil.

"Commander, he..."

"Leave him. Attend to us. He’ll catch up after brooding awhile."

Leon frowned. *Such rude, barbaric brutes... If we didn’t need you to fight, hah! And that dazed idiot... clearly mad.*

The white-clad youth sighed softly, tightened his cloak, and followed. In just two or three strides, he caught up to the group—already over a hundred meters ahead.