Violet insisted I attend a gathering with her, pulling me into a spacious carriage without room for refusal.

"Big Sister Myra *has* to come with me…" Violet pouted. "I’m not going alone…"

Outside, President Bluton chuckled warmly, waving at our departing carriage.

Violet didn’t seem thrilled. Inside the carriage, she muttered under her breath about her father—calling him "baldy" and a "muscle-bound freak."

Guard Gry accompanied us, though his presence felt more like protection than escort.

Once we left the city, I lifted the side curtain. Rolling green meadows blurred past, vibrant and dreamlike. Then came vast fields of blossoms—a riot of colors, petals swirling in the breeze.

Spring was in full bloom.

The carriage halted.

Violet and I stepped onto the ground and turned back. A line of carriages had stopped behind us.

This was our destination.

Young noble ladies emerged gracefully from their carriages, skirts held delicately. Their faces wore identical, practiced smiles—girls raised on etiquette, now whispering secrets among themselves.

A gentle breeze carried petals into the air, painting the sky with swirling hues. The faint floral scent made the very atmosphere intoxicating.

These blooms belonged to a manor just beyond the fields. Beside them stood a towering, imposing black castle.

Rumor said it remained unshaken even during the quadrennial Beast Tide—a fortress of unmatched strength and safety.

Violet’s gaze flicked to a group of lavishly dressed young lords nearby. Her nose wrinkled in clear disgust.

"Ugh. Father *insisted* I come to this ‘spring gathering.’ I’d rather be napping at home," she grumbled, lips pursed.

Guard Gry, hand resting on his sword hilt, rubbed his neck awkwardly. "The President worries you stay cooped up indoors too much, Miss. He only wants you to socialize… make friends."

"*Friends*?" Violet scanned the giggling girls and the boastful boys showing off. Her lips twitched. "With *them*? No thanks. I’ve got Big Sister Myra."

She clung to my arm like a lifeline, as if I might vanish. I sighed with a faint smile. "So, my dear Violet… *that’s* why you dragged me here?"

She grinned impishly. "Of course! Alone? Boring. I’d rather chew glass than chat with *those* people."

Just then, the host of the gathering—Count Morse, Lord of Bluewater City—stepped alone into the center of the grassy field.

The middle-aged Count wore a crisp black suit. His short red hair was neatly combed, not a strand out of place. The cut wasn’t flashy, but the craftsmanship screamed master tailor.

He exchanged polite greetings with the young nobles and their parents. Then, servants in immaculate uniforms wheeled out tables laden with fruits, arranging them in straight lines across the field’s front.

Standing tall at the center, the Count finally revealed the gathering’s first purpose.

A tournament.

"Merely to see how our promising youths have grown," he announced. But my eyes locked onto the red-haired young man standing behind him—and surprise flickered in my chest.

*Rodney Morse.*

The noble who’d harassed Ada… was the Count’s son.

*Healed already?*

Blazing Gold-tier recovery was swift, but he must’ve used auxiliary healing too.

Many noble ladies’ eyes drifted toward Rodney—elegant in his black double-breasted suit, a snow-white longsword at his hip. Their gazes sparked glares from the young lords nearby.

In that sea of seething male resentment, I spotted Rodney’s sworn enemy: Walker Schall. The burly man wore a silken robe that hung absurdly on him—like a pig stuffed into pajamas. His ridiculous outfit paled next to Rodney’s sharp style. *What was he thinking?*

The Count beamed, clearly proud of the attention on his son. He cleared his throat softly, silencing the murmurs. The field fell quiet.

"My friends," he began, voice warm but firm, "you all know what happens in three days. Many young talents have been sharpening their blades for it. Yes—the Holy Emblem Selection Battle. Imperial envoys arrive in Bluewater City in three days to host this triennial event. You understand its weight."

His warm smile hardened abruptly. His voice deepened, losing its earlier warmth.

"Only warriors under twenty-five may compete. The victor earns a personal Knight’s Holy Emblem. I needn’t explain what that *means*."

A buzz erupted among the young men. How could they stay calm?

The Holy Emblem meant *glory*.

For commoners, it granted one shot to petition for knighthood. Approved by the Imperial Review Board, they’d leap into nobility.

In peacetime, a peasant becoming noble was near impossible. The Emblem offered that chance.

Imagine it: skilled swordsmen and rangers—stuck as hired blades, bodyguards, or worse, scraping by in shameful jobs. To become a Knight Lord? The temptation was dizzying.

A penniless wanderer seizing the Emblem grasped a future blazing with light.

I recalled two famous lines from my old world: *Peasant at dawn, palace by dusk.*

Knighthood meant power. Possibility.

Even for sworn Knights, the Emblem held fierce allure. It was a chance—a chance to become an *Order Knight*.

An Emblem holder could challenge any Knight of the Radiant Order. The challenged *must* accept. Lose, and you’d be humbled—but the Emblem ensured you wouldn’t be killed. Win? Your name would be etched into the Order’s ranks. Your fame would echo across every corner of Avaria, down every shadowed alley of every city, even sailing overseas to distant island kingdoms. Honor. Wealth. Legacy.

A single Radiant Order Knight could make a city lord like Bluewater’s Count personally greet them at the gates.

Consider this: fewer than one hundred souls held seats across the Empire’s three Orders. Such honor was rarer than starlight.

The Holy Emblem offered that chance.

To lift commoners to knighthood. To elevate Knights to legend.

The crowd’s murmurs swelled into a roar.