The next day, the nobles who had clamored “Let the Duke and his road rot!” arrived at Lorentalan’s capital.

Some wore vibrant ceremonial robes; others donned gaudy armor. Some waved holy scriptures, chanting hymns; others shouted insults, eyes brimming with arrogance.

Clearly, they were the idle lords who had never known honest labor, swollen with arrogance.

Holy Knights like Charles and the clergy had prepared meticulously. Inside Lorentalan’s grandest abbey hall, they hung the HolySee’s insignia and cleared space for debate. Under Monroe’s watch, the nobles began their heated argument over whether to build the north-south arterial road—and how to split its profits.

The Duke claimed he acted for the HolySee’s glory, building the road so pious pilgrims could journey to the City of Glory. He swore his motives were pure, all for the Father God. He branded dissenting vassals as selfish, short-sighted traitors—even heretics defying the HolySee.

The rebellious lords shot back, mocking the Duke’s greed and clumsy rule. They accused him of using the road to strip their power. Quoting ancient sacred texts, they insisted they defended their lands’ holy rights—a just cause sanctioned by the HolySee.

The pointless debate dragged on.

Whenever one side grew weary or hinted at compromise, fiery words would reignite the crowd’s fury, dragging the quarrel onward. They dueled with words, adorning vulgar ambitions with florid rhetoric, spinning sentences so convoluted they could drive a sane man mad.

Monroe sat patiently on the high seat, listening.

But even his calm began to fray.

Charles and fellow Holy Knights recorded every hollow word in elegant script. After two days, their hands ached. Even their disciplined patience wore thin. Only strong tea and flatbreads, brought by servants, kept them going. Piles of parchment—filled with noble nonsense—now reached waist-high.

Only Hilna remained relaxed. Unofficial staff, she merely observed from the sidelines.

Exhausted by the endless bickering, both sides finally relented.

Monroe delivered his verdict: The HolySee would administer the road zone, banning private tolls. Taxes from pilgrim and merchant stays at roadside inns would be split among local lords based on their contributions. Remaining profits would go to the Duke.

No one was surprised.

The Duke frowned but accepted.

Just as the weary nobles prepared to agree, chaos erupted.

Viscount Pralatin leapt up, screaming injustice. He hurled insults at Monroe, calling him “the HolySee’s attack dog,” accusing him of taking the Duke’s bribes. He spat that the HolySee meddled in the duchy’s affairs—a puppet master pulling strings.

Like a rabid dog, he bit wildly. Brows furrowed across the hall. Pralatin had been the loudest dissenter these past days. Many feared he’d sabotage the treaty—but no one expected him to target Monroe, the Sword Saint himself.

He seemed utterly mad.

Monroe felt not anger, but confusion.

The Viscount grew wilder. Unsatisfied with words, he drew his sword, pointing it at Monroe on the high seat. He demanded a duel—*to the death*.

The hall burst into laughter.

The portly Viscount moved like a man who’d never held a blade. No mage’s spark lit him; he was a dabbler at best. His vulgar taunts had nearly provoked the Holy Knights to intervene—but Monroe stopped them.

“I accept,” he said simply. “Here and now.”

With the Duke as witness, the farce began.

Both drew weapons. Monroe, fearing he’d kill the fool outright, used Charles’s standard-issue sword instead of his Greatsword. The Viscount wielded his ancestral alchemical blade.

At the Duke’s signal—*clang!*—the Viscount’s sword flew from his grasp.

Yet he refused to yield, failing to grasp Monroe’s mercy. Weaponless, he charged, fists swinging. He got exactly what he’d asked for: Monroe’s blade flashed, carving a long gash across his face.

Blood sprayed as the Viscount collapsed. He wailed, screeching like a wounded ape for healers. Nobles roared with laughter; the hall buzzed with mirth.

Monroe took a towel from a bowing servant, wiping blood from his armor and face. He returned the sword to Charles.

“Any further objections?” The Sword Saint’s gaze swept the room.

Silence answered.

The clownish Viscount was carried out.

Nobles praised Monroe’s peerless skill, then signed Charles’s documents. The “Lorentalan North-South Arterial Road Accord” was sealed.

So far, just another routine assignment.

The only hiccup? A fool who’d challenged a Sword Saint. Everyone dismissed it as madness—a desperate bid for fame. Humiliated, the Viscount signed the treaty and fled before the victory feast.

The Duke urged the HolySee’s envoys to stay for the road’s groundbreaking ceremony. But the party was eager to return. That final night, he hosted a grander banquet, honoring every envoy—even the servants.

Charles found a quiet seat near the back, sharing food with Hilna.

“Teacher Charles,” she murmured halfway through the feast, “a question.”

She’d spotted something odd.

“Hmm?”

“How many people came to Lorentalan with us? Excluding us two.”

“Fifty-five. Lord Monroe, eleven Holy Knights, forty-three servants… Why?”

“They should all be here.” Hilna nodded. “I counted precisely fifty-five.”

“And?”

“After Monroe’s duel… the servant who handed him that bloodstained towel. I don’t see him here.”

Charles froze. “Perhaps he was from the Duke’s household?”

“No.” Hilna’s voice tightened. “He wore the HolySee servant’s shoulder-cloak. I saw him take the used towel and slip away while everyone laughed at the fallen Viscount.”

Three seconds of silence.

Charles shoved his chair back, grabbing Hilna’s arm. They rushed toward Monroe, deep in conversation with the Duke.

A towel soaked with a man’s sweat and blood… in the hands of a high-tier Mage… was enough to fuel a profane ritual.

By then, Viscount Pralatin—the day’s laughingstock—had already returned to his lands. With his allies, he began the long-planned ceremony.

They were too late.