To Shilo, Vankarel’s Imperial Capital felt both unfamiliar and familiar.

He had visited the Imperial Capital as a child, but he was so young then that not a single memory remained.

In hazy recollection, the city had been bustling—yet the Imperial Capital unfolding before him now was even more vibrant.

Crossing the city walls felt like stepping into a new world.

Compared to Vankarel’s Imperial Capital, Shilo’s hometown of Clinton was simply in another league.

As defensive structures, the walls needed no praise—their sheer scale spoke of formidable strength.

Everything within left Shilo in quiet awe.

Even the districts near the walls, typically the poorest, rivaled Clinton in modest order: thriving commerce, simple homes, ordinary lives.

Shilo had heard tales of slums, yet this place felt far from destitute.

Little did the young Shilo know—everything he saw was merely an illusory facade.

Inside the carriage sat Shilo, Doraf, and Felisha, Shilo’s guardian.

In truth, Felisha was not only his teacher but also his hidden protector.

Aware of the bloodshed surrounding succession, the Emperor had assigned the renowned “Red Wolf” to guard him.

“Shilo,” Doraf said gravely, “remember every courtesy you’ve learned when meeting His Highness the Crown Prince.”

Succession tensions made relations between the royal family and children like Shilo notoriously strained.

No wonder—how could any royal stay calm watching a throne they believed theirs slip away?

It was like a sure thing snatched at the last moment.

No matter the Crown Prince’s intent in summoning them, both must maintain perfect decorum.

After all, he was the Crown Prince—the Emperor’s own son.

Many couldn’t fathom why the throne wouldn’t pass to him, or the Second or Third Prince… why offer it to a boy like Shilo?

Strange. Unspoken, yet Doraf still wondered if the Emperor had lost his mind.

“No matter how harsh the Prince may be, endure it. Understand?” Doraf added, foreseeing the difficulty ahead.

But endure they must.

“Father, I understand,” Shilo nodded, fully aware of his father’s meaning and the path ahead.

He knew of his inheritance rights—Doraf had confessed everything after the assassin attack.

Even now, it felt unreal. Yet he knew he must grow accustomed.

The throne’s weight, imperial succession—these bewildering concepts, he would grasp step by step.

Fortunately, under Rhode’s guidance, Shilo had matured quickly, learning to see beneath surfaces.

“My lord, we’ve arrived,” the family coachman announced, turning toward the carriage.

“Shilo, let’s go,” Doraf said.

Shilo nodded and followed his father out.

He glanced back—the road now lay deep within the city center. Horse-drawn carriages shared streets with magi-cars.

Everyone wore elegant attire; even plain garments revealed exquisite craftsmanship.

Shilo tugged slightly at his own clothes. The gap was undeniable.

Though his family held standing in Clinton, here they were insignificant.

“This way, please. His Highness has been expecting you,” a servant greeted with a smile.

This was not the imperial palace—only one of the Crown Prince’s residences.

Doraf scanned the area warily upon entering.

“Relax. No noteworthy threats,” Felisha murmured, glancing at him. “Just watch for poison.”

Shilo lacked resistance to toxins—poison was deadlier than blades, silent and efficient. Most had no defense but hope for an antidote.

“I know,” Doraf sighed in relief. He’d feared the Prince might act rashly.

After passing the garden, the servant ushered them into a grand hall.

Opulent yet hollow, decorations filled space but not purpose.

Still, one had to admit—such extravagance was utterly impractical.

Nobility prized spectacle over function.

Shilo blinked, comparing it to his family’s modest parlor.

Truly… lavish to the point of uselessness.

He held no judgment—resource inequality was the world’s truth. He wouldn’t think, “Donate this waste to the needy.”

Still, *he* wouldn’t design such a place.

“My apologies for the delay, Your Highness,” Doraf bowed upon seeing the smiling Crown Prince.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” Shilo echoed, bowing beside him—though they owed no apology.

“No need. I’ve not waited long,” the Prince waved gently, gesturing to seats.

As he did, his gaze flickered almost imperceptibly toward the red-haired woman behind them.

“Miss Felisha…”

“Thank you, Your Highness. I’ll stand,” Felisha declined, arms crossed over her sword as she stepped back.

“As you wish,” the Prince smiled warmly.

“Lord Doraf, may we speak freely?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I wished to learn more about this child,” the Prince said, his excessive kindness setting Doraf on edge.

At that moment, the Red Wolf—Felisha—narrowed her eyes.

In the shadows lingered figures clad in ecclesiastical robes.

Harmless in appearance, yet a chill ran down her spine.

Wild instinct never lied—human malice was unmistakable.